Every note hit perfectly. As if he wrote the damned song.
“I don’t sing.” I did. Just not in front of Lawson Hill.
“Hogwash. Don’t make me pull this truck over.”
“Hogwash?” I gasped a laugh. “Who says that?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“Seriously. You’re awesome and I’m not anywhere close to…” I waved my hand in his direction. “All that.”
“Everybody can sing, Columbus. In fact, people who can’t sing can’t, because they don’t hear tones like you or I do.”
“Thanks for the music lesson, Garth.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You’re missing the point.”
“Man, you’re really asking for it, you know that?”
“I’m not singing.”
“We’ll see.”
He flipped on his hazard lights, began to slow down.
On the freaking interstate.
“What are you doing?” I sat up, looked in my side mirror, worried someone might hit us. Traffic was surprisingly light, however, and I didn’t think—refused to believe he’d do anything to put my life in danger. “Why are you…Are you pulling over?”
“Looks like it.” He stopped the truck on the shoulder, put it in park. Unfastened his seatbelt.
“What are you doing?”
“Giving you a singing lesson. Come on. Hop out.” He stood, crouched so as to not hit his head on the ceiling. Made for my side of the vehicle.
“What?” I was positive my eyes were bugging out of my head. “Are you crazy?”
“Probably. Let’s go, Columbus. Your side’s the safe side. Open the door.”
I stared at him, blinking.
“Okay, then.” He reached across my lap for the handle, and my whole body ignited.
“The windows are still rolled down! The truck’s still running!” I sounded like a five-year-old telling a grownup danger! danger! danger!
“Yep, well, we kinda need to hear the music, which—” Still halfway hovering over me, he reached back and turned the music up. Steve Winwood’s Higher Love blared from the speakers. “There we go. Much better.”
His eyes met mine, his face a scant two inches from my own. My chest was heaving as if at any moment my heart might burst out and splatter all over the windshield.
“After you, darlin’.” His breath fanned over my lips and I thought I might faint.
I wanted him to kiss me so bad I nearly moaned from it. From the wanting.
“Fine,” I managed, though I didn’t sound very convincing. I slipped out, onto the grass, and he followed. Slammed the door shut.
“All right, now, you know this one, right?” he asked and, at my nod, “Okay, good. Take the chorus with me.”
“Nope.” I folded my arms over my chest. Cocked my hip to the side. “Nuh uh.”
“Columbus, I swear to the god of mac ‘n cheese, I will tickle you senseless, if you don’t sing.”
“The god of mac ‘n cheese?” I snorted. Shook my head. “You are so weird.”
“‘Bring me a higher love,’” he sang, beautifully, and gestured for me to do the same.
I was not going to win this battle. Plus, I didn’t know how serious he was about tickling me, and I was majorly ticklish.
“‘Bring me a higher love, oh-oh,’” I whisper-sang with him.
He grinned, reached out and took both my hands in his. “‘Bring me a higher love,’” we sang together, and I so hoped my hands weren’t too sweaty. “‘Where’s that higher love I keep thinking of?’”
“There you go!” he said. “Keep going. ‘Worlds are turning and we’re just hangin’ on…’”
I kept up. Remembered the lyrics, word for word. Could I sing like him? Hell no. But it didn’t matter. He was smiling. I was smiling. And the more we sang, the closer he reeled me in to him, until finally we were dancing, and his arms were around my waist and mine were locked around his neck.
Crazy thing? He wasn’t trying to be sexy. Neither was he deliberate in making a move. If so, he was damned smooth. Singing had completely taken over him. As for me? Yeah, the singing was fun. But seeing him grin from ear to ear as he watched me sing was better.
Soon, our roadside anthem faded into another—We Belong by Pat Benatar—and we weren’t singing anymore.
His hands touched my sides and my breath hitched. Beneath the designer tee Savana had insisted as a necessary purchase, my flesh burned. Electricity zoomed up my spine.
Suddenly, I was aware of the sheen of sweat along his neck, where my hands rested. Aware of his breathing. Of mine. Of his thumb rubbing a small up and down pattern on my lower back.
Our hips swayed to the music, our feet moving us in a slow circle.
He said, “Great song,” and somehow, I possessed enough lung capacity to whisper, “Yeah.”
His fingers touched my cheek and fresh heat cascaded down my neck. Drum mallets pounded against my rib cage. We stopped moving and his hand left my face to brace the passenger’s side window, just beside my head.
He leaned in slightly, paused. Probably to determine if I intended to pull away.
I should’ve.
Too fast, too fast, too fast, the logical part of my brain screamed.
But.
As for the part reeling with desire and want and need and an Olympic-sized pool full of lust? That part sighed when his other hand drew me in closer.
His lips paused over mine, his eyes connecting with my own. I couldn’t think of anything else I wanted more than for those lips to touch mine. And then—
A flashlight shone like a mother-effing lighthouse directly in my eyes.
chapter six
By the time we were back in the truck, buckled, and on our way to meet Savana and Chris, Lawson was still laughing.
“You should’ve seen your face, Columbus.” He had tears in his eyes.
Freaking tears.
If I hadn’t almost kissed him, I’d’ve hated him for making fun of a serious situation.
“A cop pulled over,” I said, irritated, “got out of his car, practically blinded us with a flashlight.”
Lawson wiped his eyes.
I scowled at him. “If you weren’t driving—”
“Oh, if I wasn’t driving. Really. He just wanted to make sure—”
“He asked if either of us was doing anything without consent!” Gosh, reliving the moment made me blush all over again. I couldn’t come up with another time I’d been more humiliated.
“Well, in all fairness,” he said, sobering, “you didn’t ask for my consent.”
His eyes cut to me. He was shooting for serious, but his lips kept wobbling.
“This is never happening again.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“I’m serious.”
“Me, too.”
“I’m not seeing you again. It’s over.”
“When did it start?”
“You know what I mean! I can’t—” I blinked rapidly, watching the road as he drove, attempting to marshal thoughts that wouldn’t get in line. “I can’t be in a situation where a police officer starts questioning me, asking if…if…”
“What do you, have outstanding warrants or something?”
“No, I don’t have outstanding warrants!” I railed. “How could you? You know what? Never mind. I’m not seeing you again,” I said once more. “This? It’s over. Done.”
He reached across the center console and, before I could gasp or protest or tell him to go to hell, he took my hand and wove his fingers through mine. “Yes, you are,” he said calmly. “And, no, it’s not. Not by a longshot.”
He pulled my arm to his side.
Murmured something I couldn’t hear for the air conditioning and the low hum of the radio.
And kissed the back of my hand.
I
forgot
how
to
breathe.
“Harper.” His lips mov
ed against my skin and I swallowed the giraffe in my throat. “Have I told you how grateful I am you came tonight? When I’m sure there’re a dozen other things you could’ve been doing?”
Was this guy for real? Did he legit have no clue how psyched I was to see him tonight? I nearly hyperventilated, for crying out loud. Twice. And that was before Savana came to pick me up.
“Well,” I said, determined to keep it together, “I don’t know about a dozen.”
His right eyebrow arched.
“Half a dozen, max.”
He smiled, moved our joined hands to rest on the padded armrest between us.
“So, what’s the future look like for you, Harper Evans?”
I blew out a shaky breath. “Trinity College, Cambridge. England.”
“What?” His whole torso turned when he looked at me, then, as if realizing he was the one behind the wheel, he directed attention to the road. “Are you serious?” He glanced at me. “I—wow. That’s incredible. Scholarship? I’m sorry,” he said, “that’s none of my business.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “Yeah, I got a scholarship. Several, actually.”
“Wow.” He paused, processing. “But it’s gotta take a lot more than that, right? I mean, it’s Cambridge. One of the best schools in the world. Prestigious—that’s the word I’m looking for.”
“Yeah.” Every time someone said it like that, with the revered tone it deserved, I got a little nervous.
“So, what’s the game plan?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you’re going to England. For what degree?”
“Oh. Law.”
“Law school? Damn, Columbus, that’s—that’s incredible. I had no idea.”
“Why would you? I didn’t mention it.”
“Well, you should’ve. I mean, heck, if I’d been accepted into Trinity College, I’d be broadcasting from the top of the AT&T building. All the news stations would be there, Ryan Seacrest, maybe the Laker girls.”
I laughed. “It’s not that big of a deal.”
“Bet your bottom dollar it’s a big deal.” He squeezed my hand and my heart fluttered. “It’s a really big deal. What was the admissions process like?”
I thought a minute. “Rigorous. Can I say that? Rigorous?”
“You can say whatever the heck you wanna say. I’m straight up blown away right now.” He leaned his head back against the headrest, a reflective smile curving his lips.
“What about you?”
“What about me? I can’t top Cambridge, darlin’. Sorry.”
Smiling, I tucked my knees and leaned closer toward him. “You said we’re both in a strange place. Yet everyone here seems to know you.”
“For different reasons,” he said.
“So? Where’s home?”
He glanced at me. “Foix. Louisiana.”
“Foix?” I’d never heard of it.
“Baton Rouge.”
That, I knew. “Ah. LSU.”
He dipped his chin.
“And this…what you do. The singing, writing, performing. How long has that been a thing?”
“Unofficially?”
“Sure.”
“Since I was four.”
“Four?”
“Old enough to hold a guitar. ‘Course back then I couldn’t hold it correctly. Had to lay it flat in my lap. That’s how I learned to strum.”
“Impressive.” Using my index finger, I traced the hills of his knuckles. He was holding my hand so tightly. Almost as if he expected me to vanish. “And officially?”
“Landed a record deal at seventeen, released my first album. Self-titled.”
“It did well?”
“Triple-platinum.” His thumb rubbed my own. “So, yeah, it did well.”
“Did you ever imagine it would be that big?” I asked quietly.
Slowing, he took the next exit. “I don’t think any artist imagines anything coming out of his work. You pray, you hope and if it hits,” he said, “you know, you’ve just gotta be grateful.”
“And then what?”
“Then we released the second album, Fever Dreams.” He paused, stopped at a red light. “And that’s when the fear set in a little.”
“Why fear?”
“Maelstrom. That was the big hit from the first album. It put me on the map. To this day, I still end shows with it, because it’s a sing-along, and there’s nothing like that. Nothing compares to when every single person in the crowd is singing every single word.”
“It’s a great song.”
“Thanks. Wait.” The light turned green, but he didn’t move. He stared at me, full-on, fascination dancing in his eyes. “What did you just say?”
My mouth fell open.
The guy in the car behind us laid on his horn.
“You should…” I tore my gaze from his, gestured for him to go through the intersection. “Green light.”
He rolled through. The car that was behind us changed lanes and put pedal to the medal, glaring into Lawson’s truck as he sped by. Get a good look, buddy.
For a few seconds, I thought he meant to drop the subject, let me off the hook.
But then, “You’ve heard the song. You’ve…listened to me?”
“Sure, I’ve—”
“I’m not talking about Tuesday night.”
“You—”
“Or tonight during Chris’s set.”
He had me. There was no use in denying the obsessive stalker I was. Charged. Tried. Convicted. Besides, admitting I had a problem was the first step to recovery, right?
“Okay, fine.” I tugged my hand out of his grasp, retreated to my side of the vehicle. Running fingers through my hair, I said, “I looked you up, okay? After we met, after the piano and Elton, when I got home that night…” I loosened a heavy sigh. “I did a YouTube search.”
“You did a YouTube search,” he deadpanned.
I was positive my face would never return to human coloring. “Yes.”
“And found Maelstrom.”
I nodded. I still couldn’t look at him. “Among other things.”
“Oh, God.” One. Two. Three beats of silence. “You didn’t find the sex tape, did you?”
My head whipped around so fast I felt instantly dizzy. “What?”
Lawson burst out laughing. “Damn, Columbus.” His fist struck the steering wheel. “You’re a whole lotta fun, you know that?”
I meant to retort. Witty comebacks, I could hold my own. Product of reading a lot and inheriting my dad’s sharp tongue, I supposed, though it could’ve been just me. My inner narrator had a tendency to add more than a little snark to her dialogue. But Lawson’s phone buzzed, and we were pulling into the lot of what looked like another barn but lit up with neon, and I lost momentum.
He parked and answered whomever had texted him. Then tossed his phone on top of the change tray. “Ready?”
“You’re not upset?”
His head jerked back. “Why would I be?”
“I stalked you online. I’m admitting to it. Doesn’t that, I don’t know, creep you out?”
His mouth twisted. “Nope. Not really. Besides.” He unfastened his seatbelt, opened his door and hopped out. Staring in at me, he grinned. “I looked you up, too.”
Shocked, I could only watch, mouth agape, as he shut his door and jogged around the front of the truck to open mine.
“Valedictorian, National Honors Society,” he said, looking up at me and there again was the fascination in his eyes, the awe over me, of all people, when he was Lawson Hill. “Really, Columbus, I had no idea that beneath all that—” he gestured at me as I did at him earlier, when he was doing all he could to get me to sing “—was a bona fide nerd.”
I’d decided my mouth was likely staying in the open position for the rest of the night.
“Don’t look so surprised, darlin’.” He unhooked my seatbelt and offered his open hand. “I’m a nerd, too. A nerd of a different flavor, sure. I’m no academic. But,” he
said as I accepted his hand and stepped down, “I can name any instrument, just by listening. Marching bands and Star Wars really make me geek out. And I can write a song. Sometimes a good one.”
I didn’t doubt it. With the exception of a couple collaborations, Wikipedia claimed he wrote most of his music and lyrics. And not just for himself. He wrote for other artists, as well.
“So, what you’re saying is we’re different, but…the same?” I asked.
“Yeah.” He swept a lock of hair behind my ear and my eyes closed of their own volition.
The magnetism I felt toward him both scared and thrilled me, and when he reached down and took my hand, as if it was the most natural act on earth, I had a small urge to run. To spare myself from falling like this. We’d had one night. Two now, a few shared smiles, and a handful of text conversations. But I couldn’t get him out of my head.
Too fast, I reminded myself. There was no time to grow a relationship, to give it the requisite nurture and care it deserved.
But Lawson, he defied the essential. Rules didn’t exist. Clocks suspended and nothing else mattered but the way my hand felt encased in his. As we entered the club, Lawson having given the bouncer at the door a mere wave as an admission fee, I remembered something my senior English teacher had told us at the beginning of the school year. A quote by Walt Whitman.
Happiness, knowledge, not in another place but this place—not for another hour, but this hour.1
Live for today. Not yesterday. Not tomorrow. Too often we believe happiness is a goal. A prize at the end of the run. When, in fact, happiness, knowledge—both are for the here and now, not another place and time. In the small hours given to each person on this planet, the choice to live, to be happy is no different than the choice to have coffee over tea ever morning. It’s one or the other. And sometimes—sometimes there’s hot chocolate. For when you choose to be daring. To put yourself out there, win or lose.
Did I believe everything was that black and white? I liked to think so. Too much thought into any one process yielded more obstacles than results.
As for Lawson, and why life chose this moment to plunk him in my path, or mine in his, I didn’t know. Maybe I was in the mood for hot chocolate.
He kept me close, guided me through a crush of dancing bodies. Club music belted from a high-tech sound system. Sweat and alcohol laced the air. I gripped Lawson’s bicep, feeling unreasonably afraid we might get separated. I’d never been a party girl. Sure, I loved to dance. In my room. But in front of other people? The thought had me shuddering.
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