What the Heart Wants

Chapter 2-1

Chapter 2

Fight or flight was a natural response to the threat of human survival. Each time Dylan encountered the press, his life was in danger, or at least his privacy. God knows the paparazzi hounded him every chance they could.

Movement on his right caused the muscles in his body to clench. He pressed one hand against the sand, prepared to stand and run. Would they ever leave him alone? How many times had his pleas for privacy gone unheard?

Countless.

He relaxed his shoulders when he noticed a little boy racing toward the ocean. Squeals of enjoyment echoed across the beach as water splashed around the toddler.

Watching the youngster playing in the waves, clapping his hands, made Dylan chuckle. The little guy reminded him of the times he’d come here at that same age. He’d grown up on this beach, swimming from daylight till dusk while his mother watched over him from the shore. If her schedule proved hectic, she monitored him from the balcony of their house.

I wonder if she knows I’m here yet?

The sand shifted beneath him as he adjusted the acoustic guitar in his hands. The familiar feel of rosewood and metal strings recharged him. He removed a pick from his pocket, then strummed a few chords as he viewed the ocean again.

Nostalgia. It was the cancer of happiness.

How many times had he used this beach for solace when a girl had left him numb? Most women didn’t anymore. He’d become accustomed to the gold diggers and one-night stands since his first tour.

He didn’t want a different girl in his bed every night. Where was the comfort in that? No, he wanted a relationship where two people gave a damn about each other, not just themselves. Not like his father.

Bile burned his throat. If there was a thin line between love and hate, his dad hovered closer to the latter. It wasn’t just the fact that his father had mistreated his mother when they were together. He’d never had time for Dylan, either, until Dylan’s band grew famous.

As he played a few more chords for mental release, he gazed across the beach and shoved his childhood memories to the back of his mind. The beach didn’t have much of a crowd today. He blamed it on the storm brewing in the distance. It would reach the shoreline soon.

The longer he stared at it, the more it reminded him of the thunderstorm from his dream, the same one that woke him this morning.

He gripped the fretboard. Thoughts of the angelic creature stormed through his mind.

His lungs burned from the crisp air when he drew in a deep breath. Dark curls and perfect lips sent a surge of heat through his body. The things she did to his heart…

“I figured I’d find you here.”

Ah, hell.

Dylan clung to his guitar and exhaled. “Morning, Mom.”

“Good morning. I had a feeling you’d be here today, but I wasn’t sure what time?” She tucked away a strand of brunette hair as she sat in the sand beside him.

“My mother, the mind reader,” he teased.

“Are you by yourself today?”

He assumed she already knew the answer. She always did, but he humored her with a response. “No, Layne came with me. He’s next door visiting his parents. I had planned to call last night and tell you I’d be here today, but we got home late. They delayed our show in Seattle.”

“How come?”

“A wicked storm came through before we went on stage. It knocked out the power and delayed our performance for two hours.”

“Ah, Murphy’s Law strikes again.” She chuckled, tilting her head to the sky. “The rain traveled with you.”

“Figures.” His entire life was a storm of chaos. His dreams were no different.

“I’m glad you made it back, Dylan. You’re in my thoughts when you’re on the road.”

He didn’t see the worry on her face. It reverberated in her voice. Maybe that was the reason he noticed it. His gift for music allowed him to detect little things in people’s voices, such as concern—or lies.

Once he strummed a few more chords on his guitar, he played a soft melody. His fingers slid across the metal strings as music poured from the resonating chamber. Unsung lyrics tumbled in his mind.

“I haven’t heard you play that in a long time,” his mom said. The tone of her voice shifted from steady to reserved. She had years of experience weighing her words for the sake of her customers. Yet he understood the unspoken question. She wanted to ask what was bothering him.

The brief pause in their discussion gave him hope that she wouldn’t pressure him to talk. He should have known better. She never let him sulk for long. This was his mother. The one who’d kissed his boo-boos when he was a child. The one who did her best to assure him that a broken heart wouldn’t last forever.

“You used to come here when you needed to clear your mind.” She shifted beside him. “Do you want to talk?”

Dylan dug his toes into the sand, enjoying the coolness the recent high tide had brought. Brine and seaweed left a bitter taste in his mouth. Perhaps it was the whiskey still on his breath.

When he turned her way, his fingers froze. The love of a mother burned in her eyes. He winced at the thought of what his secrets were doing to her. The longer her question went unanswered, the more worry consumed her mind.

“It’s nothing, Mom. I’m just…” He stared past her at a young couple walking hand-in-hand twenty yards from where they sat. He wet his lips before speaking, tasting the salt from the breeze. “I’m tired. Dad added more shows to the tour. I was ready to come home a month ago.”

She hugged her legs to her chest. “You need a break, Dylan.”

When she shivered, he grabbed the long-sleeved button-up he’d brought and offered it to her. “Are you cold?”

“No, I’m fine. So, what brings you to Santa Barbara? You didn’t drive up here just to sulk on the beach.”

“I’m not sulking,” he grumbled as he sat up straight. She knew him too well. He would never understand his mother’s intuition. “I’m on an errand for Kyle.”

“Oh, that’s right. This weekend is—”

“It’ll be busy,” he interrupted. If he ended this conversation before it started, he wouldn’t get agitated with his plans. Why had he agreed to this? He had to learn to say no.

The waves regained his attention.

“I want to go home and sleep,” he said. “Instead, I get to dress up like a circus monkey. I’m a jeans-and-t-shirt kinda guy. Tuxedos are too tight.”

“Son, enough of the bullshit. What’s going on with you?”

He couldn’t help but laugh at her use of profanity. “Are you using mind tricks on me again?”

“I don’t read minds.” She laughed. “I can’t help what my gut sees. So, are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or make me guess? I’ll figure it out either way.”

He exhaled as his head filled with images of his tormentor.

Are you even real?

After a feeble attempt at clearing his mind, he slung his guitar strap over his shoulder and stood. Then he offered his hand to his mother, helping her off the sand. “It’s nothing a lobotomy can’t fix.”

His mother smacked his arm before hooking hers inside of his. “That’s not funny, Dylan.”

“No? Then why are you trying to hide your smile?”

“Okay,” she chuckled, “so it’s a little funny, but it doesn’t ease my concern.”

“Don’t worry, Mom. I’m just having strange dreams. The one I had last night…”

He unhooked his arm from his mother’s as air expelled from his lungs.

“They’re not nightmares, but I have a hard time getting back to sleep after I have one. I’m a sleep-deprived, grumpy old man in a twenty-one-year-old body.”

“What do the dreams involve?”

“A woman,” he mumbled. “I don’t recognize her, but it’s happened several times. What I experience is so real I don’t even realize it’s a dream until I wake up in a cold sweat.”

“Oh…” she mused. “You’re having those dreams, again.”

“What does that mean?”

Her eyes engulfed him—eyes that held knowledge—and secrets. “When you were younger, you had vivid dreams. I tried explaining that you were asleep, but it only angered you.”

“I don’t remember any of this.” The waves pooling around their feet tugged at his memories. He focused so hard to remember that his head pounded in rhythm with his heart.

“You were just a kid. The first time it happened, I ran into your bedroom and found you sitting in the middle of your bed, crying. You kept repeating the same thing. ‘Where are you? Come back.’ I did my best to comfort you, but it just made you angry.”

“Why would I get mad?”

His mother chuckled. “You thought I’d hidden your angel.”

Dylan tried to swallow the lump in his throat. “My angel?”

Open your eyes...

The soft, feminine voice echoed through his mind as he watched his mother’s smile wane.

“Are you telling me I was dreaming of an actual angel with wings and halo?” He made a circular motion atop his head.

His mom burst into laughter. “Well, you never mentioned wings or a halo, just a little girl. You said she was beautiful with her dark curls and green eyes—no, wait—you said her eyes were golden.”

Dylan’s chest vibrated from the swift pounding of his heart. The wet sand between his toes felt more like cement preventing him from moving his legs. As the air around them spun, the tiny hairs on the nape of his neck swayed with it.

His mom was telling the truth. A faded image in the back of his mind swirled through the fog of memories. Vague pieces danced near the surface, but not close enough for him to grasp. Why couldn’t he remember the dreams?

“Dylan, are you okay?”

She gripped his shoulder. Her voice carried to him as though she were at the far end of a tunnel. If what she said about his dreams were true…

“No, I’m not okay. Something is wrong, and I’m not sure how to fix it.”

“Don’t worry, son.” She patted his arm and led him toward her house. “I think I can help you.”