Muses and Melodies (Hush Note Book 3)

by Rebecca Yarros

  “You shouldn’t have to pay for my mistake!” That’s always how it worked, wasn’t it? I fucked up. Someone else paid the price. But not Zoe. She was where I drew the line—where my “always” became “used to.”

  “Nixon,” she whispered, softening as she slid her hand toward mine on the counter, but stopped just shy of touching it. “It’s just a little cut. Tiny. No stitches. No blood loss.”

  “For now,” I muttered.

  “You act like you’re some kind of wrecking ball. You’re not.” Her finger brushed mine.

  “Says the woman who currently has to babysit me.” I scoffed. “Not sure if you’ve noticed, but I’m not exactly easy on the people around me.” Including you.

  “What I’ve noticed are a lot of people trying their best to get close, and the ones who do fight to stay.” She squeezed the honey into our teas, and I removed the bags and stirred.

  “I’m sorry I woke you up,” I said after my first swallow.

  “I don’t mind. My boss sleeps late.” She flashed a teasing smile.

  “When he sleeps,” I admitted.

  “Have you slept tonight?” she asked, holding her cup between sips.

  I nodded.

  “What woke you up?”

  I set the tea on the counter. “I have nightmares.” I shouldn’t have told her, but there it was.

  “I’m sorry. Are they memories or fears?” Her pinky hooked over mine.

  I froze at the question—not the touch.

  “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me. I just wish I could help you.”

  My focus shifted from our linked fingers to the smooth, creamy skin of her thigh, and I wondered if it was as soft as it looked. “You said something about me not being interested,” I said, dragging my gaze up her body to meet hers, well aware of my subject change.

  Her brow puckered in confusion.

  “A couple days ago, when we had the incredibly awkward conversation about that kiss,” I reminded her.

  “Oh.” Her lips remained parted. “Sorry, I was trying to say that I understood.”

  “I didn’t contradict you because it would open a door.” I shifted so I stood in front of her. “And usually I don’t give a shit about what someone thinks, but with you, it’s different.”

  “I don’t understand.” She leaned forward slightly, bracing her palms on the counter.

  “We said the kiss wouldn’t happen again,” I reminded her, moving closer. Her knees brushed against my stomach, and the contact tensed my abs.

  “Right. I remember that.” Her gaze flickered downward but jerked back to my face.

  “I agreed with you because it shouldn’t.” My eyes focused on her lips. “Because you work for me. Because we’re living together for the next few months. Because I’m not supposed to embark on any relationships fresh out of rehab, and you don’t strike me as the one-night stand type of girl.”

  “I’m not,” she blurted.

  “I know.” My face felt so tight it almost hurt to smile. “Those are my reasons. It has nothing to do with not being interested. Trust me.” I let her see it—the hunger I felt for her—as I stepped forward.

  “But we’re not going to let it happen again, right?” Her knees parted and her breath hitched.

  “Right,” I agreed. “Because we both know it would end badly.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Her words were at odds with her thighs, which split, leaving me enough room to stand between them.

  “Because I keep enough secrets, and we’re together too much to not be perfectly honest about this.” I gripped her hips and tugged her to the edge of the counter, until she was flush against me from the juncture of her thighs to her breasts.

  Too far, my brain warned me. I was taking this too far. But she felt so damned good against me. Warm, and soft, and lush.

  Her fingers skimmed my shoulders, then came to rest behind my neck. “But we’re not going to let it happen again.”

  “We’re not,” I agreed, lowering my mouth so it hovered a breath above hers. “I just didn’t want you to think it was because I didn’t want you, because I do.” Energy hummed through my body, and my lips ached with the need to kiss her.

  “You do?” she questioned, her voice pitching higher.

  “I do. And if you were anyone else, I’d have you naked already.” My hands flexed on her hips. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d denied myself someone I wanted—or the last time someone hadn’t wanted me back, and if the speed with which her breaths hit my lips was anything to go by, Zoe felt exactly the same way I did. “But you’re not anyone else.”

  “Right.” Her fingers slid into my hair, and it took everything in my power not to groan and give in to the situation I’d put us in.

  “Just wanted to clear that up.” I leaned in.

  She pushed off my chest and scrambled back across the island, then spun and jumped to the floor. “Glad we got it sorted out. Night!” She practically ran from the kitchen.

  My dick throbbed as I hung my head, struggling to steady my breathing. It had been a stupid move, an easy way to change the subject, but that wasn’t the only reason I’d told her. Maybe I was sick of feeling like I was the only one tortured here.

  Maybe the best thing for us both would be for me to find a willing woman at the show in a few days, so at least I wasn’t strung out on my need for Zoe.

  Problem was, I didn’t want some random hookup.

  I wanted the only woman on the planet I couldn’t have.

  8

  ZOE

  Nixon had been on edge since we landed in San Francisco. He was tapping his foot, rolling a pick over his knuckles, or jiggling his knee—he certainly wasn’t sitting still.

  “Is he doing okay?” Quinn asked quietly as Nixon, Jonas, and Ethan strolled down the hall ahead of us at the hotel. “He seems a little…”

  “Off?” I suggested.

  “Wound up,” she offered. “But yeah, off works too.”

  “He’s not usually this bad.” Dinner had been just the five of us in a private room, since both Quinn’s and Jonas’s kids had started school a few weeks earlier, but Nixon hadn’t been able to relax. “He’s been restless since we left…” Home, I almost said, but we really hadn’t been at home. We’d been in Colorado for the last two weeks. “The house,” I finished lamely. “We haven’t been in public much. This is really the first time he’s been around everything that could set him back.”

  “I wish he’d let us cancel it.” She sighed. “I get the optics of it, and why he’s so adamant that we not, but it’s really not worth the risk to his sobriety.”

  Ahead of us, I saw Nixon’s tattooed knuckles as he rubbed the back of his neck.

  “Is it?” Quinn asked, pausing in the middle of the hallway.

  “Is what?” I stopped to face her, noting the worry in her eyes.

  “Is this risking it? We called ahead and made sure there was no alcohol at dinner and there were no surprise gifts in his suite—your suite—whatever you guys call it.” She tucked her thumbs in her pockets and rocked back on her heels. “But I don’t know if it’s enough.”

  “I think every day is another risk to his sobriety,” I answered as truthfully as I could, keeping my voice down even though the band had reserved not only this floor but the two beneath us. “Is being here harder? Yep. Does he keep secluded? Yeah. Does he avoid temptation? Absolutely. But don’t, for one minute, think that he couldn’t sneak off to the bar or the liquor store if he wanted to.”

  She nodded, looking over my shoulder. “I just don’t want to be his reason for failing.”

  “I think you guys are a major part of his reason for staying sober.”

  Her forehead wrinkled. “Is he being a complete dick to you?”

  I scoffed. “He’s Nixon.”

  “That says it all.” She winced.

  “No, he’s fine, really,” I assured her.

  She arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow.

  “I�
��m serious.” I grinned. “He’s…” There weren’t any words to describe him. He was infuriating one moment and bone-meltingly sweet in the next. Ice cold, then flipped to scorching hot. He was just Nixon.

  “How many girls have there been?” she asked, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Anything we need to worry about?”

  I swallowed. Hard.

  “Shit, I shouldn’t be digging into you like this, but if we get him on the phone, it’s only for a few minutes, and he’s not exactly an open book with us right now. I just want to know that he’s not trading one vice for another, you know?”

  “Hey, are you two coming?” Jonas called down the hall.

  “Give us a second!” Quinn waved him off. “I swear to God, they harass me about not having any female friends when we tour but won’t let me talk to another woman for a few minutes without butting in,” she muttered. “So, normal level of women in his life? More?”

  “Um. That’s…” I cringed. The number of people who could call Quinn a friend was small to say the least, and I wasn’t in a hurry to piss her off. “That’s a question for him to answer.” I was there to keep Nixon sober, not report the details of his life. “But I would say that you don’t have anything to worry about.”

  She tilted her head, studying me for a nerve-wracking moment. “Huh. I knew I liked you for a reason.” She shrugged, then we started walking again, heading toward the end of the wing where the rooms were.

  The guys were gathered outside the door to the suite Nixon and I shared. He shot me a curious look before jumping back into the conversation with Jonas and Ethan.

  “I hope he’s slowed down a little. I swear to God, he was at risk for chafing,” Quinn remarked.

  My eyes popped wide, but I schooled my features quickly. Nixon’s exploits were so well known that women usually lined up backstage like Baskin Robbins, hoping he’d pick their flavor for the night. Reason number four hundred and six that kiss can’t happen again.

  “Chafing what?” Nixon asked, obviously having heard.

  “Your dick,” she answered with a smile.

  Nixon’s gaze flew to mine.

  “Don’t look at me.” I dug into my purse and took out the room key. Nixon stepped to the side, so our shoulders brushed as I approached the door.

  “I asked her if you were man-whoring,” Quinn explained.

  “And what did Ms. Shannon say?” Nixon’s voice dipped to a purr.

  God, even his voice turned me on. My stomach tightened at his tone, but I managed to get the door unlocked. If he only knew how close I’d been to kissing him in the kitchen last week, perhaps he’d be a little more careful throwing around his sex appeal.

  Maybe I needed to stay out of the kitchen and away from his mouth, period. Every day, it got a little harder to ignore the hum between us, and giving in wasn’t something I could afford. If I went down that path with Nixon…well, Peter wouldn’t be the only one making false assumptions about how I climbed the company ladder.

  “She said that your sex life was private,” Quinn answered. “Which I respect, but I also know how…hmm…how do I say this. How public your liaisons can be?”

  The guys chuckled, and I winced, pushing open the door.

  “I haven’t slept with anyone since before rehab. Not that it’s any of your business,” Nixon answered smoothly. “Now, my babysitter and I would like to get a few hours of sleep before sound check.”

  “Eleven a.m.,” Ethan reminded us.

  “I’m sure Shannon has it in both her planners.” Nixon followed me into the room, the door shutting heavily behind him.

  “And three alarms set,” I responded sweetly, slipping my purse over my head and dropping it onto the massive dining room table. The suite had two bedrooms and an open-concept living and dining area, so it wasn’t like we were sharing the same room or anything, but it still felt more intimate than the house in Colorado or even his apartment in Seattle. There weren’t as many places to run. I kicked off my heels and sighed in pure pleasure when my bare feet met the polished hardwood.

  “Ooh, getting all casual on me?” Nixon asked with a grin.

  I looked down at my black sheath dress and single strand of pearls. “Hey, not all of us go out for business dinners in…whatever that is.” I motioned to his outfit.

  He glanced down at his vintage Doors tee and jeans that rode low enough on his hips I got a quick flash of skin when he shrugged. “This is what we call dinner-with-friends attire.”

  “Because you were having dinner with friends,” I said. “While I adore Quinn and like Jonas and Ethan, it’s business for me.”

  I felt that smoldering gaze like a flame as he ran it up and down my frame. “Well, hopefully now that we’re in our room, you’ll go grab your Casual Friday pajamas, because I’m not continuing our Westworld marathon with you dressed like you might be called at any moment to race off and host a cocktail party.” He lifted his brows.

  “Fine. I’ll change.” I rolled my eyes.

  “I’ll order room service. I’m feeling snacky.” He was already headed for the phone. “How do french fries and ice cream sound to you?”

  “Like I’m going to gain ten pounds,” I called over my shoulder as I walked into my room. I reached behind my neck, then grumbled. This dress was such a pain in the ass.

  “Real men dig the curves,” he called back.

  “Since when?” I asked as I walked back in. “Last time I checked, all the women you sleep with are thin enough to wear designer-sample sizes.”

  “What?” He paused with the phone halfway to his ear.

  “You like thin women. It’s okay to have a type. I’m just saying that you do not, in fact, dig curves unless they’re on your guitar.” I turned around, giving him my back. “Would you please unzip me? I can’t reach.”

  His footsteps drew near, and then he swept my hair to the side. “You always smell like coconuts.”

  “It’s my shampoo.”

  His fingers skimmed the length of my neck. “I like your curves.”

  “Nixon,” I whispered, shaking my head. He liked to break the tension with shameless flirting. I understood that was part of who he was, but I was reaching my threshold. Every morning, I wondered if today would be the day I broke and finally jumped him—the day I threw away my chances at being taken seriously in this industry.

  His hand was warm on the exposed skin of my back as he steadied the fabric, and then he unzipped my dress, moving so slowly it felt sensual and intimate—like an act between lovers, not roommates.

  “Your skin is flawless,” he whispered once the zipper reached the bottom.

  “Yours is like a living canvas,” I replied, my chin grazing my shoulder. “Covered in art and stories.” There was a ghost of a caress at the dip in my spine, and I felt more than heard him retreat.

  “So that’s a yes to the ice cream?” He cleared his throat.

  “Sure. Just as long as it’s—”

  “Not strawberry, I know. By the way, I like the green. It matches your eyes.” He dialed room service, and I escaped into my room.

  I glanced at my dress in the mirror. If he thought this was green, he needed to get his eyes checked. It only took a second to slip out of the dress and hang it up, but as I passed by the mirror, my cheeks heated.

  My underwear was green. Both the lace bra and the matching thong.

  I hurried into a set of pajamas but left my bra on under the “I heart Colorado” tank top. When I came out, Nixon already had our current binge-watching show cued up. No devices, no planners, no work whatsoever during TV time—those were his rules. Had to admit, they were growing on me. It was nice to turn my brain off for those hours.

  “I’m jumping in the shower,” he said. “Will you sign for room service when it comes?” He yanked his shirt over his head, and my mouth went dry, just like it did every time I got a good look at his torso.

  “Yep.” I swore he did that on purpose, like he’d moved from the annoy-Zoe-for-fun game into the
torture-Zoe-with-sexual-frustration edition, but I kept a smile on my face as he disappeared into his room. A minute later, I heard the shower start up.

  I flipped through my messages while he was in the shower, then answered the door when room service rang.

  But it wasn’t room service.

  Ben’s eyebrows hit the ceiling as he looked down at me. “When I said loosen up around the office, I didn’t mean pj’s.”

  “It’s ten o’clock, and I’m in my hotel room.” I rolled my eyes. “Did you need something?” Reason number five hundred and nineteen I couldn’t act on my craving for Nixon—I never knew who would show up at Nixon’s door…like my actual boss.

  He nodded, then walked in the room without being invited. “Sorry. I would have come by earlier, but I was checking out a new band. Tiger Kiss, or something else equally awful. Decent vocalist, though.” His gaze swept over the room, taking in every detail.

  “Nixon’s in the shower.” My tank top and flannel pants didn’t seem nearly professional enough next to his tailored suit. I should have stayed in my dress.

  “Good. Alcohol?” His gaze narrowed.

  “None.”

  “Drugs?”

  “Zero.” This whole trip was starting to feel like less of a show and more like a report card for Nixon.

  “Excellent. Women?”

  “This question is getting old. My job is to keep Nixon sober, not monitor his love life. He deserves a little privacy.” Besides, the only person he was kissing was…well, me, and Ben was the last person on Earth I was going to discuss that with.

  Ben arched a brow at me but continued. “Is he writing?”

  “Some. Nothing that he wants to share yet, but he sits down to write every day.” I’d begun scheduling my work around his just so I could listen from the next room.

  “He’s going to blow the deadline.” Ben’s posture stiffened.

  “Like I told Harvey—move the deadline. You have to give him some time.”

  “How much time?” He glanced at his Apple watch as a text rolled in, and for the first time in my career, I didn’t want to know what it was about.

  “I can’t even begin to guess.” I didn’t want to know the details of Ben’s life, or how I could make it easier. I didn’t want to lessen his burdens or prove my worth by stepping in for his bands when he was called away. The last few weeks with Nixon had shown me I didn’t just want my own bands to manage, I was ready for them too.