MUSES AND MELODIES

by Yarros, Rebecca

  Usually, it was sung a key lower, in Jonas’s register, but tonight, Nixon played it just as he’d written it—for his voice.

  My lips parted as he started to sing. I was familiar enough with his voice to pick it out of a crowd—he always sang backup for Jonas, and even took lead on a song or two, but never this one. Never this way.

  He’d slowed the usually upbeat melody, turning it into a poignant ballad about falling in love with someone you knew you’d never keep but couldn’t help but fight for anyway.

  It was the ultimate song for the dreamers, and I was probably the only person in the audience who knew it hadn’t been written for a woman but for the music industry.

  For what he’d hoped it would be when they signed their first contract.

  And as he sang the last line, I felt it in every beat of my heart.

  He picked out the last notes, and the crowd roared in applause—if a crowd this small was capable of roaring.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Peter clapping, and it hit me. I’d been waiting to feel accomplished—to feel like I made it so I could prove him wrong—but I already had.

  “I graduated top of my class,” I said, getting his attention.

  “What?” He gave me that same dismissive look he always had, but this time I didn’t try to make myself more interesting to keep his attention, like I had all through high school.

  “I graduated top of my class, which earned me an interview at Berkshire Management. My boss took me on with one caveat—that I follow through on my plans for law school on my own time, and I did. I specialize in entertainment law and passed the bar two months ago, not just in Washington but in California too.”

  Peter blinked, his brow furrowing.

  “I love my life, and I have nothing to prove to you.” I turned my attention to Nixon and met him as he came off stage, slipping the guitar strap over his head. “Amazing,” I told him.

  “A little bird told me you liked that song.” The smile he gave me turned my insides to a puddle of mush.

  “That was great!” Peter said, stepping forward to take his guitar.

  “Tuned her up for you. Thanks for letting me borrow her.” He handed the guitar over.

  “That E is stubborn,” Peter grumbled.

  “Not when you warm her up right.” Nixon lifted a brow.

  Peter paled.

  “And we’re leaving!” I announced, taking Nixon’s hand and pulling him away.

  “Not yet,” he protested with a glimmer in his eyes. “I bought cakes.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You bid on cakes. It’s impossible to buy them outright.”

  “You’ll see.” He swiped his tongue over his lower lip, and I fought the urge to taste it myself. That kiss hadn’t been the real thing. It had been a calculated maneuver on his part to save me from myself.

  An hour and a half later, bundled up against the cold, my mother’s hand flew to her mouth as the highest cake bid was announced.

  Nixon had bid ten thousand dollars for Mom’s cake.

  My face slackened as I stared at him, feeling another crack in my defenses cleave into a canyon.

  “Suck it, Mrs. Whitcomb,” he muttered with a smirk, right before my mother hugged him, then lectured him, then hugged him again.

  I knew this side of Nixon wouldn’t stay at the surface for long, that it was only visible because he was fresh out of rehab. Because he was sober. Because there weren’t paparazzi and models and half-naked groupies in his dressing room. I knew it was temporary, but instead of scaring me, it only made me feel like this glimpse of what he could be was private…precious.

  And God help me, I wanted it to be permanent.

  I wanted him to be real.

  7

  NIXON

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” I muttered, striking through the last two chord progressions I’d written and ripping the page from the notebook. There was nothing remarkable about them, which meant they landed in the heap of similarly crumpled papers in the trash can at my feet.

  I set the pencil down on the table, then strummed an A minor seven, bringing it to an E as I looked out the massive window that showcased the landscape of the Rockies. I couldn’t imagine a more picturesque setting to write a song. The skies were bluer than anywhere I’d ever been, and the mountains were painted in gold with autumn aspen leaves. This place was enough to inspire symphonies, and yet here I was, struggling to get out a few simple songs.

  Another breathtaking view walked into my line of sight, and my heartbeat kicked up a notch. Zoe set a piece of chocolate cake down next to me, offered me a ghost of a smile, and retreated toward the kitchen. She knew the cardinal rule of my writing time: never talk to me while writing.

  To my unexplainable disappointment, she honored it, but then again, she always followed the rules.

  My eyes followed the curve of her ass as she walked away.

  Rules had always been more like guidelines to me.

  I’d kissed her yesterday. It wasn’t something I’d planned, but I couldn’t bring myself to regret it either. Fuck, she’d tasted good—like cider but sweeter—and I’d fallen into her like an all-night bender, with complete abandon and zero thoughts to the consequences.

  My fingers moved over the strings as I replayed that kiss in my head. The shock that had been obvious in the set of her lips had evaporated as she’d kissed me back, and our chemistry… I’d never felt anything that intense from something so innocent in my life.

  I wanted to feel it again.

  My hands moved, physically manifesting the melody that drifted through my mind. The music came first—it always did. The lyrics would follow, putting words to the emotion, but without the music they were nothing, just pretty poetry. It was the notes, the lows that swelled in tone and then pitch that brought the listener to their feet…or their knees, all depending on my mood.

  I scribbled down the chord progression and tablature, then tinkered with it a bit as my stomach grumbled. Right, I’d skipped lunch.

  Which was probably why Zoe had brought me cake.

  I set my guitar down on her padded stand, then dug into the cake. Zoe’s mom was one hell of a baker. The chocolate melted against my tongue, and before I forked in a second bite, I was on the hunt for milk.

  I had the refrigerator door open when Zoe walked in, and I forgot all about what I was looking for.

  “Hey,” she said, setting an empty glass on the counter. “Everything going okay in there?”

  “Yeah,” I answered, shutting the stainless-steel door.

  We stared at each other across the expanse of the island, and the air between us shifted, growing thicker with every second we held the contact. She was so damned beautiful. So kissable. So beyond my reach for so many different reasons I couldn’t even start to number them.

  Staff. She’s on the staff. I repeated the mantra three times, trying to remember why it was I couldn’t act on my craving for her.

  “So…” She tilted her head.

  “So.” We’d danced around each other all morning, but there was no avoiding the impending conversation. I opened my mouth, then shut it. This was supposed to be easy, right? Then why was it so hard to say the words—to cut myself off from something I hadn’t even realized I wanted, but now…

  “So, I think it goes without saying that what happened last night can’t happen again,” she stated, like she was going over today’s agenda.

  “Right,” I said slowly.

  “I mean, it was just for Peter’s sake, anyway.” She tucked her hair behind her ears.

  “Right,” I repeated. That’s how it had started, but how it had finished was something entirely different, and we both knew it…at least, I thought we both had.

  “And it’s not like there’s any chance that we would actually…” She lifted her eyebrows.

  “Right.” Why the fuck did I say that? I didn’t even know what she was going to finish that sentence with, and I’d agreed?

  It’s for the
best. Let it go. That was the mature response.

  “So, we’re okay?” She tugged her lower lip between her teeth.

  “Right.” I nodded. No wonder I couldn’t write a song. I had a one-word vocabulary at the moment.

  “Good talk.” She gave me a thumbs-up but stopped short of rolling her eyes at me.

  “It’s fine. We’re fine. It was just a kiss.” I gripped the edge of the counter.

  “Absolutely,” she agreed. “It’s not like we slept together.” She cringed. “Not that we would…or that you’d even be interested. I know I’m not—” She slammed her eyes shut, pressed her lips into a tight line, and rubbed her forehead. “I’m just going to stop talking.”

  Interested? That word didn’t begin to cover the fantasies I’d had about her, but saying that was going to get us both into a shit ton of trouble, so I kept my mouth shut, exercising some of that self-control my therapist was always harping on me about.

  “Let’s just forget it happened.” She sighed.

  “Okay.” There was exactly zero chance of that happening. None.

  Her eyes widened for a flash, but she quickly shook her head and straightened her spine. “Fine. Look, the San Francisco show is next week, and I just need to know where we’re going to be.”

  “In San Francisco.” The thought of it being this awkward between us for the remainder of our time together was enough to have me reaching for a glass. Milk, I remembered. I’d come in for milk.

  “No shit,” she retorted. “I’m asking where I need to make travel arrangements from. Are we still going to be here?” She tucked her hair behind her ears again, even though it hadn’t fallen forward.

  I bet that hair would feel like silk sliding over my stomach.

  “I booked the ranch out through February,” I said as I poured myself a glass of milk. I’d have to cut the dairy in the next few days for the show—it always clogged up my voice.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yep.” I put the milk away and turned to face Zoe, who looked like I’d just told her aliens were landing in the backyard. “I need to get these songs written, and I like it here. So far, I’d say ninety-eight percent of the population is pretty great. There are no fans at my door, no groupies pouring tequila onto their breasts and declaring ‘body shots,’ and no party invitations that I have to come up with excuses to turn down. It’s pretty much sober-living heaven since I don’t even know where the liquor store is.” Not that I couldn’t look it up on my phone.

  “Ninety-eight percent?” she challenged, lifting an eyebrow.

  “I’d say I’ve probably met about a hundred people between the diner, the grocery store, shopping, and the Fall Festival.” I shrugged. “So, there’s just your douchebag ex and his socially obsessed wife, who, I might add, was the only person in this entire town to post a video online of me singing last night.” The fact that it was only one person posting blew me away. If I’d pulled that shit in Seattle, it would have been caught and shared by at least half that audience.

  Just another reason I liked it here.

  She cringed. “I was hoping you might not see that.”

  “At least I look good.” A smirk lifted my lips.

  “And sound good,” she noted with a little smile. “In all the years I’ve worked for the band, I’ve never heard you play an acoustic set, let alone an acoustic guitar, and yet that’s the only one you brought with us.” She walked past me, opening the fridge and taking out the apple juice to refill her own glass.

  “We’ve never been an acoustic set band.” It was always something I’d wanted to try but had never brought up.

  “Doesn’t mean you can’t be.” She lifted the glass to her lips and drank. “The video is getting around. I might even call it viral.”

  “Is it?” I wanted to be that glass.

  Our eyes locked again. Regardless of our conversation, the tension between us hadn’t dissipated—it had tightened like a bow string right before you nocked an arrow.

  She broke first, studying her glass. “Right. So, I’ll make the arrangements for San Francisco. I’m assuming you want to charter a private flight out of Gunnison?”

  “That sounds fine.” Usually, we’d take Quinn’s plane, but since we were scattered across the United States now, that wouldn’t work out. “But I don’t want to stay the night.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Ethan sent over the schedule already, and sound check is pretty early.”

  I gritted my teeth. The longer we were surrounded by my vices, the more likely I was to indulge in them. “Fine, then we can stay the night before, but I want out of there as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll make it happen.”

  I nodded, knowing she would. Then I headed back to my guitar in hope I hadn’t lost what inspiration had struck earlier, but all I could think about was the gig.

  The booze. The girls. The drugs. The fucked-up decisions…they all went hand in hand with the shows. It was always the same. My emotions rose, the memories flared, and I took a shot to steady my nerves—that’s how it started.

  “Always” needed to become “used to,” and next week, we’d know if that was possible.

  * * *

  Two nights later, I cursed as I fumbled through the kitchen cabinets, holding my phone up as a flashlight so I didn’t wake Zoe.

  Yesterday, she’d bought that same tea she’d given me in Seattle. I knew it was around here somewhere, and since I’d pinned all my hopes for getting back to sleep on that little box, I needed to find it. The teakettle was already full and heating on the burner behind me.

  The dream tonight had felt real. They always did to some degree, but tonight I’d woken up covered in sweat, my neck arched, and my muscles straining against a villain who only existed in my memories.

  Let me help. That’s what she’d said in real life. She’d found a bag of frozen peas and wrapped it in a dishtowel, then held it against my cheek. In my dream, she’d been on the floor, her curls matted and red, staring at me through lifeless eyes.

  Fuck, I wanted a drink. I wanted anything that would block out the dream and help shove the memories back in the little locked box I tried my best to keep them in.

  But I couldn’t take the drink, because I wouldn’t stop at one. I couldn’t refill the Xanax prescription or the Ambien. The only thing I could do was make some goddamned tea, and I couldn’t even find the box.

  I knocked something out of the cabinet, and it fell to the granite beneath, shattering.

  “Fuck!”

  Sure enough, a moment later, the hall light came on, then the kitchen light blared overhead, harsh and brutally bright.

  “What are you doing?” Zoe asked, her cheeks pink with sleep.

  “Stay there,” I barked over my shoulder. “I broke something, and I don’t want you to get cut.” There was sugar all over the counter, and little shards of crystal lay scattered from the granite to the floor.

  The teakettle started to whistle.

  “You stay there,” Zoe ordered, walking around the island to take the water off the stove. “You’re the one who’s barefoot...and shirtless. At least I have on slippers.”

  “A shirt isn’t going to help this situation, and I’m not just going to stand here while you clean up my mess.” I brushed the sugar and glass into my open palm as she grabbed the broom and dustpan.

  “That’s exactly what you’re going to do.” She swept around my feet, and as soon as I had a path, I dumped the contents of my hand into the trash can.

  “Shit.” She hissed.

  I turned to see her on the floor, cradling her hand. My stomach twisted at the thin line of blood just below her thumb. “Zoe. Damn it.” I came up behind her and scooped her up beneath her arms, turning so I could sit her on the island. “I told you not to clean up my mess.”

  “That’s literally my job,” she snapped. “And it’s not bad. See?”

  “What I see is you bleeding because I couldn’t find the damned tea. Just…stay there. And thi
s time, I mean it.” I pointed at her, like that would help, then grabbed the first aid kit from where I’d seen it in the downstairs bathroom.

  “It’s not that bad,” she repeated as I came back. “Just needs a Band-Aid.”

  I put the kit on the counter and snapped open the lid, then glanced at the blood that welled along the cut. “Let me help.”

  Let me help. It was her voice I heard now, reminding me that when she’d been the one to need it, I hadn’t been there. The blood on Zoe’s hand was the same shade as the curly hair in my dream. My chest tightened as I fought the urge to let the box fly open, fought the urge to stand in that kitchen and scream at the injustice of a world that allowed someone like me to live, but not—

  “Nixon?” Zoe prompted softly.

  I blinked, bringing her face into focus, using the startling green of her eyes to ground me.

  “It’s okay,” she whispered. “I don’t like blood either.” She plucked a bandage from the container, cleaned the cut with an alcohol pad, then dressed it herself. Calm. Efficient. Steady.

  Everything I wasn’t.

  “Good as new.” She flashed a smile, but when she moved to jump from the counter, I gripped her warm hips over the thin shorts of her pajamas.

  “Stay put.” I finished cleaning up the glass, and only when I was certain there was nothing left that could cut her, I nodded. “Okay. It’s good.”

  She slid off the island, then grabbed the box of tea from the cabinet next to the one I’d been ransacking. Without asking if that’s the one I had been looking for, she prepared two cups and set them on the counter, then brought the honey over.

  “Does it hurt?” I asked as the tea steeped, motioning to her hand.

  “No.” She shook her head, her hair sweeping softly over her bare shoulders.

  “I’m so sorry.” That tank top was going to be the death of me if I stared too long, so I focused on the cups in front of us.

  “Better me than you,” she said with a little laugh, hopping back up to sit on the island.

  “Don’t say that,” I snapped. Our gazes collided.

  “It’s true.” Her eyebrows rose.