Muses and Melodies (Hush Note Book 3)

by Rebecca Yarros

  Which I did.

  “How the hell did I even get myself into this situation?” I was always controlled, always colored within the lines, always followed the rules.

  “He’s fine as hell. If I wasn’t married to Jeremiah…” She tilted her head and raised her eyebrows.

  “So, what do I do? Just endure the awkward? Every time I try to bring it up, he leaves the room. Clearly, it’s not a discussion he wants to have.” I rubbed my temples.

  “I have no clue,” she answered with a grimace. “It honestly would have been an easier answer if you’d just said it burned when you peed. Boys suck.”

  “Amen. And you can’t say anything. Promise.” I stared her down.

  “Me?” She scoffed. “Hey, did I tell you who showed up at the clinic with chlamydia and no wedding ring?” Her eyes widened.

  “What? No! Who?”

  “Exactly.” Her face deadpanned.

  “Point taken,” I muttered. “Thanks for listening, especially since you never ask questions like that about my brother.” My whole body shuddered in revulsion. Having my best friend marry my brother was pretty cool until I thought about the whole sleeping together part—which was why I tried not to.

  We left the laundry room and found Nixon and Mom spreading out the freshly delivered boxes of pizza on the kitchen counter. He looked so…domestic, even with the tattoos spreading from under his collar and wrists.

  “You two about done in there?” Mom asked over her shoulder.

  “We are!” Naomi answered with a grin as the side door flew open.

  “I win!” Ashley scurried in with a mile-wide grin, throwing her hands into the air, as Levi scrambled after her. “Zoe! You’re here!”

  “Oomph!” I grunted as she hit me with the full force of her hug. “Ashley, you’re so tall! What are you now? A senior?” I ruffled her thick blond curls and sighed with a healthy dose of hair envy.

  “Ha! I’m in third grade!”

  “Well, you’ve grown at least a foot since I saw you last. Are you hungry?”

  “Yes!” She bounced on her toes.

  “Zoe. Zoe. Zoe. Zoe,” Levi chanted at my feet, his arms raised.

  “Levi, Levi, Levi, Levi,” I replied with a smile, hefting him up to my hip. This right here was the benefit of Nixon not hauling me back to Seattle and going on his merry way, as Naomi had put it. I guided Ashley toward the counter, where Nixon was opening the line of boxes. “Ashley, this is my friend, Nixon. He’s a rock star.”

  Her eyes widened. “Like…a real one?”

  “Depends on your definition of real.” Nixon’s shoulders shook slightly as he pivoted, tossing a smile at the little girl. That smile froze, then disappeared entirely as he stared down at her.

  He looked…stricken.

  “He’s real enough,” I promised, ushering her to the first pizza on the counter and turning her over to Mom. “Take Levi?” I asked Naomi.

  “Of course.” She took her son and smacked a kiss on his cheek.

  Nixon stood off to the side, watching Mom help Ashley with her pizza.

  “You okay?” I asked him quietly.

  “Fine.” The answer was gruff as he jerked his gaze to the wall behind my head.

  “Are you sure?” Something was off. Way off.

  “I said I’m fine,” he snapped, just quiet enough that my family didn’t hear him.

  “Four words,” I muttered. “Okay, then. Pizza?” Keep it professional. I needed my lines back. My borders. My defenses. The problem was that I didn’t want them—not when it came to Nixon. More specifically, I didn’t want to need them.

  He nodded once, and we made our way through the kitchen-counter buffet. I snagged a piece of cheese and one with ham and pineapple.

  “Admit it, Zoe, you miss Steve’s, don’t you?” Jeremiah asked with a hip check. “You might have all the pizza you want up there in Seattle, but it’s not Steve’s.”

  “It’s not Steve’s,” I admitted. “You know I only come back for the pizza, right? You’re just a bonus.”

  Jeremiah took two pieces of sausage ahead of me. “Yeah, why do you think I married your best friend. It was the only way I was guaranteed to get to see you.”

  “Whatever.” I hip-checked him back, then headed for the table, Nixon coming up beside me.

  He wasn’t just tense. He was guarded.

  “So, you chose the clarinet?” Mom asked Ashley.

  “Yep! I wanted the guitar, but Mrs. Caster said they don’t have guitars in band, which doesn’t make any sense.” Ashley shook her head as we rounded the end of the table.

  “Well, I know Nixon plays guitar very well,” Mom whispered conspiratorially, tossing a wink at Nixon.

  Ashley’s head whipped in our direction. “Yeah? Can you teach me to play?” Her eyes lit up.

  Nixon’s plate hit the floor and shattered.

  Every head swung his way.

  I glanced briefly at the mess, but it was the horrified look on his face that kept my attention. “Hey, it’s okay. We’ll clean it up.”

  My family jumped into action, but Nixon didn’t move. His body was here, but he wasn’t—just like that time in the diner.

  “Nixon?” I touched his arm.

  He startled, then noticed the mess and dropped down to pick it up. “I’m so sorry.” He started to brush the broken shards of pottery into his hand.

  “No!” I grasped his wrists. “Your hands.”

  He slowly brought his gaze to mine, and the utter devastation there would have knocked me to the ground if I wasn’t already on it. He looked so lost that my heart physically hurt for him.

  “Just give me a second,” I said softly, rising to my feet.

  He followed my lead, and my father swept in with the broom.

  “Dad, I can—”

  “I’ve got it,” Dad assured me.

  “Don’t you worry about a thing.” Mom tsked and joined in on the cleanup.

  “I can’t be here,” Nixon whispered.

  “Okay.” I had no idea what the hell was going on inside his head, but this was worse than when he’d demanded we leave the San Francisco show. That had been anxiety. This was blatant desperation.

  “I can’t. I’m sorry. I can’t. I can’t.” He shook his head and pulled his wrists from my grip, striding for the front door.

  “Mom, Dad, I’m sorry.” I dropped to help.

  “We’re fine.” Mom stopped me, giving my arm a compassionate squeeze. “Go with him.”

  I scrambled to my feet and took off after Nixon, grabbing our jackets from the hooks in the entryway and flying out the door.

  He stood next to the car, the keys in his hand, but he wasn’t getting in.

  “Want me to drive?” I asked as I approached.

  He nodded, thrusting the keys in my direction. I took them, unlocked the doors, then threw our jackets in the back as I climbed in, shivering against the cold. The engine roared to life, and Nixon slid into the passenger seat, buckling in one smooth motion.

  His motor skills are fine.

  “Do you want to tell me what happened in there?” I asked, trying to keep my voice level.

  “I want you to drive.” He stared straight forward.

  At least we were up to five words.

  “Nixon…”

  “We can go straight to the bar, or you can take us home. Either way, please start driving.” His hands curled into fists in his lap.

  “Home it is,” I muttered, putting the car into reverse.

  He was quiet the entire ride home, then stalked silently into the house after I parked in the garage.

  “Do you want me to call someone?” I asked, following him into the room where he kept his guitars.

  “Like who?” he challenged, his head swinging left, then right as he looked over the instruments.

  “I don’t know. Jonas? Quinn? Something happened back there, and if you won’t talk to me about it, then maybe—”

  The glare he sent my direction was harsh enough
to back me up a step. “I’ll what? Talk to either of them?”

  “That was the idea, yes.”

  “I know you mean well, Zoe, but get out.” He picked up the first guitar, and my stomach turned over at the possibilities of his next move.

  “Nixon, don’t—”

  “Go.” He put it into its case, then stood it against the wall.

  I backed out of the room slowly as he packed up the next guitar and stood it next to its sister. I heaved a sigh of relief. He wasn’t going on some destructive rant.

  The wall was hard against my back as I slid down the surface, parking my ass right outside that door. Each moment that passed without a shatter or a bang, I breathed a little easier.

  Until he carried two of them out ten minutes later and marched for the front door.

  “Are we leaving?” I asked, hurrying after him.

  “Nope. But the guitars are.”

  I stood at the door and watched Nixon carry the guitars he loved more than anything else down the long, winding driveway and out to the rural highway. Every step he took broke something inside me. I was starting to think Nixon couldn’t be won all at once. If I wanted him, I’d have to fight for every piece he’d give me, then go to war for the ones he wouldn’t.

  I raced to the one I couldn’t bear to see him lose and stashed it away, returning to the door in time to see him come back empty-handed, then start all over again until every electric guitar he’d brought to Colorado lay abandoned on the side of the road.

  11

  NIXON

  I tapped my phone and the display lit up. 3:23 a.m. and I had yet to sleep, not that I really wanted to anyway. I knew exactly what I’d see if I managed to drift off.

  Nix, will you teach me to play guitar?

  Maybe the insomnia was actually a gift at this point.

  The house was silent as I tossed back the covers and swung my legs over the side of the bed. A few months ago, I would have had options—someone would have been awake and ready to kill a few hours. Hell, three a.m. used to be prime time. Now, Jonas was in Boston with Kira, Quinn was in Bozeman with Graham, and I was in the middle of Nowhere, Colorado, with a woman I shouldn’t touch, wouldn’t talk to, and couldn’t get out of my mind.

  Yeah, being sober was great.

  Maybe some of that tea would help with…something, anything at this point.

  I didn’t bother with my flashlight as I headed for the door. I’d been up in the middle of the night often enough to know the layout of the room with my eyes closed at this point.

  My breath caught as I opened the door.

  Zoe was asleep on the hallway floor.

  It wasn’t like she’d fallen asleep by accident either. She’d brought her pillow and blanket from her room. She’d chosen to sleep here. Chosen to keep watch—or at least use herself as an early detection system for my possible escape.

  I raked my hand through my hair. What the hell had I done to this girl? Shutting her out this week had been a last-ditch effort to shield her from the utter wreckage I would no doubt leave in my wake if I got much closer to her, and yet all I’d done was drive her to sleep on the fucking floor.

  I dug her out of the cozy nest she’d built herself and lifted her into my arms. She was out cold. The woman didn’t do anything half-assed, including sleep. Damn, she felt good in my arms.

  A good man would have carried her back to her bed and tucked her in.

  I carried her to mine instead.

  Her hair fanned out over my pillow as I got her settled, and I smiled. Tomorrow morning, my pillowcase would smell like coconuts and Zoe, which was more than fine by me. I pulled the comforter over her beautiful curves, making sure her soft skin was covered from the nape of her neck to the tips of her toes. It got cold around here at night.

  My instincts told me to climb in and warm her with my own body. To pull her close and hold tight. To stop pushing her away and instead, savor each second I had before I inevitably fucked up a relationship I wasn’t even in. She was only here, putting up with my shit, because she was being paid to be. And still, I couldn’t slow the rate of descent as I spiraled toward her, caught up in some unrelenting force that kept us on what felt like a collision course.

  Zoe was strong, but she was also tender, where I was a mess of thorns and barbed wire. Getting tangled up with me could only end one way for her. I wouldn’t just ruin her reputation, I’d ruin her.

  I sank into the winged armchair as she roused slightly and adjusted the blanket. She didn’t wake completely, just burrowed a little deeper into my pillow and sighed with what sounded like contentment.

  I envied her ability to sleep so restfully almost as much as I was determined to protect it. I hadn’t slept a full night in over a decade without some form of self-medication. As penance went, I’d gotten off easy.

  Nix, will you teach me to play guitar?

  God, that little girl had shredded me tonight. It wasn’t that their faces looked the same, because they didn’t. But that hair had stopped me dead in my tracks, and when she asked me to teach her… My stomach curdled for the hundredth time since dinner—or lack thereof.

  Why the hell had I gotten a chance to play when she didn’t? It wasn’t fair. It would never be fair. I’d taken one look at those guitars tonight and all I’d seen were the moments she’d been deprived of. Moments she deserved way more than I ever did.

  The sun had turned the wall a dusky shade of pink by the time I checked my phone again. Six fifteen. Thursday, October second. We had to leave for Vegas tonight, followed by the Tacoma show. Not sure who the hell had booked that one, but I must have been drunk to agree to it.

  Shit. We had a show tomorrow, and I’d just thrown out my eight best guitars.

  Thursday. Trash pickup day.

  “Fuck,” I muttered, rising to my feet and grabbing a hoodie from the top of my dresser. Did I want to play? No. But I wasn’t about to blow a show and make Quinn and Jonas look like assholes either. All of this would be for nothing if I didn’t get my shit together and play, which meant I needed to get out to the curb before trash pickup.

  Icy air blasted me in the face as I opened the front door, and I shut it as quietly as I could, so Zoe might be able to get a little more sleep. She’d lose her shit if she caught me leaving without her. Not like the bars or the liquor stores were open this early anyway.

  The driveway was long, but that was part of what I loved about this property. Even if someone was dedicated enough to track me down, it was impossible for fans to gather at the front door.

  My heart stumbled when I reached the road.

  My guitars were gone.

  “Fuck!” Thank God wildlife didn’t handle cell phones, because the deer munching their breakfast a dozen yards away had a stellar view of my tantrum.

  I started back to the house, huffing a warm breath into my hands to warm them, all the while exhausting my mental list of curse words. Not only was that almost a hundred grand in equipment, but I’d have to send someone to my apartment to check the inventory there. There was no chance of me playing a guitar I’d never held before during a concert. None.

  The smell of coffee filled the entry and grew stronger as I made my way into the kitchen.

  Zoe sat at the kitchen island, her cell phone and planner both on the counter before her, going over today’s agenda as she took in her morning ration of caffeine.

  That woman was as constant as the tide, but instead of it annoying the shit out of me, like it had a couple of months ago, it was almost…comforting now.

  She didn’t so much as glance up as I made myself a cup of coffee.

  “I didn’t mean to wake you,” I said, by way of apology.

  She lifted her eyebrows but kept those green eyes locked on her planner. “Seven words. My, how verbose you are this morning.”

  “Got it. I’m an asshole.” I took the stool next to hers but didn’t crowd her.

  “You’re something,” she said with a sigh. “And you didn’t wake me
. The alarm did.” She tapped her phone a few times, bringing up the motion-activated camera footage of me leaving.

  “You saw me leave?”

  “Apparently.” She flipped to the back of her planner, where she kept her notes, found whatever she was looking for, and returned to the day’s agenda.

  “And you didn’t come running after me.” It was a question and statement all in one.

  “Nope. I figured you were either going for a run or wanted to test the patience of the local bear population. And let’s be honest, I’m not keeping you from a bar. You could have sneaked off whenever you wanted over the last two months.”

  I tried to process her statement but kept getting hung up on the middle of it. “Wait, there are bears around here?”

  She tilted her head, then sighed so hard the pages moved. “I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.”

  Okay, fans I could handle, but bears? I was liking this property a little less now. “I may have caused a problem,” I said slowly, the words tasting like vinegar on my tongue.

  “Oh?” She sipped her coffee and flipped the page to tomorrow, where she already had sound check and a radio station interview blocked out before the show.

  “Well, it’s trash day.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  My brow puckered. “Yeah. It is. Thursday is trash day.”

  “Nope.” She tapped the little sticker on the top of tomorrow’s page with the icon of a trash can. “It’s tomorrow. Which probably explains why there were no cans out on the street when you went to see if you could salvage your guitars.”

  I blinked. Of course she knew. If I’d been capable of embarrassment, I probably would have turned red, but that ship had sailed years ago—the first time a fan had posted naked pictures of me passed out in a hotel.

  “Let me guess, your guitars are missing?” she asked, scanning between her phone and the planner, then narrowing her eyes at her phone. “Who the hell added that?”

  “I wouldn’t say they’re missing as much as I would acknowledge that they’re not where I left them.” I leaned over slightly to see what had her confused.