The confession tugged at my heart. When we’d pulled into the drive, there were at least a dozen fans outside the gate. All female. All screaming at the top of their lungs the moment they realized it wasn’t just Lawson’s gardener or a friend paying a house call. It was Lawson himself.
Phones snapped. The gates began to open. Mack ordered everyone to move out of the way. More phones snapped, blinding flash after blinding flash capturing this glimpse of a moment.
The moment Lawson Hill was behind the wheel of a vehicle, in the act of going home like a normal human being.
“You might wanna…” he’d murmured calmly, and he didn’t have to finish the sentence.
I’d ducked down, hidden my face inside my worn hoody. Stayed there like a turtle in its shell until I’d heard the gates click shut and the truck accelerating toward the house.
Now I was safe inside his fortress of white walls and gold records, and he was asking to get to know me. When I knew that he knew, because I certainly knew, and I doubted he was that dense, that it took way more than four months to truly know someone.
Nonetheless, I found myself telling him the truth.
“Some people, not all, but some people haven’t led a spectacular life up until the point you finally meet them.”
Concern etched his brow. “Your mother, she left when you were little.”
The words scraped against the edges of my mind. I refused to allow them entry. “I don’t remember her, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I don’t know that I’m asking anything.” His eyes softened and for a moment I marveled at how expressive he was for a man. Unlike most, he didn’t shy from allowing his face to show emotion. “But everyone has a back-story, Columbus. I’ve told you mine, or, at least, given you the highlight reel.”
“Quid pro quo, is that what this is?” I didn’t know why I was suddenly defensive. Did I care what he knew about me? No. Because there was nothing to tell. “You ask me to stay with you while my father’s away in exchange for information?”
A grin spread across his handsome face. I wished he wasn’t this good looking. Wished he didn’t have those eyes and those cheekbones and that smile. Wished I had no knowledge of how talented he was, how beautifully he sang. It would’ve made being irritable with him a whole lot easier.
“I might’ve asked, Columbus,” he said, “but you agreed.”
My stomach flipped. His cool confidence was a sanding block to my already frayed nerves.
His phone buzzed in his pocket and I tried not to feel disappointed. Tried to stop the plethora of questions going off in my mind when he looked at the screen and his shoulders slumped.
“I gotta take this. Sorry.” And he really did look sorry, eyebrows drawn, smile wilting at the corners of his mouth.
My heart—God, my heart was doing something strange in my chest. Beating hard, yes, but twisting, too, as if every emotion was swirling in and out of that one organ.
“Hey, Katie, can you hold on a second? I’ll just be a minute,” he answered all in one breath, then muted the phone. His gaze met mine. “Tell you what. Let’s watch a movie. You like movies?”
I nodded like a child. “Sure.”
“There’s a media room downstairs, near the rear of the house. Should be easy to find. There’s a small kitchen in there, a microwave, probably some microwave popcorn in the pantry. You like popcorn, right?”
Again, I nodded. I was already getting off the bed, because he was, and he still had someone on hold, and this was his house, not mine, and who was Katie?
“Set up any way you like, and I’ll be there in a few. Okay?”
“Okay.”
He clicked off mute and pushed the phone to his ear, exiting the room. “Hey, sorry. No, I’m not busy, it’s okay. Uh huh…”
That was that before his voice faded, indecipherable.
I checked my own phone. No texts from Dad, no calls. No news was good news, I guessed, and unzipped my overnight bag. Yoga tights and a hoody made for a comfy combo, a quick solution to dressing in haste and running away in the middle of the night with a boy I barely knew. But this was Nashville and we were still in the middle of the summer. I at least needed a tank top, maybe a pair of shorts. Then again, I didn’t want to show too much skin. Didn’t wanna be that girl, trying way too hard.
“Who. Freaking. Cares, Evans?” I said to one of the white throw pillows on the bed. Because, really. We weren’t anything, Lawson and me. Friends, lovers, next door neighbors. We were acquaintances, and acquaintances didn’t care two bits what the other was wearing.
“But do acquaintances kiss?” The self-imposed question, whispered into the vast room, put a smile on my face and a tug in my belly.
The Kiss. The kiss the kiss the kiss the kiss. He could kiss. Man, could he kiss. I hoped I hoped I hoped—I hoped with every ounce of girly, lash-batting, wishful, cotton candy fluffiness inside of me that he was as enamored over our kiss as I was. Going a single minute without thinking of it was impossible. His lips, his breaths, his hands on my face, on my body.
Phantom fingertips whispered down my spine and my heart kicked into second gear. Little licks of pleasure swept around my legs. My nipples hardened. There—I felt his touch there. Gentle. Then not so gentle. Demanding. A beautiful, sweet pressure built between my thighs as I replayed our kiss on a film reel, over and over. I wanted more. Burned for it. For him.
I had to get a grip.
Opting for a gray tank, I kept my bra on and my yoga pants and set to the mission of finding the room Lawson had spoken of.
His house was ridiculous-big, but Lawson was true to his word. I found the place without getting lost or, since my dad thought Lawson was a serial killer, opening a closet full of dead bodies.
A large sectional commanded the room, overstuffed and inviting with cup holders and folded blankets. Built into the main wall was a television. Beneath the tv stretched a linear fireplace, unburning, of course, but I wondered what it would feel like in winter. If Lawson liked to light it up, sit back and relax. If relax was even in his vocabulary. Rubbing my upper arms, I moved for the apartment-sized kitchen, found the popcorn packets, as well as a host of other boxes of candy. Raisinets, Milk Duds and, my favorite: Starburst. The good kind, too, with tropical flavors like mango and pineapple.
I was in the middle of unwrapping the second fruit-flavored candy, watching the digital seconds tick down on the microwave, when a pair of arms wrapped around me from behind.
Startled, I spun around, backed up so fast I might’ve toppled over if not for my butt smacking the counter. Grace was not my middle name.
Lawson showed me his hands. Bemusement lit his eyes. “I should’ve asked first.”
“N-no.” I swept a lock behind my ear. “You don’t have to…I mean, I was just, you know…” I presented the open pack of Starburst.
“Protecting your candy? Hey, I get it.” He moved closer. “Strange place, strange person.”
“You’re not strange.”
“No?” He set a fist to the counter beside my hip. I could’ve counted the flecks of silver in his blue eyes. “You don’t feel strange to me, either, Columbus. Reckon that’s a good thing?” His eyes searched mine.
The air thickened around us. In all my life, I’d never been more aware of my own body. Of blood and veins and organs. Of racing pulses and heady sensations running marathons around my thighs and, oh my dear God, weaving figure eights in between them.
I should’ve looked away. I was supposed to, but I didn’t and neither did he.
Fisting his shirt, I pulled him in, and I kissed him.
He made a sound—surprise, relief, I didn’t know—and buried a hand in my hair. His other hand squeezed my hip and fire tore through me. I fell into him. Clutched his arms. Pressed my body into his. The want I had for him was almost indescribable. A deep hunger, demanding, raw and gnashing. As if I’d been starved for weeks and had finally been presented with a glorious feast.
Had I been attracted to other
guys before? Absolutely. Not hundreds, no. Not even a dozen, but enough. However, none had affected me like Lawson Hill. Not one of those boys, who, indeed, all seemed like boys by comparison, had made me feel like he did. Like I was losing control and it was the most wonderful thing ever.
“I’ve never moved, until now,” I said on a gasp for air.
He stared at me, blinking.
“All my life,” I said, “I’ve stayed in the same school system, grew up with the same people, ate and shopped at the same places.”
Until now. Until you.
The words hung in the nonexistent space between us, unspoken, nevertheless understood.
“Do I have memories?” I rose to kiss him again and he swept in, meeting me more than halfway. His lips were molten butter, his tongue seeking mine in an instinctual dance.
When he released my mouth, I set a palm to his chest, treasuring the sensation of his heart: a bass drum thump-thump-thumping. “Of course, I do. But they’re simple. Sweet reflections of holidays, school events and cozy winter evenings roasting marshmallows in our fireplace.”
His mouth kicked up at the corner. “That sounds really nice.”
“It is. It was.”
His smile wilted a little. “My memories are limited.”
I frowned. “You don’t owe me your past, Lawson.”
“No, I…” His hands skated down my arms, and then his hands were grasping my hands and, damn, he was so warm. My heart was screaming, my body humming with need. “I want you to know. Want you to know more about…about me. If you want to.”
I nodded. “Maybe we should sit down?”
He glanced at the microwave, the couch, then at me. “What about the movie? I’ve got a great collection.”
“You can be my movie tonight.”
His grin lit up the entire room. “I’ll grab the popcorn.”
“So, limited memories?” I prompted as we settled on the couch, facing each other.
Lawson set the bowl of popcorn between us, uncapped two bottles of water and handed one to me. “Yeah, I don’t know. Sometimes I think I’ve just blocked the stuff out I don’t want to think about.” He took a pull from his own bottle. “Then again, I’m sure everybody does that. It’s hard for me to put into perspective, but music is like comfort food for me. Does that make sense?”
“Kind of.”
“Do you feel that way about anything?”
“You mean, like, a passion?”
“Sure.” He joggled a few popcorn kernels in his hand, then popped two in his mouth. Man, he even chewed sexy and chewing was one of the most disgusting acts, if you thought about the mechanics of it. “Something you love. Something that’s all yours.”
I shrugged. “Not really. Reading, I guess? I love to read. Oh, and eighties movies.”
“Eighties movies?” He smiled and my heart ballooned. “Really?”
“Totally my jam.”
“Which one’s your favorite?”
“Ooh.” I blew out a sigh, thinking. “That’s a toughie. The Lost Boys, maybe? But The Goonies is awesome, too, and Ghostbusters.”
“Great soundtracks.”
“Really great soundtracks.”
Another drink of water and he capped the bottle, plunked it in the nearest cupholder. He rubbed his hands together. “Okay, so, you’ve gotta feel something unique when you read a book that really grabs you, right? Or when you watch one of the movies you’ve seen a million times but never gets old?”
“Comfort.” It was the first word that popped in my head. “They soothe me, no matter what kind of day I’ve had, good or bad.”
He was nodding. “That’s what music is for me. It soothes my soul like nothing else can.”
I thought about the bad days I’d had, which, luckily for me, were few and far between compared to others. Without a mom, I didn’t have the mom-comfort most of my friends had been blessed with. The trip-and-fall, skinned my knees on the pavement outside, followed by gentle nursing from mama, a kiss on the forehead and pancakes for dinner. Dad was great. The best, better than I could’ve ever asked for. But he was still a dad. A man. His maternal skills only ran so deep.
Books played that role for me. And, yes, eighties movies, sometimes nineties, if Freddie Prinze, Jr. was involved.
“That…makes a lot of sense,” I said. Music held a deep place in my heart, too. Maybe not on the same level as it did for Lawson, but there’d been a few artists over the years that’d gotten me through some rough patches.
How incredible, that Lawson’s music had doubtless done the same for millions of people. People who needed hope, when they had none. Love, when love seemed too far out of reach.
A slow inhale, followed by an even slower exhale, and he said, “But then there’s you.”
I stopped breathing. Felt my eyes widen as they held his.
“I’ve been locked up in the studio for so long,” he said, “just me and like two of my band members in a constant vacuum of creativity, and you…you come along and it feels like freedom. Like I’ve just stepped out of jail, and I don’t understand it, Harper. You know? I don’t understand it.”
“Neither do I.” I was in a haze, captivated, my voice no more than a whisper.
“Making music is what I know. Recording, touring, press-releases, moving from one city to the next over and over again. I’ve had chapters of, ‘okay, now what? What’s next?’ instead of allowing myself to breathe. And with you…” He raked a hand through his hair, held the back of his neck. “It’s like I’m breathing for the first time.”
chapter eleven
Preparation came easily for me. Tests, essays, projects, chores at home. Even if the task was initially overwhelming, I found a way. Worked out steps that led to a solution and, ultimately, completion and moving on to the next thing. It’s what would make me a good lawyer one day, Dad had once said, and I’d had no reason to disagree.
But this.
Lawson.
Telling me with all the believable conviction of a man on his knees, begging for his life, that somehow, someway, I inspired him. I didn’t know what to do with it.
It was like he’d given me the crown jewels. Here you go, thought you might like these. And I was too taken aback to speak. To utter words that made sense enough to stick, when his words—his beautiful, vulnerable words had carved their way under my skin.
Into my heart.
I set a hand to my chest to make sure it was still there. How could a boy feel this deep? It was inconceivable and, yet, there he sat across from me. Barefoot, legs folded like a normal person who said normal things instead of stuff like I’m breathing for the first time.
“I don’t crave attention,” he said. “People probably think I do—how can they not? I’ve had a lucky ride on this train. But, no, it’s not attention I crave. It’s connection.”
He reached for my hand and I gave it to him without hesitation.
“I do most of my songwriting by myself,” he said. “If a song needs a producer, sure, I bring someone in, but for the most part, it’s a lonely business. A solitary way of life.”
“That sounds…”
“Sad?” He laughed.
“No, not sad. Typical, maybe.”
His eyebrows arched.
“Of an artist, I mean. Think of all the writers out there, plugging away at a novel for months, sometimes years. It took Margaret Mitchell…what? Ten years to write Gone with the Wind? And that’s one of my favorite stories.”
“‘Tomorrow is another day,’ right?” He grinned.
“Not my favorite Scarlett O’Hara line, but it’ll do.”
“Okay, then, what’s your favorite line?”
I sat up straighter, lifted my chin. “‘Death, taxes and childbirth! There’s never any convenient time for any of them!’”
He leaned his head back and laughed. He was still holding my hand. I loved that he was still holding my hand.
“Definitely a better quote,” he said.
“S
o, your sad, solitary way of life,” I said, and he laughed. That I could make him laugh—I loved that, too. “Is it really all that bad? I mean, look at you. You’re Lawson-freaking-Hill. That’s gotta feel pretty great.”
He shook his head. “I use work as a coping mechanism. Not so great.”
“A lot of people do that.”
“But it’s easy to blur the lines, for my work to equal my worth.” His expression softened. The vulnerability was back, real and raw and paving roads in my heart. “That’s been my biggest struggle. Trying to separate work from who I am and what I want. That’s why the moments I’ve had with you, few as they may be, are so valuable to me. No one’s taken the time to get to know me the way you have. Not Lawson Hill the brand. Just…Lawson Hill the human, the person.” He swallowed “The man.”
My throat dried out and when I tried to speak, my words escaped as if I was auditioning to play Marilyn Monroe. “We’ve known each other for like five seconds.”
His charming half-smile lit fires beneath my skin. “Six.” He pressed my hand, then let go.
I took a drink of water, eyeing him down the ridges of the plastic bottle. He was waiting for me to respond. Unashamed. Unworried whether or not he’d confessed too little or too much. Comfortable with his own words, who he was, and, apparently, who I was to him.
“If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?”
I didn’t know why I asked the question. It felt generic and yet I wanted to know. He was perfect. To me, to anyone with a eyes and ears. But he was opening up to me, willingly, wanting to give me what I didn’t ask for and what I certainly didn’t deserve.
He didn’t hesitate. “I’d undo my severe case of comparison syndrome.”
Now, that, I did not expect. “It’s that bad? Really?”
“Chronic. Seriously, though, that’s what I’d do. I’d stop comparing myself to everyone else. I’d stop wondering if my music should sound like theirs, when I know, without a shadow of a doubt, my music shouldn’t sound like anyone else’s but mine. And yet I fall for it every time a new song passes one of mine on the charts or…am I good enough?”
I set my empty water bottle in a cupholder, reached back and redid my bun.
Jump Then Fall Page 11