Page 6 of Tracing Holland (The Hold Me NSB #2)

Finally! I grab the key and offer a quick smile as I turn around. “Just gonna load up. I’ll be back,” I explain. She nods and returns to her notebook.

My heart is pounding as I step off the bus and I have no idea why.

Is it because of her question? Is it because she got close to a wound?

Or is it her. There’s something about her.

I suspect she hates me for some reason and yet she’s never been rude.

Callie immediately clicked with her so I know she’s incredible.

I’m just so confused at the moment, and if I had any other choice, I would not go back to face her, but it’s too late.

I already said I’d be returning. I’d look ridiculous if I just disappeared now.

Plus, I have to return the key. That damn key!

I load my suitcase with the rest of the luggage and relock the luggage bay.

I force myself to convert my death march into something less absurd and begin climbing the stairs again.

She’s an attractive, confident woman; so what?

I’ve dealt with countless of them over the course of my life, but maybe that’s the problem.

“You writing?” I ask, and nearly flinch at the stupid question.

A small smile flickers across her lips and I know she’s thinking the same thing. She looks adorable as she bites the edge of her pen and looks up at me. “Yep,” she says through her clenched teeth, still smiling.

I return it and shake my head with a shy grin. “Sorry, I know. Just making conversation, I guess. Ok, I’ll leave you alone.”

I start moving past her toward the back.

“Luke, wait!” she calls.

Surprised, I stop and turn. Her eyes have changed a bit. The amusement is gone, and I brace myself once more.

“Look, I’ll just say this, ok? I know it’s awkward, but we have a long tour and will be spending lots of time together. I don’t want drama in my life, ok?”

I stare at her. I have no idea what that means. “Um, ok. I don’t either,” I reply.

She’s fishing for words. “I just mean…Crap!” She covers her face, clearly embarrassed all of a sudden. “Wow, ok, you know what? I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m doing. I just say things sometimes.” She shakes her head, and I swear she’s blushing.

“Holland, I’m so lost right now,” I confess, staring at her with what I’m sure is a baffled expression.

She laughs dismissively. “No, I know. I…can we just pretend I didn’t say anything?”

“Um…”

“Yeah, ok, so I should just go. Thanks for letting me use your bus. I’ll just go to my dressing room or something.”

After giving me another weak smile, she’s gone.

I stare after her, totally confused by her strange behavior.

I have no clue what she was talking about, what drama is concerning her.

She didn’t seem angry, just sincere in her determination to avoid whatever it is.

Or could be. Or was? What could I have done that would cause someone to fear me without being angry?

I swallow, feeling even more uncertain, more insecure.

I’m tired of hurting people, and the thought that I’m still hurting them without even trying is hard for me to accept.

Just my very presence is a cancer, apparently. Dammit. Trigger.

I close my eyes and lean against the partition to the sleeping area. I’m not a cancer. I’m just…I don’t know yet, but not that. Not anymore. I draw in a deep breath and continue on to the back of the bus in a disturbed silence.

Time alone with myself is uncomfortable at best, and after only a few distracted minutes of staring at the screen, I know I’m not where I belong.

My encounter with Holland is only a small fraction of the weight on my conscience.

There’s a much bigger burden that’s haunted me since the second we pulled into Houston, and the fact that I’ve been trying to deny it with silly excuses has only been feeding the monster.

There’s something else I have to do while I’m home, one more conversation that needs to be had, and I can’t fight it anymore.

It’s a bit of a drive to the large suburb outside the city but the cab driver promises he’ll wait for me.

I leave him at the curb by the ornate iron gate, and he gives me a somber nod as I take the first tentative steps toward it.

Drawing in a deep breath, I glance up at the imposing arch and force my feet to comply with my heart.

My lungs are heavy and my progress slows as the distance shrinks. I can barely breathe, the smell of freshly cut grass mocking me with the scent of life in this place of death. It’s a frightening maze, but I know exactly where to go even though I’ve only been here three times.

That first time. The day I can hardly remember. It should be ingrained in my head, a nightmare that haunts me every time I close my eyes, but it’s not. It’s just a shadow, lurking in the darkest reaches of my thoughts, reminding me of how far I’d fallen and would have yet to fall.

Then, the second time. The day I almost killed Casey and ruined his life too. The day we lost consciousness beside the shiny stone monument and woke up to a firestorm of press releases and irate Label execs.

And the third. The day I’d determined to join her.

I freeze when I reach my destination, unable to move as I stare at the stunning headstone.

I hate that it’s so fresh, so new, that in this sea of stone and statues, this one is the most beautiful to me.

The tears are gathering now as I finally have the courage to kneel down and face her.

To say I’m sorry. To finally make promises I will keep.

In loving memory of Elena Barrett Craven

Wife, Daughter, Sister

A sob echoes through the silence, cutting off the distant sound of birds and insects. It’s mine, I know, but I’m afraid I’m not ready for it.

I reach out my hand and grip the stone, letting the chill of death seep into my fingers.

Wife, Daughter, Sister.

First love. Inspiration. Victim.

I close my eyes, the hot liquid searing my cheeks and staining my t-shirt.

I rest my head on my hands as the late summer breeze rustles the trees, reminding me of the impossible distance that separates us.

So much life in the presence of death. But it’s time.

I need this. She deserves this. After a long pause, I draw in a deep breath, finally letting the door to her memory crash open.

Her face. Her hair. Her smell. The way her laugh made you want to hold her forever. Her eyes, and that first time she looked at me as though she couldn’t live without me.

“I’m so sorry, Ellie.” I whisper. “I love you. I love you so much. I should have been there. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The tears are hers now, seeping into the ground, and I find myself praying they’ll come to rest with her somehow. I know it’s absurd, but I don’t have anything left to give her. I want her to have that. I need her to accept them.

I forget about time, collapsed against her, completely paralyzed.

I know it’s getting late. I know there’s another world waiting for me, but I just can’t let her go again now that I’ve finally come back to her.

I don’t think I’m sobbing anymore, but the tears are still slipping down my cheeks, soaking my arms as I hold on.

But it’s not her. It’s not Ellie. It’s just a cold chunk of rock on a pile of grass, and deep down I know I don’t belong here.

Not yet, anyway. What’s left of her is the ghost in my head, in my heart, and I start to understand.

I finally get it. This hope, this budding strength, this overwhelming sense of who she still is because of who she was.

I may have failed her then, but she won’t fail me now. I finally believe.

I can get up. I can still live.

I can move on without letting go.

It’s a long time before I’m able to return to the venue, let alone the buses. I feel the pressure of the clock and know they’ll be looking for me, but I have the cab driver drop me off a good mile away so I can recalibrate my head with a walk.

I eventually make my way to the dressing room to prepare for the show and grab a snack there to avoid any awkward encounters in catering.

In fact, somehow I manage to stay hidden almost completely, other than a few interactions with our stage manager and crew.

My discreet return is so successful I’m even able to startle Callie with a gentle poke as she watches Limelight perform from backstage.

She jumps and spins, then breaks into a giant grin when she sees me.

“There you are! Everyone’s been looking for you. You here to watch Holland?”

I nod. “I told her I’d check them out.”

“She’ll love that! Limelight’s really good too. You should try to catch their show tomorrow. Jesse’s voice is amazing! They’re gonna be huge. Have you talked to him? He’s actually a really cool guy. Casey said he worked in a warehouse to support himself until booking this tour!”

I love her enthusiasm. I’m pretty sure I’ll never tire of watching her get excited about life.

“No kidding,” I say, focusing back on the action on stage.

She’s right. His voice is sick, their energy and sound well-beyond their years and experience.

They’re going to be a big deal one day, and I can almost feel a small spark of excitement at the memory of what that jump was like for me.

“Luke, hey!”

I turn toward the voice and catch my breath a bit at Holland’s entrance. She looks incredible in this light with her stage clothes and makeup. I force a smile.

“Hey. Came to check out your show,” I explain casually.

“Wow, I’m honored. Thank you,” she replies, and her return smile seems sincere. I’m not sure what else to say, but I’m spared when the rest of her band appears and distracts her.

Callie and I back away to make room as Limelight finishes their set and exits the stage.

The crew immediately jumps into action to set up for Tracing Holland.

Holland and her band are deep in conversation, most likely reviewing some last minute details before they go out, and I use that opportunity to grab Jesse as he passes.

“Looked good,” I observe, and I love the pleased shock that flashes across his face before he can hide it. I remember being in his shoes. Wanting to play it cool, but totally in awe of the moment, the legends who suddenly become peers.

“Really? You watched?”

“Caught the end.”

He grins and nods. “Thanks, man. I still can’t believe we’re playing a stadium. We just fucking played a stadium!”

I laugh. “Yeah, you did. And fucking killed it,” I echo, almost laughing again when I catch Callie’s disapproving look at my choice of language.

“You were awesome, Jesse. Really, really good. I love your sound,” she says.

“Thanks, Callie. That means a lot.”

“Jess! Get over here! Are you coming or what?” Parker calls from the stage door.

Jesse gives us an apologetic look. “Sorry, guys. Later?”

We smile. “Sure, no problem. Enjoy the rest of your night.”

“Oh, no way. I’ll be back in a minute. You guys fucking blew this place apart last night. I’m not missing that.”

I shake my head with a smile as he darts off, and Callie gently slaps my arm.

“Hear that? Blew this place apart. You’re such a rockstar.”

I chuckle. “Yeah, whatever.”

It’s another few minutes before Tracing Holland takes the stage, and Holland gives me a “here we go” look as she passes to make her entrance. I return an encouraging smile and move to a better vantage point once they’re loaded.

The lights flash in sync with the first few drum hits of their opener, and the crowd ignites.

When Holland’s strong, haunting lead flows as a lonely melody into the vast space around us, I’m completely mesmerized right along with every breathless soul in the audience.

Chills spread through me as the drum hits continue; just her voice, the echo of percussion, and that restless anticipation that something spectacular is about to explode on us.

“ I won’t be your momma’s girl.

I’m not your daddy’s pride.

So if you want me alone, don’t expect to take me home, I’m just not that kind.

There’s no mercy for the fallen, no apologies for my prison.

Brave boy, sure you’re ready for this?

Last chance, are you ready for this?”

The lights go out and a dramatic silence descends over the darkness.

“ Yeah, that’s what I thought !” she cries into the void. “ But you’ll take it anyway. …Here we go!”

I’m not sure I move the entire time I watch Holland’s set.

The way she commands the stage, her confidence, her authenticity, her incredible music, Callie was right, it’s magnetic.

I’m disappointed when I have to leave to take care of some last minute preparations before my own show.

Well, part of me is disappointed. Another part is grateful.

That would be the part that recognizes the emergence of these sudden crackling emotions but has no interest in solving, let alone engaging, them.

There’s no denying I’ve been touched by what I just saw, I just don’t have a handle on what that means or what to do with it.

Holland Drake is a special talent. It’s etched into her very presence that makes you stop and take notice.

She deserves every bit of her success and recent accolades, and I almost find it funny that she’d been so amazed and honored by my attention to her work when I’m standing here brimming with questions for insight into her own.

Still, I don’t know that I’m ready for a new friend or, more specifically, the effort it would take to cultivate another relationship when I’m really only good at screwing them up.

The fact that watching Holland has stirred something deep, something that scares the crap out of me, is all I need to decide it’s better to leave that whole thing well enough alone.

It’s already been a heavy day for me, and a brutal opening to our tour in general.

I hope I’m strong enough to survive the next three months, but it’s hard to be optimistic when two days has felt like two weeks.

At this rate, there is no chance in hell I make it to November.

I’ll be lucky to make it to New Orleans.