When Darkness Falls(4)

“Of course,” she said.

“You hesitated.”

Haley laughed. “It seemed so obvious.”

He settled the coat around her shoulders. “Is tomorrow too soon?”

She smiled.

Outside, the temperature had dropped, and the wind slapped her face. Devon kept his arm around her until a cab turned the corner from Polk Street. He hailed it.

“Can’t wait to see you tomorrow,” he said.

She got in the cab. He kissed her again before shutting the door.

The vinyl seat felt cold through her coat and jeans. Haley shivered. For the first time in almost a year, she’d enjoyed herself, and it had slipped by so fast. Through the rear window, she watched Devon reenter The Underground. In the light from the green neon sign, his face looked almost ghostlike. But she could still feel his mouth on her lips and neck, and she knew he was real.





Chapter Two


“So when do you get back in town?” Haley tried to make the question sound casual. She had no idea if she’d succeeded.

“Try this one.” Devon held out a guitar, a round shoulder dreadnought Gibson that belonged to Al. “I’ll be back Saturday morning.”

They sat on the edge of the stage at The Underground. It was closed Monday nights. They’d had dinner—which Haley hadn’t eaten much of, her stomach knotted in first-date jitters—at a Thai restaurant down the street. It was her first date with someone she really liked since splitting from Brian. Or ever, in a way, because she and Brian had slid from friendship and playing music together to a romantic relationship without formal dating.

Haley took the guitar. It felt too big in her arms. Her own, a concert-sized Martin, had a smaller body. “Quick trip.”

“Yeah, I’ve got a gig in Aurora Saturday. New club.”

Devon had told her over dinner that he was leaving the next day to visit a childhood friend in Los Angeles, but he hadn’t offered much other information.

“Did you set up any jobs there? In L.A.?” Haley said.

“Friday night. Otherwise, no. I haven’t seen Lydia in years, figured I should hang out with her.”

A female childhood friend. Haley wanted to ask where he was staying. Devon made his living as a musician and through his part-ownership of The Underground, and she guessed his budget didn’t include L.A. hotels. But it wasn’t her business.

“Is she a musician, too?”

Devon laughed. “She ought to be, all the time we hung out here as kids after school. But no. She’s a pharmaceutical sales rep. Says she talks to people all day for a living. It really suits her. So, ready?”

“Sure.” Haley imagined Lydia as a young woman in a lab coat, her hair pulled back in a bun, chatting away about medications. That seemed reassuring.

Devon started the intro to a song he’d written. She recognized it because she’d downloaded every song of his available that morning. It had a bluesy feel, with a three-chord progression. Her fingers automatically took the right formations, though she stumbled a bit on the rhythm. The strings cut into her fingertips. It had been months since she’d played, and she’d lost her calluses.

When he finished, Devon glanced at his phone.

“We’ve got time for one more.” They were going to a concert at the House of Blues. “How about something you like to sing?”

Rain spattered the sidewalk outside. Haley shook her head. “I’ll stick with playing along. I’m not sure yet on singing. I need to figure out what to do on my own. What I like.”

Devon grinned. “Not asking you for life. Just for fun.”

Haley flushed and looked down, studying the scratches in the finish on the instrument’s back. Someone had played it while wearing a belt buckle. “Right.”

Of course. This was their first date. He wasn’t asking her to be part of his career.

“I can harmonize on pretty much anything,” she said.

? ? ?

Devon jerked upright, so much sweat pouring down his face he could taste it. He drew in a long breath. Exhaled. His lungs ached.

No sunlight filtered around the edges of his drawn blinds. He’d gotten home from Haley’s after midnight. He ought to have left sooner. She was starting her new job this morning and was probably exhausted. The clock on his dresser read five-thirty, but it was an old-fashioned clock face, not digital. Morning or evening? He shoved the covers aside and stumbled downstairs to his main room. His phone lay on the kitchen counter.

P.M.

Seventeen hours. He shuddered. He’d been thrown off since getting back from L.A. last week. But if the dreams he’d had were the price of catching up on rest, he’d rather stay sleep-deprived. Having nightmares now made no sense. Everything was good. Lots of bookings, receipts at The Underground were steady despite the economy, he had someone he enjoyed being with, and none of his usual doubts.

Maybe everything’s too good.

That was what Lydia would say. They’d grown up in chaos. Good times caused worry, told you something was not right. Inching the blinds open, Devon stared out at Dearborn Street. Grimy, three-day-old snow edged the sidewalks. He rested his forehead against the cold glass. He often battled others—men, faceless monsters—in nightmares, sweating and swallowing terror to defend himself if he couldn’t flee. But last night he’d felt no fear, and he hadn’t been defending himself. Flashes of the dream came back to him. A parked car. The thrill he’d felt. A woman wearing a thigh-length fur coat, gold and black heels, and earmuffs.