Page 14 of Red Hot Harmony

She’d asked me if I wanted to go with her and Ally to her parents’ wedding anniversary, because she didn’t have a date and then I asked her if she wanted to accompany me to the charity event Eden had insisted I attend.

And all of a sudden, we were making plans, our lives tangled just like our limbs when we’d sat in that beach lounge, her body draped over mine, beautiful and warm.

It was strange and terrifying, yet I wanted it. I wanted to be more than just a man who came to her house twice a week for lessons with her daughter.

My head spun a little with possibilities when I climbed out of the car and strolled into the house. A faint shuffle on the other side of the living room greeted me, moving closer. Tiny paws, steps uneven.

“Hey, buddy.” I picked up Snowflake from the floor and cradled him against my chest. “You miss me?”

He licked my chin.

“You did, huh, small stuff?” I strode in the direction of the stairs, sharing the details of my evening with my dog. “You know what? I think the date went well.”

The living area was mostly dark, not counting the distorted rectangles of weak light pouring through the windows and spilling over the walls.

My foot connected with something in the middle of the room and I paused, feeling a shift, acknowledging the wrongness of a random object—too big for my itsy-bitsy pup to have moved on his own—sitting in front of me.

My stomach bottomed out.

I put Snowflake down and walked over to the switch panel to turn on the lights. A travel bag sat on the floor. Dusty and big and familiar.

I knew what it meant—that Malik was finally back from his bender, that he was finally ready to face the world, to deal with the fact that his wife was possibly seeing another man. If that was indeed the truth.

I realized that his Jeep hadn’t been parked anywhere on my property when I arrived. This only gave me more reason to worry.

Heart pounding, I rushed up the stairs and to the bedroom he was occupying. The door was shut, but the muted sound of a football game coming from inside indicated that he was there. Or at least, he had been at some point.

I knocked, my fist sure and tight, my mind filling with angry words.

No answer except the applause of the crowd on TV followed.

So I knocked again. “Hey, man! You good?”

The lack of response had me pushing the door open. For a fraction of a second, I thought I was dreaming and the dream was and wasn’t mine.

It felt like an out-of-body experience. I saw myself on the floor, seated at the base of the bed, head tossed back and resting against the mattress because I wasn’t sober enough to keep it supported. One hand clenched a half-empty bottle of Patron.

Those were my nights and days and mornings on tour. Full of pleasant toxicity that was killing me softly. Full of white-as-fresh-snow powder that ruined my cells.

“Fuck.” I heard myself say, a gasp tearing at my throat and pushing past my lips.

Malik was alive but not doing well. His eyes, usually shiny and sharp onyx, were glazed over. The dullness told me all I needed to know about what had happened.

He’d relapsed.

I crossed the room and kneeled by his side, willing myself not to look at the leftovers of booze. Something dark within me was stirring, waking up from months of slumber, demanding a sip.

“Hey, man.” I shook his shoulder, my pulse steadily spiking, my arteries suddenly thick and vicious and angry. Blood vibrated through them, hot and unclean. “What did you do?”

He didn’t respond and his gaze continued to stare at the TV, where the game continued.

I brought my hand to his unshaven cheek and slapped it.

That got his attention.

He finally broke out of his trance and looked at me. “Whatcha doin’ here, Dante?”

“What the fuck, man?” I smashed his face between my palms and shook him. “You can’t do this in my house. You just can’t.”

---