Chapter 16 Wyatt
WYATT
“THIS IS GOOD,” COLE SAYS.
“Yeah?” I bite back a smile, forcing myself to temper my excitement. But Cole usually takes a lot longer to get back to me about shit, so the fact that he called in less than twenty-four hours is promising.
“It’s really fucking good, bro. Come back to Nashville. We need to get you in the studio.”
“No, I’m not ready for that. I don’t want to come back with only one track on deck. I want to be able to send Dodson a few song options. I’m working on another one now.”
“Fair enough.” There’s a long pause, and then Cole chuckles. “So who is she?”
I play dumb. “What do you mean?”
“Who’s the song about?”
“Nobody.”
He laughs even louder now, a deep bellow in my ear. “Bull-fucking-shit, G. That song is about a living, breathing woman. And she, my friend, is your muse.”
Shit. That’s what I was scared of.
But deep down, I knew it was true. She’s under my skin.
Burrowed deep. This morning, I lay in bed like a lovesick fool remembering all the sarcastic remarks and dumb jokes she made yesterday.
Then I jerked off to the memory of her big eyes watching me in the shower.
Yet somehow, the obsessive replaying of every word she says is the more embarrassing act.
“It’s the one you’re spending the summer with, isn’t it?” Cole guesses. “The forbidden fruit.”
“Yes,” I admit. “And it’s bad.”
“What are you talking about? It’s phenomenal. You found a muse.”
I don’t want Blake to be my muse. That means spending more time with her. Immersing myself in her. What I need to do is see less of her.
But she’s everywhere. In the house. On the dock. In my fucking dreams. And she’s not even doing it on purpose. She just exists, and I’m a goner.
“Dude, it’s a problem,” I grit out. The confession eats at me. I hate voicing it. “The lyrics come when I’m with her. They just pour out.”
“Again, how is this a bad thing?”
“Because I want to fuck her.” A groan slips out. “And if my behavior of the last twenty-four hours is any indication, I’m probably gonna do that soon.”
“Shit.” Cole goes quiet for a moment. “Well. You obviously can’t do that.”
“I can’t? I mean, right, I can’t.” I hesitate. “Remind me why?”
He snorts. “Because you can’t sleep with your muse. Too big of a risk.”
I rise from the deck chair and approach the railing, gazing out at the lake. The sun is dropping low in the trees, casting orange streaks across the water.
“It could go either way when you fuck a muse,” Cole continues. “Best case—it releases a creative wave that makes you even more productive. Remember my weekend in Munich with Anastasia? Jeezus. I wrote ‘Pretty Girl’ that weekend. Album went platinum last month, by the way.”
“Nice.”
“Yeah. But then there’s worst case. Remember that December I spent with Tansy?
The Vegas blackjack dealer? She inspired the hell outta me for weeks, and then the moment I slept with her, the music died.
I couldn’t write again for months.” His tone becomes stern.
“You can’t screw the muse, no matter how tempting it is. ”
“Might be less tempting if I wasn’t goddamn celibate,” I mutter, unable to keep the accusation from my voice. This is his fault after all. Just try celibacy, bro. Trust me, it’ll help.
There’s another long pause.
“All right,” Cole says. “I give you permission.”
“For what?”
“To go get laid. Pick anyone but the muse.”
“Really,” I say dubiously.
“Look, you tried. You gave the whole celibacy thing a shot. But it’s obviously not working for you, and if you’re in danger of compromising the only source of creative output you’ve had in a year, then we need to get ahead of this.
Find a beautiful woman, get your rocks off, and preserve the muse.
” He curses suddenly. “Shit, I gotta go, G. Aimee and I are about to lay down the track. Send me the rest of the song when it’s ready. ”
He disconnects, leaving me trapped in my own thoughts.
Maybe he’s right. Clearly, the celibacy didn’t work. I wrote nothing but shit when my dick was dormant. So maybe it’s time to let him loose.
But not with Blake.
And not because she might be my muse. Because all the reasons why I shouldn’t get involved with her haven’t changed. She deserves more than a one-night stand, and our families will literally murder me if I use her for sex and break her heart.
I stare at my phone, my thumb hovering over my chat thread and Mira’s last message. The nude might be gone, but the invitation remains.
Hit me up if you feel like it.
After several seconds of indecision, I type.
You around tonight? Want to grab a drink?
Then I tap Send before I can overthink it.
“You going out?”
Blake appears on the stairs as I’m rummaging on the hall credenza for the Jeep keys. I was the last one to drive it, and I swear I dropped them in this glass bowl. But all I see are decorative acorns.
I keep my head down. “Yeah.”
“Where you off to?” she asks curiously, bounding down the steps.
“Nowhere really.”
“Right, because that’s not suspicious.” Her laughter tickles my back. “Let me guess—you’re going to a secret underground poker ring? Moonlighting as a stripper?
I move my key search to the credenza drawer. “Nah, just meeting someone in town.”
“Who?”
My fingers collide with the key fob. Thank God.
“Who?” Blake pushes when I don’t respond.
“Just a girl,” I say vaguely.
Silence.
I don’t want to see the look on her face, but I’m a masochist so I turn around. Her expression is too bright, her smile forced.
“Anybody I know?” she chirps.
“Doubt it.”
“Is it the girl who sent you the nudes on the boat?”
Her hurt tone triggers a prick of guilt. Which only makes me want to distance from it.
“Yes. Her.”
I could’ve stopped there. Could’ve walked out without another word. Instead, I force myself to twist the knife.
“She’s a fun time,” I add. “We hooked up last summer.”
I watch it land. The wounded flicker in Blake’s eyes. The way her shoulders pull back like she’s been slapped but doesn’t want to show it.
Good. Let her hate me. It’s better than the alternative. If this friendship between us is going to stick, then I need to quash the attraction. On both sides.
“Uh-huh. Cool.” Blake pauses. “Your vow of celibacy is null and void then?”
I exhale through my nose but say nothing. I’m a dick.
“If the sex is good, are you going to write a song about it?”
I stifle a sigh. “Blake—”
“Whatever, it’s fine. Have fun tonight.”
Her cavalier shrug is betrayed by the stiffness in her shoulders. She strides into the kitchen. I don’t follow her.
Instead, I slide out the front door to go pick up Mira.