Down to My Soul (Soul Series Book 2) (29 page)

Fucking and cursing—two of the things I’m really good at—are off limits in this house. The little smile she tries to suppress offers me some relief and emboldens me to go on.

“I’m in therapy, and I hope that’ll help.” I circle the rim of the mug with my index finger. “I’ve just never felt like this about anyone, about
anything
really, before. I’m not always sure how to handle it.”

“Can I give you a little cheat sheet?” Aunt Ruthie waits for my nod before going on. “Don’t just act out of what you think is
best
for her. You’re not her parent. You’re not her father. Think about what will show her that you love her and understand her. That’s important to Kai.”

It’s a simple thing, but it forces Kai’s words during our infamous fight back into my head.

“Do you have any idea how opposite of love that is?”

I can’t say a light bulb clicks over my head. I don’t know if it’s a eureka, but I think that insight could be a light for my path, illuminating how I should go forward, one step at a time. I want to pay Aunt Ruthie ten years of counseling fees for it.

Who needs Dr. Ramirez?

BY THE TIME I WAKE UP,
shower, and make my way to the kitchen, the counters are loaded with raw chicken, fresh ears of corn, sweet potatoes, flour, and all the things that will make this day incredibly fattening and lots of fun. My boyfriend, the rock star, is peeling potatoes . . . and not very well. I better take that knife from him before he never plays piano again.

“Let me get that, baby.” I reach for the knife, but he holds on.

“I got it.” He leans up for a quick kiss before returning to the pitiful pile of stumps that used to be potatoes.

Aunt Ruthie levels a wide-eyed stare over his head, begging me to get him out of her kitchen.

“Um, Rhyson, maybe we should go check on things downstairs at Glory Bee,” I say. “See if we can find a way to stay out of sight, but still help down there.”

The awkward silence following my statement swells in the small kitchen.

“What?” My eyes flick from Rhyson to Aunt Ruthie. “Something wrong at the diner?”

“Well, we’re taking the week off.” Aunt Ruthie wipes her hands on the apron I gave her one Christmas.

“The
week
off?” My jaw drops. “Glory Bee has never been closed for a week.”

“Exactly.” Rhyson frowns at a particularly stubborn section of peel. “Aunt Ruthie’s past due for a vacation.”

“And if we close the diner while you’re here, easier to keep your visit off the radar.” Aunt Ruthie goes to the sink to rinse a few chicken thighs.

“Can you afford that, Aunt Ruthie?” I can’t keep the concern out of my voice. If my presence here costs her something, I may need to find somewhere else to recuperate. I don’t miss the quick look Rhyson and Aunt Ruthie exchange. A conspiracy if I ever saw one.

“Or maybe I should ask Rhys if
he
can afford it?” Hand on hip, I tilt my head and give him a meaningful look. Letting him know the jig’s up. “What did you do, Rhys?”

He sets the knife and potato aside, standing up to wrap his arms at the elbows around my hips.

“What I always do.” He kisses my eyes and then my nose. “Whatever it takes.”

“What did you do, baby?” I repeat, but this time brushing the wild spill of hair back from his face.

“He asked me what it would take to close Glory Bee down for the week,” Aunt Ruthie answers for him. “And he’s covering our losses.”

I glance over my shoulder at Aunt Ruthie, rinsing a big bucket of black-eyed peas, wearing her “no shame in my game” face.

“Unlike you,” she says with a grin. “I have no trouble taking money from your rich boyfriend.”

Rhyson’s lips twitch almost imperceptibly, but I don’t miss the satisfaction in his eyes. Still, his shoulders tense under my hands while he waits for my response. I know I’m stubborn and sometimes unreasonable, but this was sweet for Aunt Ruthie. And she really hasn’t had many breaks since Mama passed. And none before.

“Thank you,” I whisper, tipping up to kiss his chin.

For a moment, he’s not sure what to say. He studies me an extra second before kissing behind my ear.

“Any time. Every time.”

“It’s a good thing, too,” Aunt Ruthie says. “Already had a few reporters nosing around.”

“What?” All softness drops from Rhyson’s expression. “You didn’t tell me that. I can get security here today.”

“No need for that. We threw ‘em off the scent.” Aunt Ruthie shakes her head and scrunches her nose. “Closing the diner and keeping a low profile with just a few folks we know we can trust should be fine.”

“It’ll be fine,” I assure him. “Everyone coming today will be a friend who won’t say anything. We’ll be in the backyard. It’ll be fun. We’ll show you all the wonderful things the country has to offer.”

He tightens his arms around me, a smile softening his lips.

“I already got the best thing this place has to offer.”

There are some days that bundle all your favorite things into a series of moments you’d live over and over again if you could. Today is one of those days. I’m surrounded by people I’d forgotten were my favorites, people I can tell aren’t sure what to make of me now, but are trying to act normal. Trying to reconcile the little girl who sang in the choir and volunteered at the homeless shelter every Christmas Eve with the woman who’s been on tour and in the spotlight. Whose well-documented relationship is speculated about on every blog and entertainment report Whose rock star lover sits right beside her at the picnic table behind our little house, and can’ t keep his hands to himself.

It’s subtle. Maybe. Probably not, but Rhyson doesn’t seem to care, reveling in the chance to be open with his affection. Arm around my shoulder and kissing my hair while we watch the kids play kickball. Showing off for me and yelling “Did you see that?” across the yard when he beats Mr. McClausky at horseshoes. Weaving our fingers together on the table while he talks football with a few of the guys. This is Georgia, where college football is a religion, and the SEC its mightiest denomination. The men’s fervor about it breeds humor in Rhyson’s eyes and around his mouth, and the more they forget he’s famous, the more he relaxes, seeming as at ease in a group of strangers as I’ve ever seen him.

“Now what’s so great about this chicken in the pot?” He holds a golden crispy drumstick poised at his mouth.

“Oh, just taste and you’ll see.” I lick my lips, eyeing the food piled high on my plate. Yams, corn pudding, black-eyed peas, potato salad, and the centerpiece, my favorite chicken fried in a big old grease-filled black cast iron pot.

To call his first bite rapturous would not be an exaggeration. I’ve seen Rhyson in orgasm, and I’m a little insulted that his response to a drumstick doesn’t look much different.

“That,” he says, pointing to the chicken he holds in a death grip. “Is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“Good, huh?” I bite into the huge, crispy breast Aunt Ruthie set aside for me.

“Good is a paltry word for it.” He digs in, groaning over every morsel until his plate is nearly clean.

“Kai, will you cook chicken in the pot for me when we get back to LA?”

“What?” I laugh and scrape the last vestiges of corn pudding from my plate. “Set up a big ol’ black pot by your fancy swimming pool?”

“Why not?” He grins, reaching for his third piece of chicken. “Grip would love this.”

“How’s his project going?”

“Okay.” Rhyson shrugs, wiping his mouth with the paper napkin. “I’m supposed to be executive producing it, so I’ll have to get back to LA soon.”

I’m determined not to let my disappointment show. I shred a roll into tiny pieces on my plate, eyes glued to the remnants of my meal.

“Hey.” Rhyson cups my chin, gently tilting until our eyes connect. “Not for a few days.”

“It’s fine. I don’t want you missing commitments because of me.”

“You’re my only commitment today,” he whispers across my lips. I should be self-conscious about the eyes on us, but I can’t make myself care. We haven’t been all extreme PDA, but no one could miss that we’re together. Between the sex tape and the fallout from the public fight we had, discretion has become such a habit for me. I pull back a little, hating the heat in my cheeks under his knowing look and grin.

The day is waning into late afternoon by the time we’re all done. Stacks of Tupperware fill the small refrigerator in our kitchen once everyone has gone, and as much as I hate to admit it, I’m feeling every moment of this perfect day in my aching arms and legs. In my bones.

“I don’t need you to tuck me in.” I still can’t fight back a yawn when Rhyson pulls the cover up and bends to kiss my forehead. “But you could lie down with me.”

“You’ll go to sleep quicker without my erection poking you in the back.” He laughs at the face I make. “You know it’s true and I can’t help it.”

“Rhys, you could—”

“Go to sleep, Pep.” The smile falls from his face. “I’m afraid you overdid it today. Your meds will kick in soon, and you could use a nap.”

“Okay, but don’t let me sleep too long. There’s still some day left.”

My eyelids flutter and fall. I’ll never use the word “exhaustion” carelessly again because I’ve never felt this bone-deep level of fatigue, punctuated by moments when you literally cannot fight sleep. It overtakes you. And just as I’m about to try one more time to persuade Rhyson he should lie down with me, I’m pulled under.

An hour, two—I’m not sure how much later, I wake up with the saltiness of tears on my lips. It’s been a long time since I dreamt of my father, but he was in that dark well of fatigue I fell face first into. I don’t remember all the details, but his face was clear. The day I sat in his lap, and he told me about the deepest of loves was so clear I could feel him tugging my pigtails and see my lavender tutu puffing around my little eight-year-old legs. Feel the bite of my new ballet slippers. I loved him so much, and that was the last time he held me. Why his betrayal and abandonment should still make me cry in my sleep after fifteen years, I can’t understand.

I pull the sheet up to my face, wipe away the tears and toss my legs over the side of my bed, glad to find them less weak. The nap did me good, and maybe this surge of energy I feel is a mirage, but I’m pursuing it until it fades. I need to do something, and I know exactly where I want to do it.

“I’m going out to the work shed,” I tell Rhyson and Aunt Ruthie, both huddled on the couch watching television. Rhyson never watches television unless I make him, so I’m curious to see what has him looking so enthralled.

“We’ll be fine,” he says, eyes barely leaving the screen to flick to me and then back again.

“It’s awfully dusty out there, Kai.” Aunt Ruthie’s eyes remain fixed on the television, too, her words and attention absent. “Be careful. We’re just catching up on the shows I recorded.”

“What is this?” I step closer to the screen. “
The Young and the Restless”
? Are you kidding me, Rhys?”

“This stuff’s fantastic,” he says with a completely straight face. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Um, because I haven’t watched soaps since high school?” I laugh and shake my head, dropping a quick kiss on the beautiful mess of his hair. “I’ll be out back if you manage to pull yourself away.”