Our Broken Song: A sweet enemies to lovers, rockstar romance (For Love and Rock Book 2) by Emily Childs

Author:Emily Childs [Childs, Emily]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Victorious
Published: 2021-09-30T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 16

Tate

The old wooden gate creaks. I wiggle the hinges back and forth, making a mental note to grease those before we head out on the road.

The desert air has a bite to it. Dry, winter wind cuts through my hoodie and burns the tips of my ears. I shudder as I take the porch steps two at a time. Each step draws out a precarious groan from the wood. They slant a little toward the pink gravel of the xeriscape front yard.

Mental note number two: level front porch steps.

The storm door never shut right, but I don’t really knock anyway. A quick tap, then I let myself inside.

Coffee, laundry detergent, and a hint of what I like to think is gunpowder welcomes me. If there is ever a zombie apocalypse, I know where I’m coming. Everyone should. There are rifles, pistols, throwing stars—yes, throwing stars—in this lady’s stash.

The neighborhood cop was what we called her. She’s well stocked.

It’s like stepping from the present to the past. Some things never change, and for that I’m grateful.

“Morgan!” I set down the three holiday gift bags at the front door and slough off my boots. The carpet is worn, puke green, but soft as anything. Yellow brown linoleum is greased with Pine Sol as always, and I’m not even going to get started on the tin foil in the windows. She hasn’t changed them for fifteen years, she’s not going to start now. “Morgan?”

The TV, complete with an antenna, is on, but the old mustard recliner is empty. A clatter in the kitchen takes me down the narrow hallway of the two-bedroom single level.

“Mama Morgan?” I poke my head into the kitchen and am greeted by a rotund backside in a lime green Mumu.

I roll my eyes, grinning. This woman will never get rid of those ugly, furry cat slippers. The ears are bent, the left one is missing an eyeball, and they’re more gray than white by now.

With careful steps, I sneak behind her, lean down, and blurt out in basically one word, “Mama whatcha doin?”

A pan flies. A pitchy scream follows. Then, oh then, come the curse words and the playful smacks.

“You—” Smack on the arm. “Can’t do that.” Smack on the chest, ribs, arm again. “I ought to cut your hair while you sleep, kid!”

I laugh, crossing my arms in defense. She’s aiming for the wooden spoon—it’s getting serious. I snatch it and hold the rounded end out like a sword. “Back off the hair.”

Old Lady Morgan glares at me behind her bug-eye glasses. Her silver hair is in rollers and she’s wearing a scarf on her head with a holly berry pattern. It takes another two seconds, but she breaks, smiles, and wraps her long arms around my shoulders. “I’ve missed you, Thumper.”

Thumper—for the drums. She said all I did was thump those things. Weird, but it stuck with her.

“Missed you,” I say. “And I did not come empty handed.”

“What the heck are you doing here anyway? Thought you were heading out on the road.

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