Chapter 5 #2
“If you tell me all your secrets, I’ll tell you all my dreams. And maybe we create the music in all the spaces in between.”
JC touches my shoulder briefly. “Whadda ya think?”
“It’s brilliant,” I say, still breathless, my soul singing along, riding the melody like an ocean wave.
All some women hope for is a man to say “I love you.” But give me the squeak of fingers on a fretboard and a melody seared into my brain, and you might as well be possessing my soul. “I need it. I need to record it.”
He chuckles, setting his Les Paul into the guitar stand. “Sorry, it’s not for sale.”
“Are you planning to release it?”
He gives a shrug that could mean any number of things. “Not sure yet. Early days.”
I inhale deeply but can’t settle. I’m in a new bubble, an out-there frontier where time and space have become meaningless. The simple G to C bridge made me feel brand-new.
“But if you don’t release it…” I have to try. My voice is custom-built for A minor, my favorite key. JC knows this. And that song is a Billboard hit right outta the gate.
He pushes back and casually does a half spin in his Star Trek command chair. The backrest clangs hard against the desk. In slow motion, I watch the cold, fresh beer he brought in tumble forward, liquid sloshing all over him, narrowly missing the guitar.
‘“Fuck!” JC leaps from the chair to strip off his soaked T-shirt. He chucks it into the corner, rights the still frothing bottle onto the desk, and our insulated haven suddenly feels anything but.
Oh my god.
I’m robbed of breath.
My hungry eyes scour every inch of his exposed chest, the smoothly muscled ridges rising and falling with his breath.
The air stirs, and it smells like raw male.
I squeeze my thighs together. There’s enough adrenaline pumping in my veins to power all of Mexico.
I let myself imagine reaching for the button of his jeans.
I want him inside of me, to make me ache.
Our connection feels earth-shattering.
But it’s too much, his gaze hunting mine, my cheeks aflame with arousal. My heart becomes a tight fist in my chest, and I wish for something, anything, to change the silence and the kind of silence it is.
Then, with his face half in the shadows and his husky voice unrecognizable, JC whispers my name.
And what do I do?
Jump to my feet, babble something about grabbing a towel, and bolt.
“Excuse me, miss?”
I jerk awake from my window pillow. The bus is stopped; rain sleets sideways outside. I’m the only passenger, and I missed my stop like five minutes ago.
“End of the line.” The bus driver’s watery blue eyes crinkle with a kind smile. “But if you don’t mind waiting, sit tight. I circle back in ten.”
I sit up, disoriented. The air is heavy with steam and sweat. JC offered to drive me home (twice), but I needed time alone. And I hated how he looked like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar.
“Uh, thanks.” I slide out of the seat. “I’ll walk from here.”
I stumble down the stairs and power home through the merciless storm.
My Converse squelch water by the time I trudge up the driveway.
Our house is dark and feels deserted. A cold wind whips the strands of my damp hair across my face.
I feel nervous and queasy, my heart discovering new depths of paralyzing attraction.
The way JC stood still in the darkness, half naked, all male, the whirlwind of my thoughts fevered and wild.
He looked so polished, grown-up, and experienced that my anxiety became a physical brick in my stomach, leaving no room for anything else.
I wanted to kiss him and feel the pressure of the wall on my back when he returned my kiss with desperation.
I’ve wanted that for weeks—and run when the opportunity finally lands?
What is wrong with me?
Well, I know exactly what my problem is.
I wasn’t ready.
Because I’m a virgin.
I slip inside and toe off my sneakers in the foyer.
Ditch the wet socks and contemplate the next month of my life.
Suddenly, the idea of heading into the unknown of Europe with JC feels so overwhelming.
The agony of watching him flirt, then disappear with random groupies… I can’t think of a more perfect hell.
Because, of course, he’ll respect my rule.
What I really want is for him to devote himself to me, and I’m not sure he can pull it off.
I head into the kitchen to make a tea. Mama texted earlier that she’s at the Italian Centre, home at six. I lean against the counter, staring into space. Instead of focusing on tomorrow and the band meeting with Sawyer, my mind keeps grinding on his song.
We spent weeks in the studio together last fall, and not a peep about him writing again. So why did he sing it to me? Why today? It meant something, I’m sure of it. But replaying the song in my head, his vague, lush, poetic lyrics give me nothing.
Except for the certainty that I need to record that song. Or maybe he’d like to duet. We could Sonny-and-Cher that track all the way to the Grammys. My steel velvet howl paired with his soaring soft leather octaves? Aces.
A clap of thunder rumbles overhead. Rain falls steadily, pinging off the patio furniture Dad forgot to haul into the garage.
All I can think about is how JC captured the gorgeous mess of love and yearning so perfectly, in my favorite key no less.
If I’m being honest, there’s an ulterior motive in wanting his song—because music means everything to him, the lifeblood coursing through his veins.
More powerful than air.
If JC gives his song to me, it’s the equivalent of marriage.
But are either of us ready for that?