Chapter 5 Wyatt #2
Mira lives on the north side of the lake. We hooked up a few times last summer, but I cut it off after she told me she was falling for me. They always fucking fall for me.
It’s a dick move, but I ignore the message. I don’t want to start things up again or send the wrong signals.
Then a second message pops up.
MIRA
Hit me up if you feel like it.
And a third message.
It’s a nude.
Damn, she has a nice rack…
Nope. Can’t have this on my phone. It’ll make it too tempting to give in and call her when I’m drunk and horny.
But I don’t delete it fast enough, because Blake—a very topless Blake—manages to sneak a peek as she approaches me.
“Are you looking at porn?” she exclaims.
“No.” The picture disappears from the screen as I hit Delete.
“So my boobs are a national emergency, but you can leer at phone boobs. Got it.”
“Relax, Logan. Someone sent a nude. I was deleting it.”
Her jaw drops. “You deleted it? Wow. Don’t ever tell her or you’ll destroy her self-esteem.”
“Make up your mind. Do you want me to leer at phone boobs or not?”
Snickering, she stalks past me, and her side boob grazes my arm.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Tits on my phone. Tits on my boat. God help me.
I shift my gaze back to the water, but it flits back to Blake as if drawn by a magnet. She saunters to the open bow and spreads a red-and-white-striped towel across the padded sundeck. Boobs out for the entire lake to see.
“Seriously, put those away.”
“You’re being ridiculous” is her response.
I can’t tell if she’s doing this on purpose. If she’s trying to get a reaction out of me. But she’s not even acknowledging my presence anymore. She lies down on the towel, stretches out on her back, and plops her sunglasses on her freckled nose.
“Your father’s gonna kill me,” I moan.
“Only if you tell him.”
Stifling a curse, I pick up her top and stalk to the bow. “Here,” I say, trying to hand her the bikini.
She rises on her elbows and peers up at me, blue eyes peeking out from the top of her shades. Her nipples are glistening. It’s the sunscreen, I know, but it makes them look wet. Like they’ve just been licked and sucked and—
“Take it,” I growl when she bats my hand away.
“What the hell is wrong with you? Is this turning you on or something?”
Frustration has me spitting out a retort I instantly regret. “Hardly. You think I haven’t seen a pair of tits before? Yours aren’t anything special.”
Blake stiffens for a moment before spitting back a curt, “Oh, fuck you.”
I don’t know why I said that. Her breasts are perfect.
Focusing on the water as if my life depends on it, I try to get my body under control by fishing for the coldest beer in the small cooler I brought with us.
“So who sent the nude?” Her tone is grudging, as if she doesn’t want to ask but can’t help herself. “Mrs. Brown?”
“No.” I don’t elaborate.
“Then who?” she pushes.
“Someone who heard I was in town.”
“One of your other Tahoe groupies?”
“Obviously.” I pull the tab of the can, and it opens with a sharp hiss.
“Can you toss me one of those?”
“Nope. You’re underage.”
“I’m turning twenty-one in six weeks,” she reminds me.
“Great, then I’ll toss you a beer in six weeks.”
“If you don’t get me a beer, I’m taking my bottoms off too.”
Jesus.
Christ.
With a groan jammed in my throat, I grab another beer and slam the can down beside her.
“Thank you,” she says sweetly.
Annoyed, I march back to my guitar. Because enough. I refuse to play these games with her. If she wants to flash her tits to every passing boater, let her. I have bigger concerns at the moment.
I need to write something.
Anything.
Balancing Betty in my lap, I grab my notebook and pencil and turn to a fresh page. Everything I wrote yesterday was so bad, it’s not even worth revising. Let’s start new.
I focus on the blank page, trying to clear my head. To let the warm rays and soft breeze guide me to inspiration. That gold coin line. It was nice, right? Poetic?
Description
Visual elements styled to look like a torn piece of paper or sticky note containing the handwritten song lyrics. It reads ‘Gold coins scattered on the water. Wind tangled in your hair.’
My pencil stops moving.
Keep going, I order myself. Write something.
Fucking anything.
I scrawl another line, then stare in disgust at what I wrote.
Description
Visual elements styled to look like a torn piece of paper or sticky note containing the handwritten song lyrics. It reads ‘The sky knows me today.’
What the hell does that even mean? The sky knows me today? Knows me how? And did it not know me yesterday? What changed for the sky?
I squeeze the pencil between my fingers, hard enough that it starts to bend. This is pathetic. Why can’t I write anything good anymore?
My phone vibrates again. A wave of relief rushes through me. Oh thank God. Someone to put me out of my uncreative misery.
It’s a message from Cole, who’s taken three days to respond to the lyrics I sent him.
I haven’t been taking it personally, since he’s not only prepping for a global tour, but this week he’s collaborating with a talented young singer in Nashville.
Aimee Faye is poised to be a superstar, though her style runs more toward sexy pop country in contrast to Cole’s old-school country.
I can’t wait to hear what they come up with.
COLE
Could be better.
Not exactly a ringing endorsement.
The feedback doesn’t surprise me, though. Everything I’ve sent him this year belongs in a landfill. And I appreciate my buddy’s honesty. This is why we vibed so well when we were in the band. Me, Cole, and Gus, one of the most talented drummers I’ve ever met.
Gus plays in the house band for me when I’m in the studio, but Cole, well, he’s levels above us now.
A bona fide star. The band broke up after we all realized we were each better suited for solo shit, but Cole’s the only one who’s actually made it.
He fucking deserves it too. It’s inspiring to see a Black artist finding success in a genre that hasn’t always been welcoming to anyone without pasty skin and a scraggly mullet. I’m proud of him.
I know. It’s ass.
COLE
Not total ass. Maybe just one ass cheek.
All right, critique me.
COLE
The lyrics don’t make sense, bro. And your last 3 tracks have been about the sky. You got a sky fetish or something?
Yeah, I fuck clouds for fun.
COLE
I’m screenshotting that.
Okay. Real talk. This song is just a bunch of metaphors that don’t mean anything.
No idea what you’re trying to say. No depth.
Doesn’t feel like it’s coming from your heart, or any part of your body for that matter.
Hell, at this point, drop the metaphors and write a song about wanting to bone.
Even that would be more real than whatever you’re sending me lately.
I don’t write about sex. It’s overdone.
COLE
Because people dig it. It excites them. This duet I’m recording with Aimee right now?
“We Ride at Dawn.” What do you think it’s about, bro?
A duel? Driving her around in my pickup?
Fuck no. It’s about how badly I want to ride her pussy and how much she enjoys depriving me of it and making me wait till morning.
Not my style.
COLE
Make it your style. Sex sells, G. Always has, always will.
The strains of a familiar melody jolt me from Cole’s lecture. Blake is playing a pop song on her phone.
Speaking of sex sells.
“Turn that off,” I tell her.
She rolls onto her stomach with zero shame, rising on her forearms so I have a perfect view of the top swells of her breasts. She has no idea what she’s doing to me. Or maybe she does.
“Can I ask you something?” Her tone is worrisomely polite.
“What?”
“Do you think you’re the captain of this boat? Because you’re barking orders like you are.” Blake puts on a stern voice. “Put your top on. Don’t drink that. Turn off that music.”
“This isn’t music.”
“It’s Mollie May! She’s the biggest pop star in the world.”
“Doesn’t make her music good.”
“Oh my God. You fucking snob.”
“Oh, and yes, I am the captain of this boat. Because I’m older.”
“Yeah, well, you’re about to have a mutiny on your hands, Cap, if you don’t stop this power trip.” She flops back down and rests her cheek on her crossed arms. “If I can’t listen to my music, at least play something on Betty. I like listening to music while I’m dozing.”
It’s a fair compromise. And since every line I’ve written thus far is utter shit, I give up on lyrics and start strumming the guitar. I don’t play anything in particular, just a slow, airy melody that matches this current vibe of bobbing on the waves in the sunshine.
“That’s pretty,” Blake says, twisting her head toward me. “Is that a real song?”
I shake my head. “Nah. Just making it up on the spot.”
“Oh.”
I can’t see her expression behind her sunglasses, but something about her wistful tone amuses me.
“Why do you sound sad about that?”
“I’m not sad. I’m…jealous,” she admits. “I envy you.”
“Yeah? Why?”
“Because you’re so talented. You play, like, five instruments—”
“Three.”
“—your voice is incredible, and your lyrics are beautiful. Of course I’m envious. I wish I had a talent like yours. I’m not good at anything.”
“You’re good at annoying me,” I say helpfully.
“Awesome. I’ll wear it as a badge of honor.”
“And you are talented, Logan. Don’t you have, like, a perfect GPA?”
She brushes that off. “How is that a talent?”
“It means you’re really smart,” I point out.
“Lots of people are smart. Doesn’t make me special.”
A frown surfaces. She can’t possibly believe she’s not special. Just looking at her, you know she is. Her mere energy screams special.
Before I can argue, she asks, “Any new developments in Nashville?”
Instantly, my relaxed mood fades.
“Not really. I gig every weekend. I write, I record, I post shit online. But it’s like…
Success hinges on more than just talent, you know?
It always involves a bit of luck too. The right song in front of the right audience at the right time.
” I absently strum a few chords. “I need to write it. That song. The song.”
“I mean, not to state the obvious, but isn’t your mother an award-winning songwriter?”
Frustration clamps around my throat. “Yes, she is. That’s the problem.”
“How is that a problem? Seriously, Wyatt, think about the opportunity you have here that other people don’t. You want the song. Why not team up with Hannah and—”
“I don’t want to write a song with my mom. I don’t want her help.”
“So stubborn,” Blake chides.
My hand clenches around the guitar’s neck. “You don’t get it. I want to feel like I succeeded on my own. On my own merits. Without help.”
“Everybody needs help.” Her voice grows gentle. “You’re lucky you have two parents who are supportive and willing to help you out.”
“Maybe,” I say vaguely. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I want to do this alone.” When I feel her gaze on me, I shift awkwardly in my seat. “What?”
“Look at you,” she teases. “Not being a dick for ten whole minutes.”
“You know me. I like to keep people on their toes.”
Blake gives me a solemn nod. “Of course. Gotta make them guess which Wyatt Graham they’ll get that day. Will he be a raging asshole? A creative genius? A lake fuckboy?”
“Hey, lake fuckboy is a great gig,” I say, and she responds with a smile that almost knocks me on my ass.
I’m frozen for a second. I’ve seen her smile before, but not like this, and I suddenly feel like someone seeing color for the first time. This smile is unguarded. It’s soft and alive and shining brighter than the sun. It traps my breath halfway in my chest.
For a moment, the entire world simply…stops.
I blink, the lyric floating through my mind.
Your smile stops the world.
As Blake resumes her sunbathing, I grab my notebook and scribble the line down before it slips into the ether.
Fuck.
I don’t know what just happened, but I know I’ll be chasing that smile in songs for a long time.