CHAPTER 48

“Your pinch harmonics are sloppy,” I state. From his seat on the stool across the studio, the kid Eddie recruited stares at me with dead eyes. “Can’t you fix it with the board?” “I could. But you’re playing it wrong. Play it right, no one’s gotta fix it.” It’s my first day of babysitting, and the analogy’s not far off. I figured I’d help the kid get the guitar and vocals for a track, but everything’s either wrong or a pain in the ass. When he gets up from his stool, I demand, “Where are you going?” He holds up his hands. “Need a smoke break.” Was this what I was like working with Eddie? No. No way. Could be I’m pissier than usual. Probably because my hand’s been hurting more in the months since I left the tour—or maybe I have more time to think about it—and Zeke called and left a belligerent voicemail to say he hadn’t heard back from me about the songs. I followed up with an email telling him I’d thought he sent them as a joke and I was still laughing. Fifteen minutes later, there was an email from marketing noting I hadn’t posted anything on social since a picture Jacob took in LA and I’m overdue. I go out to the front room to ask Shane about the schedule, and she pulls her headphones off her ears. “What’re you listening to?” I ask. “Local artists. There’s a lot of talent here. One of my favorites is actually playing tonight at Valor. And,” she goes on, both brows rising up her face, “they have two for one drinks. I can text you the details.” “Thanks.” I’m not planning on going to a local gig and the appeal of two for one drinks has long stopped being a motivator, but I can’t shoot down her enthusiasm. She punches my number into her phone, but I’m already looking up as the kid comes back in the front door, smelling like smoke and brushing past me to the studio. I follow him in. “Let’s try the track again. And clean it up this time.” “You wanna show me what you had in mind with your fucked-up hand?” the kid drawls. I narrow my gaze. “Give me the guitar.” He does, and I hook it around my neck. I’m going to regret this for the next two days, but I don’t even care. I play the passage like I’m on stage at MSG with no one to cover my ass—including the pinch harmonics. My hand is on fire, and not in a good way. It hurts like hell. If I had to play an entire set like this, the muscles would give out and I’d have cramps for days. Thank God I don’t. Only enough to shut this dumb kid up. It won’t always be like this, I remind myself. When I’m done, he’s silent. I shove the guitar in his face. “I can play it with my fucked-up hand, so you can play it with your fucked-up attitude. Again.” By the time we have something passable, it’s after dark, and I’m beyond ready to get away from this asshole. For a moment, I debate calling one of the guys I toured with or the friends I met on the road. They’d remind me what it’s like to be around people who take their careers seriously. On the way to my car, I almost run over the kid, who’s leaning into the hedge that runs along the iron fence separating the pool. My gaze fixes on Eddie’s patio, and I take in what he’s staring at—a woman swimming. Naked. The visual hits me like a knockout punch—not because it’s any woman, but because it’s one in particular. “Keep walking.” I bite out the words, and he jumps, eyes widening as if he’s listening for the first time today. “Chill, man. She’s swimming naked. Clearly she wants someone to look.” “Let me guess. You don’t have a girlfriend.” He shrugs. “Like to keep my options open.” He heads for his car, where I should be going too, but I reverse directions and go back into the studio, using my swipe key to go out the side door. Because I should tell her she might be spotted. Not for any other reason. I let myself in the gate and cross to the cabana. I grab a towel. When Emily rises up out of the water, shoving her long hair out of her wet face in a way that makes my throat dry, I’m there. “Run out of clean suits already?” Emily takes me in, hands gripping the edge of the pool as her eyes widen in surprise. “It’s late. Needed to clear my head, and I didn’t think anyone would notice.” “Just my shit-for-brains kid in the studio. You made his day.” She smiles, a flash of white in the dark. Earlier when she told me she was sticking around, I was glad and frustrated at once. Because even though there’s nothing between us, sharing the same space with her felt right. As if part of me that’d been missing suddenly clicked back into place. No matter what Eddie said, I can coexist with the woman who ripped my heart out. I can even do it without staring at her ass as she bends under the desk. Or peering over the edge of the pool to see how much of her body is lit by the soft blue lights. “You coming out?” I ask lightly. “You turning around?” “Nothing I haven’t seen.” “Maybe it’s changed.” Those three words have me dying to know if she’s right, if she’s different since the last time I touched her, held her, made her pant my name. I shut my eyes and hold out the towel. I hear the sound of water dripping as she shifts out, then her voice, inches away. “Thanks.” She steps closer, and I wrap her in the towel. “You’re not wrong, though. I only packed for a weekend. I’m going to have to raid my old closet, assuming anything in there still fits.” Her breasts are nearly pressed against my chest through the towel, and I imagine using the terry fabric to drag her body against mine. “I’ll give you ten bucks to wear your Oakwood uniform for a day.” She laughs. “Make it twenty and I’ll think about it.” I open my eyes to find her studying me. Water drips over her shoulders, and there’s a drop on the middle of her lower lip I want to brush off. It’s hard to remember why I can’t, especially with the visual of her in a pleated skirt and tight shirt firmly in my head. “So, how’s it going in the studio with my dad’s protégé?” she prompts, and I force myself to focus as she takes the towel from me and knots it around her breasts. “Brutal. Kid’s a pain in the ass. So why’d you need to clear your head? Your dad? Or the boyfriend?” I ask. The boyfriend was not part of the updates Jacob gave me, something he’s going to eat shit for the next time we talk. Though now I’m wondering why he didn’t tell me. If he thought I’d be jealous, I’m not. Not even close. I’m over us, but that doesn’t mean I want her with some guy who doesn’t deserve her. And if she’s avoiding him, it means something’s wrong. I will always want the best for her, because I loved her once. For a time that feels boundless, until I remind myself it’s over. Emily pulls her hair over one shoulder and wrings it out, sending drops of water splattering on the patio. “Both,” she answers at last. It sounds like what she really needs is to get out of her head. I know that look, not because it’s classic Emily, but because it’s classic me. I can be around her without rehashing the reasons we broke up, without obsessing over the messy perfection of the times we were together. I’ll prove it. “Shay told me about a local concert. Go with me.” “Like a date?” Her brows shoot up. “No, music police,” I chastise. “Like I’m going out of my mind and something tells me you are too.” It’s not an invitation—it’s a challenge. She lifts her chin, like she knows it too. “Fine.” Emily meets me in my black Lexus nine minutes later. As she shifts inside, I run my gaze over her black skinny jeans, little heels, black tank. Her hair’s still wet and piled on her head, but it looks intentional, especially with the addition of the dark rims around her eyes and red lips. Play nice. I force my attention to the driveway. It’s a quiet drive to the music hall, and we talk about easy subjects like who was at Eddie’s party, the crazy new sponsors Jacob got for his Hollywood Life vlog, and whether Haley’s new baby will be a boy or a girl. “It’s a boy,” I tell her. “I have guy intuition.” “Definitely a girl,” Emily decides. “Then Dad will have three and his head will literally explode.” I grin. So far, so good. I pull up halfway across the parking lot as I see the line of music fans waiting to be admitted. “I’m going to get mauled.” “You’re not that famous,” she scoffs. “I’m pretty famous.” I say it mostly to watch her roll her eyes. I grab a jacket out of my car and drag it on over my T-shirt and jeans. She inspects me and frowns. “The hair…” “What’s wrong with my hair?” Emily dives into her little bag and comes back with something that looks like gel. She slicks back my hair. “There. No one would ever recognize you without this mess all over your face.” “Tell me how you really feel.” She laughs as we head for the doors. In the heels, she’s tall, almost as tall as me. She nods to security, and it takes me a second to realize she’s actually protecting me, standing between the line of people and me. It’s oddly sweet. There are people whose job it is to keep me safe when I’m on the road. But when Emily does it, it feels different. Once we get in, we head to the bar. “The real reason I brought you is the two for one drinks.” “I see. Are you drinking tonight?” “No. More for you.” She laughs and we both end up ordering water. It feels good to get out. Having Emily next to me doesn’t suck either. No one knows me here, or her for that matter. It’s freeing in a way I haven’t felt free in months. The headline act starts to play, and I focus on their up-tempo opening number instead of the woman at my side. “They’re not bad,” I say to her when they pause between songs. “They’re better than not bad. Look how much they want to be up there. It’s pouring off them.” I study the band, their energy. “Maybe these kids need a deal. I could fire Eddie’s dumb ass kid and take them instead.” “Miranda Tamayo, my writing partner, always says to find someone with a voice. That the rest you can develop.” “It’s not enough to want it. You have to put in the work.” “Whatever your recipe, it’s effective. I’ve seen your show.” I straighten in an instant. “Where?” “London. Paris.” Her mouth purses. “Seattle.” I’m speechless. “I had to know you were okay,” she goes on as if explaining herself. It doesn’t explain shit. “Tell me why the woman who wanted me out of her life followed me around the world.” Her groan has the hairs on my neck standing up. “I didn’t want you gone, Timothy. I wanted...” “What?” “I wanted you back. I wanted you to feel like yourself again.” I take a drink of water, wishing it was something with a kick. “Sometimes, I wonder what would’ve happened if you’d come on tour,” I tell her. “Or if I’d stayed in New York. If we’d still be together now.” Emily shoots me a look. “It would’ve been a different end, that’s all. You held me at a distance. You were the one who was hurt, but I was the one who felt helpless.” When I imagined her with me, I never considered that I wouldn’t let her be with me the way she wanted to, the way she needed to. The reckoning I had to have with myself was steep. The work and music and touring gradually broke me down, healed me. I couldn’t have done that with her there. I would’ve taken it out on her, used her, abused her. We would’ve split anyway—if she hadn’t stayed in New York, if I hadn’t left. Something loosens in my chest. I glance over at her, her face lit up in the lights as she watches the band, breathless and engrossed. I lean in at the next break. “Tell me about your show.” Emily’s face transforms. Any angst disappears, replaced by anticipation and genuine delight. “It’s a fantasy story about a girl born without a heart, but she doesn’t want anyone to know. So, she goes on a quest to get one—not because she wants to feel, but because she’s worried her body will give out without it. And on the way, she meets all these people, including this guy who makes her realize she wants to feel after all.” I’m sucked in already. She’s always had the power to fascinate me, to take my world and wrap it around her, like that towel by the pool, so she’s at its center. “And you’ll star in it.” She shivers, her eyes sparkling in the dark. “I want that more than anything.” I want to press her, but she’s scanning the room. A number of people have their phones out, but the cameras aren’t pointed at me. “This show will make for some great clips,” she says absently. “They’re at a concert and they’re not even watching.” “They’re involving people in their experience. It takes two seconds. No wonder you drive your marketing people crazy. Give me your phone.” I unlock it and hold it out. “Now put an arm around me and look at the stage.” “You Emily Leibovitz all of a sudden?” But I do as she asks, pulling her against me. Instantly my body’s on alert. She’s slow curves and I want to drag the hem of that shirt up and trail my fingers along her skin. Turn my face into her neck and lose myself in her rose scent. “Broody enough for your brand?” she teases, holding the screen out. The image is a kick in the gut. In it, Emily’s looking at the camera, though in the darkness, it’s hard to recognize her. I’m watching the music like I’m distracted—by it or the girl in my arms, it’s impossible to tell—but it’s tense and natural at once, as if she’s part of me, an extension of me. I want to back that photo up, to save it. To preserve it somehow so I never lose it, or her. “Marketing’s gonna come in their pants,” I say at last. As I tuck the phone away—I’ll post the pic when I get back to the hotel, because otherwise, we’ll get swarmed—more than a few pairs of eyes are on us. It’s understandable. We might not be dating, but she’s still fucking awesome. She’s got the same wonder at the world, plus a confidence that’s new. It’s fascinating, and sexy. “It’s late,” she says when the show wraps up and the patrons stream toward the doors. “I shouldn’t have stayed out so long. Sophia’s already not sleeping. I don’t want to wake her up.” A warning flashes through my brain, one I promptly ignore thanks to the concert or her closeness or the fact that it feels as if we’re the only people in the world despite the rest of the giddy crowd dispersing to the parking lot. “My hotel’s close. You can crash. I have to be at the studio early tomorrow anyway.” She doesn’t answer, and when I clue into why, my abs tightening as the shitty reality comes back to me. Not only is she not mine, she belongs to someone else. “If it’s the boyfriend you’re worried about, I promise I won’t touch you.” “Ian and I broke up.” If she didn’t have my attention before, she does now. “What?” I glance back toward the building. “That time you went to the bathroom an hour ago?” She waves a hand. “We ended it last month.” “And you didn’t tell me about it yesterday because…” Emily shakes her head. “Because it didn’t matter.” I don’t believe her. It’s not my business, but it feels as if it is. The concern I felt for her, the irritation and contempt towards this faceless guy is still there, but it’s competing with something I’ve been ignoring. The pull I’ve always felt when she’s around. Knowing she was with someone made it easier not to stare at her too long, to think about what used to be. “Do you still have your bike?” she asks as she shifts inside the rental car. “Yeah. It’s in LA.” Emily shakes her head as she reaches for the seatbelt. “I always imagined you taking me on it.” Adrenaline surges through me. “I imagined taking you on it too.” The way my voice drops leaves no question as to what I’m imagining. Her hands freeze on the seatbelt, those full lips parting. I force my attention out the windshield before she can reply, but as I pull out of the parking lot, it’s all I can think about. Her on my bike. In my lap. Bending her over my arm while I rock my hips into her, against her, that red hair trailing over the handlebars. Because the moment she told me she was single, the rules changed. Not the rules for what happens next between us, but the rules for what goes on in my twisted head. We go back to my place, and she heads for the pullout couch in my suite. But I stop her, tugging her toward the bedroom. “You’re not sleeping on the couch.” I go to the dresser and grab a clean T-shirt, tossing it at her. She lifts her hands in surprise, catching it. “Thanks.” “Sure.” I reach for the bottom of my shirt and strip it over my head, tossing it on the nearby armchair. Her eyes widen on my body. The last times we were together physically, I took my pain out on her. My fear. My frustration. I want a chance to prove I’m not that guy anymore. Not because we have a future together, but because I want to show her the man I became while she wasn’t looking. I want to know if I can still make her scream. “What’s that?” Emily’s attention drags to something across the room. I turn and see the object leaning against the wall by the dresser, the one that’s so familiar I barely notice it anymore. “My guitar.” “You still have it.” “Of course I do. Twenty-four frets. Rosewood. I fucking love that guitar. Some love lasts a lifetime.” “Just not ours.” She blinks fast. “I’ll change in the bathroom.” She heads that way, closing the door quietly behind her, and I rub my good hand over my neck and wonder what the fuck I was thinking bringing her here. I shift into bed in my boxer briefs and exhale the breath I’ve been holding for longer than I can count. The way Emily looked at me a second ago, it was almost as if she was accusing me. Like the way I loved the guitar she gave me outlasted how I loved her. It’s not true. The words feel as if they’re coming from inside me and outside at once. But it is. I’m over her. I told myself that for the last two years, since before I believed it. Eventually, I started to. She returns a moment later, crawling in next to me. Her light floral scent has me itching to reach my good arm around her and tug her body against mine. Instead, I fist my hand at my side. I remember every time we’ve shared a bed. From the first time after her party in high school when I wanted to know she was okay to the time after prom. The time in her dorm room at Vanier when I made her come for the first time. The hotel in LA when I showed up at her door, swore she meant everything, and we made love for hours. I think about the beds I lay in alone, nameless hotels in cities I barely remember. Getting to perform for big crowds, having money and fans and influence for the first time—at least a backup band that listened to me for once instead of the other way around—mattered, but not nearly as much as it should have. In months of touring, the only woman who ever got me off was Emily Carlton. Her face, her voice, her damned memory was the only one I wanted in my bed. I never told anyone, and I’m sure as hell not going to tell her as we lie next to each other, staring at the ceiling, still buzzed from the music. But her closeness has my heart thudding hard enough to bruise my ribs. “I was thinking about what you said. How we wouldn’t have lasted on the road, and it wouldn’t have worked if I’d stayed.” My words echo in the dark. “You found yourself in New York and I lost myself there.” For a moment, I wonder if Emily’s already asleep, until I feel the bed sink as she turns toward me. “I replayed it in my head a thousand times. What I could’ve done differently. Giving you more space, or less. Trying to make it work from a distance.” I exhale hard. “No. I wish I’d been better in those moments. The last few times we were together... it wasn’t good. I hate that you’ll always remember me like that.” I feel her inch closer, her breath lightly fanning my lips. “I remember we used to dream about this. You having a recording career and me being on stage. And now we are. So it all worked out, right?” The question in her voice has my chest tightening in a way that’s dangerous. “Yeah. It all worked out.”