Page 34 of Out of the Blue

As I picture Cordy’s fractured home life, I open my heart to what she’s saying. Even though my mother never told my father—andliedto me about who he was—I did lead a pretty blessed life. Mom always supported me, no matter what. Cheered me on, even when I wanted to play guitar. Like my real dad. Her father was a scumbag, that’s for sure. And her mother’s no better, if not worse. Although, I do find her tale of woe a little much to swallow. Could anyone really have a life like this?

“I learned how to cook by age ten and kept my sister and I fed on canned things I found in the cupboard. I used to make tuna melts, which was Juanita’s favorite.” Her lips tick up. “Mamá never cared what I did unless it interfered somehow with one of our ‘uncles.’”

I can’t stop my hand from reaching out and covering her thigh. Not in a sexual way. To offer her my support.

“You know, the only thing I wished for every birthday as a kid was a father who loved me. When he died, so did my wish.” Tears well behind her now dull brown eyes.

I want to pull her into my arms and offer her comfort. I want to run out of Boston and pretend tonight never happened. That I didn’t share my darkest secret with this woman who I’m learning is resilient and certainly capable, judging from her marketing efforts for my band. Instead, I lean into the sofa cushions.

“At least you know your dad is loving. It’s been well documented that Hunte, Sara, and his kids—the family he knows—all love him. He’s a good man.” She glances to a point over my head.

I have to admit, she’s not wrong. Braxton’s never without a ready smile, a word of encouragement, or a compliment. Yet, he’s still the man who knocked up my mother and didn’t give her a second glance, leaving her to raise me the best way she saw fit. Any benevolent feelings toward him vanish.

I manage one word. “Still.”

Her hand covers my palm. “I know. But what I’m saying is he’s your reality, and it could’ve been much worse.”

Finding my voice, I mutter, “Banging teenagers and leaving them to fend for themselves makes him a true model citizen.”

“He was basically a kid himself back then. And he never found out about you.”

I slash my arm through the air, dislodging her hand. Anger races through my body, and I vault upward. Pacing from the front door to the French doors, I take longer and longer strides. Until they shorten. And I halt in front of Cordy, where she’s remained seated.

“Please don’t tell anybody.”

At my strangled plea, she jumps up and wraps her arms around my waist. “I promise. I told you this before—your secret’s safe with me. All of them. Until you decide to change up your history, of course.”

“Not a shot in hell.”

Her neck elongates and our gazes lock. “Why don’t you get yourself into bed?” She checks the clock on the microwave. “We can call it an early night. It’s only one.”

All fight drains from my body. All of a sudden, I can barely remain upright. “Sounds good,” I mumble.

Cordy grabs my hand, and leads me through the open door to my bed. She removes my t-shirt and tosses it on top of my suitcase. Next, my leather pants drop down my legs and I kick out of them, taking my shoes off in the process. Leaving my briefs on, I collapse into the bed.

She tucks the blankets around me and goes to stand. “No.” I reach out and our palms slide across each other’s, hers a couple of shades lighter than mine. Closing my fingers, I hold on to her hand. With a voice rougher than gravel, I beg, “Stay with me. Please.”

Her shoulders drop and she nods. She walks around the bed, discarding her clothes along the way. Wearing only her panties and a bra, she slips in beside me. Then she does something unexpected. She shifts onto her side and her arm crosses my chest.

Her lips kiss my shoulder.

“Sleep well. Things will look different in the morning.”

Will Cordy still be here when I wake? She wasn’t last night, after we fucked like rabbits. Pushing my question aside, I extend my arm and cover hers. Turning my head on the pillow, I stare at the woman at my side. “Thank you.”

She closes her eyes and I watch her sleep. Her enhanced eyelashes veil the tops of her cheeks. Her makeup has dissipated somewhat, but it’s still there. Her lips glisten a lighter shade of red tonight. Her hair, with the red highlights diminishing, fans across the pillow.

I close my eyes, but sleep doesn’t come. She knows my secret. She didn’t judge me for it, though. And the hell that was her own upbringing tears at me. Even if it was fifty percent as bad as she described, it’s still awful. Her appeal climbs to the sky.

High enough to be my girlfriend?

Did someone slip me a mickey? A Google Alert chimes from my phone, pulling me out of my weighty thoughts. After what went down with Joey, I set one up for the band, and each one of us. Figured keeping an eye on everyone was the least I could do.

Without waking her, I click on the alert. A huge photo of Maurice rubbing his eyes greets me. The headline screams, “Keyboardist Going Blind!”

“Fuck,” I mutter. Next to me, Cordy’s phone beeps with the Google Alert, too. She turns over but doesn’t wake. Fumbling with her device, I get the noise to stop.

Pursing my lips, I skim through the article inFirst Rumors, talking about Maurice’s supposed “dire” eyesight issues. The band knows the truth, yet my heart hurts for him. I know how sensitive he is about his vision, especially with his current epi-whatever condition. The stupid article ends with the line: “A blind guy on keys won’t be able to keep up with the rest of The Light Rail. Looks like they’ll be casting about for a new keyboardist soon.”

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