She shakes her head. “Nope. The lot is pretty much empty, and I was really careful sneaking back over here.”
She sits next to me on the couch and wraps her arms around me, letting her head rest against my shoulder. I set down my guitar, which I’ve been absently strumming while I waited for her to return. I made a few mistakes at the last show, which is totally unlike me. Usually, I’m spot-on with every note, but having Ali around has infringed on my practice time.
Not that I’m complaining, of course. Although Tony did. He’s convinced that something serious is distracting me, and if I’m going to keep him from investigating, I need to stop giving him reasons to worry. That means extra practice and putting on a flawless show next time.
I smooth Ali’s hair, which is still slightly ruffled from her sleepover. Even like this, it looks gorgeous; it’s a perfect shade of auburn, half red and half brown. I guess it kind of fits her sometimes fiery and sometimes sweet personality.
“Good morning,” she murmurs. Her warm breath seeps through my cotton T-shirt and brushes against the skin of my shoulder. I shiver, but try to conceal it by wrapping my arms around her. A small smirk lifts the corners of her lips, telling me that I’m not very good at hiding how much her touch messes with me.
I kiss her forehead and sign back, “Good morning.” And it definitely is, now that she’s with me and safe. I pull her into my lap and rest my cheek on top of her head, and we stay that way for a long time. I’m not sure exactly how long, because having Ali this close does a weird time warp thing to me. It’s like time stops, and all that matters is this brave, feisty, beautiful girl in my arms.
I kiss along the side of her jaw, stopping every once in a while to teasingly brush my lips against her mouth. She closes her eyes and tilts her head back, capturing me in a deep kiss. Then she slowly pulls away and picks up my electric guitar I’d left leaning against the couch. She runs her hand along the smooth varnish, pausing to trace the small scratches that mar it after years of use. Usually, I hate it when other people touch my guitar, but Ali’s grasp on the instrument is delicate and reverent, and I don’t mind it at all.
“Killer has a picture in his RV of you guys when you first started the band,” she says. She softly strums a simple chord. “You’re holding this same guitar in it.”
“This was the first one I ever owned,” I sign. “It’s still my favorite.”
“You use a different one when you perform,” she notes.
“Yeah.” I reach over and run my hand along the neck of the guitar. “It’s my favorite, but the sound quality is honestly not that great. So I have to use a more professional one for performances.”
She nods and carefully picks at a couple strings, and I smile as I recognize the notes she wrote to go along with the lyrics in my notebook.
“It sounds a lot better with your adjustments,” I sign. “I’ve been playing what you wrote all morning.”
She blushes a little at that, but a smile upturns her lips. “So do you think after all these years of working on it, your song might actually turn out perfect?”
“No,” I sign. “But if you help me write it, I think our song might turn out perfect.”
Ali’s smile grows, but then she looks up from the guitar and stares me right in the eye. Her lips tighten into a thoughtful expression, and she looks just as intense as she was when we had that serious discussion yesterday. I shift back a little, unsure where this conversation is going.
“I’ll make you a deal,” she signs.
“You promise to help me finish the song, and then I’ll kiss you again?”
She scoffs at my suggestion. “Not quite. You answer one question of mine totally truthfully, and then I’ll help you with the song.”
“That’s not fair.
“Welcome to life.”
I don’t like it when she talks like that, all bitter and realistic. Ali is the type of girl who deserves to live in a fairy tale world full of happily-ever-afters. The fact that she never got that—that instead she’s been struggling through hell—makes my chest ache. I peck her on the cheek and sign, “Fine. It’s a deal.”
She smirks triumphantly, but the expression quickly melts into a hesitant frown. She brushes her fingers along my jaw, then drops her hand and trails it along the scar on my chest. Even though my shirt separates our skin, a trail of heat follows her fingertips.
“Tell me about your family,” she says.
I pull away from her, but she keeps her gaze steadily on mine, her hazel eyes concerned and curious. I swallow hard and hesitantly sign, “That’s not a question.”
She sighs. “Must we get into specifics?”
“We made a deal. I’m supposed to answer a question.”
“Fine.” She rolls her eyes and asks, “Would you please tell me about your family?”
“No.”
She cocks her head a little. “What?”
“I said no,” I sign, switching back to ASL to make sure she gets the message. “There, I answered.”