Pieces For You (33 page)

I welcomed the pain—it was all I had left of her.  The best days of my life were waking up with her in my arms, lying in bed, lazily exploring each other’s bodies.  Our days together surpassed my every fantasy—well, my fantasies that didn’t include sex.  Thank God we hadn’t crossed that final threshold; I may have jumped off a bridge if I actually knew for a fact what I’d lost in
that
regard.  As it was, I was a train wreck.

My staff avoided me like the plague, afraid of my short fuse.  I sent a server home the other night for dropping a tray—dropping a freaking tray—something every server had done at least once, if they were actually working.  It wasn’t even the poor kid’s fault, a customer bumped into him.  I apologized the next day and paid him for the tips he missed out on, but they all were subsequently walking on egg shells.

Hunter had been a thorn in my side since the clusterfuck.  It was a struggle to remember that I actually liked the guy and not kick his ass out of my bar.  He had proven useful the first week when he dragged my drunken ass into the office after six too many shots of Jack Daniels.  He didn’t even point out what a dumbass mistake it was to get tanked after the last customer left.  It would have been redundant since Jack pointed it out repeatedly the next day.  It was the first and last time Hunter held his tongue.  Since my hangover from hell, Hunter had taken every possible opportunity to tell me what a little bitch I was.  He started with long eloquent speeches filled with logic, aimed to persuade me that my resolution to let Sam go was a mistake.  Over the past couple of weeks, his lectures had been reduced to basic phrases: “call her,” “don’t be a dick,” “she misses you,” “stubborn ass,” and the hit below the belt, “she needs you.”

I wanted to call her…no, I wanted to show up at Higher Yearning and sweep her off her feet, profess my love (finally), and take her home (hers or mine).  I wanted her to fall asleep on my chest.  I was desperate to wake up with a face full of sweetly scented hair and pins-and-needles in my
arm.  I wanted to hear her voice, see her smile, kiss her lips…I wanted my love back.

I couldn’t do it.  I might have been a selfish bastard in my lowest moments, but even at my weakest, I couldn’t make her suffer ever again.  I had sworn to protect her, never to hurt her, and I broke my vow on both accounts the night I kicked Robbie’s ass.  The look of horror on her face, her tangible fear of me…they were worse than any kick to the nuts.  It stole my breath and broke my heart when she crawled away from me in terror.  She was afraid of me. 
Me!
  With that piece of shit on the floor in front of her, I was the one she was scared of.  Regardless, I would never risk making her feel that type of fear again or plunge her back into that nightmare.

I hated myself for fucking it up with her.  I wish I could punch myself in the face until the external pain matched the pain inside.  She was everything I had wanted for nearly two years, and the brief time with her proved she would have been worth waiting ten years.  But I blew it.

I didn’t regret beating Robbie until he was unconscious.  He deserved every blow and more.  Not only for his culpability in the attack on Sam, but for having the balls to come into
my
bar and lay his hands on her.  Kiss her against her will.  He deserved a beat-down every day for the rest of his life as far as I was concerned.  My regret was delivering the well-earned blows in front of Sam.  I knew better; I knew seeing such violence could be a trigger.  I never wanted her to see me in that light, but I lost my goddamn mind when Robbie touched her.  It might as well have been Heath the night of the rape—my vision went red and all I could think was that he needed to pay in blood.  He needed to taste what he had so eagerly dished out.  Fuck, I was an idiot!  If I’d had enough sense to drag him out back, away from her line of sight, I would have been a hero.  Instead, she looked at me as if I were no better than the psychotic fuck locked up in Riverhead prison.

I lost Sam because of my stupid, impulsive temper, and for that I would spend the next sixty years with only my self-loathing to keep me company.  Lord knows I couldn’t imagine being with anyone else.  It wouldn’t be fair to Miss Whoever-the-hell-she-is.  She would never have been enough because I would always wish she was Sam.  There was no way for that story to play out well; both of us would be disappointed the other couldn’t be what we needed them to be.

The Stop manager approached me, trying very hard to hide his hesitancy.  Great.  Whatever he was about to say, I was not going to like it.

“Uh, Griff…umm, well the act for tonight just called, and uh…well you see—”

“Son of a bitch!  Can no one keep their mother-fucking word?  That shithead made a commitment.”

“Yeah,” he answered cautiously.

I sighed.  Dammit.  I needed to pull myself together.  It was not helping matters to have my staff scurrying around me like frightened mice.

“Sorry man, it’s not your fault.  I’ll cover it,” I said, attempting to smile but clearly failing.  My grimace must not have been reassuring based on the way he bolted. 

I glanced at my watch to find that the show should have started two minutes ago.  Guess I had better get moving.  I poured myself a glass of water and headed to the office to grab my guitar before taking the stage.  At least I could release some of these emotions on the unsuspecting crowd in the guise of entertainment.

“Hey everyone.  I’m Griffin, your unexpected entertainment for the night.  It’s been a shitty couple of weeks, so I hope you don’t mind if I unload musically on you guys.”

They cheered and clapped, excited by the prospect of my musical pain.  Twisted…every last one of them.  If I still had any sense of humor, I would have laughed.

I hadn’t had enough warning to brainstorm a set, so I would wing it.

I strummed the first chords of “
Creep
” by Radiohead, the perfect start to vent my self-hatred.  The crowd was staring at me with rapt expressions—women were giving me the eyes that said ‘take me home.’  What the hell?  Were they not listening to the words I was singing?

I continued my self-serving set with “
I Need You Now
” by Lady Antebellum and “
Tonight I Wanna Cry
” by Keith Urban.  I knew they were feeling it when I glanced at the bar and found it empty, everyone crowded near the stage.  A few girls pressed themselves at the base of the stage, their eyes glistening with emotion.  Good, they could suffer along with me; maybe I would feel less alone.

I transitioned into my personal mantra, “
If Time Is All I Have
” by James Blunt, letting the raw pain of the song wash over me.  I imagined myself lost in a sea of happy faces on the day Sam wed a man that wasn’t me.  Shit, my eyes were actually stinging—the thought was enough to bring me to my knees. 

I needed a song that let me release the pain and belt my regret, a song that spoke for me.  Before my brain engaged, my fingers began to pick “
What Hurts the Most
” by Rascal Flatts—perfect.  It could have been my official theme song.  Hell, I could have written this damn song.

I needed to end the set and wallow in misery, preferably alone and off stage.  This had been a horrible idea.  I wasn’t at a point where I could turn the emotion of the songs on and off like I usually did—tap into it for three-and-a-half minutes and then let it go.  It was all stacking on top of me tonight, every emotion I accessed piling on top of me until I was suffocating.  How to end?  “
Mine Would Be You
” by Blake Shelton.  I needed to vocalize my regret, tell our story…I needed to speak to her the only way I could.  I sung the words as if she were standing before me, listening to my plea.  The desperation and powerlessness seeped from my pores.  I whispered the last words with a silent pledge to let her go to find happiness, even at the expense of my own.  I sat in complete stillness on the stool with my eyes closed, knowing when I opened them I would have to accept the loss permanently.  The audience was silent, waiting for me to move, as if they had heard more than just a song.

“Are you taking requests?” the voice pierced my brooding. 

Was it an auditory hallucination?  I didn’t care if it was.  It was the first time in three weeks I had heard her voice. 

I refused to open my eyes and risk losing the real or imagined connection—so I nodded in response.

“‘
Hard to Say I’m Sorry
’…Chicago?  Do you know it?”

Again, I nodded.

“I can’t sing.”

I had to chuckle…no, she couldn’t.  She was completely tone-deaf, but I understood her message—this was her song for me, even if I had to sing it to myself.

I played for her alone.  Everyone else might as well have gone home.  I twisted the classic to make it more acoustic and intimate, more us.  When I reached the chorus, I finally opened my eyes and found her.  Sam’s beautiful emerald eyes glistened with unshed tears as she mouthed the words to me.  I nearly missed the second verse because I was so absorbed in her, in the dream of the moment.  I would continue to play until my fingers bled and the strings met bone if it kept her here.  My eyes never left hers.

As the song finished, I stressed the “can’t” before speaking the words “let go.”  I set my guitar on the stand beside the stool and held her eyes as I descended the stage, slowly closing the distance between us.  I ignored the applause and shouts of praise.  Thankfully, no one tried to stop me or I would have run them over.  I stopped about five feet from her, leaving the choice to Sam, asking if she still feared me without having to speak the words.  How close would she come?  She took a step closer then paused.  I winced at her hesitation until I saw her small smirk.  She was keen to my litmus test, teasing me in response—the minx.  Taking her playfulness as a positive sign, I joined the game, taking a step closer to her and upping the ante by extending my arm to her.  She gifted me with a wide smile, accepting my outstretched hand and stepping closer.  Okay, this was really happening.  I could feel her now, warm and alive against my skin.  I slowly closed my fingers around hers and pulled her into my chest, closing the remaining gap between us.

I wrapped my arms around her disconcertingly slimmer frame as she rested her head against my heart.  I cradled the back of her head in my palm, surprised—like every other time—how small she was; her whole head fit in my hand.  So delicate, yet so strong.  I didn’t want to break the moment, but we needed to talk.  I didn’t want to make any presumptions.  I hoped her acceptance came with forgiveness and another chance to be hers, but I couldn’t be certain.

“We should talk,” I said, my voice thick with emotion.

“Yeah.  Yours or mine?”

Neither was a good option.  I didn’t want to be in close proximity to a bed during our conversation—okay, that was a lie.  I wanted to skip the conversation and head straight for the bed to feel her skin against mine, but I had already paid the price for acting instinctively instead of using my head; I would not repeat that mistake.  If this was my second chance, as I hoped, I wasn’t going to fuck it up.

“I’d like to see your new place,” I said, hoping the unfamiliar ground would help keep me in line until I knew what Sam wanted.

“Good,” she said, but made no move to leave.

I kissed the top of her head, letting my lips linger in her hair as I inhaled her sweetness like a junkie just out of rehab.  I thought keeping myself away from her was the greatest torture imaginable…I was a dumbass.  Being near her and having to hold myself back was a million times worse, but I wouldn’t trade a second of the sweet torment.  I would suffer this punishment for the rest of my life if I could just be near her.

“Why don’t you follow me so you don’t have any issues at the guard booth?”

I nodded and followed Sam out the door, hand-in-hand.  I caught one of my more religious servers making the sign of the cross as if a miracle had occurred…maybe it had.  Lord knows she was my miracle.

When she was safely locked in her car, I jogged to my truck and hopped in, jittery from the anticipation of what she would say, what she would ask.

I had to play this smart; be honest (mostly), listen, but not overwhelm her with my feelings.  For the last three weeks, I’d regretted never saying the words that might as well have been branded on my chest.  She had to know how I felt about her, but speaking the words was a new level of commitment.  I didn’t want to blurt it out at the wrong time and have her second-guess my sincerity.

There was also the increasingly loud nagging of my conscience to confess my vengeance against Heath.  I should tell her, start over with no secrets between us—if she was giving me a do-over.  I argued with myself the entire eight minutes it took to reach her new house.  I knew guilt would eat me alive, but I couldn’t risk scaring her with my orchestrated violence.  I wouldn’t lose her for something I couldn’t change, even if I wanted to…not that I did.  I still felt no remorse for setting Heath up in prison to experience a taste of the physical and mental suffering he had inflicted.

I parked beside her in the driveway and followed her to the front door.

“Why aren’t you parking in your garage?  It’s safer.”

“I will, but it’s filled with boxes and cardboard at the moment.  Once it’s empty, I’ll park inside.”

“I’ll take care of it tomorrow,” I said without thought.  Fuck!  We’d exchanged three sentences and I was already fucking this up, acting like I had a right to return as I pleased.

She eyed me for a minute before speaking, “You sure you don’t mind?  There are a lot of boxes in there.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” I said as casually as possible.  Christ, I had more game my freshman year of high school. 

“Thanks,” Sam said shyly, a tone I’d never heard from her before.

She proceeded to turn on the lights while giving me the
Speedy Gonzales
-style tour.  At least I wasn’t the only one who was nervous.  We ended in the kitchen, where she busied herself making coffee.

“Good thing neither of us is feeling awkward,” I joked, earning me a laugh.

“Yeah, cause that would suck.”