Muses and Melodies (Hush Note Book 3)

by Rebecca Yarros

  “…at which point Nixon will put on a pair of rubber duck feet and peacock feathers…Nixon!” Ethan snapped.

  “What?” I whipped my head toward him.

  “You’d better start paying attention before you agree to a music video dressed like a really bad rendition of Elton John.” Jonas laughed.

  “She’s not here. Stop looking,” Ethan lectured. “So that does it for the LA trip. Turn the page—”

  “What do you mean, she’s not here?” I challenged.

  “She’s on the road with Seven to One. Because they listen during meetings and let their manager do her job.” Ethan stared me, silent, for all of ten seconds. “And…we’re in Vegas for one night.”

  Well…shit. Disappointment wasn’t nearly a good enough word to describe the way my stomach sank. I drummed my fingers on the conference table and tried to pay attention.

  A few minutes later, Quinn placed her hand over mine to stop the incessant movement. “Do you need a fidget cube?”

  “He needs a redhead,” Jonas muttered, turning his page in time with Ethan.

  I glared at him.

  “…things are still in motion by the time we’re in Phoenix because Rising Tide just canceled on us as an opener. His wife went into labor early. Anyone have suggestions?”

  “Seven to One,” I said, after raising my hand.

  Quinn laughed. “You have it so bad!”

  “No can do. They’re booked for the entire month of July and into August,” Ethan stated.

  “They fucking what?” I dropped my packet onto the table.

  “They. Are. Booked,” Ben chimed in from the doorway. “We’ll see if we have anyone in-house, and go from there.”

  “And their manager is on the road with them?” My blood pressure spiked.

  “Seeing as they’re nowhere near the size that demands a separate tour manager, yes.” Ben sank into the chair across from mine.

  She’d booked out her band until August, knowing our three months was up in July. What the fuck did that mean? My fingers went double-time on the table as my mind whirled. Had she made her choice?

  Had she not understood what I meant by sending Kaylee’s guitar to her? That thing was collateral on my heart. Shit, had she decided I came with too much bullshit? Fallen out of love with me?

  Quinn’s hand covered my own again, but she didn’t tease me this time.

  I stopped my fingers, but my concentration was shot as we finished the meeting with a note from Ethan to check the final drafts of our riders at the back of the packet.

  Who the hell cared about our nitpicky dressing room demands when the woman I loved had just extended our separation by a month?

  “What the fuck does that mean?” I asked the universe as the three of us left the conference room.

  “It means she’s working,” Jonas answered.

  “Bullshit. Go figure, the first time I let myself fall for someone, they can’t be bothered to—”

  “To what?” Quinn interrupted with a bone-crushing glare. “To put her entire career on hold while you sort your shit out?”

  I blinked.

  Jonas punched the button for the elevator, then flipped to the back of the packet and read down.

  “I thought you were on my side, here,” I said to Quinn.

  “I am, as long as you’re not being an idiot. If you’d wanted some simpering groupie who had nothing better to do than follow you around, you would have chosen one, but you didn’t. You chose an ambitious, intelligent woman who is currently in some pretty pivotal months of her career, so if you have to adjust your little deadline, then do it. You remember what it was like when we were first starting out. Why are you making that face?”

  “Because there’s a perpetual toddler living inside him who hasn’t been told no for the last ten years,” Jonas noted, flipping another page.

  “Accurate,” I admitted, following the other two into the elevator as it arrived. “I’m allowed to be disappointed.”

  “Yeah, you are.” Quinn rolled her packet and swatted me on the chest with it. “Just. Don’t. Be. A. Jerk.”

  “I miss her!”

  “Well, the entire office will be sure to tell her that when she checks in.” Jonas nodded toward the raised eyebrows of the receptionist, and then hit the button for the parking garage.

  “She’s not going anywhere, Nix.” Quinn cringed. “I mean, emotionally. Not physically, obviously, since she’s not here right now.”

  “You don’t know that. Contrary to popular belief, I’m not easy to love.” My voice dropped.

  “Yeah, you are,” Quinn replied softly. “Remember when we were in Chicago, and you two had that whole hallway encounter?”

  “Obviously.” Jonas turned another page.

  I shot him a glare.

  “When she came out of your dressing room, I asked her if she was all right, or if she’d learned to climb for higher ground yet,” Quinn said as we reached the garage and the doors opened.

  My eyes narrowed slightly, not quite following.

  “She said, ‘you don’t need to climb for higher ground when you’re the dam.’” Quinn raised her eyebrows at me, and we filed out of the elevator. “Get it? You’re the river. She’s the dam. She knows she’s the one who can hold on to you. No other girl has ever come close.”

  My chest tightened. “That doesn’t mean she wants me.”

  Quinn rolled her eyes. “Fine, then let’s pretend she’s a hydroelectric dam. You need her to contain you. She needs you to turn the lights on.” She grinned and swatted my chest again. “However you want to say it, what’s between you guys isn’t one-sided. You need each other.”

  “Or we could cut the metaphors and check out Nixon’s rider,” Jonas suggested, waving his packet. “Every addition in the last two weeks has initials, and unless your initials are ZS and you added chamomile and valerian root tea to your list, I’m pretty sure it’s safe to say that your woman still loves you.”

  “See?” Quinn’s smile widened. “You got tea!”

  It wasn’t a tour date or even a phone call, but I’d take it, because at some point in the last two weeks while those riders were being finalized, Zoe had not only thought about me, she’d taken time out of her day to make sure I had everything I needed. It wasn’t her heart with a ribbon, but it was something.

  “I got tea,” I said with a smile.

  21

  ZOE

  “You made it!” Monica waved forward as I raced toward the back entrance of the stadium. “Quick, they’re almost three-quarters through the set list!”

  I flashed my backstage pass at the venue staff, and the security guard stepped aside, letting me through.

  “Barely!” Philly was hot in the middle of July, and I’d been racing since I landed a little over an hour ago.

  “You look great,” she said over her shoulder, walking me through the hallway.

  “Thanks.” I’d pulled my hair up to avoid the summer humidity of the East Coast and forsaken my usually professional concert attire for a simple sundress because, for the first time in two months, I wasn’t working tonight.

  Tonight, I was a fan.

  “Which one is his?” I asked as the dressing room lineup started. “Never mind. Hey, Chris!”

  “Zoe!” Chris swept me into a bear hug before setting me back on my feet.

  I noted the lack of women outside the door. “Did the crowd clear out for the show?” I asked, motioning to the empty wall.

  “He doesn’t let anyone linger. Hasn’t the whole tour. He’ll sign autographs, but the only other person ever in that dressing room is Brad.”

  “Brad?” My head snapped toward Monica.

  “New intern gets Nixon duty,” she said with a smile. “I’m assisting Ethan.”

  “Nice! Moving up, I see!” I walked into Nixon’s dressing room and took a deep breath. There were two empty cans of orange soda on the vanity, and his favorite T-shirt lay forgotten on the arm of the couch. I ran my fingers over th
e soft cotton.

  Three months were up.

  Time to see if he’d followed through on his promise, or if he’d grown weary of falling asleep alone at night. My heart plummeted at the possibility. I should have told him I was coming. Should have given him the chance to tell me not to.

  “You ready?” Monica asked from the hallway.

  “Right. Yeah.” I dropped my shoulder bag at the end of the love seat and hurried out. My heart pounded faster with every step we took toward the stage. They were on the second verse of “Sweetness” when we reached the wing.

  Monica handed me a set of earplugs, and I put them in as the stage came into view.

  My breath caught at the sight of Nixon. His shirt was still on, which was odd for this late in the concert, his head bent, watching his fingers work over the frets. He was totally and completely in tune with the music. I’d never seen him look so good. The muscles of his forearm rippled with his fingerwork, and the look of intensity on his face was enough to make me shift my weight.

  I knew that expression. I’d been on the receiving end of it every time he’d been inside me. He made love to me just like he played that guitar, with sure hands, expert fingers, and single-minded focus.

  A mix of longing and need unfurled in my belly. These last three months had been incredibly busy, but there wasn’t a moment where Nixon hadn’t been on my mind. With the new album out, it was nearly impossible not to see his face or hear the music.

  The song ended, and Monica said something into her walkie-talkie.

  Jonas touched his earpiece, then nodded once but didn’t look our way.

  “What was that about?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” she answered with a sly grin.

  Nixon nodded to whatever Jonas said to him, then headed to the opposite wing, where a stagehand waited with a new guitar.

  I backed away from the light as he headed toward center stage, facing me fully for the first time. There was no way I was taking the chance he’d see me until after the show—not with things so up in the air between us. I was too professional for that.

  The lines of his face were tight with concentration as he adjusted the shoulder strap. It read Zoe’s. I couldn’t help but smile as hope blossomed in my chest. He still had it. Still used it at least once a show.

  “He had one made for every guitar,” Monica said over the noise of the crowd.

  My eyes popped wide, but she just nodded.

  Nixon adjusted the microphone as the lights fell, leaving him in the lone spotlight. What was he doing? He never played without Quinn and Jonas. And was that…it was. The guitar was an electric acoustic.

  “I lost a bet with Jonas earlier today,” Nixon said, his voice echoing into the stadium. “Turns out, there are indeed seventy-two steps up to the Rocky statue, not seventy.”

  The audience roared, and I smiled. He always knew how to work a crowd.

  “So, here I am, paying up, because I didn’t check Google…and he did. Cheater.” His thumb strummed over the strings. “So, I owe him a song, and this is the one he’s been trying to get me to play for the last eight months.” Another strum, changing the chord.

  My breath hitched. We were in Colorado eight months ago.

  “I’m one year sober today—” The cheer from the crowd was deafening and took a hot minute to die down. My eyes pricked, and I had to blink the blurriness out of them. God, I was proud of him, especially today. “Thanks, guys. Someone I love told me once that there was nothing more romantic than pouring your heart out in public. So, this one is called ‘Merciful Fire,’ and it’s about the person who made this last year possible.”

  My jaw dropped as the song started—fully acoustic.

  His hands moved across the strings, bringing the melody to life, and I felt it resonate in my chest—my very soul—as he began to sing.

  “Wandering through the mountain air,” he began, his voice strong and clear. “Snow blanketing the ground, falling in your hair.”

  My breath caught. Legacy?

  “Your name is my only prayer to a God who stopped listening under summer’s glare.”

  Every muscle in my body went tight, my fingers flexing with the need to touch him.

  “Your warmth singes my soul. Brands me, marks me, welds me whole. Red strands of silk between my fingers, lace and desire—”

  Red hair. Lace. Oh my God.

  “You banish the pain, cleanse my sins with your merciful fire.”

  The man who’d never written a song about a woman had written one for me.

  My hands flew to my mouth as the emotions of the last year swept over me, filling every cell in my body with the simple truth that I loved this man. I would always love this man. There was no getting over Nixon Winters, even if I wanted to.

  And I didn’t.

  Not now. Not ever.

  I paced back and forth in front of Nixon’s vanity about forty minutes later. I’d left the wings during the last song in the encore, which also happened to be the biggest hit off the new album—“Mad Alibis.”

  I loved it just like everyone else in the country. I’d had the song on repeat enough times to know it word for word, had heard enough of the uproar at Berkshire when the group added it to the album last minute, but hearing it live, watching Nixon’s fingers fly over his guitar, took my love to a whole new level.

  But this reunion wasn’t something that should take place in front of an audience, so I’d left during the second chorus, and here I was, waiting for Nixon to show up.

  Hot mess. I was a flaming hot mess. Nervous. Excited. Terrified. All of it. I wasn’t stupid; I knew creatives wrote songs about ex loves and old flames. That could very well be the case with “Merciful Fire,” especially since he’d written it eight months ago. But he’d stood up there with my name across his chest, which had to mean something, right?

  The door flew open, bouncing on the hinges.

  “Call the car around back,” Nixon demanded, his voice rushed as he stripped the guitar off his very shirtless back. “I want to be at the airport in the next—” He froze, his eyes widening when he saw me.

  Shit. I was interfering with his travel plans.

  “Hey.” I swallowed, my eyes eating him alive. Sweat shined on his skin, dipping into the lines of roped muscle. He’d clearly kept up the workout routine.

  “Hi.” He set the guitar in the nearest stand without bothering to look, but luckily it didn’t topple over.

  “Congratulations on the one-year.”

  “Thanks.”

  A line of stagehands filed in, marching between us as they put the rest of his guitars on their stands, but Nixon kept his eyes on me. “Thanks, guys,” he muttered as they made their way out.

  “So, you’re leaving?” I tucked my hair behind my ears, only to remember I’d pulled it up. My cheeks caught fire.

  “I have a plane waiting at the airport.” His gaze raked over me, and heat prickled at my skin in its wake.

  “Water, and a towel,” Brad said as he walked into the room. He glanced between the two of us, put the offerings on the table, and backed away. “I’ll just…uh…lock this.” He closed the door behind him on the way out.

  The feet that separated Nixon and me felt like miles.

  “Where are you headed to?” I tried to keep my voice as level as possible.

  “Miami.”

  I startled. “That’s where I’m supposed to be.”

  “I know.” A corner of his mouth lifted.

  “Oh.” That meant—

  “I took a look at your tour schedule and knew you didn’t have time to come see me, so I carved out a few days to come spend with you. I was going to surprise you.”

  “I surprised you first,” I whispered. He’d been coming to me. My heart rate kicked up to a full gallop.

  “I noticed.” He took a step, then paused. “Does that mean you made a decision? Or are we still at I’ll let you know?” Fear flashed through his eyes.

  “I’m here, aren’t I?”<
br />
  “Zoe,” he practically growled.

  “You wrote a song for me.” I fidgeted with the backstage pass that hung around my neck.

  “I’ve written about ten songs for you, only two of which you’ve heard. I’m kind of in love with you, if you hadn’t noticed.” His jaw flexed. “Now, would you please put me out of my misery?”

  He was still in love with me. Suddenly, breathing was a million times easier.

  “Of course I want you, Nixon. I love you.” Like there had ever been another option. Wanting him was a given, like the sun rising in the east or the Colorado River flowing to the Pacific. It just was.

  “Thank God,” he muttered, already closing the distance between us.

  He didn’t stop once he reached me. He only paused long enough to pick me up before pressing my back against the wall and kissing me senseless.

  I clutched his neck, holding him to me as he kissed me over and over, our tongues picking up where we’d left off months ago without skipping a beat.

  Yes. I locked my ankles around the small of his back and kissed him like my life depended on it because it did. This man was my life. I loved my career, loved the industry and the rush of the music, but the last three months had taught me that none of it mattered without this—without him.

  “I’m all sweaty,” he said against my lips.

  “I like it.” I grinned.

  His smile matched mine for one elated heartbeat before his mouth was busy at my neck. I whimpered as my body liquified, turning molten as he palmed my breast.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Nix, Jonas wants to add ‘Merciful Fire’ to the Atlanta set list,” Ethan called through the door.

  “Go away,” Nixon snapped, then brought his mouth back to mine in an even deeper kiss.

  I rocked against him, using the wall as leverage. Now. Now. Now. The demand built to a fever pitch, the result of too many months without him.

  Another knock sounded.

  “Nixon, the car is here,” Monica called out.

  “Okay,” he answered, sliding a hand under my dress to cup my ass. “Damn, I’ve missed everything about you, but this makes the top ten.” His voice dipped to that sandpaper-rough tone that sent my temperature skyrocketing.