I pick up my guitar. “Sure. You know Pearl Jam’s ‘Indifference’?”
Happiness gives his dark eyes light. “Again with Eddie?” He shakes his head, but his dimples are out. “Fight it if you must, Libs, but you know you like me better.”
I more than like him. That’s the problem. “Any time you want to play one of your songs, just let me know,” I tell him blithely. “And then I’ll reassess.”
The long fall of his hair hides his eyes from me as he strums out a few chords, but there’s a smile in his voice. “Maybe someday soon.”
Those words sound a lot like hope.
Chapter Seven
Killian
It’s the middle of the night when three things happen: my room lights up with a flash of lightning, followed by a tremendous crash of thunder, and Libby screams bloody murder. I lurch up from a full sleep as if yanked, my balls crawling halfway up my ass in fright, my heart threatening to beat out of my chest.
For a bright, sharp second, I sit panting, my eyes wildly searching the darkened room, trying to figure out what the fuck is going on. Then I remember the scream. Libby.
Another round of lightning and thunder brings on another scream. The fact that I can actually hear her screaming all the way in my house is enough to stop my heart.
“Jesus.” Terror mixed with rage has me leaping out of bed and reaching for the only weapon I have, my Gibson. It’s not much, but it’s solid, and I will bash the fuck out of anyone who hurts Libby.
I race out of the house and into a storm so violent, I can barely see. Icy rain lashes at my skin as I run, my feet pounding through sandy mud puddles.
I nearly face-plant when another spectacular flash of lightning arcs through the night. But a desperate wail from inside Libby’s house has me charging forward.
“Libby!” I don’t hesitate kicking her door in. Darkness greets me. Libby is still screaming, and the sound shreds me. My bare feet slap over the floorboards as I run to her room.
I scream too—a fucking beast of a roar, adrenaline and sheer rage lighting me up. I swing the Gibson over my head like a club, ready to caveman-bash someone’s head in, only to stop short when I finally enter her room.
Libby is sitting up in bed, her eyes wild, screams pouring from her. Nobody else is there.
For a second I just stand, guitar overhead, my hair dripping, my chest heaving. Then my wits return, and I slowly lower the Gibson.
“Libby?”
I don’t know if she can hear me over her cries. They’re coming faster now, and she’s rocking back and forth. The sound unhinges me, cuts into my heart. All the hairs stand up on my body as if in protest. This isn’t natural.
“Libby.” I set the guitar down and ease toward her. “Baby, stop.”
She doesn’t hear me. I don’t think she sees me.
Night terrors. It hits me like a brick. Mom told me I used to have them, and she said it was almost impossible to soothe me when they hit. I don’t remember them for shit, but she told me it was awful. I fucking believe her now.
Ignoring Libby’s frantic shrieks for the moment, I go to close the front door. When I return to her room, she’s still going at it, but I head for her window, which she’s left cracked open. After closing it and the drapes, I move to the bathroom and turn the light on, leaving the door open just enough to give her bedroom a bit of illumination yet not tear her out of sleep.
Maybe it’s the light or the diminished sound of the storm, but Libby suddenly takes a deep breath and then sobs.
“Libby?” I whisper, walking slowly. “Baby doll?”
Her body shudders, and she blinks. Another rasping sob leaves her. “Killian?” Her voice is toast. “What are you doing in my room?”
I approach her like I would a ticking bomb. My heart still hasn’t calmed, and I’m starting to shiver. But I focus on her. “You were screaming, Libs. I thought you were being attacked.”
She puts a trembling hand to her forehead, blocking me out. “I…the storm…” She curls in on herself, clutching her legs to her chest.
I can’t wait any longer. I sit next to her and draw her close. She’s covered in sweat and like a furnace in my arms. “It’s okay, Libs. I’m here.”
“Jesus.” She rests her clammy hand on my arm. “You’re soaked. And freezing.”
I secure my grip on her because she’s warm and soft, and, yes, I’m fucking freezing. But the truth is I need to hold her right now, need to feel the physical proof that she’s safe and solid.
“Don’t know if you noticed,” I say with false lightness, “but it’s raining cows and chickens out there.”