Muses and Melodies (Hush Note Book 3)

by Rebecca Yarros

  I nodded in agreement, and as I walked by the island, Nixon grabbed my wrist, his eyes flaring slightly. “I’ll be right back,” I assured him, leaning in to keep our conversation private.

  “Your dad’s about to grill me. I can tell,” he whispered.

  I gave his hand a little pat. “You’ve survived press conferences with major news outlets. I think you can handle my dad. Besides, you were the one who wanted to come here. Time to pay the piper.” A flash of a smile later, I raced up to my room and got changed.

  When I came back down, Dad was mid-interrogation, asking why Nixon felt the need to share his entire life on social media.

  “It’s not about how I feel,” Nixon answered as he saw me. His shoulders dipped in relief, and then his eyes flared slightly as he looked me over. My jeans were old, worn, and hung a little lower on my hips than they had when I bought them years ago. I’d pushed the sleeves up on my fitted black shirt and unbuttoned the top two buttons over my gray cami. It was the most casually dressed I’d ever been around Nixon, which wasn’t exactly helping me remember this was a business trip.

  Nixon was not my friend and most certainly not my anything else.

  “But you kids still broadcast your whole lives,” Dad continued.

  I took mercy on Nixon and explained that not only did he loathe every platform, he didn’t even post on it himself, taking care to relate both the positives and negatives of social media and the importance of marketing. The conversation shifted to what I did for the band as we all chipped in to get dinner going, and by the time we were ready to sit down, Dad was almost finished grilling Nixon.

  “And your family?” he asked.

  I stopped scooping the potatoes into the bowl.

  Nixon’s jaw ticked once as he took the spatula from my hand and finished the job. “Not much to tell. Parents divorced when I was young. Dad got remarried. He died in a car accident a few years back.”

  That was the standard answer given in every media interview, and it stopped my father’s inquisition as he gave his condolences.

  “So, why exactly are you here?” Jeremiah asked again as he reached for the glasses in the cabinet. “Did you come in for the Fall Festival? Because it’s this weekend. Wait, is Hush Note playing?”

  “No, Hush Note is not playing at the Fall Festival.” I shook my head at my brother. Until this morning, Nixon hadn’t even known Legacy existed.

  “Too bad, because that means we’re stuck with—”

  Thud.

  Jeremiah winced, and Mom sent a sympathetic smile my way.

  Guess that hadn’t changed since I’d left.

  “I thought Zoe needed a break.” Nixon rolled right through the awkward pause. “So, I rented out the McClaren Ranch and brought her home for a little R and R.”

  “Together?” Jeremiah’s eyebrows rose.

  “She’s on babysitting duty while I write a few songs for the next album.” Nixon shrugged as he helped Mom carry dishes to the table. “We’re kind of a package deal for the next few months.”

  That was me, all right. Glorified babysitter.

  “And now we have our very own rock star here in Legacy. Surreal.” Jeremiah shook his head as he opened the refrigerator. “Fat Tire, sweet! Dad, Nixon, you want a beer?”

  “No!” I shouted.

  “No, thank you,” Nixon replied.

  Everyone stilled.

  “I’m driving, but thanks,” Nixon said easily, but that smile was his fake, fan-and-media one.

  “Okay, then,” Jeremiah replied.

  The door blew open and Naomi rushed in, still wearing her scrubs from the clinic. She gasped when she saw me, then let out a yelp when Nixon stepped into the kitchen. “Oh, sweet mother of all that is holy. Nixon Winters.”

  “Hi there.” He turned that trademark smirk on her, and I almost pitied my sister-in-law. That thing was pretty damn lethal.

  She stared at Nixon so hard she walked right into the kitchen island.

  “Easy now.” Jeremiah laughed. “She’s got your picture taped up in her locker at work.”

  “I do not,” she hissed at her husband.

  “She does.” Mom gave Naomi a pat on the shoulder as she passed by. “Now, Nixon dear, do me a favor and carry the mashed potatoes to the table.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Nixon looked at me with mischief in his eyes, then leaned in to whisper, “I’m popular with that demographic too.”

  “That’s my demographic, idiot.”

  “I know.” He grinned.

  My cheeks flushed with heat.

  “Just get the potatoes.” I rolled my eyes, but I smiled the whole time.

  The McClaren Ranch was some of the best acreage around Legacy and boasted a spectacular view of the mountains from the wraparound porch, where I currently sat. The cows were long gone, so ranch was a loose term, but the property still contained a massive house, a large barn, and a machine shed.

  It had been on the market for years before Lisa McClaren gave up and turned it into a fully furnished vacation rental. She was one of the ones who never came back after the fire.

  I tugged the edges of my blanket closer, then curled my feet under me and sipped my coffee in the rocking chair, looking out over the Rockies. God, I loved being home. There was a settling feeling to it, like my feet found rock after walking on the sand for far too long.

  “Damn, it’s cold!” Nixon exclaimed as he came around the corner in a short-sleeved shirt, rubbing his arms. His hair had that purposely messy look I knew took other guys product and effort to achieve, but not Nixon. The guy looked photo-ready straight out of bed.

  Half his photo shoots had been straight out of bed, actually.

  “September at nine thousand feet isn’t exactly September in Seattle,” I reminded him, ripping my eyes from the sight of his lean hips in those jeans. “We’ll stop by the store and get you a jacket.”

  Jesus, I was no better than Naomi when I ogled him like that, and I couldn’t even blame her. She did exactly what I wanted to and made no apology for it.

  I could have looked at Nixon for days and never tired of it. Sure, I might have spontaneously combusted from sexual frustration, but it would have been worth it to finally see each of those tattoos up close and personal.

  “Let’s do that after breakfast,” he noted. “What, no planner?”

  “No plans.” And, to be honest, I wasn’t really sure what to do with myself.

  “That’s the best way to live. Relax a little. Sleep in. Binge-watch a TV series.”

  “I don’t watch TV.” There was always something that needed to be done, read, or planned.

  “Well, you do now. If I have to stay sober, you have to learn how to relax, and this seems like a pretty good time to do it. This place is something else.” He leaned against the porch railing. “I thought you said the entire town burned down, but this place feels pretty old.”

  “It’s one of the only properties that didn’t burn,” I said, taking in the thick, heavy beams and stonework. “The fire, the flashfloods that followed that spring…nothing ever touched this place.”

  “Huh.” He looked out over the pasture to the steep rise of the mountains. We’d gotten in late last night, so he’d missed the full effect. He studied it like an artist, his eyes skipping from detail to detail, lingering as though he needed to memorize it before moving on. “It’s stunning.”

  “It’s home,” I stated simply.

  He turned and looked at me with such awe on his face I couldn’t help but smile, even as my heart stuttered. This wasn’t the Nixon I was used to, the one I was well-armored against. I had no defenses when it came to this softer, more accessible side of him, and worse, I wanted to keep that look on his face. He needed this break way more than I did. I wanted to show him life outside the three-ring circus of the music industry, even though I knew it was my job to shove a guitar into his hands and point him to pen and paper.

  “Show me,” he said, his voice low and gravelly.

&nbs
p; “What?” I stopped rocking. Had he read my mind?

  “Show me your home.” He shoved his hands into his pockets.

  I worried my bottom lip with my teeth and mentally ran through the list of ways he could get into trouble here. There weren’t actually that many, especially on a Saturday morning.

  “Come on, Shannon. What could possibly go wrong?”

  If he kept looking at me with that little smolder of his, a whole hell of a lot could go wrong, and we wouldn’t even have to leave the ranch. Not that he had any interest in me. I wasn’t that stupid. Nixon liked his girls tall, lean, and entanglement free, and I was none of those things. I also wasn’t looking to throw my career and self-respect away in pursuit of a few orgasms.

  “How do you feel about pancakes?” I asked slowly.

  He grinned.

  Forget Nixon, I was the one in trouble.

  5

  NIXON

  “Here you go, sweetie,” a waitress with pink hair said as she slid my orange juice across the counter.

  “Thank you,” I responded absentmindedly, staring at the orange flyer tacked to the diner’s bulletin board, advertising this weekend’s Fall Festival.

  I’d never lived somewhere that threw a giant party at the changing of the seasons, or maybe I’d been too wrapped up in other things to notice…or too drunk to care. Either way, welcoming fall was definitely something I was down for. Fall was when everything got a little easier.

  The longer I stayed sober, the more I realized how much I’d missed. There were countless nights I couldn’t remember and blotches of time that were blurred or just flat in my memory.

  Hell, every summer for the past nine years felt like a TV show I’d napped through, only picking up bits and pieces and wondering if any of it had really happened or if it was all in my head.

  I fucking hated summer.

  “Nix, will you teach me to play guitar?” Her sweet voice sliced through me without warning, paralyzing my muscles as I fought the memory’s grip.

  Her eyes had been big, blue, and so full of hope that what breath I could drag into my lungs felt like inhaling shards of glass.

  “Sure, I will,” I’d responded.

  “Thank you!” She’d practically jumped up and down with excitement.

  But I hadn’t taught her.

  I’d left a week later and then broke every promise I’d ever made to her.

  “Nixon?”

  “Nixon.” Zoe’s voice broke through, and I blinked rapidly. Her hands were warm on my face, and her eyes wide with concern. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. Fine,” I lied. I was never going to be fine. I sure as hell didn’t deserve to be.

  “Are you sure?” Her thumbs stroked over my cheeks.

  I swallowed the rock in my throat and pulled away from her soothing touch. “Yeah.”

  She wasn’t convinced, but she lowered her hands to her lap and pivoted on her stool to face the diner counter, watching me from the corner of her eye.

  I shaped the brim of my ball cap and buried my face in the menu. Drink. Erase it. Run as fast and as far as you can.

  Damn, would that instinct ever not blare at three hundred decibels in my head? Probably not. But I’d gone eight weeks without giving in, and I had no intention of today being the day, so I did what I had to and shoved it to the furthest corner of my mind.

  After we consumed the largest stacks of pancakes known to man and I won the battle over the bill, Zoe led us out to Main Street. This town wasn’t just small, it was tiny, but I liked it. There were no blaring horns or screaming fans, so it was a hell of a lot calmer than Seattle, but quiet had always been my brain’s worst enemy. It let the thoughts in, the memories, the never-ending abyss of guilt.

  “You did it!” Zoe beamed at me as we walked toward the car, her cheeks pink from the chill.

  “Ate breakfast? Is that the new standard? Or does the lack of oxygen up here make it especially challenging?” We passed the store where I’d purchased my jacket a couple hours earlier and crossed the street.

  She rolled her eyes. “You ate an entire meal out in public, which is a first since you got back.” She tilted her head at me. “But what happened in there?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She gave me a hefty helping of side-eye. “You know what.”

  “I don’t.” Nope. Not going there.

  “You zoned out.” She halted, and I let out a long, frustrated sigh as I stopped a few feet ahead.

  I counted to three, then I turned to face her. She didn’t look quite so Ms. Shannon today. Maybe it was the jeans or the messy bun, or just being in her hometown, but she was missing that little layer of uptight, organized frost that usually served as a perfect barrier between us.

  She arched an eyebrow.

  “Let it go,” I warned.

  She tilted her head and debated.

  “Let. It. Go.” My voice dropped.

  Her gaze cooled to glacial, and she walked right by me. There she is.

  I cursed myself under my breath and followed her. Every person we passed waved or said hello to her by name, and she responded in kind. We’d never been somewhere together where she’d been the recognized one, which was yet another change of our dynamic. I kept my hat low and avoided eye contact. It was easy to escape recognition when no one expected you to show up in the middle of small-town Colorado.

  The drive back to the ranch was tense and silent, but at least she wasn’t pestering me for answers I wasn’t going to give her. Even turning on the radio didn’t help lift the mood. It only served to remind me I had three songs to write and nothing I wanted to write about.

  We walked into the house, and I headed straight for the great room, stopping short when I realized I hadn’t brought a single video game or mind-numbing distraction with me. Shit. There had to be a DVD player or something, because sitting around thinking was only going to get me into trouble.

  “You know what I think?” Zoe snapped, ripping off her jacket. She threw it on the back of the couch, then stood between the arm and the wall, blocking my exit.

  “No, but I’m pretty sure you’re going to tell me.” I left mine on to keep as many layers between us as possible, but I wasn’t sure if it was for her protection or mine.

  “I think your problem is that too many people have let it go.” She folded her arms under the V-neck of her tee, and I yanked my eyes from the sight of her breasts rising toward her neckline, nearly swallowing my tongue.

  I promise to never make fun of her dresses again if you just get a fucking grip. Holy shit, I was seriously bargaining with myself.

  “I’m right, aren’t I?” she asked.

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about.” And yet she was perilously close to the mark.

  “Oh, really? Because, from what I’ve seen, you go off the rails every summer, lose complete control by mid-July, then manage to somewhat pull your shit together in the fall. Except every year, it’s a little worse, and you can’t quite get back to center.” There was zero condemnation in her voice, just pure, straight fact, and maybe a hint of compassion that only managed to irritate me even more.

  “Your point is?” I glanced to both sides of her, looking for the best escape route.

  “Have you ever talked to anyone about what happened?”

  I stilled, yanking my gaze back to hers. How the fuck did she know? No one knew. Not even Jonas, Quinn—

  “I mean, something must have happened for you to lose it every summer the way you do, right?” The skin between her eyes crinkled.

  If I hadn’t been consumed with relief, and she hadn’t looked so damned concerned, I would have canned her ass.

  No one was allowed to get that close. Ever. Not even the people I paid to smooth over the top layer of my psyche.

  “When you space out like you did back in the diner, where do you go?” Her voice softened.

  “Let it go.” How many times did I have to say it? Fuck this, I was out of here. Eve
n if I had to climb over the fucking couch, I wasn’t staying in this room with her.

  “Okay, well, if you’re not talking to me, and you’re not talking to your therapist from rehab”—she put her hands up—“remember, I was in the room when you took that call, then please tell me you’re talking to someone.” The plea in her eyes made my chest ache.

  “Why do you care?” I snapped. But it was her job to care, wasn’t it? It was always someone’s job to care. Someone had to watch me, care for me, clean up whatever mess I’d made, and generally be the adult in my life. It was easy to care when you were being paid to.

  “Why do I care?” She flinched. “Because I’ve watched you systematically self-destruct for the last four years, and I don’t want to see it happen again! You’re working so hard to stay clean, and if you don’t talk about whatever drives this—whatever flips your switch every summer—you’ll never be free of it.”

  Free of it? There was no getting free of it.

  “What the hell makes you think I deserve to be free of it?” I asked, my voice dropping to a whisper. “You know jack and shit about me, Zoe. Not where it really matters.”

  She sucked in a breath like I’d wounded her, and I was halfway to her before I even realized I was moving. For every step I took forward, she moved back one, until she was flush against the exposed rock of the decorative wall.

  “Fine, then talk to your therapist, a friend…anyone,” she countered softly. “You’ve got to let someone in.”

  The hell I do.

  My palms met the wall on either side of her head. “And you’ve got to stop thinking you can save me. Spoiler alert—you can’t. Your only job here is to manage the fallout when I inevitably fuck up.” The day, or night, would come eventually. It always did.

  “I don’t believe that.” She lifted her chin, and the honesty in her eyes twisted my stomach. Only undamaged people were that certain of their ability to save the ruined ones.

  “Then you’re a fool.” I leaned in close, and my gaze dropped to her lips. Not for you, Nixon. It didn’t matter that she was kind, naïve, and unflinchingly sincere when it came to her emotions—I’d still end up shattering her because I was none of those things. “Stop trying to dig around in my head. You won’t like what you find. And, quite frankly, all you’ll accomplish is pissing me off.” I pushed off the wall, grabbed my guitar from the stand next to the couch, and headed toward the porch before I did something we’d both regret.