Heartstrings Page 4

  “All you need is your thumb to start, maybe your index finger if you want to hold a pick.”

  Part of me itched to feel the rosewood in my hand. Fear kept me frozen near the foot of my bed. “I don’t know, Brighton. What if strumming makes my hand cramp?”

  Stormy eyes narrowed on me. “You’ll never know unless you try. You’re a musician. Music is therapy for your soul. At least try. Please.”

  “I don’t even know how to play a…” I couldn’t finish my sentence. Doing so would be a lie. I did know how to play guitar, had known since I was a kid.

  “You,” I mumbled while studying the strings. The harder I stared, the more fragmented parts of my memory flickered to life. Like pieces of a puzzle slowly fitting together, the image sharpened, and I saw Brighton’s face, ten years younger. “You taught me how to play, when we were fourteen—no—thirteen. Mom and Dad wanted me to focus on piano, so you’d sneak and teach me what you learned.”

  “Yeah,” he chuckled, rubbing his fingers over the edge of the instrument. “We had this secret plan to—” Realizing what he was saying, he pressed his lips together, but I didn’t need his words. I had my memories.

  “We were going to be rock stars.

  His smile mirrored mine. Then he stepped forward and handed me the guitar. “Therapy for the soul, okay?”

  Studying the guitar, I questioned my suspicious mind. Perhaps I’d been wrong about Brighton and my memories of him weren’t accurate. So much of my mind was vague that I didn’t know what to think or feel. As unsure as I was on whether to trust him, there was one thing I couldn’t ignore. While I was here assuming the worst of him, he’d gone through the trouble of bringing back the guitar.

  Shame built inside me.

  With a bit of reluctance, I nodded at his response and curled my fingers around the guitar neck. His hand warmed the top of mine. It lingered long enough to bring my attention back to him. “Get some rest. I’ll be by in the morning.”

  The weight of the guitar drew my hand toward the ground. I rested it against my foot as Brighton kissed the top of my head. Once he disappeared through the door, I looked at the instrument.

  Carrying it into the room, I made my way past a wall of curtains and eased onto the bed. The guitar’s neck fit perfectly in my hand. I used it to lift the body to my lap and guided the strap over my head. I hugged the rosewood frame.

  The guitar was beautiful. Any music enthusiast would admire the quality of its craftsmanship. The mother-of-pearl Gibson logo. The gold engraved tuners. Every flawless detail said this instrument shouldn’t be in my possession. It belonged with a rock and roll god.

  My fingers throbbed, but I shook off the discomfort and found the C-chord. I strummed the plectrum, closing my eyes as the notes resonated from the chamber. Pianist or not, the sound of a guitar still moved me.

  Another stroke of my thumb filled the air with more notes. I focused on the sound and the way it made my lips curl. It would take some getting used to, but maybe Brighton had been right. Maybe making music is what soothed my soul, not the instruments that aided me.

  It wasn’t until the light above me dimmed that I opened my eyes, half expecting to see my brother. He must have forgotten something, or he’d been waiting in the shadows to see if I would attempt playing the guitar.

  I was wrong on all accounts. The man standing before me wasn’t my brother or anyone else I recognized.

  His intense eyes roamed around the room before landing on me. Questions formed within them, causing the crease between them to deepen. Something about his presence added an extra nip to the air. Not a discomforting chill. More like stepping into the fresh air of an early spring morning.

  I’m not sure how I found comfort in a stranger being in my house, especially after Brighton scared me earlier. Was this even happening? I questioned if my amnesia had affected more than my memories. Perhaps it was affecting my sanity.

  Yet something about this mysterious man tugged at my heart. No… It was more than that. He didn’t just stir my heart. He moved my soul. The way his gaze held me in place, as though he saw past the façade that I put on for Brighton. The little crook at the corner of his mouth shook me to the core. When I looked in his eyes, it was like looking into the Caribbean Sea.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  I had no answer, but I knew one thing for sure. I had to get my head out of the clouds. For the love of God, I was standing in my bedroom with a strange man. For all I knew, he could be a rapist, or a serial killer, or one of my brother’s pill-popping dope buddies.

  Still, something about his presence soothed a side of me that I’d forgotten existed—the woman, not the musician. I wanted someone around, someone to talk to, someone that would see and love the woman within me, not the damaged person I’d become.

  He inched closer. When the musky scent of his cologne made it to my nose, my knees trembled. We stared at each other for a solid minute before I finally found my voice again.

  “Are you looking for Brighton?” I released the strings under my fingers, sending a muffled note resonating. The question, just like the note, hung in the air.

  His mouth parted, but no words slipped past his lips.

  The tension between us grew, but it didn’t increase my fear. I lowered my gaze back to the guitar and waited for the last chord to fade. It finally did, but when I peeked up, my entire body tingled. The mysterious stranger had disappeared.

  ~ CHAPTER FOUR ~

  I made my way to the front door and double-checked the lock. It was just as I suspected. Brighton had engaged it once he closed the door. I stared out the window, questioning how the mysterious man made it inside my room. There was no way he could have come inside, unless my brother asked him to stay.

  No. Brighton may have a shady past, but he loved me. The more he came around, the more he convinced me of that fact. He wouldn’t leave me with some strange man when he could have stayed himself.

  So why had the man showed up if not to see Brighton? It was things like this that made me question him. Not so much his loyalty to me, but his sincerity. Even if he’d stopped using, it didn’t mean he’d stopped hanging with his old crew. I couldn’t stop him before, nor would I try this time. What he did was his business, as long as he kept his business elsewhere, not in my house.

  The guy who’d been in my room didn’t resemble any of Brighton’s friends, not that it mattered now. He’d disappeared. Literally. No closet, cabinet, or corner of the house held him. If not for the cool, musky scent of his cologne, I’d blame his appearance on my imagination. He wasn’t the first crazy thing I’d seen tonight.

  The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that I was losing my mind. There was no other explanation. Just because I smelled cologne didn’t make him real. If I could hallucinate seeing a person, what would stop me from smelling things that weren’t real?

  Rounding the corner of the couch, I made my way down the hall, anxious to crawl into bed. I glanced at my right hand, running my finger over the indented, purple lines. Crimson stained skin filled my vision again, though not as bad as it had in the tub. I focused on the thought, realizing that I had been conscious when I arrived at the hospital. There was no other explanation as to how I remembered what my fingers looked like, or how the doctor’s words chilled me to the bone.

  Some scars last a lifetime.

  His voice echoed in my mind as I entered my room. Just a few more steps and I could crawl in bed and sleep. The visions, the scars, even the stranger would be forgotten.

  Except part of me didn’t want to forget the stranger. Why, I didn’t know. Maybe because for the first time since regaining consciousness, he made me feel something different, something that didn’t involve anxiety or sadness or the feeling that I didn’t belong.

  Gazing down at my feet, I realized I was standing in the same spot he had, mere inches from the foot of my bed. It was the same spot where those soulful eyes held me in place, as though he could see past the
mask I wore for Brighton’s benefit. Could he see the emptiness threatening to take me under?

  I should have spoken sooner, should have asked him for his name or the reason he was there. Maybe he wouldn’t have disappeared if I—

  “Stop it!” I grumbled. The more I tried to make sense out of this, the less sense it made. I’d drive myself crazy if I kept second-guessing everything.

  Too much of my life remained in limbo. Now my mind had decided to create crazy stories for explanations. Musky scent or not, I had to face facts. He was nothing more than a coping mechanism. Had he been real, he’d still be standing here.

  The mattress gave as I returned to the spot I once occupied. I stared at the guitar, stroking the edge with my finger. Maybe a song would ease my mind, one soft melody to wash away the worries of the day and bring the comfort of sleep.

  The weight of the guitar pressed against my thigh as I balanced it with my leg. No matter how much I wanted to lose myself in a song, my thoughts went back to my brother. How a spark of hope showed on his face when he handed me the instrument. I hadn’t seen that look in years. At least I didn’t think I had.

  Maybe what he told me was true. Music would soothe me. It would help me recover from the horrible thing that happened. I could do the one thing I loved more than anything. My love and passion for music would heal me.

  But would it be enough to bring back my memories?

  What could it hurt? Sitting here with my thoughts was making me insane. I needed something to occupy my time. Something to keep me from creating a super sexy guy that wandered into my room unannounced.

  Placing my fingers back on the strings, I released a deep breath and strummed a couple more chords. It didn’t take long for chill bumps to spread. How simple it was for a few notes to affect me the way these did. To feel it on my skin and in my muscles was natural. Any music lover would experience the same sensation. But to feel it in my core, the part of me that held my soul, was magical.

  I allowed more chords to fill my mind as well as the room. They weren’t familiar, like some of the songs Brighton taught me years ago. Yet the melody played in my head as though it were on the radio. I forced my fingers to keep moving, to keep producing the sweet sound, even when they began stinging.

  Then the burning came.

  Taking a deep breath, I waited for the pain to pass. But it wouldn’t let up. To think it would ease proved how big a fool I was. Or how gullible. Why did I listen to Brighton in the first place? I should have known better than to believe I could pull this off.

  For whatever reason, God hated me. He had to. He’d taken my memories away, and in their place, given me a useless hand. Why couldn’t it have been a leg or a foot? I wished I knew what I’d done to deserve this. I would make it right. With the person I’d wronged or with God. Whichever one had the power to return my hand to normal. The memories I could live without.

  The lights above began to flicker. I surveyed the room, half expecting to see God himself waiting to strike me dead, but the image before me brought no fear. Curiosity, yes, it brought plenty of that.

  Broad shoulders filled my vision, revealing a snug, black t-shirt. I examined the cotton fabric, the way it clung to the taut muscles beneath. Observing every inch of the toned and tatted body, I went further up, past a square jaw, and admired the dented cheek when it flinched. Then I noticed pouty lips. But when I met those piercing eyes, I released the breath I’d been holding.

  “Oh… You’re back.” My voice trembled with each syllable, but I didn’t look away, even when his brow creased.

  “I never left.”

  Perfect. My first chance to hear his voice and he spewed madness. Why else would he make such a bizarre statement? Unless he was drunk, though he didn’t smell of liquor.

  He glanced toward the guitar in my lap. “Have you been playing long?”

  I tapped my fingers against the fretboard, debating on whether to meet his gaze. Those hypnotizing eyes made me want to bare my soul to him. Why, I didn’t know. None of this made sense.

  The foot post cooled my flushed skin the moment I leaned against it. Then I swallowed hard. “I’ve been playing for years, just not a guitar.” I chuckled to hide the awkwardness burning my face, but failed miserably. It sounded more like an animal in pain. At least he cracked a smile. “My brother gave me lessons years ago. Now I’m having a hard time remembering them.”

  “If you ask me, it sounds like you’re off to a good start.” A note of humor resonated in his voice. It alleviated the rush of blood pounding at my fingertips. I loosened my grip on the guitar, allowing the base to slip to my knee.

  “So…what’s your name?”

  His eyes roamed my face, though they showed no hint that my questions offended him. If anything, he seemed relieved. “My name’s Adam.”

  “And what brings you by, Adam?”

  “I’m, uh, not really sure how to explain why I’m here.”

  Lovely. This wasn’t starting off well. Though I had his name, it brought back no memories of old friends or acquaintances. It only made me question my sanity more. “Are you looking for my brother?”

  Auburn bangs brushed his forehead with each shake of his head. He rubbed his fingers through them then released a sigh. “No.”

  “Oh.” I fumbled with the tuners, not that the guitar needed tuning. When I chuckled again, it sounded like legitimate amusement this time instead of some dying animal.

  “What’s so funny?” he laughed back.

  “Nothing, except the fact that I’ve finally lost my mind. Not that there was much left anyway.”

  He took another step toward the bed and leaned his head closer. “What makes you think you’ve lost your mind?”

  “You—or rather—your presence.” I drew in his musky scent, allowing it to settle the thump in my heart, the thump he brought about each time I glanced his way. “I guess my brain figured out a way to deal with all the stress.”

  The little groove above his brows deepened. “I’m not following you. How does my presence make you think you’ve lost your mind?”

  “Because you’re here when it’s clear you’re not really here.” I picked at a string, sending a note into the air. It wavered between us as I pointed in his direction and then to myself. “You’re a figment of my imagination.”

  “Is that what you think?” Humor played on his lips. He moved away from me, toward the dresser, where he backed against it and crossed his arms.

  I gave him a curt nod then dropped my gaze to the guitar, stroking the edge once more. “My brain can’t deal with anything else. It’s on overload, so it’s given me an escape. You’re my escape from reality.”

  Silence reclaimed the air again. I peeked up, wondering if I had offended him. I should have known better. It was impossible to offend something that wasn’t real. That vacant room proved he wasn’t.

  * * *

  It was gloomy and cold, and the rain misting upon me was so light, it was as if I’d stumbled into a spider web, dragging it along with every step. The fog, like my confusion, thickened the further I walked. The constant whirling in the distance ignited my curiosity. I wasn’t sure what lie ahead, just out of view, but I knew it was something important, something that resulted from dire consequences.

  The surrounding trees with their aggressive limbs slowed my progression. If not for them or the snow-covered ground, I would have sworn I was walking through sand. The snow wasn’t much better, and the trees… Each low-hanging branch grabbed at my clothing like skeleton fingers, just as slim, and harsh, and terrifying.

  I picked up my pace as best I could. My heart raced to the point I thought it would break free of the cage in which it was captured. I wasn’t sure how I’d gotten here, or where here was, but I knew if I didn’t find my way out, I’d be lost in darkness forever.

  Lights flickered in the distance. I hurried toward them though my head spun fiercely. The faster I moved, the more they grew out of reach. It was like being in a bad dream and se
eing a door at the end of a tunnel. Despite how many steps I took, I never reached the end.

  Screeching pieced my ears. The sky above was dark and dreary, but showed no signs of the owl I swore had made the noise. Yet the noise reoccurred, only louder—closer. Its sharp, crisp vibrations didn’t resemble an animal, but something mechanical. Perhaps it was a piece of heavy machinery. My father operated them all his life. I’d been to his job sites and knew the sound well. Still, something in me said I was wrong about what made the sound.

  The air grew tainted with smoke. It coupled with the putrid scent of something resembling burnt rubber. There was another scent I didn’t recognize, and it was worse than the former.

  I stumbled through the fog, desperate to find the source of the commotion, as well as the stench. Terror pumped through my veins. I had no clue what lie ahead. The fog wouldn’t dissipate, which left me fumbling my way through the snow.

  What appeared to be the edge of my woodland purgatory loomed ahead. I would soon have answers. Just a little further to the edge and—

  The sound of metal twisting split the air. I fell to the ground, taking cover as crunching echoed through the woods. Each heartbeat vibrated my chest.

  Though part of me wanted to stand up and drive forward into the unknown, I didn’t. My joints froze, keeping my body still. The feeling that something terrible was happening wouldn’t fade.

  No matter how afraid I was of what was occurring out of view, I needed answers. Knowing as much gave me the strength I needed to push myself to my feet. I clung to a tree, gawking at the edge of the woods.

  More lights flickered. Each flash beckoned me forward until I couldn’t resist the urge to move. I crept closer, hoping my heart wouldn’t explode before I received the answers to my questions. But as I left the slumbering, snow-filled woodlands, blackness entrapped me.

  And I fell.

  My body twirled through a bottomless pit that pulled me further into its desperate nothingness. I grabbed and kicked about frantically. My last hope of finding something to stop me slipped away.