Muses and Melodies (Hush Note Book 3)

by Rebecca Yarros

  “You can’t speed things along?” His jaw popped.

  “You so much as try to rush Nixon and he’s going to go twice as slow just to show you he can. You know that. Quinn and Jonas are fine with the delay, so we back our clients, right?” I folded my arms across my chest. “That’s who we advocate for, go the extra mile for. Our clients.”

  Ben blinked, then studied me. “Are you sleeping with him?”

  “I’m sorry?” My mouth gaped for a moment. He’d never questioned my ethics, but I’d never given him a reason to either.

  “Are. You. Sleeping. With. Nixon? Because I’d hardly consider that—”

  “Be careful what you say next, Ben,” Nixon said casually from his doorway. Thank God he hadn’t come out shirtless after Ben had crossed that line, or he would have jumped to the conclusion anyway. “Because the only way to finish that sentence without me losing my shit is by adding the words, any of my business.”

  Ben sighed, then glanced between the two of us, as if he were measuring something I couldn’t see. “Fine. But keep your dick in your pants with this one,” he said to Nixon. “She’s not some intern, and we all know what happened the last time you—”

  “Fuck off.” Nixon’s eyes narrowed to slits, and his posture stiffened. “No one gave a shit who I was fucking when I was drunk, whether it was on the bus, in my dressing room, or in the lobby of a hotel. You didn’t care if it was a different woman or even two every night.”

  I flinched, and my stomach turned over, flooding me with nausea at the thought.

  “So again, unless I’m propositioning you for some action, Ben, it’s none of your business who I take to bed, and I don’t swing that way, so spoiler alert: it’s never your business. I’m fine. I’m sober. Unless there’s a contract we need to go over, get the fuck out so I can get some sleep.”

  Ben appraised the situation and then nodded. “Fine. I’ll see you both tomorrow.” He let himself out, the door shutting loudly behind him.

  “You didn’t tell him I kissed you.” Nixon leaned back against the wall.

  “No.” I shook my head.

  “You didn’t tell Quinn either.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Why not?” He turned those narrowed eyes on me, and my nausea grew tenfold. “Embarrassed?”

  “That I kissed you? No. That I crossed a professional line I swore I never would? Absolutely. And what happens between us isn’t fodder for gossip, or anyone’s business but ours,” I snapped.

  “Professional lines…because this is just business, right, Shannon? You’re just doing your job so you get whatever Ben promised in that little deal of yours.” He let his head fall back against the wall. “You’re only here because I need a babysitter, and I only let you stay so I don’t shit all over my friends’ lives.”

  Something in my chest crumpled, and it hurt.

  There was another knock at the door, and I took the easy way out and opened it, then signed for the snacks as the attendant laid the spread out on the dining room table. Once he was gone, Nixon pushed off the wall, regret flashing through those dark eyes.

  Regret over what? That he’d lost his temper? Or that he’d kissed me in the first place?

  “I got you salted caramel,” he said softly, pushing the dish of ice cream my way.

  “I liked you better when I knew you were an asshole,” I replied. “At least I expected it then.”

  His eyes whipped toward mine.

  Guess it was a statement on how far we’d come that I’d say something like that to him, but what he’d said felt like more of an accurate measurement.

  “I’m going to bed.” I grabbed my phone from the table and walked off.

  “What about Westworld?” he called after me.

  “I’ve had enough drama for the night.”

  If this was the night before the show, I couldn’t wait to see what he was like after it.

  “Get that out, now!” I yelled at one of the roadies, pointing to the bottle of Crystal Skull in Nixon’s dressing room.

  Thank God Nixon was with Jonas right now. He’d been ice-cold this morning. Every move he made was distant, professional, and completely dismissive. I’d gone from being someone he binge-watched shows with and played guitar for to the hired help.

  But I’d always been the hired help, hadn’t I?

  The roadies cleared out the alcohol, and I made a quick sweep of the dressing room to be sure there weren’t any more presents lurking in corners or drawers. Once I was certain the room was clean, I put out two shot glasses and set the little bottle of amber liquid between them on the coffee table in front of the little love seat.

  Then I smoothed my hands over the line of my pencil skirt and checked in the mirror to make sure the buttons on my blouse were still lined up all the way to my throat. The outfit would have been entirely too hot for the weather, but the sleeves were sheer. I’d ordered it last week, and a stab of disappointment had pricked at me this morning when Nixon hadn’t even glanced my way.

  He’s not supposed to glance your way, you idiot. But I wanted him to.

  The door burst open, and Nixon stalked in, his jaw tight.

  “He’s all yours, Zoe.” Jonas gave me a sympathetic wince before shutting the door, leaving me alone with Nixon.

  He paced along the line of guitars that waited on their stands. All eight were electric, and he’d tuned six of them to specific songs this morning, then retuned them, only to do it all again.

  I’d never seen him so tense before a show.

  “No leather?” I asked, noticing the way his jeans hung on his ass. If I were a pair of jeans, I would want to be Nixon’s, that was for sure.

  “I’ve gained a little since our last tour. Nothing fit,” he muttered, studying the neck on his Fender. “Has anyone been in here?”

  “I’ll get your measurements and order you some new ones. And no, just me and the roadie I called in to haul something out.” I settled back against the counter that ran the length of the room.

  Nixon turned and lifted his eyebrows in question, which was the first time he’d looked me in the eyes since last night.

  “You don’t want to know.” I shook my head. “No one has touched the guitars.”

  “Hmm.”

  The silence stretched painfully between us, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he was playing last night’s argument through his head the way I was.

  “No one would look at me the same if they knew about that kiss,” I said softly. I couldn’t stand the freeze-out anymore, not now that I knew who he was under all that mocking, bitter armor he loved to wear.

  “What would they see?” he retorted. “A flesh-and-blood woman with needs? Trust me, I’d get far more shit from my friends and my manager for corrupting the squeaky-clean Zoe Shannon than you would for coloring outside the lines for the first time in your entire life.”

  “That is not true.”

  There was a knock on the door, which earned a hard glare from Nixon, and I moved quickly to answer it.

  “Hey, Zoe,” Ethan said, then looked past my shoulder to watch Nixon pace the line of his guitars again. “Damn. Jonas said he was restless, but…” He shook his head.

  “Yeah.” Nixon wasn’t restless. Nixon was a caged lion prowling at the bars of his cell, waiting to be fed or freed.

  “How much of his pregame ritual is he keeping the same?” Ethan asked quietly.

  “How about you stop talking about me and talk to me, Ethan,” Nixon said, crossing his arms and straining the seams on his T-shirt.

  Ethan sighed. “I’ve got options out here if you need to work off that”—he fumbled for a word—“energy before the show.” He nodded toward the hallway.

  I pressed back against the wall as Nixon filled the space in the doorway, looking out of his dressing room. His jaw ticked once—twice—as he took in whatever options Ethan was offering.

  “I know post-show is more your thing, but I wasn’t sure if…” Ethan glanced at me, and his chee
ks flushed.

  “She’s not a kid, Ethan, and she’s been around enough shows to know what happens.” Nixon braced one hand on the door and the other on the frame as he leaned out a little farther.

  There was more than one feminine gasp of delight, and I didn’t need to look to know exactly what kind of lineup was out there.

  Nixon looked down at me and arched a brow in clear challenge. “What do you think, Shannon? Blonde? Brunette?” His gaze shifted to the heavy waves of auburn hair that stopped just above my breasts. “Redhead?”

  I swallowed, refusing to look away as he dragged his eyes back to lock on mine.

  He wasn’t mine.

  I wasn’t his.

  He was free to do whatever he wanted with whomever he wanted to do it with, and we both knew it. I had zero right to the jealousy that was currently lifting my chin, daring him. None. But if he brought one of those women back here, I was going to rip her arms off and beat her with them before I turned on him. I didn’t care how irrational that made me.

  Whatever this fragile truce between us was wouldn’t survive me seeing his hands on another woman.

  Oh no. No, no, no.

  My heart pitched sideways.

  I was falling for him.

  Stupid, foolish girl.

  “Nix?” Ethan prompted.

  “I’m good,” Nixon answered, turning toward Ethan, but before I could let loose the breath currently frozen in my chest, he smirked. “We’ll see how I feel after the show.”

  Fucking asshole.

  “Sounds like a plan,” Ethan responded. “See you in ten.”

  Nixon shut the door and didn’t so much as look at me as he strode to the middle of the dressing room, but then he stopped right in front of the table. “What the hell is that?”

  I made my feet move, even though my knees weren’t with the program. “Apple juice.”

  “I can see that.”

  I managed to pour the juice into the shot glasses without spilling a drop, despite the fine tremble in my fingers. Now I was the jumpy one. How had I let myself get so close to him? Let my feelings get tangled up in a man who clearly had no interest in them?

  “I was trying to think of simple ways to keep your routine the same,” I said softly, picking up the shot glasses. “And I know it’s not vodka, or tequila, or the various other things you used to use to take the edge off, but I thought maybe we’d trick your nerves with some good old muscle memory.” I offered one of the shot glasses to him.

  “You’re replacing my vodka with apple juice.” His forehead crinkled.

  “Yes.” I nodded once.

  He took the glass from my fingers with a small chuckle. “You are something else, Zoe.”

  Zoe. Not Shannon.

  “Here’s to my favorite words at the moment. Used to.” He raised his glass to mine, and we both slammed our drinks back. “Showtime.”

  I took his glass, then set them both down as he slung the strap of his favorite Les Paul over his shoulder, then tugged until the guitar ran up his spine.

  “You know me pretty well, don’t you?” he asked as we headed for the door. The stagehands were already on the other side, waiting to take his guitars to the wings.

  “I’m getting there,” I admitted as we walked into the hallway, pausing so the guys could pass single file into the room, each returning with one of Nixon’s prized possessions.

  “Good,” Nixon said with a smirk. Then he leaned down, letting his lips brush the shell of my ear. “Then I’ll trust you to pick one of those girls behind me for later.”

  My spine stiffened.

  He laughed as he lifted his head. “Aren’t you going to wish me luck, Shannon?”

  Shannon. The pieces clicked into place. We were in public. Here, he wasn’t the Nixon I shared cider with, or the one who bought my mom’s cake. Here, I was his manager’s assistant, and he was every bit the rock star a hundred thousand people had filled a stadium to see. Now who was embarrassed? At least I had a reason. My career was on the line. What was at stake for him if someone caught him being human? His reputation as a card-carrying member of the asshole club? Was this just another way to get under my skin?

  “I really hate you sometimes,” I whispered.

  His eyes flared with delight. “Is that any way to talk to your favorite client?” He walked backward a few steps, then flashed a smile at the women who’d remained outside his dressing room with the hopes he’d change his mind. “See you later, ladies.”

  Right before he turned around, he winked at me. Then he threw his arm around Jonas’s shoulders and they met Quinn outside her door and headed for the stage.

  I fucking hated him and his ability to switch from hot to cold, like it was nothing more than a faucet setting. I loathed how badly I wanted his warmth back, but the lines were clear. He was a client. I was his manager’s assistant. But…what if I wasn’t?

  What if I was already managing another account? What if I was just another girl? Would he still want me the way he’d said he did? Or was it all a game to him? The possibility was too painful to contemplate.

  And if it wasn’t a game to Nixon, if he really did want me, then I was the one inflicting his wounds with my inability to bend my own rules or risk my reputation.

  No risk. No reward.

  I gnawed on my lower lip as Nixon walked away. Maybe the right question to ask wasn’t what I would risk. If Nixon had been real with me that night in the kitchen, at the festival, every time he was considerate or protective—if that was the real him, then what wouldn’t I risk to be with him?

  I wanted him, and not just physically. I wanted the complicated man under all that ink, the one who bid on my mother’s cake and admitted he had nightmares. The one who battled his demons every day and still had the guts to walk right into their lair when it was time to show up for his friends and perform. The one who trusted me, defended me, and pushed my neat little boundaries.

  If I had a shot with that man, I’d risk more than my reputation—I’d put my heart on the line. No regrets. No safety net. No guarantee.

  If it wasn’t a game…and with Nixon, who knew?

  “Hi, um, excuse me?” a brunette who was easily a foot taller than me asked. “You work with Nixon Winters?”

  “Yep.” And speak of the devil, he looked back at me over his shoulder. Or maybe it was her. Hell if I knew when it came to him. That was the problem.

  “Oh wow. Is there any way I could—”

  “No.” I walked off down the hall, following the path Nixon had just taken.

  I might have had some very complicated feelings for the asshat, but I wasn’t serving him up on a platter either. If he wanted another woman, he could damn well get one himself.

  Then we’d both have to live with the consequences.

  9

  NIXON

  The crowd roared, filling my bloodstream with my favorite drug—straight-up worship—as I hit the last note in the encore. The stage went black long enough for us to exit stage left as the lights in the stadium came up.

  “That was good.” Jonas slammed his hand against my back. “Better than good.”

  “Phenomenal,” Quinn added, coming up on my right.

  “Yeah it was,” I agreed as energy pumped through me. I’d forgotten how it felt to get high off the crowd without the alcohol in my system. Back in the early years, it had just been that first shot to steady my nerves before we took the stage, but recently I’d taken to bringing out a drink instead of a water bottle.

  Just another used to, I promised myself.

  God, this felt good.

  “I liked the way you switched it up in that second set,” Jonas said to Quinn.

  “Thanks, I wanted to try something a little different,” she replied, sliding her sticks into her back pocket.

  “It worked. And damn, Nix, you nailed that riff in ‘Silver Streets.’ I haven’t heard you play it like that since…” He cocked his head to the side.

  “Since we recorded it,�
�� I guessed. That song was impossible to play perfectly without a clear head. The notes were too fast, the timing too critical, and usually I’d been too drunk.

  “Hey, are you guys sticking around?” Quinn asked as we passed by her dressing room. “I want to check in with Graham real fast.”

  “Yeah. I want to hear Kira’s voice too. Meet out here when you’re ready?” he offered.

  “Sounds good. Nix?” She paused, her hand on the door handle.

  “I guess I can call Graham and Kira too,” I said, straight-faced.

  “Shut up.” Quinn rolled her eyes. “See you guys in a few.” She disappeared into her dressing room, and Jonas and I continued down the hall until we reached his.

  Then it was just me. There was so much electricity humming through me I was surprised the lights weren’t flickering. That was a post-show buzz I expected, one I used to work off with sex, but—

  “Hey, you guys were mind-blowing tonight!” A guy with green highlights rushed at me with dilated eyes and a bottle of Jack. It took me a second, but I recognized him—the lead singer of the opener.

  “Thanks.” I adjusted my strap and kept moving, keeping my eyes firmly off the destruction he held so casually in his grip. A couple months ago, I would have snatched it out of his hands and taken a few swigs before handing it back.

  Fuck, I could taste it on my tongue right now.

  “So, we’re all headed out, do you want to come?” he asked, using the bottle to motion toward his band, who were all gathered outside my dressing room.

  Hell yes, I wanted to go. I wanted to down a fifth of vodka—or whatever reached my lips first—and smother the emotions that ran amok inside me. Wanted the sweet oblivion that came with a blackout and the dreamless sleep of the wasted. One night. Just one night.

  My dressing room door opened, and Zoe walked out, wearing a smile that hit me like a punch to the gut. Fuck the rest of it, I wanted her. I pushed out the memory of saying client like it was a dirty word last night and focused on her eyes.