Jacob's Ladder: Gabe (Jacob's Ladder #1)

“And I get that. I really do.”

“You do?” I repeated.

“While I’m sure you think the sex fiend in me is pissed we didn’t get to finish what we started, that’s not what upsets me.”

Gabe’s responses continued to surprise me. “It’s not?”

“I got mad because you shut me out. You dismissed me like I couldn’t possibly help you.”

Wincing, I ducked my head. “I know, and it was wrong of me to do that. You were just being nice and trying to help me, and I freaked out and acted like a psycho.” I peeked up at him. “Outside of my father, I’m not used to having a man help me.” Every other man has let me down. That’s why I can’t trust men.

“I understand. I guess it’s just going to take time for you to trust me.”

“Yes, it is. I wish it didn’t have to be that way, but I…” The truth was, my trust issues had begun even before I’d been so badly burned by Ryan. It went all the way back to when I was a three-year-old little girl, waking up one crisp September day to find my mother was gone. As the weeks turned to months, there was a reason I only trusted my dad, my sisters, and Aunt Sadie: they’d never left me. They’d never chosen something or someone over me.

But, Gabe hadn’t had any part in what my mother had done so many years ago. I couldn’t fault him for my past. I had to give him the benefit of the doubt. Staring intently at him, I added, “But I am willing to try.”

“So am I.”

I jerked my chin at his guitar. “Were you working on something new?”

Shaking his head, Gabe replied, “More like polishing one from earlier in the week.” Reading what had to be my extremely curious expression, he asked, “Would you like to hear it?”

“I’d love to.”

With a nod, Gabe picked up the guitar. “For the record, I’m not the best singer in my family.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’re a fabulous singer.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Gabe began strumming the tune I’d heard when I got to his door. “Trapped inside these walls, I made a prison all my own. Lost and confused, I was always so alone,” he began. While Gabe didn’t have an amazing voice, I instantly fell in love with its coarseness. He was like a cross between Bruce Springsteen and John Cougar Mellencamp.

Closing my eyes, I focused on the lyrics floating through the air. For someone who had claimed to be unable to write, Gabe had penned a breathtakingly raw love song about a man who was saved by the love of a woman. Tears pricked my eyes at the haunting quality of the tune.

When Gabe sang the last note, I didn’t know what to do. Considering how amazing the song was, it seemed cheesy to clap for him. Instead, I opened my eyes to let him see my tears. “Wow,” I murmured.

Tilting his head at me, Gabe asked, “Wow as in ‘Wow, that was a load of crap’ or ‘Wow, that was amazing’?”

“I can’t believe you even have to ask for clarification. Don’t the tears in my eyes tell you enough?”

“You could be crying because of how awful it was,” he countered.

I swiped my eyes. “Well, I’m not.”

A pleased look flashed in Gabe’s eyes. “It was really that evocative?”

“Oh Gabe, it’s beautiful. I love the symbolism of the man being a prisoner of his own insecurities, which causes him to be incapable of love—and then he finds the woman who sets him free.” I swept my hand to my heart. “It’s absolutely gorgeous.”

“You know, you’re the first person to hear it outside of my family. I played it for Abby and Eli the other day.”

“What did they say?” I asked tentatively.

He grinned. “The same kind of things you did.”

I playfully nudged his leg with mine. “Then why did you doubt yourself?”

His expression slowly darkened. “Because I remain in a constant state of crippling self-doubt,” he said in an agonized tone.

I fought the urge to stare at Gabe in disbelief. I couldn’t believe the words that had just come from his mouth. I doubted anyone outside of his parents or siblings had ever heard them. He was so reluctant to share personal things about himself, but this confession made him appear very vulnerable before me, and my heart instantly went out to him.

“That seems to happen a lot to creative people, doesn’t it?” I questioned softly.

“It’s our cross to bear.”

“I wish I could take it from you—the self-doubt. Then you could have a clearly untainted few of how insanely talented you are.”

“What you said just now—that’s the other reason I wanted your opinion. You’re a fresh ear, someone who isn’t in the business.”

“I don’t know why you would want to listen to me. They’re the ones who know and understand music.”

“But you understand the emotion. Without an understanding and an appreciation for the emotion, a song is just a piece of music.”

“And that’s bad?” I questioned.

“To me it is. I want it to be an experience. When I write, I want my songs to be ones that take you back to a time or place or bring you comfort when you’re going through a really difficult phase.”

“That’s so intense,” I murmured.

Gabe chuckled. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve never met anyone who thinks as deeply as you do.” I shook my head at him. “It’s truly inspiring to hear you talk about songwriting.”

“You’re the inspiring one. Without you, this song wouldn’t have happened.”

“But how?” I murmured.

His lips curved into a smile. “Don’t you get it, Rae? You are the song. You’re within each and every line of the lyrics.”

I wanted to argue with him that the beautiful meaning conveyed in the words of his song couldn’t possibly be about me. I wasn’t any of the things the heroine was—I didn’t breathe life back into his dying body, didn’t free him from the prison he found himself in.

As if he could read my mind, Gabe said, “Yes, you did.”

Overcome by the emotion of the moment, I found myself stripped of the ability to speak. Although a myriad of emotions swirled in my mind, I couldn’t find a way to string them together. Instead, I closed the gap between us on the couch and threw my arms around Gabe’s neck before dipping my head to bring my lips to his.

I poured everything I couldn’t seem to say into that kiss—all the appreciation and the longing, all the gratitude and the wonder.

When I finally willed myself to pull away, I stared into Gabe’s hazy eyes. “Thank you for that,” he said as he brought a hand up to cup my cheek.

“You don’t have to thank me, silly. I’m the one thanking you—or at least I was trying to with my kiss.”

“You did a damn good job.”

I smiled. “I hope so.” I could have stayed like that—wrapped up with Gabe staring adoringly at me—for the rest of the morning, if not forever, but my phone ringing in my pocket took us out of the moment. As I dug it out, I didn’t have to look at the display to know who it was.

“Hey Dad,” I said.

“Where are you?”

“And hello to you, too.”

“It’s after nine. You’re never late.”