Page 22 of Lost Lyrebird

It’s like he doesn’t hear me at all when he says, “’Kay, baby, then I best let you go.Go do what you gotta do.”

Something shifts in my chest.The words “let you go” feel final, though I know he doesn’t mean them that way.But maybe it’s time to let go.Clinging to Deeds isn’t going to help me now.

This is more than just another job.This is something I’ve trained years for, and the outcome will affect many lives, including mine.Whether my heart survives it… that’s anyone’s guess.

CHAPTER 5

Our subconscious is smarter than we are.It recognizes a kindred soul when it sees it.

As the hours bleed into one another, sleep evades me.There’s something about Lily—some shadow that lingers at the edges of my memory.It gnaws at me like an itch just under my skin.

My mind and body are too wired to rest, so I spend the better part of the night rifling through journals, sifting through scraps of notes, chasing the ghost of a connection that, at times, seems to only live inside my mind.

If it weren’t for the strings tying clues together on my wall and giving me evidence of Elle’s existence, I would think I’d gone insane.Maybe I have a little.

What was once a clean, organized assortment of feathers, breadcrumbs, and puzzle pieces has turned into total chaos.Like a man living on his last nickel, desperately searching for gold, I’ve scoured through all my notes in a frenzy.

There has to be an explanation for why this niggling unease hasn’t left me, even after smoking as much dope as I have to help numb the pain.

Around two thirty in the morning, I find it.A long-forgotten note I scrawled years ago, written while I’d been in medical rehab, spending half my days in physical therapy, the other half popping opioids to dull the knife, constantly driving into my skull.

Her hand in mine as she leads me through a forest.She’s constantly sweeping her hair out of her face.The blonde ends with dark-brown roots.The bruises marring her olive skin are fading.Dandelion seeds floating into the sky.

Is this it?What’s been driving me fucking insane?A few matching details?The swept hair, olive skin, and brown roots.

I caution myself not to read too much into those feathers.Hope can be deadly.And yet, those words give the longing for her that has refused to die, new life.

I crash for four hours and wake with the sun.

When my morning trickles by like motor oil through a corroded engine and I still have hours to kill, I head out back to my workshop.There, I work on my latest side project—reshaping a storm-felled tree into a piece of furniture.Something with purpose.With longevity.Something that, hopefully, will see many days to come.

It’s a gift for a man who helped me in my search for Elle—my old landlord.

First, I had to strip out the rot and damage.Then prepare and cure the wood, cutting it down into usable boards for the legs, seat, back, arms, and rockers.

The base rockers were the hardest to get right.Matching the curves took time and patience.Breathing life into each piece is how I spend my morning.I finish carving in the small details and sand down the rough edges, smoothing every curve and contour.The stain I apply last pulls out the grain and knots as if the tree’s memories are rising to the surface.

Watching it soak in and seeing it transform is deeply satisfying.

The scent of the sawdust and oil grounds me.Earthy, sharp, and familiar.But getting it off my skin and the sawdust out of my hair is another matter, so I head back inside to clean up thoroughly.

When I finally arrive at Wet Tips, it’s nearly noon.With the kinetic energy still riding high, I immediately start on my to-do list.Maintenance shit.Things that have needed my attention for months: a broken shelf in the storage area, dead or flickering bulbs, a loose railing, and a few wobbly or broken tables and chairs.I fix what I can and jot down a list of replacements for the rest.

By the time I finish, I still have an hour to kill.So I sit back and drum my fingers on the desk, considering a nap on the couch in my office.I should sleep.Going without is bound to bring on a migraine.I know this, but with whatever’s coursing through my veins, I’m sure it’ll be for nought.

Instead, I pull the blueprints for the club’s renovation from the bottom drawer.Mav sketched them up for me a while back, the original plans to turn this place into something classy, upscale.At first, I put it on hold to offer some stability to the staff after the hell they’d been through with the previous owners.Later, the plans got shoved to the back burner as the day-to-day grind—and my responsibilities to the HOCs—took over.And for the past two years, as my migraines grew worse, I started to accept that I might not be around long enough to see the project through.

So these have been all but forgotten.

As I spread them across my desk, I can’t help but imagine the changes I’d make.The possibilities.With deliberate care, I jot down updates in neat script, knowing Mav will have to decipher my handwriting later.It might not be anytime soon—he’s got more than enough on his plate—but at least I can pass them on and see if additional changes are doable.

Checking my watch, I see it’s 2:03 p.m.My pulse speeds up as I make my way to the back entrance.

I’m leaning against the building, smoking a cigarette, when I hear the guttural rumble of a Harley in the distance.

Bodie rolls in.His blue shop shirt, with his name embroidered on it, is oil-stained, open over a wrinkled white tee, as if he just rolled out of bed and threw on whatever was on the floor.

“Why the fuck didn’t you call?”he asks as he dismounts.