Run, Rose, Run(47)
He started the song over again, and AnnieLee closed her eyes to listen. He sang about a person asking to be trusted and fearing that he wouldn’t be. The song was slow and sad and gorgeous.
No matter what’s gone on before,
Don’t hold it in a moment more
She whistled and clapped when he finished, and he shot her a grateful look.
“Now for a bit of the Boss,” he said, and he played a countrified version of “I’m on Fire” that made a trio of tipsy college girls scream in delight.
There were no bells and whistles at the Cat’s Paw, no possibility of showmanship beyond the skill of a person’s hands and throat. Ethan’s warm voice filled the room, sometimes vaulting into an old-fashioned cowboy falsetto before tumbling back down to a richer and darker range. As AnnieLee sat there, entranced, she felt like he was singing only to her.
And maybe he was. Because every time she opened her eyes, she met his from across the room.
He was halfway through a Gram Parsons cover—“$1000 Wedding”—when AnnieLee found herself pushing through the growing crowd to get outside. In the narrow alley, she could still hear Ethan singing, but only faintly. She leaned against the wall, a fingernail of a moon hanging in the sliver of black sky above her. She hoped he hadn’t noticed that she’d bolted. How could she explain it? I ached when I saw you up there, Ethan, because your voice showed me a picture of a life I never thought I could have. A summer evening, you and me on a porch, watching the sun go down. You’re playing and I’m singing, and we’re barefoot, and the porch is all ours because the house is ours, and oh, my God, I have to get air.
Her reaction was ridiculous, if not downright insane, for so many reasons. For one thing, she barely even knew Ethan Blake—not really. Which was partly her fault, for pushing him away all the time, but who was keeping track? And for another thing, that vision, as sweet as it was, didn’t fit at all with her restless, relentless ambition. She’d meant the words to “Driven,” after all.
Driven to keep on and on
To achieve the things I want
She kicked at a can lying in the alley and heard an echoing noise a few yards away. Squinting into the dark, she could see nothing but shadows. She stayed very still, holding her breath as she listened.
Nothing but silence all around, and from inside, the reassuring sound of Ethan Blake’s voice.
After another moment, she let herself relax. Her shoulders dropped, and she began to tap her foot against the cobblestones. Ethan had moved on to “Mammas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys,” which he had sung as a slow, almost mournful waltz. AnnieLee began to sway a little, one-two-three, one-two-three, as she turned to go back inside.
As her fingers closed around the doorknob, something hit her between the shoulder blades. Whatever it was crashed to the ground, shattering. She looked down and saw the glittering pieces of a whiskey bottle at her feet at the same time she realized that the bar door had locked behind her.
Her heart gave a painful hitch in her chest as she whirled around, shouting, “Hey—what the hell?”
Even in the darkness she recognized them: the men from her motel room. There was now one on either side of her.
“Gutter trash,” the smaller of them said. “That’s all you are.”
“Then why do you keep coming for me?” The question felt ripped from her throat. She’d tried so hard to run from her past, but it just kept following her. Cornering her. Demanding that she face it.
“You broke the rules.” The bigger man lunged toward her, and she wasn’t quick enough. He caught her shoulders and shoved her to the ground. Her head slammed against the cobblestones. AnnieLee felt more rage than pain as she rolled to her side, flinging her leg out and connecting her boot to his kneecap. He stumbled, cursing, and then she saw the flash of a knife. She heard herself screaming.
“Ethan! Ethan!”
Instead of straightening himself back up, the injured man fell down on top of her. She gasped as air was forced from her lungs. The man’s big hands became vises around her as he turned her over, so she was lying on her stomach and her cheek was grinding into the ground. He let his full weight press down on her back. The second man came over and knelt down by her face.
“Rose isn’t really getting the message,” he said, and he flicked open a Zippo lighter. “I don’t know what’s wrong with her.” The flame bloomed to life, and she could feel its heat as he pushed it toward her. Grabbing a lock of her hair in his fist, he lit it. The ends curled and crackled, making a horrible stench before burning out.
“Flesh doesn’t smell as bad, but it hurts a lot worse,” he hissed.
AnnieLee was bucking her hips up and down beneath the big man, but she couldn’t get him off her. She didn’t have enough air to scream.
Then there was a crash as the bar door flew open and a shape came hurtling out. Ethan Blake knocked the big man off her, and she saw the glint of metal in his hand. A gun.
The men were up and already running away, melting into the shadows. Ethan fired after them, over their heads—once, twice. And then he was bending down over her, and lifting her up, and asking her if she was okay. She didn’t know how to answer that, so instead of speaking she put her arms around him.
She let him pull her close and hold her there, shaking against his warm chest. Crying tears of shock and relief. Safe, if only for now.