Second Chance Lane (Brockenridge #2) - Nicola Marsh Page 0,14

‘Anyway, he probably won’t bother, because he looked grumpy and sad about something, so don’t worry about it.’

‘I won’t,’ Tash said, hoping she sounded blasé, because saying she wouldn’t worry and actually not worrying were poles apart. She’d dwell, conjuring up all sorts of crazy scenarios where her neighbour turned out to be the only guy she’d ever loved.

There was only one way to stave off endless hours of angst.

She’d have to pay her new neighbour a visit.

CHAPTER

7

Kody had never been big on cooking but being on the road for three hundred days a year meant he had a few go-to meals rather than surviving on fast food. Pasta and veg, chicken salad and pumpkin risotto were staples he whipped up when he got some time to himself. The boys used to tease him about his hunger for healthy, ‘girly’ food but he’d acquired a taste for those particular dishes when Tash introduced him to the joys of fresh food over takeaway and he’d equated them with comfort ever since.

Silly, to associate comfort food with Tash, considering their relationship ended so badly. But being on his own in this place, without his other comfort—music—left him with too much time to think. And he hated that. Thinking left him morose and guilt-ridden, dwelling on what could have been with Tash, and what should have been at his last concert. He should’ve abandoned the elaborate fireworks when the band’s lead stagehand called in sick and the show had to be managed by a less-experienced guy. He should’ve made the decision based on safety and not on ego, determined to conquer every city in the world including Wellington. He should’ve done more to calm the panicked crowd before they stampeded and ended up killing seven of the band’s fans.

That’s what he found the hardest to live with: that those people had been there to see Rock Hard Place, to listen to the band’s hits, and had been guilty of nothing but seeking pleasure and escape through music. And because of his insistence on using the complicated fireworks instead of going ahead without them, they’d ended up dead.

No amount of alcohol or prescribed meds could stop the nightmares. He’d eschewed the recommended therapy sessions. He’d had his fair share of counsellors growing up, being forced to sit in faux-cheerful rooms with rainbows and suns stencilled on the walls and unburden himself about what went wrong in the latest foster home. It never worked because he didn’t trust easily, let alone grown-ups intent on ‘fixing’ him. They’d cajole and pretend to be his buddy, and when that didn’t work, they’d get him to fill out meaningless questionnaires and draw pictures. He’d toy with them, either acting out his anger at the world or toeing the line by giving the spiel he knew they wanted to hear: ‘Yes, I understand I’m lucky to be given a home by people who want to care for me. Yes, I’ll do my best to behave in an appropriate manner. No, I won’t release my frustrations on those around me.’ Blah, blah, blah. On and on until he hit his teens and learned cleverer ways to outsmart the shrinks.

Taking time out had to work, because he couldn’t go on like this. Scowling, he turned off the stove and drained the pasta into a colander. He focussed on chopping spring onions, capsicum and snow peas, then dicing the poached chicken, a mindless activity that usually soothed but today, he couldn’t shake the feeling of impending doom. Bumping into that kid, Isla, had him in a funk. What if she’d recognised him? What if she told her friends? The news of his whereabouts would spread like wildfire and he’d be screwed.

He needed this time-out. When the boys had railroaded him into it, he’d been angry and resentful, but being here had already had a beneficial effect: he’d managed a laugh at that kid’s smart mouth, something he hadn’t done in weeks.

Maybe he was worrying about nothing. Rock Hard Place’s demographic weren’t young teens, so the odds of the kid having even heard of him were slim. But she had said he looked familiar …

The knife slipped, narrowly missing the tip of his index finger, and he cursed, loudly.

An impatient knock on his door had him cursing again. If that kid thought she could waltz in here and bug the crap out of him, he’d set her straight. Yanni had warned him that country folk thought it perfectly acceptable to bang on someone’s