The True Story of Atticus and Hazel Read online

  Contents

  Copyright

  Title

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The Beginning

  Acknowledgements

  Brick Mural

  Mix Tape

  Pregnant?

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of Fisher Amelie.

  Fisher Amelie

  http://www.fisheramelie.com/

  First Edition: October 2016

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Printed in the United States of America

  For baby Gabriel, I think about you all the time. I love you.

  “Hazel, don’t look.”

  Immediately, I whipped my head around. “What?”

  “I said don’t look. Gaw, you never follow directions!” my best friend gritted. Her hands shot out to situate me. “Let’s try this again. Don’t look but there is a boy sitting in the back of the room who is burning a hole into the back of your head. I’m shocked you can’t feel him.”

  “Etta, tonight is the airing of the grievances. We are not here for the boys.”

  “Well, well, well, Hazel,” she continued, ignoring me, “I think this one might be striking up the nerve to come over.” She looked at me. “You look like an idiot.” Her eyes dragged to my favorite baby-doll dress. “I see you found that paper bag again, and I thought I’d hid it better this time.”

  My eyes blew wide. “I knew it! I knew you’d hidden it again. I asked and asked and you swore up and down you didn’t know what I was talking about and—”

  “Hazel, hush!” she whisper-yelled. Her body stiffened and I followed suit, unable to help myself. “Oh my word, he’s coming over here. Here,” she said, fluffing up my hair then squeezing my cheeks.

  “Ow! Stop, Etta.”

  “Shh!”

  “You’re treading a fine line.”

  “Shh!” She pushed a pink fingernail into my thigh. “Cross your legs.”

  “Etta!”

  “Shh! Quiet, he’s coming.”

  She made a move to fluff my hair again and I shooed her away, which only prompted her to fluff more wildly. We ended up in a battle of slapping hands as we heard someone clear their throat to my left.

  Etta pushed my hands at my side and straightened, turning toward our interloper. “Hi,” she greeted sweetly, like she wasn’t made of salt and vinegar.

  “Hello,” a deep voice crooned.

  I turned toward the bar and refused to look at him just to spite Etta.

  “How are you ladies doing tonight?” he asked.

  Original. I snorted. Etta elbowed me.

  “We’re well,” Etta laid on thickly. “How are you, baby?”

  “I, uh,” the poor sap struggled. He cleared his throat again and I rolled my eyes. “I’m well, thank you.”

  “What happened? Losing your nerve?” I asked the bar top.

  Etta’s head whipped my direction and she shot daggers. “This is my rude, stupid friend. Don’t mind her. She’s kind of whiny today because her boss harasses her at work. She’s not usually this way, though.” A boldfaced lie. “She likes to act all tough and moody like this sometimes because she’s scared of almost everything, yet she refuses to acknowledge this fact.”

  “Etta!” I protested, finally turning her direction.

  When I did, I caught a glimpse of the guy and nearly fell from my chair. My eyes climbed his body up to his face. The corner of his mouth lifted in a bashful grin, his head bent, and his hand went to the back of his neck. There were tattoos as far as the eye could see. I mean, the guy was covered in them, from the tops of his hands all the way up his throat as well as, I could only assume, everything in between. He had a ring in his bottom lip just off center to the left, and his chin-length hair sat tucked behind his ears. He was built but not overly so. His clothes were worn and layered. When his hand dropped, the leather of his jacket moaned in complaint.

  “Hi,” he quieted.

  I swallowed. “Hi.”

  “What’s your name?” he asked me.

  “Hazel,” I answered.

  “Nice to meet you,” he told me, holding out his hand. I slid my fingers into his warm palm, which caused satisfying tingles to dance over my skin. “I’m Atticus.”

  “Nice to meet you as well.”

  He let my hand go. “Are, uh, are you from around here?” he asked me, looking unsure of himself.

  He was standing awkwardly in front of us, and I was starting to feel a little sorry for him, which I never did, because I thought men in general kind of sucked and I liked to watch them squirm on occasion, but he felt different for some reason, and it made me sad to see him uncomfortable.

  “Do you want to sit down?” I asked, shoving Etta off her stool.

  “Hey!” she yelled.

  Atticus’s eyes popped wide. “No, no, that’s okay,” he said, beginning to back away.

  Shit, I’ve scared him off.

  Etta glanced at me and rolled her eyes. “She doesn’t mean anything by that. She’s just socially inept is all.” She pointedly stared at me then turned back to Atticus. “Come,” she invited him, “sit on my stool. I’m heading out anyway. My auntie will be waiting up and every minute I’m past eleven p.m. she thinks I’m ‘caught underneath a boy and up to no good.’”

  Etta leaned over and kissed my cheek but not without a parting jab. “Scare him off and I’ll kill you.”

  “Look who’s talking, Dexter,” I whispered.

  She faked like she was going to hit me and I flinched.

  “Made you blink, white girl.” I popped her on the butt and she squealed. “You’re a brat,” she complained.

  “I know.”

  “Love you,” Etta threw over her shoulder.

  “Love ya. See you mañana.”

  “Tomorrow!” she yelled, heading for the door, not bothering to turn around.

  I turned toward Atticus.

  “So you and Etta,” he stated, “you’re good friends?”

  I almost laughed at his facial expression. “Etta and I shared a playpen. We’re more than good friends; we’re practically sisters.”

  “Thus the nonexistence of normal social boundaries?”

  “Thus.”

  “Cool,” he said, bobbing his head. He sat in Etta’s abandoned stool and balanced a heavy boot on a bottom rung.

  His hands went to the bit of stool between his
legs and I found myself mesmerized by them. I loved men’s hands. I don’t know why. I loved the callused skin there, how sensitive they were, the way the muscles bunched and contracted, the shapes of their fingers.

  He mistook my staring at his fingers for my staring at his tattoos and brought them up for me to see.

  “Do you like tattoos?”

  “I don’t care either way, to be honest.”

  He gave me a cheeky grin, and I felt my stomach flip on itself. What is this?

  “Most people love them.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not most people.”

  He laughed. It was a deep, throaty laugh. I watched the line of his throat, the skin there, the lean line of his neck, his defined Adam’s apple. He was pretty spectacular.

  Have you ever met someone with whom you felt an instant chemistry? That was this stranger for me. It was instantaneous, intoxicating, and overwhelming. It was the most smack-you-in-the-face, deep attraction I’d ever felt. His teeth were beautiful, his skin a perfect peach color, save for the attractive bits of red that would paint his cheeks when he talked. He kept taking his fingers and tucking his hair behind his ears.

  His fingers drummed with incredible skill at the lid of his stool.

  “Oh no,” I said, my stomach sinking. “You’re a musician.”

  He looked taken aback. “How did you know?” I gestured at his drumming fingers and they stilled. “Oh.” His hands went to the tops of his thighs and he leaned forward. “What did you mean by ‘oh no’?”

  “I don’t think this is going to work out,” I said, standing up.

  Atticus looked shocked and stood quickly. “Wait, what are you talking about? We were just chatting here.”

  I smiled at him. “Yeah, have a nice life, drummer boy.”

  “Wait,” he said, stopping me by lightly touching my forearm, “don’t jet off just yet. Take a seat, have a drink with me? Just stay for a minute. Hell, tell me what it is about musicians you don’t trust.”

  “Besides every stereotype ever imaginable? Beside those?”

  He laughed. “Yes, please?”

  I shook my head. “Probably going to regret this, but okay, one drink.”

  He helped me to my stool, which earned him one Hazel point, and signaled for the bartender. “What’ll you have?” he asked me.

  “Guinness,” I told him. He nodded and turned toward the bartender. “Hey, Sam, can I get two bottles of Guinness, please?”

  “Sure, man,” the bartender answered and dug into his ice pit for two dark bottles, propping them up on the bar top, and popping the tops of each before handing them over to us.

  The bartender walked off, which surprised me.

  “You drink for free here?” I asked.

  He smiled that knowing grin. “Something like that.”

  “That’s cool.”

  “Sure,” he said, lifting the bottle and taking a small swig. I did the same then set the bottle on the bar top. “Etta was saying something about your boss harassing you?”

  I sighed, exasperated. “Yeah, the bastard is just yucky.”

  Atticus laughed. “Well, like how?”

  “He makes excuses that he needs to fix things underneath my desk, which makes no sense because there’s nothing under my desk but my legs and a small outlet for my drawing table. I guess he doesn’t think things through all that well. Anyway, the first time he did it, I didn’t think much about it, but the second and third time? I was like ‘what’s up, man’ and he just shook off my questions. He works in the desk in front of mine and the other day he placed a mirror on the top edge, settling it so he could get the perfect angle to watch me. I guess he doesn’t think I can see him in the mirror, but I can.”

  “What the hell? That’s pervy as shit.”

  “Right?”

  “Why don’t you turn him in? Or leave?”

  “Aye, there’s the rub. I need this job. Like, really need it.”

  “What do you do?” Atticus asked.

  “I hand paint animation cels for sale. I’m only one of three people in the company who has the position. I do it to pay my bills so I have the freedom to finish school as well as freelance, which is my real passion.”

  “Wow, that’s cool. Would I have seen your work?”

  “You know that big brick building on Elm with the painting on its side?”

  “Holy shit,” he said, studying me a little closer, “the one that looks like the bricks have fallen away, revealing strange people living inside compartments?”

  “Yeah, that one.”

  “You did that?” he asked, leaning closer.

  “That’s me.” His eyes cut down to my hands. I held them flat on the bar top. “Yeah, can’t ever get the paint all the way off.”

  “I can’t believe you painted that.”

  “Why?”

  “When I have writer’s block I’ll sit on the bench across the street from it and stare at that painting, imagining the people you drew were alive, and letting their world take over.”

  I swallowed. “You do?”

  He looked at me, really looked at me. “I do.”

  “What do you write?” I asked.

  “Music, Hazel.”

  “That’s right,” I realized out loud, as if a bucket of cold water had been dumped over my head. “I almost forgot. You’re a musician.”

  He watched me closely and the intrusion wasn’t unwelcome. “Who was it?”

  “Who was who?”

  “Who was the musician who tainted musicians for you?”

  I laughed. “He was older.”

  “Of course.” He smiled.

  “I was seventeen and naive, hopeful, and trusting.”

  “Naturally.”

  “I fell hard, fast, and without any guard up. I wasn’t careful. He chewed me up and spit me out before moving on to the next girl. It was pretty humiliating because I was left reeling and didn’t know what was up.”

  “That can happen,” he added, “but you have to admit that was only one guy.”

  “Right, that’s what I thought too, then I met Simon. He was so charming, so believable, so convincing.”

  “Oh no.” He laughed.

  “Then he dropped me like a bad habit when the next pretty bauble walked by.”

  Atticus laughed, really laughed. “Like children, musicians.”

  “Exactly!” I told him, smiling. “Needless to say, I’ve had my fill.”

  “Were both of them singers?”

  “What difference does it make?” I asked.

  “It makes a huge difference.”

  “Then yes,” I confirmed.

  “Well, there you go. You’re dating the wrong band members,” he told me.

  I shook my head. “Uh, no, it’s a musician’s personality. It’s inherited by all of you. Even good ol’ Beethoven was afflicted. You’re all charming,” I said, gesturing down his body, making him laugh, “sweet, funny, hot as hell. I can admit this to you because nothing will come of us so I have carte blanche to say whatever I feel like without fear of sounding like a dweeb.”

  He grinned at me. “You think I’m hot?”

  “Like the surface of the sun, Atticus.”

  “Huh,” he replied, then bit his bottom lip to keep from smiling and studied the bar top.

  “Anyway, you’re all scoundrels.”

  Atticus shook his head back and forth, the smile he’d been fighting finally making an appearance. “We’re not all that way, Hazel. I promise.”

  Not caring how he might interpret it, my hand reached up to tuck a stray lock of hair that had fallen out from behind his ear. “But don’t you see, Atticus? That’s what they all say.”

  “Then I’ll let time do my talking for me.”

  He spun me in my stool so we faced one another, our knees interwoven. His incredible hand found mine; his long fingers curled around mine and brought it in front of his face. “This is one awe-inspiring hand,” he told me, echoing my own sentiments about his. His eyes met
mine. “Have you painted anything else in the city?”

  “Lots,” I whispered, unable to find my voice.

  “Sam,” Atticus threw out at the bartender, keeping his hand on me, his eyes focused on mine. “Hand me a pen, will ya?”

  “Sure,” Sam the bartender complied, tossing a pen and a pad of paper near Atticus’s elbow.

  “Here,” he said, letting go of my hand and gathering up the pen and paper. “Write them all down for me.”

  “All of them?”

  “Don’t leave a single one out, Hazel.”

  I picked up the pen and set its tip on the paper. “Okay,” I said, lining each address up one after the other.

  There were fifteen pieces I’d done across the city. I started with the one nearest to the bar we sat in and worked myself around.

  “There,” I said, sliding the paper over to him.

  Atticus took it and ran his thumb over the indentations of the pen markings then tucked the list into the pocket of his jacket.

  “Fuel for the muse,” he said with a smile.

  “Those thieving birds,” I mock complained, not expecting him to get its reference, despite his being a musician, but secure in it still making sense.

  “Hang strung from an empty nest,” he responded, shocking me.

  “Stop,” I ordered him.

  “Stop what?”

  “Charming me.”

  “You go first,” Atticus insisted.

  I smiled at him. “You see this? This is how it starts, Atticus.” My smile fell. “You’ll put me under your spell, and I’m susceptible to spells. They do things to me and I struggle to get out from underneath them.”

  He shook his head at me. “I promise not to put you under a spell, Hazel.”

  I leaned back, away from his intoxicating smell, his inviting smile. “I don’t know you, though. I don’t know your promises.”

  “We’ll start small, then. I promise not to touch you again tonight, even if I’m dying to, unless you ask me.”

  “Not even a brush of your elbow?”

  “Not even a whisper against your cheek, Hazel.”

  “Fine, we’ll see how that goes.”

  “Good,” he told me.

  I sat back and crossed my arms to study him. “Tell me something about yourself, Atticus, something unappealing, something to break this tension bubbling up between us.”