Read Online Sway by Kat Spears - Free Book Online

coming from the living room, my father’s throaty baritone and the high-pitched, breathy laugh of a woman. I heard the pop of wood against wood as he opened the sideboard where he stowed the liquor. I thought about leaving as quietly as I had entered and returning once they were otherwise occupied upstairs, but I was tired and I wanted nothing more than to go to bed. I tossed my keys on the counter to alert them to my presence and walked into the living room.
    Dad was standing over the coffee table, pouring two glasses of Maker’s Mark over ice with a slightly unsteady hand. He swayed slowly from side to side to keep his balance.
    â€œHey, Jesse,” he said, as if surprised to find me in my own house.
    â€œHey, Dad,” I said.
    â€œSay hi to Angela,” he said as he squinted one eye at the glass he held and then tipped the bottle to add to it.
    â€œHello,” I said with a nod at the woman on the couch. She craned her neck to see me, her face lit up with a smile, her eyes wide with surprise and stupidity.
    â€œThis is my boy, Jesse,” Dad said in a tone that implied we shared something other than DNA.
    â€œHe’s cute,” she said with a squeal. “Must take after his mother.” They both broke into laughter again and she threw her head back to reveal a full bosom bursting out of a dress that was designed for a body twenty years younger than her own.
    She was cheaply made up, like most of the women Dad brought home, her black roots visible against her dyed blond hair from ten paces.
    â€œYeah, well, he’s a moody little son of a bitch, but I’ll tell you what, he takes after his old man when it comes to playing the guitar. Isn’t that right, Jesse?”
    I didn’t answer, just eyed him coolly.
    They didn’t take any notice of the frigid air between us and I suppressed a sigh as I set my bag down on the floor and took off my jacket.
    â€œAngela came to see the band play at the Inn tonight,” Dad said, as if I cared how he had met his latest conquest.
    â€œYour dad was great,” she said as she reached for her drink on the coffee table. “Such a good show.”
    â€œYeah, we had a great set,” Dad said without any apparent modesty. “But you should hear this boy play. Man, he’s got such a good ear, he could tell you the pitch of a belch. Isn’t that right?” Dad asked me as Angela let out another belly laugh.
    â€œIf you say so,” I said.
    â€œHey, why don’t you go get your guitar?” Dad asked me with a snap of his fingers. “Play us a little something.”
    â€œI sold it,” I said dully. “I don’t play anymore.”
    Dad sobered some at that, his upper lip curling in a snarl. “You what?”
    â€œI sold it,” I said.
    â€œThat guitar was worth more than that damn car you drive,” he said.
    â€œI sold it to pay for groceries,” I said, which shut him up long enough for me to make an exit and head for my room.
    I docked my iPod and turned up the volume to let Mozart’s Piano Concerto no. 21 fill the empty space, then flopped onto my mattress. I reached under the bed to pull out the guitar case and lay it gently on the quilt.
    Though I had not played my guitar since my mother’s death, I knew I would never be able to get rid of it. At one time, it had been almost a part of me. Now it lay there like an amputated appendage, a traitor to its body.
    The rosewood was like satin under my hand as I trailed my finger along the length of the sounding board, the subtle ridges of the strings, and the gentle rise of the frets. After months with no practice, my fingertips had softened, now more sensitive than they had been in years. Though I longed for the physical sensation of the instrument in my arms, the vibration of a perfectly formed note reverberating from the guitar’s body into mine, I didn’t even so much as let one of the strings squeak under the