by E. M. Moore
I try to take the frying pan from him, but he pulls it out of my reach. “Tell me how to do it.”
“Okay. First, wash the pan again.”
He goes over to the sink, washing out the charred pieces of pancake that are stuck there. The water sizzles when it first hits the pan and then fades. He works efficiently, yet quickly, like this part of the process isn’t worth his time. When he finally gets back over to the stove, I check the batter he made and decide it looks pretty good. Then, I tell him the first thing he needs to do is turn the burner down. When I reach over to do it myself, he growls. “I’m doing it. Just tell me.”
“Okay, okay,” I say. I look over at him, brows rising. This doesn’t seem like the Ian I know. He’s usually more than happy to have people do everything for him. After he’s turned it down to the right temperature, I say, “Now spray the grease in the pan.”
He does it, his triceps muscle flexing when he pushes on the spray nozzle. I walk him through the rest of the steps, explaining to him, just like I did with Finnick, exactly when to turn the pancake over. With my supervision, he does well. By the end of the first pancake, he’s got a decent looking one that’s only flat on one side because one of the edges turned under when he tried to flip it.
“So, what’s this newly found like of cooking for?” I ask.
Meticulously, he goes through the steps I just told him before he answers, “I just thought you guys would want breakfast. That’s all.”
His voice is hard, like he has a chip on his shoulder. While he works, I gather the courage to tell him what I’ve been wanting to tell him all morning. “I really do appreciate you calling that guy out yesterday.”
His fingers flex on the spatula. “Anytime.”
My gaze, which had started to wander away, darts back to him. Anytime? That was different than his previous responses to me.
The next pancake he makes is much better. He puts it on a plate and offers it to me. “Since you’re up,” he says.
I take it from him and set the plate on the bar before going over to the fridge and grabbing the condiments we need for another pancake breakfast. When my back is turned, I hear, “Not yours, dickhead.”
I turn with the syrup in my hand to find Archer pulling my chair out. Archer looks from me to Ian, then moves over. The blond-haired boy’s hair is wet like he just got out of the shower. When I sit down next to him, he says, “I’m sorry about what that asshole did to you last night.”
I almost stumble over my feet, but I end up making it to my seat with everything intact. “Thanks,” I say. That’s probably the sincerest thing he’s ever said to me.
Despite the late night we had, Sean and Finnick come out of their rooms next, freshly dressed and ready to go. When I look around, I notice every single one of them is dressed for the day. More often than not, they’re wearing swim trunks or sweats, but today they look like they have business on their minds.
Ian cooks us all breakfast, eating his pancakes last while we all sit around the room, waiting. It’s like there’s a heavy cloud above us, someone waiting for someone else to say something. Because I feel like being bold, I say, “You guys sounded great yesterday.”
“That was so much fucking fun,” Sean says, hazel eyes sparkling. “You know, right up until the part where Ian jumped off the stage and went after that guy.”
“He fucking deserved it.”
Sean shrugs. “No denying that.” His gaze catches mine. “I would’ve went after him too.”
My face flames. I really don’t want to have this conversation right now. “That’s not what I was trying to say,” I tell them, speaking up. “I was just so impressed with how you guys played.”
“Fuck that,” Ian said, his old, crusty self coming back. “That’s not what we need to be talking about today. What we need to be talking about is how we’re going to get that fucker’s name and make sure he doesn’t do that to someone else.”
“What?” I ask, surprise thrumming through me. I thought he was just about to give some inspirational speech about the next album.
“That fucker,” he says again. “I saw you.” He pushes his plate away. “I saw you tell him no. More than once.” I just blink at him. It’s like last night all over again. Rage starts to consume Ian. “He needs to know he can’t fuck with you. Or anyone else who says no.”
“Dude,” Finnick says. He stares at his cousin warily.
When Ian takes his stare away from me, he relaxes. He shakes his hands out and takes a deep breath. “Nothing. I’m good.”
“Good,” I say. “Because we don’t need to worry about that right now. What we need to worry about is how you’re going to harness what you guys did yesterday and put it into the new album.”
“We?” Archer asks.
“Yes, I said fucking we. Someone has to fucking worry about your next album because you guys aren’t.”
“Did Nolan put you up to this?” Archer asks.
“Fuck off,” Finnick says, flipping his friend the bird.
“No, he didn’t,” I say, answering him honestly. “I haven’t spoken to him. But I do know that he’s not happy with you guys and neither are you. When you guys are together on stage, I feel how cohesive you are, but here? Here, I don’t feel any of that. You guys need to get real with each other quickly because time is not on your side. Nolan wants his album, and if you don’t deliver it, no one else is going to be able to hear how awesome you sounded up there last night. You won’t be able to share that with another group of people. You won’t get your voice heard, you won’t be able to tell the world what you truly think.”
The room falls silent. Good. I’ve finally stunned them into thinking. No one is arguing with me, at least, and even though Archer is the only one narrowing his gaze at me, he still looks like he appreciates what I said.
“We’re working on the album today. No excuses. What do you guys need from me? And if you say fucking food, I’m going to straight up murder all of you.”
Ian’s jaw tenses, fluttering between keeping his lips thin and the beginning of a smirk. His hand comes up to scratch the harsh line of his jaw, and he says, “I kind of started something last night.”
Finnick turns toward his cousin. “Yeah?”
Ian’s gaze meets mine. “It’s kind of…” He sighs. “I used what happened to you as a bouncing off point, so we don’t have to use it,” he says. And for the first time, I like Ian being completely open and honest with me.
A hundred red flags fly up in my mind. Some of me is saying that what happened is personal and private, but some of the best fucking songs are borne out of emotion. “I’d love to hear it,” I say instead.
We leave the dirty breakfast dishes right where they are and all five of us head upstairs to the recording studio. When I get up there, I look around and see that the guitar’s lying on the sofa and there are pieces of paper thrown around the room, and one of the notebooks I bought each of them is open on the table, scribbles lining the pages.
My heart flutters, then my gaze tracks to Ian. He was working on this last night. Not just casually, but he was inspired. Damn. Now, I can see the tight lines of his shoulders and his bloodshot eyes. No wonder why he didn’t look angry. He looks exhausted instead. At the same time, though, he looks free.
He picks up the guitar and without any pretense, he starts right up with it as only someone who’s been doing this a long time can. I certainly couldn’t play in front of these guys. Well, I could, but I wouldn’t have so much confidence to just jump right in.
What Ian sings though, it hits me in the stomach. It’s a story about a girl who’s been physically assaulted. I can tell he started the idea with me, but then it evolved into this full-blown anthem about deserving love even after so much pain. So much fucking pain. By the time he finishes, I’m speechless. I literally cannot force words past my mouth.
“Jesus,” Sean says.
Finnick walks over to his cousin and claps him on the back. But Ian doesn’t make a
move. All he does is lift his head to look at me. And there, I see the pain inside him that manifests itself as anger all the time. I’m one-hundred percent positive in that moment that I have not yet even begun to scratch the surface of Ian.
Because he keeps looking at me, I swallow, and then clear my throat when even that doesn’t help. “That was beautiful,” I say.
Archer’s standing there with his arms crossed. Eventually, he sits on the couch. “It’s fucking brilliant,” he says.
“Yeah?” Ian asks.
Archer chuckles. “Thank God you’re fucking back. Someone had to jumpstart us.”
The rest of the guys fall into an easy laugh and then they go into creative mode. Finnick takes the guitar from Ian as Ian gives him a rundown of what chords he was thinking. Archer grabs the bass while Sean starts a drumming pattern on his thigh. I sit back on the leather couch and revel in it all. These four guys are writing a jaw-dropping song. A song I know will touch a lot of people.
It takes all day to lay the track down. I do actually get them food during the day. Not because they ask me to, but because they’re working so damn hard, and I don’t want to interrupt them. We’ll still need Marco to come in with his expertise and make sure it’s perfect, but at the end of the night, the guys run down the other songs they’ve been working on and decide which ones to toss and which ones they think have something.
Throughout most of the day, Archer is pretty quiet. I can tell he’s in his own head. Finnick tries to liven him up, but not even his cheery demeanor gets through to him. Not that I know Archer all that well, but I don’t think it’s about what’s going on. I think he’s ecstatic that they’re finally working on something together, but whatever is going on with him is something far different.
At the end of the night, instead of the guys and me going our separate ways, they put in a movie and we all watch it together. Finnick pulls me onto his lap, kissing me on the cheek. “Are you okay?”
I nod. “I had a lot of fun today.”
“You looked so excited.”
I laugh. “Well, yeah. I’ve never been around a bunch of guys who were in the creative mode yet also perfectly in sync with one another before. Hell, I’ve never been creative with anyone else before in my life. I really loved it.”
“It’s kind of cool, isn’t it?” Finnick asks. “Each one of us brings something different to the table, and somehow, when it comes together, it just works. I’ve always been in a little bit of awe of what goes on. I can’t figure it out, but I also don’t want to look too closely because then it won’t seem like magic anymore. Of course, there are the times when we can’t make anything happen, and then I realize I wish I could put a finger on what makes some things work and some things don’t.”
“I get that,” I say. “Some songs are like pulling teeth to finish, and others are as easy as breathing.”
“Yeah,” Finnick says with a quick shake of his head. “You just never know what you’re going to get when you sit down to write.”
Sean sits next to us, pulling my feet onto his lap. He keeps his hand on my foot, squeezing it from time to time when something in the movie makes him laugh even though it’s supposed to be horror. I snuggle down into Finnick, feeling completely at ease. I wouldn’t have been able to say that before.
I look up when I feel someone’s eyes on me. When I do, a pair of light blue eyes pierce mine, and in them, I see something like regret.
I keep his gaze for a while longer, but eventually, he looks away.
When the movie ends, Ian’s the first one to head toward his room. Archer, though, meets me in the kitchen while I’m cleaning up a little. “Hey,” he says. His voice like a whisper. When I look up, he peeks at the room where Finnick and Sean are. “I was thinking that maybe you could help me with something tomorrow.” He licks his lips, then frowns. “Something like a song. I have an idea, but sometimes the words don’t come as quick to me as some of the other guys.”
I blink at him, sure I’ve just heard him wrong, but when his deep blue eyes stare at me like he can make me say yes, I find myself nodding. “Absolutely,” I say. “Anything.”
“A secret,” he tells me. “Okay?”
I nod again. “Just find me tomorrow.”
With that, he taps the counter between us and then saunters to his room.
23
Overhead, the sky is littered with stars. The chill in the night air bites at my skin, but I was too antsy to just go to bed. Tonight, I feel like the band hit a turning point. They just might be able to bust out a few songs. They could even pull this second album off quicker than I originally thought. They were on fire today, and after the high of everything, my mind kept whirring, so I decided to come outside, notebook in hand.
I fret over my lip and start with a snippet of something that pops in my head. Then, I build and build from there until a whole page is filled with words. Words strung together that tell a story in short snippets, sung in a way to bring them more meaning. Now, I’m not the best singer. But Ian singing this would be…amazing. Despite whatever else he is, he’s tremendously gifted.
To my left, the back door to the house careens open. I sit up when I see Archer running off the deck and down into the sand, tearing at his chest. Finally, he pulls his shirt over his head, but slumps to the ground, his arms outstretched to the side as he stares upward. He’s kneeling like a statue of a crying angel, laying his soul bare.
Panic sweeps over me. I push up from my chair and jump to my feet. “Archer?” I call out as soon as I start making my way over to him. “Archer, are you okay?” I run down the deck steps and crouch down. He’s brought himself to a sitting position, clutching his knees to his chest.
His stormy blue eyes look up at me over the ripped-out knees of his jeans. He sucks in a breath. “I’m okay,” he says.
“Are you sure? Can I get someone for you?” I look back at the house, but no one else is coming out. No parade of worried band members, which makes this seem all the more serious. The windows of the beach house are dark, leaving just me and Archer.
He drops his head. “I’m fine.” But I notice he’s shaking, tremors taking over his body.
I bite my lip and stare at him. I know he’s not being honest with me, but I can’t call him out on it. Not in this state. Not when the first friendly words we ever spoke to one another was just an hour ago.
His phone buzzes. He scrambles to take it out of his pocket and then pulls it in front of him. Whatever he sees there enrages him. “Fuck you!” he screams, his mouth dangerously close to the screen, then he whips it toward the water. I don’t see where the phone lands, but I hear it, an almost soundless “oomph” as it lands in the sand.
Blood thumps at my temples. “Hey,” I say, reaching out to put my hand on his knee. I can feel him tremble there, too, shaking like he’s colder than he’s ever been. “You should put your shirt back on. You’re freezing.”
“I’m not freezing,” he says, but when I hand it back over to him, he puts it on anyway, a Green Day shirt that shows off his corded neck and muscled arms.
He runs his hands through his hair and then holds the back of his neck. Archer looks like a man who’s about to lose it. Some of that vulnerability I saw from him yesterday while they played on stage is coming out right here right now.
Whatever peace Archer has come to terms with by my being here isn’t like having a friend. He may have asked me to write a song with him, but that doesn’t mean we’re best friends all of a sudden. I take one look at him and then start to move back toward the house. Finnick will know what to do. Before I can make it too far though, Archer puts his hand on mine. “Stay with me?”
His skin warms me instantly, sending shockwaves through my body. Our gazes meet, and I nod slowly. He scoots back until he’s lying in the sand, so I follow his lead, lying there next to him. We’re silent for many long minutes until I ask, “Do you want to talk about it?”
He speaks immediately, as if he’s been waiting fo
r me to ask that question. His voice is harsh and staccato, like it pains him to even utter the words, but he needs to get it out at the same time. “Do you ever think things are just too fucking much sometimes? And like everyone tries to blame you for it, and you wonder if it is you even though you don’t think it is, but you don’t really trust yourself anymore either? I mean, fuck!”
I grab his hand and squeeze. His raw intensity pulls at my heartstrings, and the only thing running through my mind is to help him. I don’t want him to feel pain or hurt. I’d rather him sneer at me all day every day than feel like this.
Archer looks at our joined hands then looks up. He’s not exactly crying, but his eyes are rimmed in red. He squeezes my hand back, like he’s glad he has someone to cling to in this moment even if it is me. “We put my sister, Rachel, in rehab right before the guys and I had to come here. She’s hooked on cocaine and meth, and God knows what else.” He pauses, taking his time with the words that he’s about to say next. I can’t tell if he’s trying to find the words or trying to reign his emotions in. Either way, my stomach twists as I wait for him to say what he’s going to say. “My parents just called to tell me she checked herself out.”
I don’t mean to show any reaction, but I do. My jaw goes slack as I stare at him.
“She’s not good,” Archer says. He starts to shake again, and I realize he really wasn’t cold before. This is just his outward reaction to all his emotions.
I rub my hand up and down his arm.
“They can’t find her.”
“Oh my God. Archer. Did they call the police?”
He laughs darkly. “Do you know how many times we’ve done that? The police don’t even pretend to look anymore. Besides, she can’t be a missing person until twenty-four hours passes, and most likely, she’s just somewhere getting high.” He grips my hand so hard it starts to go numb, but I don’t complain. That’s nothing compared to the fear he’s facing.