Love Song

by Elle Greco

  I stacked the last plate in the rack to dry and picked up my beer. “Don’t buy it. Why would a label head want to get his own roster strung out?”

  “I mean, he didn’t,” Vivienne said. “But there are rumors about how hard Grimm pushes his artists.”

  “They’re not wrong,” Nikki said with a shake of her head. “I need physical therapy to keep my arms from blowing out. And we’re not even on tour. This is just studio shit.”

  “So, what if Kyle had problems with his arms?” Vivienne prompted.

  “Instead of physical therapy, he opted for painkillers, like Jordan tried to push on Nik,” I finished.

  “And on Grimm’s demand, so that Kyle would deliver,” Vivienne said. “Boom. Now you’ve got an artist hooked on Oxy.”

  “But how did he even drum?” I asked.

  “There are plenty of people who pick up an Oxy addiction and you’d never really know it,” Vivienne said. “It’s called high functioning.”

  “He didn’t,” Nikki said. She tossed a partially eaten slice of pizza onto her plate. “It was just as the band was taking off. Hours and hours in the studio, cutting that album. Grimm lording over them, demanding perfection. Vince pushing them to deliver. Kyle’s drumming got more and more erratic—that’s why they called me in to overlay new beats. He wasn’t keeping up.”

  “If he was addicted to the pills, eventually he would have graduated to H,” Vivienne said. “Grimm may as well have been the one who stuck that needle in his arm.”

  The blood drained out of Nikki’s face, and she leaned against the counter for support. It was a lot to take in in the best of circumstances, but Nikki could have died because of what that asshole slipped her. And Kyle did die. He was an addict, but only after Grimm’s guy hooked him.

  “Nik,” I said, my voice quiet. “Grimm can’t kill off his artist roster, that’s madness. It’s gotta be just talk.”

  “Yeah. It’s just rumors, people talking,” Vivienne said. Her eyes slid to me, and she grimaced.

  I swung my head to the futon, still in pieces on the floor. “Come on, Nik, can you help us put this thing together? I’d love to not sleep on the floor tonight.”

  Nikki took a deep breath and nodded. “Let’s get this done.”

  26

  “Where are you?” Rafe’s voice was stern in my ear.

  I pulled the phone away and checked the time. “Dammit, Rafe, it’s after midnight,” I grumbled.

  “Exactly why I’m asking the question. Which I’ll repeat. Where are you?”

  “I was sleeping,” I lied. I was tossing and turning. Going from Rafe’s ridiculously expensive, ridiculously comfortable mattress to an Ikea futon was a biting slap back to reality.

  “I’m looking at my bed, and you’re not in it. So where are you sleeping?”

  “I told you about the apartment.”

  Silence.

  I leaned up on my elbows. LA’s blue-hued streetlights and the light from the moon washed the apartment in cyan.

  “Rafe?” I asked.

  “I’m here,” he said.

  I sat all the way up and pulled my knees to my chest. “Can we talk about it tomorrow?”

  “We’re going to talk about it tonight,” he growled.

  “Jesus, Rafe, I’m exhausted.”

  “I last saw you and Vivienne leaving the recording booth to go pick out outfits or some shit—”

  “We picked out outfits,” I said.

  “So, I’m not getting how you go from doing your thing with Vivienne to renting an apartment?”

  “It just kind of happened,” I said.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “Contract’s signed. I got the check.”

  “You got the check?”

  More silence, but I would not be the one to break it this time. I flopped back onto my futon, wincing when I hit the wood frame through the thin mattress.

  Fine. I missed Rafe’s luxe mattress. Not like I’d admit that to him though.

  Rafe caved first. “Okay, so you got the check. I don’t get how you go from the recording studio, to whatever the fuck with Vivienne, to some apartment that didn’t exist a week ago.”

  I laid one arm over my eyes. “Mike called and told me that Bobby’s first payment was transferred into my account. My landlord’s lawyer had sent the lease over earlier that day, Mike looked at it, I signed it, and I handed a check over to her. Boom. I moved in.”

  “Just like that?” he asked.

  “That’s how it works, Rafe,” I said. More silence. This time I gave in. “It’s not like I had a lot of shit to begin with. Vivienne took me to your place, and I grabbed my stuff. Then we hit Ikea—”

  “Ikea?” His voice held a measure of disbelief.

  “Yes, Rafe, Ikea, the furniture store of the hoi polloi.”

  He burst out laughing. “So, you’re what? Sleeping on an Ikea futon?”

  I rolled onto my side and stared at the wall. “Actually… yes.”

  “Babe,” he said.

  “What?” I snapped.

  “A futon?”

  “I have my own place for the first time, paid for with money I earned. It may not be a luxury high-rise with a ten-thousand-dollar bed, but it’s mine. Paid for by me. Not my daddy.”

  I cringed. As soon as I said it, I wanted to take it back. That was a low blow. Rafe’s money came partly from his dad’s royalty share from Anthem. I was pretty certain that Vince had kicked over a little now and again, especially when Rogue Nation was just starting out. But Rafe was pretty self-sufficient.

  “I’m sorry, that was a lousy thing to say,” I said, my voice lower. “But this is my first place. All mine. And you’re shitting all over it.”

  “You’re right,” he said. “But I don’t like the idea of you on your own. Where the hell are you anyway? I don’t even know where this place is.”

  “On Melrose, just off La Cienega,” I said.

  “On Melrose? Off La Cienega?” he repeated. “Where in the fuck is there an apartment building over there?”

  “It’s not an apartment building. It’s above a bookstore,” I said.

  “Above a bookstore?”

  “Do you need to repeat everything I say?”

  “I just expected… So, what? It’s a walk-up?”

  I rolled onto my back and stared at the rough texture of the stucco ceiling. “Yes, Rafe, it’s a walk-up.”

  “I’m coming over.”

  “You can bring coffee tomorrow morning,” I said. In the rush to get something to sleep on, I’d forgotten to buy a coffee maker. It was stupid.

  “I’m not waiting until tomorrow.”

  “Rafe, please, you’ll wake up Lydon.”

  “Lydon?”

  Whoops.

  “I know exactly where you are. I’ll be there in ten.”

  Disconnect.

  I bolted upright in bed. Tonight’s pajamas of choice was a simple dove-gray slip. It wasn’t flashy, and I loved the elegance of it. There wasn’t anything tight about it, but that made it almost more revealing. Where the fabric dipped and flowed hinted at the promise of what lie beneath.

  I stupidly didn’t bring one of Rafe’s shirts with me. But then again, I was in my own studio apartment, living by myself—I could parade around naked if I wanted. Well, I could parade around naked once I figured out what to do with the windows. There was a second-floor office across the street, and they could see directly into my place.

  I pawed through my duffle bag—once Nik got my futon together, I had been too exhausted to finish unpacking—and came up with a Nickelback concert T-shirt.

  Don’t judge. Somehow Mom had gotten us invited along on part of their tour through two states. And those two states were two of the big ones. I had been young, so I remembered little from it, but what I remembered was good. There hadn’t been much in the way of partying. They were family guys and had hung out with us kids, teaching us poker and gin rummy and letting us win. They were some of the nice ones. />
  Probably why Pamela lasted only two states. She liked the hell-raisers. Nickelback was not that.

  The T-shirt was a small, since I was a kid when I’d gotten it, so it didn’t reach beyond my midriff. Still, I felt less naked with this on too, and it was one of the few clean tops I had left. I made a mental note to do laundry tomorrow.

  My cell phone chirped, and I jumped.

  Rafe.

  “Did you change your mind?” I asked.

  “There’s no intercom system. No buzzer.”

  Shit, he was downstairs. Already. “What, did you take a hovercraft here?”

  “Roads were empty, straight shot down,” he said. “There’s no intercom.”

  “Lydon hasn’t gotten around to it yet.”

  “That’s not safe,” he said.

  “Okay, Officer McGruff.”

  “You gonna let me in?” he asked.

  I paused. I could just let him sit out there.

  “That’s cool. I’ll just call Lydon.”

  Shit. Of course he had her number.

  “Is there anyone you don’t know?” I hissed at him. “I’ll be right down.”

  I stepped into my flip-flops and marched out of the apartment and down the staircase to open the door. Then I turned around and marched right back upstairs, Rafe behind me.

  As I went, I realized that this had not been a great idea. The slip was short. He could probably see right up it.

  Whatever.

  We hooked up. He’d had way more of an eyeful than this.

  I forced it out of my mind.

  Instead, I summoned the courage to lay out some truth bombs. It was time to stop pretending that we were anything but… What were we? We were never really stepsiblings. We were never really lovers. A couple of hookups didn’t make us that.

  We were friends. Friends with benefits maybe, but that had to change.

  I wanted Rafe in my life. But at a distance, where my heart was safe.

  I reached the landing, and he followed me into my apartment, closing the door behind him. Suddenly, three hundred square feet felt tiny.

  I turned to face him, ready to tell him that what happened between us was an accident, a mistake. He was free to go back to his hedonistic lifestyle. I was considering a convent.

  “I’m not fucking around, Jett,” he said. “You can’t stay here without some basic security in place.”

  “Jesus, Rafe, it’s fine,” I huffed. “Lydon’s getting the intercom sorted.”

  He glanced around the apartment. “So, this is the place? It’s tight.”

  “I prefer intimate.”

  His eyes did a slow sweep of my body. “Me too.”

  God!

  “That’s not what I meant,” I told him.

  He squinted at my chest. “Are you wearing a Nickelback T-shirt?”

  I leaned against the counter, crossed my arms, and ignored that question. “Why are you here, Rafe?”

  “Because you didn’t come home,” he said.

  “Your apartment isn’t home.”

  “Okay, then what can we do to make my apartment your home?” he asked.

  “You could move out,” I suggested.

  His laugh filled the tiny space, and my body heated. All the bravado I’d channeled while climbing up the stairs seeped out and puddled on the floor.

  When he stopped laughing, his chocolate-brown eyes met mine, and the humor in them disappeared. Instead, they turned to molten lava.

  “Jett, come home,” he said.

  Both hands cradled the back of my neck. He pressed his forehead to mine. My front teeth sank into my lower lip, and I closed my eyes.

  “Look at me, Jett,” he said. My lids fluttered open. “I don’t know what you think is going on between us. Or not going on between us.”

  “Rafe,” I whispered.

  “I get that you’ve had a rough go of it, and that’s messed with your head,” he continued. My eyes, now wet, closed again. “Look at me, Jett.”

  I opened my eyes with a sigh.

  His thumbs stroked my jawline. “That is why we work. We’ve both slayed demons, baby, and come out the other side. Our weapon’s our music. We feel deep and put it all into our music rather than risk our hearts.”

  “But, Rafe,” I started again. His thumbs moved to my lips, where he gently pressed to silence me.

  “Almost done. I need to get this out,” he said. I had a feeling I needed to brace myself for it. “I’m done playing this cat-and-mouse shit with you. We’re explosive together—our music, our bodies, our sex. You’re it, Jett. I want you in my home, I need you in my bed. And I’m not letting your fear get in the way of our magic. It’s too raw, too real. I need you.”

  My hands pressed against his solid chest, and I forced myself to breathe again, his words, their meaning, scoring deep into me. My forehead leaned into his, and my eyes filled with tears.

  Could I do this? The past six months, Rafe and I had grown close, there was no arguing that. And yes, I wanted him, wanted this, but I needed it to be more than a flight of fancy. I needed to be on my own two feet. I needed to prove that I, Jett Benson, could carry my own career without the help of Rafe or my sisters.

  “My life had a path, and Pamela blasted it to smithereens,” I said. “You were there, helping me pick up the pieces. You helped me rebuild my life, and for that I am so grateful.”

  “Jett, don’t.” His tone held a warning.

  I placed a gentle kiss on his lips to silence him. “You are my hero,” I said, and tears leaked from my eyes. I gathered up my courage and kept going. “I am so grateful for everything you’ve done to help me—”

  “So what was that last night? Gratitude?” he bit out, the gold flecks in his eyes flaring.

  “No, last night was beautiful. It was everything I had dreamed of.” The words spilled out before I could stop them.

  “Then what the fuck are we even doing here?” he asked.

  “You need someone different.”

  “What are you talking about? I need you,” he said.

  “You need someone more… more…”

  “More what? You can’t even think of what that more is, because you know that it’s you.”

  “No, it’s not, Rafe.” My voice was now raised. I shoved him back and skirted around him, pacing the tiny apartment to keep from bursting into tears. “You think you feel all these things, but I am not glamorous, I am not a woman you can parade around town with, who gets into gossip columns or fans the flames of celebrity—”

  “What are you even talking about?” he asked.

  “I’m talking about the game, Rafe, the game,” I said, my voice louder still. “I refuse to play it. I don’t give a shit what Bobby says.”

  “What Bobby says? What the fuck does Bobby have to do with us?”

  “Everything!” Now I was yelling. “Bobby has everything to do with us. With this. I’m sorry, Rafe. I am not risking my heart for a stab at stardom.”

  “Girl, you are bent,” he said.

  “I am not bent, I am honest,” I snapped.

  “You think this is honest?” he asked, his voice now as loud as mine. “You are so full of shit you’re just making things up to avoid what you know is the truth, the truth of us.”

  “There is no us,” I said, the pain of that realization searing me straight through my heart. I pressed my hand into my chest, as if that could stop the building ache there.

  “You believe that, Jett?” he asked, his voice thick. “Is that what you feel? Get out of your head and tell me what you feel.”

  “I can’t,” I whispered.

  He stared at me for a good long while. Each second of silence widened the gap between us until I didn’t think we’d ever be able to bridge it.

  “No, Jett, you’re very wrong,” Rafe said, his voice quiet. “It’s not that you can’t. It’s that you won’t.”

  “Rafe,” I started, but since it was a minuscule apartment, he was out the door before I could get another w
ord out. I stared at the floor, tears welling in my eyes, and listened to his footfalls down the staircase. My body jolted when the front door closed with a slam.

  “Jett?”

  Lydon’s gentle growl prompted me to look up. Her eyes were hooded with sleep.

  “Shit, sorry,” I mumbled, swiping at my eyes. “I didn’t mean to wake you. Did we wake up Charlie?”

  “Nah, my boy can sleep through an earthquake,” she said. She stepped out of her doorframe and leaned against mine. “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” I said, letting out a long breath. “Just, you know, overwhelmed.”

  She tilted her head. “I’ll bet.”

  “He’s just being Rafe.”

  “That boy’s got a big heart, you know,” Lydon said. “Just like his dad.”

  “You knew his dad?” I asked.

  “Hell yeah, had a big old crush on him too,” she said, her lips tipping up into a gentle smile. “Chris was so good-looking. That’s where Rafe gets it from. Tall, built. Rafe’s leaner, he gets that from his mum. But the same eyes. Those beautiful brown eyes framed by the lushest lashes. Women pay good money for lashes like that.”

  I smiled despite myself. “Rafe’s eyes are pretty stunning.”

  Lydon hit me with a knowing look and then continued, “I was so young. There was a party, a record release party for Anthem maybe? It was at the Whisky. Enormous crowd, lots of booze, even more cleavage. Chris was a little older. Not much, but enough, you know? I think I was sixteen, maybe fifteen. I was young.”

  As Lydon talked, I made my way to the futon and sat down cross-legged, taking in her story. Rafe was young when his dad died, and it was a topic he rarely broached. That Lydon had known him was fascinating.

  “I flirted mercilessly with him,” she said, pushing a strand of hair behind her ears. “Me and a bunch of other pretty young things. But he only had eyes for Penny.”

  “Penny?” I asked.

  Lydon laughed softly. “Sorry, Courtney. A bunch of jealous bitches called her Penny, like a Penny Lane? It meant a hang about.”

  “Ah,” I said. “Like Pamela.”

  Lydon smirked. “Courtney was pregnant at the time. I remember being, like, ‘Damn, she’s pregnant?’ Shocked, you know. She barely showed, she was like a runway model. Tall, thin,” she said. “Skittish too. She reminded me of a doe—big eyes, spindly as all hell, and easily spooked. I think that’s why Chris was so dazzled. I don’t know if he loved her so much as he wanted to take care of her.”