“Mason?”
Startled, I glance up, horrified to find them all blurry and distorted. Fuck. I swipe my arm across my eyes with a rough jerk.
“Okay, look, I’m sorry for bringing it up. Can we stop this, please?” Aaron grunts, just as the conference room phone rings.
“Shit,” Mitch mumbles.
Resting my elbows on the table, I hide my face in my hands, barely hearing the others as they argue and eventually answer the call from the label.
Greetings, greetings, greetings.
These things happen all the time and are to be expected with news this big.
You’re not on trial, Mason. We just need to figure this out.
You should have disclosed your connection to their music.
You should have disclosed the circumstances surrounding the death of your girlfriend.
You should have…
You should have…
You should have been more, Mason West.
Why aren’t you fucking perfect like we thought?
“The good news is, it seems the police report from the accident disputes Rob Patrick’s claims. We’ve filed for a copy and are discussing the possibility of suing for defamation and libel.”
I still can’t see anything as the invisible suit on the other end of the line discusses my fate like a pro. Guess it’s easy when it’s not yours.
“Is that wise, given the volatile nature of the situation? Wouldn’t it be better to…”
“Yes, of course there are many factors…”
“We’ve scheduled an appearance…”
“We’ve scheduled an interview…”
We’ve scheduled the rest of your life, Mason, so don’t worry, all you have to do is live it.
A hand on my arm startles me from the hellish cloud, and I force my gaze to Liberty’s. Compassion. No, empathy. I blink against the dry, painful throb behind my eyes. Unable to hold my ground, I focus back on the table. My demon glares back with a cadaverous grin.
“Can I say something…”
“Let me interrupt you for a second…”
“I think you all are missing a golden opportunity here…”
“Interesting…”
“Very…”
“So we’re in agreement?”
“Yes. Let’s do it.”
“Tragedy sells.”
I stagger toward the restrooms, fighting the nausea with each step. Only a few more feet. If I can make it a few more feet... Shoving through the door, I rush to a stall and drop to my knees just in time. My chest still heaves, my throat raw as I stare at the visual display of the rotting mess inside me. There it is in high definition. My soul, freshly shredded on a conference room table.
I reach over and flush, slumping back to the floor as a depleted husk. Why did I even get sick? I feel nothing. Only numb as I stare at the partition, unable to move. Maybe that’s what happens when you flush your soul down a toilet.
Drained and sore from the exertion, I hardly flinch at the creak of the main door. I can’t move. Whoever needs the facilities will just have to work around me. I rest my forehead on my knees, hugging my jeans until I wince from the strain on my arms.
But too much silence fills the room. No trickle. No flush. No running water or even footsteps fleeing the scene after finding a monster on the floor of Stall One. Instead, it’s the squeak of shoes approaching that breaks the stalemate. The rustle of cloth crinkling into a compressed position. The rattle of a stall door as a second back leans against it. Heat. A wave of flames running along the left side of my body when another presses close.
Then arms. It has to be arms that wrap around my back and brace over mine until their steady pressure forces my own to relax. Soon the familiar scent of lilac and the soft brush of long hair against my neck has me inhaling oxygen again.
“You’re still breathing today,” Liberty whispers.
I clench my eyes tighter, nodding against her embrace.
“You’re still feeling today.”
Tears bleed out, soaking my jeans, as I nod again.
“So breathe, Mason. And feel. And know that all anyone ever asks of you is to give us one more day.”
CHAPTER 14
He did it! Thank god. Mason finally kicked him out of the band. I’ve never seen a grown man throw a fit like Rob did when Mason told him he was done. He swore all kinds of childish revenge and said things to Mason that made my skin crawl, but my man barely flinched. He stood like a statue the entire time Rob exploded on him. That’s Mason, though. A freaking rock when he needs to be.
I don’t think he knows I saw him break down in the shower just now.
LIBERTY
“Are you sure no one is going to care that we left the meeting?” Mason asks while I drag him into an artist lounge. Literally. I have his shirt in my hands, practically yanking it off him as he keeps glancing back to check on the imaginary Meeting Police behind us. I force myself not to focus on the way my grip has exposed that sexy tattoo on his sculpted chest. Also, please don’t think stupid things like “sculpted chest” right now. Or ever.
“What are they gonna do? Ground us?” I shove him into the room and close the door before he goes running back to the lions’ den. After what just happened in the conference room, and how long it took me to coax him back to functional, there’s no way in hell I’m letting him return to that inferno. So yeah, we’re hiding for a while and… Wait. Did I really just lock us into the same intimate lounge of that first disastrous one-on-one?
What’s the plan now, genius?
By his expression he’s thinking the same thing. Except, is he amused? Maybe a half-smile is starting to lift his lips which sends my annoying brain right back to cheesy phrases like sculpted chest and sexy… everything. Probably best to just turn the brain off altogether, especially when it starts signaling my heart to stutter at the thought of sharing the undersized couch again. What is wrong with you? Those stupid promotional photos. That’s what’s wrong. Ever since those scalding hot images got seared into my head, it’s been a nonstop torture loop of recall. Who wants to imagine their coworker naked all the time? No one. Which is why—hang on… you have to be kidding me!
Mason sees it too and smirks as he swipes the magazine off the table on his way to the couch.
“I still think I look ridiculous,” he mutters, studying his photo on the cover of Alt Canada. “Why does Sam even have a copy of Alt Canada?”
“Because you’re on the cover.” I tug it from his hands and drop beside him. He doesn’t shift away this time, and I pretend to concentrate extra hard on the offending photo in question. Okay, so staring at a glamour shot of Mason West isn’t exactly the greatest sacrifice in human history. Mason is leaning against the wall, his gaze locked on the camera, green eyes electric with a deadly smolder. The black shirt they gave him hangs open, exposing his gorgeous chest, and I’m not surprised they chose this pose over some of the more overtly sexual ones. There’s something about the suggestion, the subtle sensuality, that makes him even more forbidden and unattainable. He’s so fucking beautiful, he doesn’t even look real, and maybe I kind of get his hesitation about it all. I glance up and realize with some measure of alarm that the live, unedited version is even more appealing. There’s a dimension to Mason that makes you think you’d have to spend a lifetime sorting through the pieces. Those electric eyes rest on me now, waiting for me to follow social logic and join him on the couch. In. Close. Direct. Contact.
Yeah, this isn’t going to work.
“Hey, you want to go grab coffee or something?”
He pauses a confused look on me before landing it on the elaborate refreshment bar against the wall.
“You mean, from there?”
Right.
“Oh. Well. It’s good coffee, actually.” I flash a quick smile before crossing to the coffee bar like a champ. Not only do I walk with total competence, I even manage to toss out a super-casual, “just black, right?”
“Yeah, but you
don’t have to—”
I shoot over a death-stare until he returns that perfect ass to the chair cushion. He rewards me with a sheepish half-smile I’d bottle and sell if I could. Um weird, Lib.
Cappuccino. I push the button for my own drink and wait as the machine grunts and spits out its offering.
“You always sound like you’re choking,” I mumble to the beast. “It’s okay, buddy. You can do it. You’ve got one more cup in you, I know it.” I pat the side of the machine and rub soothing circles over the dark metal.
“Do you two need a minute?”
I cringe and turn slowly with our mugs, just about dropping them at the brutal grin on his face.
“I mean, I can go if you want to be alone....” The smartass actually starts to rise from the couch, dorky smile still all kinds of radiant.
“You better not even think about leaving after I went through the effort to make this. Hope you’re a good tipper.”
“A tip for what? You pushed a button.”
“And lined up the mug. Perfectly.”
He studies the cup I place in his hands. “Wow. Not even a drop on the rim. Nicely done, Blake.”
“Why thank you, West. Move over.”
He shifts just enough for me to squeeze in beside him. I cradle my mug in both hands and pretend the heat coursing through my system is cappuccino-related.
“You’re right. Coffee’s not bad,” he says, eyes bright over the horizon of his mug. Oceans and tsunamis drench that explosive gaze. “What’s a fair tip for button-pushing and expert rim-alignment?”
“Hmm…” I take a sip of my own drink to buy time for a clever response. Clever? I’d settle for verbal. I take another sip. Doesn’t help. Flirting is not my specialty, just ask Chris.
Chris.
Yep, that knocks me back to Earth. “I’ll take help with lyrics for the new song I’m working on. The ones I have are garbage.” I don’t know if the fresh bitterness in my voice is courtesy of Chris Lundstedt or uncooperative song lyrics, but either way, it’s too heavy to skim past Mason.
His eyes dim from luminous to almost human levels as he studies me, and I have to look away. Staring into my drink, I tense against the unwelcome emotion bubbling deep. No. Not now. I will not lose it in front of Mason. My fingers tighten around the still-hot mug. I let the burn seep into my skin.
Mason releases a long breath and places his cup on the table. I watch out of the corner of my eye, hypnotized by the way his muscles flex sharply with each movement. It’s almost disturbing how such a gentle soul can display such power. And that’s when I see it: his mug, carelessly deposited on the prized copy of Alt Canada. He just defaced his own cover image, and I swing my gaze to him in surprise. If he noticed what he did, he certainly isn’t worried about it. Does he really not give a shit about any of the celebrity stuff?
“Liberty, your music is… special,” he says quietly. He lowers his eyes and studies his hands. “For what it’s worth, from the moment Sam told me the reason for my audition, I thought Chris Lundstedt was insane. Why would any musician in their right mind give up the chance to work with you?”
He looks up again, his expression saturated with sincerity. My god, he’s in awe. Of me. He’s in awe of me? I swallow, wishing there was cappuccino in my mouth to soothe my dry throat. Instead, all I get is the scratch of every judgement and critique I’ve ever made of him. “You didn’t even want to hire him!” There’s Aaron, front and center, warning, begging, not to do what you always do, Liberty. Find a flaw so you don’t have to get close. That’s what my brother was trying to tell me that day on the beach. My standard is perfection so I don’t have to risk getting hurt again.
I can’t speak, my throat now choked closed with guilt.
“You’ve had him on trial since the day he walked in for the audition.”
Him. Mason. The man who was handed a throne and dumped coffee on it without a thought. The man whose little girl looks at him like he holds the keys to the universe.
“Chris was… I thought he was the one,” I whisper. “He should have been, right?”
“Why?”
“Because we understood each other. You know how hard this industry is. This life. When you find someone who gets it…”
I look up into stunning green eyes that take my breath away. They reflect back a pain so deep, it can’t be mine because I’ve never hurt with the annihilating force of what we glimpsed at today’s preview in the conference room. What I found on a bathroom floor just minutes ago. Am I really whining about a breakup when he lost everything? And yet, everything in his face is for me.
“Are you sure it’s Chris who broke your heart?”
“Who else would it be?”
“Not who. What.”
Air freezes in my lungs, the weight of impending truth compressing the space around us.
“I mean…” My broken defense stutters on my tongue. I had this narrative all figured out. Girl likes boy. Girl gets dumped. So easy to process. So safe.
Mason’s expression softens as he shifts to face me. “You wrote together. Built this band together. When he left, he also stripped you of the thing that defined you the most: your music.”
I shake my head. No. No!
“And now you’re afraid it’s gone. That the most important piece of you has been ripped out, damaged beyond repair, but it hasn’t, Liberty. I swear to you.”
My world spirals black for a moment. A panicked wave laps over my head and sucks me under. What if the music is gone? What if Mason’s right and the deep cavern I’m mourning isn’t the loss of some guy but the loss of my art?
I clench my jaw and shake my head. No! Because I can recover from a broken heart. I can pick up the pieces and cobble together something else, but if the music is gone…
“It’s not gone,” he says.
Tears threaten my eyes as I study his earnest expression. So confident. I press my fist into the cushion.
“Liberty, trust me. It’s not gone.”
He reaches over, hesitating for a moment before resting his hand on my knee. I stiffen for only a second before my body instinctively adjusts to his touch. He seems to understand, and soon his fingers start brushing over my knee, back and forth. Gentle. Calm. I breath in with each stroke, tensing when it stalls, and relaxing again when it resumes and reestablishes the connection.
“How do you know?” I force out, emotion corrupting my voice. I clear my throat, but nothing seems to help. If anything, the weight in my chest shifts further into my vocal cords. “How do you know it isn’t gone?”
I can’t handle any more and close my eyes, focusing on the steady rhythm of his caress. Left. Right. Up. Down. The motion intensifies in the silence, pressing deeper, daring higher with each stroke. My pulse follows the surge. Harder. Faster. Beat-beat-beat. We’re so close now, I can smell his bodywash. Or shampoo. Or whatever it is that’s making my brain crazy and my blood pound.
“I’m still breathing for today, breathing for today,” he says suddenly. The lilt to his phrasing sends chills over my skin.
“I’m still feeling for today, keeping one more day,” he continues, adding a simple melody with his rich, deep voice.
My eyes snap open. My breath catches in my throat. Paralyzed, I watch his mind work, desperate to hear more.
“Sing it again?” I whisper.
“I’m still breathing for today, breathing for today.” The slight break in his tone is perfection. It all is. The melody. The lyrics. The moment.
Almost.
“For us.” I sing the added line with a lift at the end. His gaze locks on mine, his lips sliding into a harmonious grin I feel in every cell of my body. I’ve seen that smile before. Between camera flashes. Beyond stage lights. In the shadows when he lets the world glimpse the real Mason West.
“I’m still breathing for today, breathing for today. I’m still feeling for today, keeping one more day for us.” He repeats the chorus, his perfectly pitched vocal skimming over my skin in a shive
r-inducing current. I swear I see sparks where each note explodes in the air around us.
“Oh my god,” I say. “I…”
Jumping up from the couch, I rush to the corner of the room and retrieve a guitar from its stand. After handing it to Mason, I perch on the armrest and pull out my phone. “Key of E.”
His smile.
I bite into one of my own and start recording.
CHAPTER 15
Brooklyn moved enough for Mason to feel her today! Oh my gosh, I could have died from cuteness overload. His face was just this explosion of light, like a little flake of heaven landed on him for that split second. I thought I’d be jealous if he ever loved someone more than me, but guess what. I’m not.
MASON
I’ve just placed Brooklyn’s plate of mac and cheese in front of her when Liberty rings the doorbell. Shit, I was hoping to be finished with dinner before she arrived. Our writing session had barely begun in the lounge today when Sam found us and forced us back to business. We wanted to finish what we started while it was fresh, but I had already promised Rose and Gary a much-needed break-slash-date night. Besides, I’d also promised Brooklyn I’d pick her up from school after running out so fast this morning. There only seemed to be one solution, and here we are with Liberty at my door while I’m forking orange noodle crap into my mouth.
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