Rhythm by Marie Lipscomb
Chapter Two
Beth
“Beth, are you really sure about this? I’ll drive you back to town. It’s no problem.”
Beth rolls her eyes as she reaches the top of the wooden staircase running along the side of the cabin’s exterior, weighed down by her backpack. Not to mention the rolled canvas containing brushes, a toolbox of paints, and the stack of canvases and paper beneath her arms. Ever since the mortifying call with the very sweet and elderly-sounding lady who owns the cabin, Sadie has been on her case.
She should’ve figured it out from the name alone; Foxglove-upper. Only the top floor of the cabin is rented to her. The bottom half—presumably Foxglove-lower—is rented by someone else. Not quite total isolation, but still a far cry from the bustling city.
Beth punches the code into the key safe and retrieves the little silver key nestled inside. “It was my fault. I should’ve known when this place was so affordable. It’s fine. I’m sure we’ll barely even see each other.”
“Yeah, well I’m sure they’ll be counting on you not being able to see them while they’re creeping around the woods at night trying to watch you through the windows.”
“Wow, Sadie.”
Beth sets her stuff on the floor by the door and forces a weary breath. The cabin is lovely, every inch of it meticulously designed to be as comfortable and inviting as possible. Almost everything is made of wood, except for the massive cream-colored corner sofa, and the brushed steel kitchen appliances. The sliding glass doors at the other end of the cabin give her a perfect view of the mountains and misty late-fall forest below. There’s a small, spindly wooden table and two chairs set out on the balcony, ready for an idyllic, if cold, breakfast for two. Yeah, there’s no way she could’ve afforded somewhere like this without a catch.
“What if it’s a man?” Sadie huffs as she carries Beth’s easel into the cabin and glances round, trying—but failing—to mask her approval of the cabin.
“What if it is?”
“Well, what if he’s a jerk… or a murderer.”
Beth’s eyes widen as she claps her hands over her cheeks and opens her mouth, a gesture mimicking Edvard Munch’s The Scream. “What if he’s a jerk and a murderer?”
“You’re such an ass,” Sadie sighs. Her smile fades as she looks around the cabin. “Please be safe. I don’t want to have to go on a quest to avenge you.”
“Yeah not again. The last one was pretty messy. One and done.”
Sadie rolls her eyes. “Call me, assface.”
“Seems a little harsh, but I’ll respect your wishes, Assface.”
Beth braces herself for a retort as Sadie grimaces and looks at her watch. “I’d better make tracks. I want to be back in civilization before night. I’ll be back on Sunday evening to rescue you. Don’t get murdered. ‘Kay? No bears. No men. No snakes.”
“I’ll try.”
“Love you. Call me.” Sadie steps outside and begins her descent of the stairs.
“Love you too, stop fretting. Just get home safe.”
The door closes, and Beth is alone. As she waves Sadie off from the balcony, she can finally breathe deeply. The rumble of the jeep fades, and her mind begins to turn. She pulls in a deep lungful of the fresh mountain air, and listens to the… well… the silence. Blissful.
Already, her mind is adventuring, inspiration pouncing on her, as though it followed her through the deep, dark woods. She wants to paint— paint the silent mountains, the soaring eagles, the imagined dangers lurking in the forest below. It’s going to be her best work. She can feel it. Clouds hang heavy and low above the mountains, shutting them off from the rest of the world.
Her entire body flinches as thunder rolls through the air. Thunder which keeps rolling.
Standing perfectly still, Beth listens. The sound is coming from below. A pounding, earth-shattering rhythm, primal, savage. It’s definitely not thunder.
Her heart plummets. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Drums. It had to be fucking drums.
Finn
He loses himself to the rhythm, throwing his heart into every thundering beat. The ache in his arms doesn’t matter. The sweat pouring down his body can be washed away. This is his masterpiece, his magnum opus. Vixen’s Wail has been teetering on the brink of making it big for years. He’s going to send them over the edge, careening into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
Fuck yes.
But the rhythm is suddenly off kilter, another beat pounding out of time with him. He stops, gripping a cymbal to stop it from shivering.
Someone is beating the door. His heart drops as he stands. Five days. Five blissful days of making as much noise as he wants, thrashing out his frustration on the drums, and now there’s someone in his space. It’s the off-season, the soggy part of fall where all the golden foliage is just brown mush on the ground. There shouldn’t be anyone there. There never has been before.
He strides over to the door, pulls it open, and the sight which greets him is like a punch to the gut.
A woman, short and curvy, and absolutely heart-stoppingly gorgeous. She has thick, wavy brown hair and furious eyes. She’s beautiful, but holy shit is she mad. The glower she casts over him, trailing the length of his torso, before returning to his eyes, hollows his chest.
“Hi… Hey…How’s it going? Can I help you?” He dabs the sweat from his brow on the back of his tattooed forearm and tries to come off as nonchalant, leaning against the doorframe.
“Hi,” she forces a smile. Her voice is deep and smooth. She probably sings really well, or could, if she ever learned. “I’m staying upstairs for the weekend.”
“Oh.” He presses his lips together and waits. She seems to think that’s enough, that she doesn’t have to tell him why she’s there, and to be fair, she doesn’t. He knows exactly why. But he’s not giving up his practice time without a fight. “And?”
She chuckles incredulously. “And your drums are really loud.”
“Yeah, I know. That’s why I come up to the mountains to practice.”
She nods slowly, glancing to the side and pursing her lips. “Well I came up here for the quiet.”
“Oh… okay then.” He raises his eyebrows, braces his elbow against the doorframe and presses his knuckle to his temple. “Well, I don’t know what to tell you. I have work to do.”
Beth
For a moment, she forgets why she even came downstairs. The man looks down at her, his eyebrow arched quizzically. His thick forearms are almost completely covered in black tattoos so she can only make out slivers of tanned skin between the ink. He’s tall, but the breadth of him puts him in proportion. The biggest drum kit in the world would look like a kid’s toy with him sitting behind it.
But the sight of him quells her ferocity.
The lazy, self-assured way his eyes drag across her figure, stoke twin fires of excitement and indignation, their flames flickering in her chest. When he leans against the doorframe, she’s a little afraid it’ll buckle beneath his weight. The muscles in his arms strain against the sleeves of his tight, black shirt; a Muppets shirt, which clings to his rounded belly and broad chest.
He’s so big, so burly. But—she reminds herself— so fucking noisy. She tries very hard to focus on unappealing aspects of him; a loud, sweaty, obnoxious drummer who wears an Animal shirt. A walking stereotype.
“I can’t concentrate on my work with you pounding away down here.”
He smirks at her unfortunate choice of words. “Oh?”
“Can you maybe keep it down?” she says, her treacherous voice growing huskier in his presence.
Could you maybe pound me instead?
What the hell, Beth?
He sighs deeply, crossing his arms over his big, broad chest. “I’ll try.”
Her cheeks prickle with heat as his lips curve into a smile. Of course, he has an irritatingly attractive smile. Seriously, fuck this guy. “Thanks.”
“Alright. See you.” He closes the door, and her breath comes back to her in a rush of cold air. Silence descends on her like an avalanche.
“That wasn’t so bad.” She smiles and heads back up to her floor, careful not to let her feet thump too hard on the wooden staircase. A small part of her feels guilty for asking him not to play, and if it were any other instrument, she might not have said anything, but drums… no. She can’t work with that. A long weekend with a professional kazoo player would’ve been preferable to the thundergeddon he calls music.
She treads lightly when she gets to her floor, refusing to give him any opportunity to complain about her noise. That’s okay. The quieter the better.
Once her easel is set up, and old sheets cover the pristine floorboards, she’s unstoppable. She paints a forest of trees with branches reaching out like tendrils. Eyes peer through the shadows as a monster, a behemoth cloaked in shadow, skulks through the background, disrupting the peaceful forest with its overbearing presence. It’s not exhibition-worthy, but it’s something—more than she’s managed in over a month. She calls it The Beast Below.
Already exhausted, she cleans off her brushes and makes her way to the bathroom. Turning on the shower, she slips out of her clothes while she waits for the water to warm up. So far, so good.