Love Song

by Elle Greco

  “Sure, sure, it’s been a long day for her,” Bobby said. “Jett, I want you in my office around eleven a.m. tomorrow, good? We need to talk before getting in the studio. About our vision.”

  My eyes snapped to Bobby. “Vision?”

  “Tomorrow,” Rafe said. My eyes snapped back to him, and I bit my lip.

  “I gotta get out of—”

  “You’re wearing them,” he said.

  “But these are—” I protested.

  “Now that I’ve got your style down, I’ll pull items that match what you like,” Vivienne explained. “I’ll leave a complete wardrobe in Bobby’s office for you by tomorrow night. It’ll take you from executive meetings to Whole Foods. Promise.”

  The room went off-kilter. “What?”

  “The only thing you won’t have yet are evening gowns, but we’ll sort that out once you get a nomination.”

  My hand gripped the back of the chair again, and I swayed in the kitten heels. “Nomination?”

  “Billboard, Grammy, VMA? Take your pick!”

  “I like the way you think, Viv,” Bobby said.

  “Did you eat today?” Rafe asked, his calloused hand grabbing my own, steadying my swaying body.

  “Not since this morning,” I admitted.

  “Right,” he said. “Dinner first.”

  “I’m supposed to see Mike…” I lied.

  “Call Mike and rain check.”

  “But the contract.”

  “They don’t erase overnight,” he said. “Meet him in the morning.”

  “Then home to bed,” Bobby said with a knowing grin that made my eyes go round. “You have a big day tomorrow. You need your rest.”

  I bit my lip and nodded while Rafe steered me out of the room, then stopped at the doorway and twisted my torso back around. “Thanks, Viv.”

  She smiled and wrinkled her nose at me. “Anytime.”

  Rafe yanked my arm, and I stumbled out the door. His hand released me only long enough for his arm to snake around my waist.

  “I have to get my guitar,” I said as he maneuvered us down the hall.

  “It’s safe in Bobby’s office,” he said.

  “But I need my—”

  “You don’t need anything,” he said.

  I lurched out of his grasp and came to a dead stop just outside the building. “What. The. Fuck.”

  “We need to talk,” he said.

  “Why?”

  His hands cupped my shoulders. “I’ll fill you in over dinner.”

  I shrugged his hands off my shoulders. “About what?”

  “About Rogue Nation leaving Grimm.”

  21

  Rafe took me to a small French bistro off the Strip. It wasn’t scene-y at all. In fact, it was low-key and, if I allowed myself to think that way, romantic.

  We were crammed into a tiny table in a dark corner. I had to use the votive candle on the table to read the menu. He’d taken me to a place where we were guaranteed not to be seen. My self-esteem from earlier waned. I must look hideous in my new outfit. I knew I couldn’t pull it off.

  “Jett, you hear me?” Rafe asked. I sipped my ice water while the waiter uncorked the bottle of wine Rafe had ordered. He didn’t even ask if I wanted it. Just went ahead and assumed.

  He had impeccable taste in wine. I’d have just ordered the cheapest bottle.

  God. Asshole.

  My glare rested on his handsome face. “Since you weren’t explaining what the hell is going on, no. I didn’t hear you. I wasn’t listening.”

  “Jett,” he said, his voice soft. He reached out and played with a tendril of my hair that had fallen over my shoulder. He waited until the waiter poured the wine before he continued, “I can’t tell you everything.”

  “Of course not,” I snapped.

  “But I can tell you that shit is hitting the fan at Grimm.” Rafe ignored my venom. “Vince has an army of lawyers backing his move.”

  “I don’t give a shit about Vince and his army of lawyers,” I said. I sat back in my chair and folded my arms across my chest, retreating into the darkness. The candlelight danced across Rafe’s face. He looked tired.

  “You should give a shit about Vince and his army of lawyers,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Because his army of lawyers just pulled Presley out of a situation,” he said.

  I reached under my chair and pulled my bag onto my lap. “What kind of situation?”

  I dug through its junk-packed depths. Since there wasn’t enough light to read a damn menu, it was up to my fingers to find my phone.

  “What are you doing?” Rafe asked.

  “I’m texting Nik to see what she knows about Presley’s situation.”

  After Nikki got shot by a drug-dealing roadie, I wasn’t a fan of my sisters in situations.

  Rafe snatched the bag off of my lap and dropped it onto the floor on the other side of his chair, out of my reach. “You’re not texting Nikki.”

  “What the hell, Rafe?” I snapped.

  “Presley is fine. She’s with Vince. She’s safe.”

  My heart beat faster. “What do you mean she’s safe? Why wouldn’t she be safe?” I picked up my glass of freshly poured wine, and the liquid spilled over the top from my shaking hand. I put it down without taking a sip.

  “That’s all I know, I swear, Jett,” he said. His voice was low, so I leaned in to hear him. “Vince has been playing this shit very close to the vest.”

  “So how do you know about his army of lawyers?” I asked.

  One corner of his mouth tipped up in a sly smile. “Because I’m perceptive.”

  I closed my eyes with a sigh. “You’re also egotistical.”

  “And sex on a stick,” he teased. My eyes snapped open just in time to catch his gap-toothed smile.

  Oh God. He overheard my conversation with Vivienne. Great.

  “Fuck off,” I said, heat creeping into my cheeks. I was grateful that the dark café hid my blush.

  “You know you look sexy as hell, right?” he said, his eyes burning my skin. “That’s hot on you.”

  I swallowed. “We’re here to talk about Grimm and Rogue and what the hell is happening when I walk into Bobby’s office tomorrow.”

  “Right, business,” he muttered.

  His eyes dropped away, leaving a phantom trail along my skin. I picked up my wine and took a fortifying gulp.

  Rafe settled back in his chair. “That EP will be lit.”

  I didn’t know what to do with my hands, so I cradled my wine. “Jamie Sage is producing.”

  Rafe’s half smile turned into a full one. “I know.”

  “How do you know?” I snapped.

  “Bobby wants to me to trust that you are in good hands.”

  “I thought you did. Trust him, I mean. That’s why you sent me to him.”

  “And Bobby’s keeping that trust,” he said. “You know, Sage was over the damn moon about working with you.”

  My face twisted. “I doubt that.”

  Rafe sipped his wine. “Doubt all you want. But he loved your songs. Said your lyrics rivaled Stevie Nicks’s. That’s high praise, especially from a guy like Sage.”

  The waiter cut through the dark and appeared at the side of the table. “Are you ready to order?”

  I squinted down at my menu. “I’m vegetarian. What do you have that’s meatless?”

  “Do you eat eggs?” the waiter asked.

  “Sometimes,” I said.

  “Piperade has eggs, but no meat.”

  “Oh,” I said, biting my lip. “What sort of salads do you have?”

  “What did you eat today?” Rafe asked.

  What did I eat today? I was too nervous for more than coffee this morning. I didn’t break for lunch. Coffee, tea, water. Now wine. No food.

  At that memory, my stomach betrayed me with a growl. In the cozy confines of the quiet restaurant, there was no mistaking the noise or who it had come from.

  “You need more than a salad
.”

  “Jesus, Rafe, I can order my own freaking food.”

  His hovering was irritating as hell.

  “I know that,” he snapped.

  “And I am ordering a salad.”

  “Goddammit, Jett, you haven’t eaten all day. If you aren’t going to look after yourself, I will.”

  I snapped my mouth closed. He was right. I needed more than a salad.

  But fuck him and his piperade.

  “I’ll have the cauliflower tandoor, please,” I said. Rafe ordered a steak.

  After the dark swallowed up our waiter once again, Rafe took a swallow from his wineglass and then let out a breath. Some tension slipped from his body.

  “Was that so difficult?”

  Yes, I wanted to snap. Instead, I said, “I can look after myself, Rafe.”

  “Fucking hell, Jett,” Rafe said, his face clouded over. “This isn’t about salad. It’s about you and me. You don’t trust that I will always do right by you? After all this time?”

  “All this time,” I scoffed. “I’ve barely been at your place a week.”

  “I’m not even talking about that,” he said.

  “Look, Rafe, you’ve been great. Hooking me up with Bobby and all that,” I said, letting some of my anger fade. “But—”

  His eyes flashed. “You’re throwing a ‘but’ in there?”

  I leaned in. “I didn’t ask for all that.”

  “You needed a job, Jett. Money.”

  “I would have found something.”

  “Doing what? Bussing tables? You sucked at that. Selling tires?”

  I shrugged. “It’s a job.”

  “You think writing songs isn’t?”

  “It’s not—”

  He lifted his hand. “Hold up. You are sitting here saying that writing your songs is not honest work? Some higher being gave you a gift, Jett. Don’t dismiss it like that.”

  “I don’t know about a gift,” I muttered. I curled into myself, taking the glass of wine with me.

  Rafe relaxed back in his seat, his eyes moving over me. “I know what this is. Fucking Pamela.”

  “What does my mom have to do with this?”

  He just shook his head. Then he leaned forward, pried the wineglass from my fingers, and set it on the table. He took my hand. “You are one of the most talented songwriters working right now.”

  “Rafe—”

  He reached up and pressed two fingers against my lips. “Just shut it for a sec. You’ve had enough poison to fill your brain for ten lifetimes. I will not allow you to believe that poison. I’ve watched you perform. I’ve performed by your side. I’ve sat in the room and watched you wrestle a song into submission after you crafted it out of thin air. You are one of the most talented musicians I know. And possibly the best songwriter working right now. Bobby knows this, that’s why he brought you in.”

  “But I’m not a singer,” I said, forcing back tears. “I am not Presley. I have zero sex appeal. I am not Nik. I have no swagger. I am going to get destroyed up there.”

  “No. You will not get destroyed. You are one of the hottest performers I’ve ever watched take the stage. So you don’t command it like Presley, no. Presley’s up there for Presley. She thrives on the audience attention. Hell, so does Dion, that’s why they front bands. But you? You’re there for the music. It lives in you; it breathes in you. You take all the ugly that life tosses your way and twist it into something beautiful. Soulful. And, baby, that is hot. It’s hot and very sexy.” I lifted my eyes and saw that his were like molten chocolate. “But if you aren’t careful, that shit can break you. You better believe I will make damn certain it doesn’t.”

  He reached across the small table and slipped his hand behind my head, cupping my neck. He pulled me to him, and his mouth touched mine. His lips were soft, and the kiss was gentle, almost hesitant. Not like the hungry ones we’d shared before. This one promised something entirely different.

  Then he broke the kiss and released my hand. He leaned back in his chair, the moment broken. I watched the soft orange light of the votive candles dance off the silverware and tried to take in all that he had said and what it meant. While his words filled my heart with hope, I didn’t trust my heart to make the right decision.

  “I found an apartment,” I blurted out.

  His eyes flashed. “Excuse me?”

  “A place to live,” I said. “For me.”

  Rafe’s eyes glittered with anger, but before he could respond, the waiter breezed over to our table, plates in hand. He placed my cauliflower and Rafe’s steak in front of us on the table.

  “Will there be anything else?” he asked.

  “No, thank you,” Rafe said.

  The waiter nodded. “Very good.”

  Rafe’s eyes followed the waiter’s back as he left us, then he turned to me. He didn’t look angry anymore. He looked pissed.

  “You have a place to live,” he said. “With me.”

  “That’s a place to crash.”

  “No, it’s a place to live.”

  “Rafe, I can’t sleep on your couch forever.”

  “You have yet to sleep on my couch,” he pointed out.

  I poked at my food. “No. But I’m not sleeping in my bed. It’s yours.”

  He tucked into his steak. “So tomorrow we buy a new bed.”

  My fork hovered in the air. “What?”

  “Tomorrow,” he said. “We’ll go try out new mattresses.”

  “Rafe, we are not trying out new mattresses.”

  “Okay, I’ll get one without you,” he said. “But you can’t complain about it.”

  “This is ludicrous,” I whispered into my plate to keep myself from screaming.

  “What’s so ludicrous?” he asked. “You want a bed that’s yours, I’m making that happen.”

  “That’s not how you fix this, Rafe,” I said, losing the battle to keep my voice quiet. “You can’t just buy a new mattress.”

  “Why not?” he asked around a mouthful of steak.

  “Because that’s not the point,” I said.

  “What is the point?” he asked.

  “I want my own space,” I lied.

  “For what?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Songwriting.”

  “Use the music room.”

  I watched him eat his steak, his eyes sparkling like he found our entire conversation amusing. “God, you are such an asshole.”

  “What?” he asked around a bite of his food.

  I delivered what I hoped would be the killing blow. “So I’m in your bed in LA and Reesie keeps one warm for you in New York?”

  His amusement faded. “It’s not like that.”

  “No?” I asked, stabbing the tines of my fork into a piece of cauliflower. “Sure seems like it is.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, I think I do,” I said, releasing my fork onto my plate with a clatter. “You sure dropped me fast when Reesie’s name showed up on your screen.”

  Bile rose in my throat as I relieved the humiliation of being cast aside during such an intimate moment.

  “Jett, please,” Rafe said, his voice low. “We need to talk about this.”

  “No,” I said, scrambling to my feet. “There’s nothing to say. I’m moving out and moving on. Thanks for dinner. Thanks for everything. I just need one more night, and then I’m out of your hair. You can go back to whatever it is you and Reesie are, unencumbered. Yeah?”

  Before he could answer, I turned on my heel and raced out of the restaurant. Only when I tumbled out the door did I realize that he didn’t bother to follow me.

  I hoofed down the busy sidewalk, dodging the crowds that were just beginning to form around the clubs. The giddy vibe in the air made me even angrier. Fueled by hurt and anger, I turned the corner and propelled my way up the hill toward the apartment building.

  This would be my last night at Rafe’s place, even if it meant I’d be sleeping on the sidewalk.


  22

  “Jesus, Rafe, it’s two in the morning,” I muttered, the doorframe to Rafe’s music room the only thing keeping me vertical.

  Exhausted from a long day capped off by an angry march uphill to the apartment, I’d passed out before I read a word of the book I had opened.

  And yes, in Rafe’s bed. If I said it was because of the Hästens mattress, would you believe me?

  “Did I wake you?” he asked.

  “What do you think?” I snapped back at him.

  He smiled in return. I moved into the room as his long fingers stroked the ivory keys. I looked over his shoulder at the music notes scribbled on the sheet music and plopped onto the bench beside him. His eyes were closed, as if he were reading a piece of music that existed only in his head.

  His touch on the keys started out delicate, but as the song’s intensity grew, his strong fingers pressed harder. When the music hit its crescendo, his furious fingers seemed to open the sky and unleash a torrent of rain, the crash of the piano keys a climax that replicated the thunder. Then his playing was soft again as, body swaying and eyes closed, he brought the song to a heartbreaking finish.

  Silence engulfed the apartment. I dabbed the corner of my eye with a knuckle, wiping away the tear before it escaped. The composition was that beautiful.

  “Gotcha, didn’t I?” Rafe’s teasing voice broke the quiet. His molten brown eyes were open, and he aimed them straight at me.

  “You did,” I admitted. Credit where it was due. “That’s a hell of a composition. What’d Dion and Nik say?”

  He shrugged, and his eyes flicked to the sheet music. “You’re the first one I’ve played it for.”

  “Really?” I asked. I pushed away the feeling of being someone special. It was no secret that Rafe respected my musical acumen. He’d wanted to test it out before he took it to his bandmates. That wasn’t weird.

  Still, something at the core of me stirred at the thought that I was the first to hear his music. It felt intimate.

  “It’s beautiful. Magnificent, really,” I said. His eyes dropped to the piano keys, and a blush creeped up his neck. “Am I embarrassing you?” I teased.

  He shrugged. “A little. I mean, no one’s called one of my pieces ‘magnificent.’ How many syllables is that, Beanpole?” He teased me right back.