Whatever he heard in my voice made him stop in his tracks. He frowned at me. “You don’t remember getting here?”
I shook my head.
He frowned harder. “I explained last night but you were pretty out of it. This,” he gestured around the room, “is a one-bed flat that belongs to the record label. We own a few flats in this building so we have places to put up our artists. The record label’s building is about a twenty-minute walk down the river bank from here.”
For some weird reason, I felt utter relief that I wasn’t in O’Dea’s apartment. It was bad enough that he pretty much blackmailed me in exchange for his help. I didn’t want his charity. He’d made it clear that this was only business between us and I’d prefer it to remain that way.
“Discombobulating.” He looked impressed. “Big word. Glad to see what’s left of your faculties are still intact.”
“What’s left of my faculties?”
“You’re a multimillionaire, Skylar, and you’ve been sleeping on the streets. That doesn’t exactly say you’re in possession of all your faculties. Now eat something before taking the painkillers,” he said as he reached into a cupboard and pulled out a little white bag I assumed my meds were in. Then he turned back to the carrier bag he’d put on the counter and began pulling out groceries, including milk and eggs. “Do you like omelet?”
I could try to kill him, or I could eat. Choices, choices.
I hadn’t had an omelet in a while and killing him would be messy. “Omelet’s fine. Although I take mine with a pinch less condescension.”
He shrugged out of the smart wool blazer he wore and threw it over the back of the couch. Gesturing toward it, he said, “Sit.”
I made a face but still light-headed, I sat. Watching him as he moved around the kitchen, I felt a begrudging gratefulness despite his patronizing aloofness. Even though this was just business, he had helped me out last night. And the bed I’d slept in must’ve been like a cloud because as far as I could remember, I hadn’t dreamt at all. I’d fallen into a deep sleep. For the first time in weeks I hadn’t been woken up by birdsong and bitter cold temperatures. I’d been warm and safe. Because of him.
“Thanks.”
O’Dea shot me a look as he pulled out a mixing bowl from a cupboard on the island. “Did you promise to audition for me?”
“I did.”
“When you made that promise, I didn’t know your wrist was broken.”
“Fractured. A hairline fracture.” I didn’t have to add, “Your point?” My tone did that for me.
He shrugged. “Same thing. The doctor says it could take up to a month, maybe more, until your cast can come off. That means it’s going to be weeks before you’re ready to play the guitar again.”
Watching as he poured cream cheese into the mixing bowl along with some herbs, annoyed that he hadn’t asked if I liked cream cheese, I tried to keep the disdain out of my voice. “And?”
“You’re going to audition today. Acapella. It might even be better this way. If you can impress me without actual music, then I know I’m onto something good.”
I was quiet a moment, trying to calm myself. Still, my words came out like they were soaked in battery acid. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
O’Dea didn’t flinch as he put butter on a hot pan and then proceeded to beat eggs into the herby, cheesy mixture. Not looking up at me, he replied blandly, “I’m a businessman, Skylar. This is business. I’m not giving you time to wallow over what happened to you or to overthink our agreement. We’ll get the audition out of the way and then we can go from there.”
“You’re not even going to give me a day to rest? I feel like I’ve been hit by a Mack Truck and I’m pretty sure I look like it took the time to reverse and flatten me afterward.”
“I’m sure you do,” he responded in his annoyingly calm voice.
“You know your sympathy is truly overwhelming.”
“Are you always this sarcastic?”
“I’m not auditioning for you today.”
“You’ll feel better once you’ve eaten. And you are auditioning for me today.” He looked over at me with that familiar hardness etching his features. He didn’t deserve such beautiful eyes. They belonged to a man who was warm and charming. Not this cold ass. “There will be plenty of time for you to rest once we know where you and I stand. It’s better for everyone if we get this audition over with.”
“Better for you, you mean.”
“No.” He sighed. “Skylar, if I don’t want to sign you, you’ll need to go home. If I do want to sign you, we’ll need to discuss what happens from there. Better to come to an understanding quickly, considering your visa is about to expire.”
“I’m not going home.” I was horrified he’d even suggest it.
“Like I said, audition first.”
Butterflies woke in my belly as my mind whirled. What would I do? I had no money. Of course, I could get access to money but that would mean alerting Adam who would alert Gayle who would alert the band. They would come for me and I’d have to let them. There was absolutely no way I could go back to living on the streets. I suddenly believed it would eventually kill me.
I had wanted to hide. I didn’t want to die.
“Stop thinking so hard,” O’Dea said, pushing a plate over the counter toward one of the stools. My stomach grumbled and as if tethered to the plate of hot food, I had no other choice but to go to it.
O’Dea pushed a glass of fresh orange juice toward me too, and still standing began eating his own omelet.
It was delicious.
“I’d give you more but the doc suggested we increase your food intake incrementally. So we’re using Autumn’s omelet recipe.”
“Autumn?”
“My sister. She likes to cook. She’s taught me a thing or two.”
Oh. Somehow it seemed odd to me that O’Dea had family. He seemed like the kind of man who was a lone wolf.
“I ate,” I said. “I wasn’t starving myself. I just couldn’t eat well because I had to eat cheap.”
He nodded, like he understood. He didn’t understand. No one could unless they’d been in my situation.
“The omelet is good,” I offered reluctantly when the silence felt too heavy.
But it was followed by more silence, the only sounds between us that of cutlery on plates and the soft sipping sounds of us drinking. I could barely finish the omelet, not used to eating something so substantial in the morning. O’Dea’s brows pinched together as he took my plate, but he didn’t say anything.
“I need a shower.”
“There’s an en suite in the bedroom. Fresh towels, soap, shampoo and conditioner in there too.” He reached into the carrier bag on the counter and pulled out a brand-new electric toothbrush and tube of toothpaste. He offered them and feeling a little unbalanced by the gesture, I took them. “There’s a hair dryer in the bathroom as well. Your backpack is in the bedroom.”
I nodded, not quite able to thank him again after the last attempt.
“I’ll be out here when you’re done. We’ll get straight to the audition.”
And suddenly I didn’t care about thanking him. Throwing him a look of disgust, I disappeared into the bedroom and slammed the door behind me.
Unfortunately, a few minutes later, I had to come out of the room again. I found him sitting on the couch, drinking coffee, and scrolling through something on his phone. O’Dea looked up at me with an eyebrow quirk. I hated that eyebrow quirk.
I lifted my wrist with the cast. “I need something to cover this.”
Without saying a word, he got up, put his coffee and phone down on the island, and rummaged through one of the large drawers beside the range. He turned around with cling-film in his hands and gestured me to come to him with an odious curl of his finger. Internally huffing, I strode over to him and held out my wrist.
“This place is pretty well stocked,” I grumbled.
“We like to make sure every need is catered to.”
I harrumphed.
Then O’Dea triple-wrapped my cast with such gentleness, it stunned me silent.
I was still standing holding out my arm while he put the cling-film away. I frowned at his back, puzzled by his complexity. That is until he turned around and gave me that eyebrow again.
Just like that I was back to being annoyed and desperate to get out of his company.
My building resentment toward him only increased the moment I saw my reflection in the bathroom mirror.
How the hell could he look at me like this and demand that I audition?
Bluish bruising covered my puffed-up, swollen eye and upper cheek. My lower lip was swollen on one side where it had split. And underneath the injuries, my cheekbones cut sharply against my pale skin. The shoulders of my T-shirt hung down on my arms because my shoulders were too small for it.
I looked like a battered waif.
Skylar Finch was no more.
My intent had been to let her go. Let her disappear. Instead it looked like I’d starved and beaten her out of existence. If I let it, the shame and guilt would overwhelm me.
So I couldn’t let it.
It was better to turn that anger toward Killian O’Dea. The heartless A&R executive.
However, as I awkwardly showered with one hand, enjoying the coconut-scented shower gel and the expensive brand shampoo and conditioner, my anger momentarily faded away. My stomach felt comfortably full, the power shower was freaking amazing, and despite my resentment toward the Scot out in the living room, I couldn’t deny that I felt safe.
In pain, but safe.
I hadn’t thought that I’d felt unsafe sleeping in that cemetery, probably because I never imagined I’d get attacked. Yet, I realized the whole time I had felt like I was always on the edge of peril. The weather had scared me.
But now I didn’t feel afraid.
I think I resented O’Dea for that too. That a man like him could make me feel safe. It reminded me of Micah. Of having a man make me feel safe and yet horribly used at the same time.
By the time, I got out of the shower, I was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to drop down in that beautiful king-sized bed and sleep the rest of the day. I used the toothbrush he gave me, first wincing at the painful stretch against my cut lips when I opened my mouth too wide, and then flinching against the vibration of the bristles. It had been so long since I’d used an electric toothbrush, it felt uncomfortably weird against my teeth. I had to dab fresh blood from my lip afterward.
But once I’d changed into clean underwear, jeans, and a hoodie, I’d made the decision that O’Dea was right. We’d struck a bargain and it was time to suck it up and fulfill my end of it.
He was on the phone when I stepped out. He gave me another head-to-toe once-over before he said, “We’ll discuss it when I get into the office. I have to go.” He hung up without saying goodbye. “You look marginally better.”
“I look like shit.” I shrugged and sat on the sofa. “Let’s get this over with. What do you want to hear?”
He sat down in the button-back chair looking ridiculously too tall and masculine for it. “All of it.”
“You’ve already heard a few of my songs.”
“I want to hear them again. But I also want to hear something new.” At my silence he continued, “Why don’t you start with the one about the moon and the stars.”
O’Dea referred to my song “Ghost.” It was one of my more upbeat melodies.
Looking away from him, out of the French doors to the river below, I prepared to sing. It felt weird starting the song straight into the lyrics because I loved my intro on the guitar to this one. This song, like quite a few I’d written over the past eighteen months, was a collision of perky sound and melancholic lyrics. “Ghost” had a folky, countrified riff and that was obviously difficult to capture without my guitar.
Still, I opened my mouth and began to sing, surprised my voice came out clear and true, despite the battering I’d taken the night before.
“The plane landed in Rome
And I shook off the past,
Oh, I hope it’ll last.
Then I hopped on a train to take me
From my name.
Oh, it’s gone now.
“Yeah, I’m a ghost,
Drifting coast to coast.
“I slept under the stars
Trying to make them my friends.
But just like a cleanse
They all wanted my amends.
So, I left them behind me
And turned to the moon.
For less gloom, yeah.
“’Cause now I’m a ghost,
Drifting coast to coast.
“The moon took me to Berlin
Where we started a fight
With the stars about light
’Cause they tried to shed some
Over all of the past
That I’d buried in Rome.
Oh, stop forcing me home!
“’Cause now I’m a ghost,
Drifting coast to coast.
Yeah, I’m a ghost,
I don’t wanna go home.
What is home,
But a grave left in Rome.
“I settled down in Glasgow
With the moon on my side.
And the stars they all died,
Withered under my will.
They couldn’t stand the chill.
But I can, yeah.
“You know I’m a ghost,
I’m not misdiagnosed.
Yeah, I’m a ghost,
I’m not misdiagnosed.
You know I’m a ghost,
And I ain’t ever going home.”
Without my guitar, my music, the song seemed short and ended awkwardly. I flushed, feeling vulnerable in a way I never felt when I was performing on the streets.
O’Dea gave me nothing. He merely demanded, “Another.”
And so I sang another.
“Are we done yet?” I asked as soon as I finished.
“I want to hear something I haven’t heard. Something even more real than all the others.”
My stomach flipped at the thought. “Those two were pretty personal.”
“I want more.”
Butterflies raged in my stomach, the song I felt was the most personal coming to mind. I wanted the audition over and I knew instinctively that this was the song that would end it. It wasn’t just the lyrics, it was the melody. I’d never once written a song and not questioned how great it was. There was always something about it that I wanted to perfect. But not this song. This song came from somewhere so deep inside me, it was me. The acoustic version was exactly how I wanted it to be, and I even knew how I wanted every aspect of it to sound with a band. I’d finished writing it only a few nights ago when my existence as one of the invisible had still felt like my only option.
Maybe I should have sung another, one of the songs I hadn’t quite finished. But O’Dea wanted to know what kind of artist I was right now, and this was me. Fucked-up, little old me.
“This one’s called ‘In the Wind’ . . .”
“No, I didn’t understand then
That your soul was part of mine and
When yours faded out
Mine broke down to dust.
“Oh, it blew into the wind and
I can’t find all the pieces
That used to be me—"
“I can’t,” I broke off, my voice cracking with emotion that embarrassed me. I covered my face with my good hand, flinching as my fingers touched the painful mess of my eye. Hiding from him, I tried to control my breathing, hating that he got to see me like this.
There was utter silence in the small apartment.
Then O’Dea cleared his throat and I heard the chair protest under his movement. “You need rest.”
Astonished at his soft words, I removed my hand from my face and stared up at him now standing as if to leave.
He stared at the floor, seeming unable t
o meet my gaze.
“I need my guitar,” I whispered.
O’Dea’s dark gaze flew to mine and I saw the puzzlement there.
“My mom gave it to me,” I reiterated.
Understanding dawned on his face. Everyone knew what happened to my mom.
“You need rest,” he repeated, proving that he could feel empathy after all. “Take today to get yourself together. Sleep, rest. Whatever. I put some fresh soup in the fridge so all you have to do is heat it up. There’s also plenty of water in there. Your painkillers are in the cupboard. I’ve left you what you need for tonight. I’ll bring the rest with me tomorrow.”
I scowled. “You don’t trust me with painkillers?” At his silence, I huffed. “Nurse Goddamned Ratched. You know what, screw your apparent ability to not be a patronizing pain in my ass. You just fuck it up by reverting to instinct. So let’s just do this.” I indicated the seat he’d stood up from. “I want this over with.”
And before he could reply, I started singing again.
“No, I didn’t understand then
That your soul was part of mine and
When yours faded out
Mine broke down to dust.”
Memories flooded me as I stared unseeing out the window, the lyrics, the music in my head, the feelings becoming everything until I forgot where I was and who I was with. I wasn’t singing to O’Dea. I was singing to her.
“Oh, it blew into the wind and
I can’t find all the pieces
That used to be me,
They’re lost in a sea.
“So I wander all alone now,
Numb in my remoteness,
Content to be
Lost in this sea.
“Just a whisper on a wave,
A lost ship that can’t be saved.
And it’s all that I deserve.
“Ah, ah, ah.
“Oh, I wish that I had told you
All the truths locked inside me,
Instead of cutting you out
Like a knife through our lives.
As Dust Dances Page 6