Page 5 of The Beat Match

“Neither of those felt right in the end. Not everyone needs to have their lives planned out by age five.”

He gestured wildly at the busy street. “You’re stranded without a purse because you can’t pay your landlord. Don’t you think it’s time you started acting your age? Take some responsibility for your life.”

Weston’s holier-than-thou attitude was long past tiresome. From his first appearance at the shelter Leo and Annie had called home, he’d walked around like he’d been better than everyone. Not a stretch back then. Wes was rich. Smart. Swoon-worthy to most girls, or certain guys—really anyone who had a faint pulse. Including a twelve-year-old Annie.

Until she’d learned his volunteer hours had been an ultimatum laid down by his mother. Until he’d hung around Leo more often, the two boys leaving her out. Until Leo had died while partying with Wes, and Wes had made it his mission to be Annie’s stand-in brother.

She appreciated how hard he tried to look out for her. She really did. It was sweet when he wasn’t driving her up the freaking wall. She knew he still harbored guilt for being there the night Leo died. She understood the responsibility he felt toward her. But why did he have to make her feel so inept? So young? Like a charity case he’d been saddled with.

At twenty-seven, she didn’t need to be anyone’s pity sister. “How about I start adulting when you quit acting like a constipated eighty-year-old.”

The corner of his lips twitched. “I was going for ninety, so I must be off my game. And do you want to tell me again why you’re wearing…that?”

She bristled at the disdain in his voice. “I don’t recall telling you a first time.”

“Why are you always so difficult?”

“Why are you always so tyrannical?”

“Honestly, Anthea.”

“Honestly, Weston.” She deepened her voice to mimic his.

He looked ready to smack his forehead on his steering wheel, and she laughed. Okay, sometimes it was fun sparring with his overbearing self. “I’m sorry. You’re just too easy to rile up. I have a new bartending gig at a hot spot in the Meatpacking District. Tight clothing means more tips.”

The car remained parked. He opened his mouth and closed it, hopefully thinking before spewing more judgmental nonsense. “What happened to the waitressing job at that”—he squinted through the windshield—“sports bar?”

“I got tired of smelling like chicken wings. And I may have dumped a beer on a regular who thought my butt was a hand rest.”

Weston’s knuckles whitened on the wheel. “You have to tell me when you need help. They can’t fire you over that.”

“They didn’t fire me. I quit. And I can take care of myself. I’ve been doing it since I was fourteen.”

He sighed and slumped slightly, the defeated pose so unlike Weston Aldrich, and guilt pressed on her lungs. She really had been more defensive lately, mainly with Wes. He was just so meddlesome. And infuriating. Unbelievably controlling. The way he’d sneered at her clothes hadn’t helped. She didn’t like her outfit much more than him. Not because it was revealing. The skimpy halter-skirt combo was typical clubbing attire, which made her think of carefree kids dancing to a DJ’s beats, which made her think of Leo, which made her think about the approaching anniversary of his death, which made her sad and crabby.

“Can we start driving so I’m not late for my new job?” she asked as she tugged down her skirt.

His eyes flicked to her thighs, then quickly away. Without replying, he turned the ignition and waited for a break in traffic.

Wes didn’t tease her about starting yet another job as he drove. She didn’t taunt him about his one-dimensional life, which revolved around work, work, and more work. He seemed stuck in his head, the tight clench of his jaw hinting at an internal yelling match. About her? His job? There was no reading Weston’s mind. Especially when she was eyeball deep in her own frustrations.

This new job wasn’t going to be much better than her last one. She would reek of booze and sweat instead of chicken wings and beer. Men would make sloppy advances. Her feet would hurt from hustling all night. She knew these jobs didn’t utilize her creative energy, as Wes never failed to mention. What he didn’t know was she had a plan.

And a piano.

The eight hundred dollar used Yamaha upright would be all hers tomorrow. She was excited and nervous, but mostly nervous. Piano had been Leo’s thing: learning to play, then learning bass, then drums, then tinkering with DJ mixers and controllers, anything that made sound, spending hours in his high school’s music room and music stores, earphones on, boasting that he’d be a huge DJ someday. He’d even found a rec center with a piano. They’d never complained when Leo used it to teach Annie.

She hadn’t touched a keyboard since the night Leo died.

Last month, everything had changed.

A couple of glasses of wine in her system, she’d sauntered into the subway station and could have sworn she’d heard Leo playing. It hadn’t been him, obviously. But the sound had drawn her, along with the strangest urge to play. Ten dollars placed in the busker’s hat, she’d asked if she could tickle his ivories.

“You can tickle anything of mine you like,” he’d said with a friendly wink. He’d stepped back while fanning his hand toward his electric keyboard, and she’d taken what had felt like her first breath in thirteen years.

She had played. Couldn’t believe she remembered how. Leo had told her she’d been a natural. She had felt something special as a twelve-year-old, closing her eyes, the cold-firm press of the keys beneath her fingers, the vibration traveling up her wrists as the notes spilled from her hands. All to impress her big brother. For two years they’d played as often as possible, her skills surprising even Leo. That same rush had blindsided her last month, the addictive pull to play, be closer to her brother.

Now she owned a piano that would be delivered tomorrow. She planned to practice until she could teach beginners the way Leo had taught her. What she wouldn’t do was tell Wes craft supplies hadn’t been the only purchase she’d made in lieu of paying rent. If he told her teaching piano was yet another dead-end job, it would cut deep. She didn’t want to defend her choice or put into words how she thought Leo would hear her if she played. She wasn’t sure why it had taken her thirteen years to touch a piano again.