Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
JC
“Hey, sailor.” Gia taps her knee against mine, a tiny jolt straight to my heart. “I have an idea.”
I glance over, and something torrid flashes inside me. My mind refuses to release the image of her: how wild and beautiful and crazy sexy she looked in my studio.
I can’t unring that bell.
“Go,” I say. “I’m listening.”
“It involves the song.”
“My song?”
“Your song for now,” she corrects.
“Uhm…” I scratch my chin. “Did I miss an entire conversation?”
“You know it’s perfect for me.”
I give a short laugh. “Except I wrote it.”
Gia levels a look at me. Yes, she knows this. She’s just decided it’s irrelevant. As if she and her adorable crooked front tooth have the power to vanquish copyright law. Which they just might.
She smacks my arm, her stacked silver bracelets jingling like a door chime. “Do you want to hear me out or not?”
“The floor is all yours.”
She blows out a breath through her berry-stained lips. “You know my tour bus policy.”
“Hmmm. Very Draconian of you.”
“We’re going to add a little spicy layer to that.”
My instincts buzz loudly in both ears. The fire in her eyes, her expression a silent flash of lightning. Nothing scares Gia, and that scares the hell out of me.
“We, as in you and me?”
“Yeah,” she says. “A dare.”
“Where did this come from?” Not that I put it past Gia to add a fresh twist to my already flailing inability to not obsess over her.
“Audrie always came up with these ridiculous dares,” she explains. “Thought it was a worthy tradition to keep alive.”
“Ah, the legendary Audrie strikes again. Do I like where this is going?”
The Prius cuts a wide turn onto Clark Drive, industrial storefronts shuttered on either side of the empty street. Too early even for the homeless to be awake. I, on the other hand, am painfully alert.
But not expecting Gia to drop the ridiculous.
“If you tap out first,” she says, “I get the song. If I tap out first, you keep the song.”
Another laugh rips out of me. No one warned me of this. “So there is a world where I get to keep my own song?”
“Shut up!” she wails good-naturedly. “Are you in?”
I throw up a hand. “Hold on, cowgirl. What happens if we both tap out?”
Gia appears not to have considered the option I’m gunning for. There’s no way she taps out without tapping me. If push comes to shove, I’ll chaperone her directly into my bunk.
“It would have to happen on the same night to be valid. Feels highly unlikely, Mr. Chaperone.” Air quotes around that.
I bite back a smile. Her defiance is so misguided. And cute.
“Let’s pretend you’re not the only one with iron will,” I propose. “Tell me what happens if we both make it through the tour without bending.”
Her eyes flash. Gia is, of this I’m certain, refraining from some commentary here, something along the lines of: Why do you have to make my life so fucking complicated?
“Same as you tapping out,” she finally says. “I keep the song.”
“Nope. Not endorsing that. The only way you might get the song is if I tap out.”
Gia’s face clouds. “How do I know if you’re telling me the truth?”
“That’s your own personal conundrum.” I shrug, kinda loving this.
Based on his smirk, our Uber driver with his flashy pink turban is thoroughly enjoying our exchange.
“Had we been able to shag on the bus, you’d know for sure.
But…” I raise a finger to stop her protest-in-the-making.
“I’m in the same boat. If you disappear, as I’m sure you’re planning to, then what? All we have left is trust.”
Gia slumps against the seat. That hit her like a truck.
Trust, of course, is the hardest ask. Especially when I consider what she’s shared about the subtle career sabotage games her mother plays, Audrie ditching the band, and what she feels is the entire universe conspiring against her age and ferocious ambition, despite the immense talent. Does she risk putting faith in me?
But here we are.
And the bigger question might be: can the great Gia Barlow, rock and roll vixen, with her mile-long line of admirers, hold out? For a song?
Except, it’s not just any song. It’s the perfect song.
And she knows it.
“Or we can leave it open to negotiation,” I suggest.
Gia picks at a hole in her fishnets. Or should I say, makes the hole bigger, like I wanted to. “Define that, please.”
“If neither of us taps out, then maybe we can talk about recording the song together.”
Her eyes narrow, as if I’ve tried to trick her. “For real? Released as a Pop My Cherry song?”
I shrug nonchalantly. “Depends on how hard you negotiate.”
Gia watches me, in no rush to fill the space. The space is the point. Does she have any clue I wrote the song for her? The lyrics practically spell out how I feel. But she said nothing after I sang them to her, other than Holy shit, that hook is gold.
“Maybe you and Sawyer are more alike than I thought,” she speculates, very incorrectly.
Okay, yes. I launched out of bed this morning and put in some serious work styling my hair. Packed the moisturizer Sawyer insists works wonders. But he and I differ on the “second coming” he keeps mouthing off about. To step back into the insane world of rock and roll remains a giant question mark.
I walked away once already, giving up at the exact moment I should’ve been blowing up. Dad’s prodigious musical talent flamed out, leaving a blackened rift between us. Neither he nor Sawyer tracked the real reason why I shut the band down.
Only Rhys knows the truth.
In a way, it’s oddly, sadly poetic.
To punctuate my failure as a human by failing to fulfil my biggest glory.
“Hey.” Gia calmly nudges me out of my head. Nudges us forward, into the unknown. “If you’re cool, I’m cool. Shake on it?”
Her hand, fine-boned and pale, gets swallowed by mine. She’s holding herself not calculatingly but with purpose. Very intentional. But she seems to forget there are possibilities beyond her foregone conclusion.
Nothing has hit the same since we met.
She gets my obsession over diminished chords and odd time signatures. We agree a platinum copy of Radiohead’s OK Computer belongs next to the Mona Lisa as another example of era-defining art. We talk about everything and nothing, and now she’s the person I want to call in the middle of the night.
I want to know her mystery, her unknowable depths. All the sadness and the good bits. And she seems to understand the parts of me I’m used to hiding.
Never found that in a woman. Not for a long, long time.
For me, this isn’t a dare; it’s an inevitability.
And the endgame is sitting right beside me.
How maddeningly inconvenient.
“Excuse me.” A deeply tanned flight attendant blocks Gia from entering first class. I can tell from her body language that she’s going to be annoying. “Ticket, please?”
Gia shoots me a look. Our ticket details are on my phone, and I flash the screen so the attendant can verify we do not belong with the families, crying babies, and backpackers plugging both aisles behind us.
She squints at the screen and mutters, “Oh, you’re together. Right this way.”
She gives us just enough space to squeeze past, eyes lingering on Gia’s plaid babydoll dress and battered leather jacket. A longer look at my face. One thinly plucked eyebrow rises.
Questioning our seats together, or us together?
Either way, I feel a flash of irritation. Yes, the hush and civility of business class is a relief. If it brands me a snob, guilty as charged. I did grow up this way. But the flip side is the same: you face judgment when you’re perceived not to check all the boxes.
Gia shuffles down the aisle, taking it all in with big eyes. “This is nice.”
I pause at our seats, catching a glimpse of our reflection in the bulkhead window. Me, in last season’s button-down, her in plaid and leather, both of us rocking Converse. Do we really look that mismatched?
“You take the window,” I say. “Enjoy the view.”
After hoisting both carry-ons into the overhead bin, I walk Gia through all the bells and whistles—how the seat reclines, where to find the mattress pad, and the tucked-away dinner menu.
Gia drags her eyes upward to mine. She’d deny needing reassurance, but I remember how she perched at the edge of my couch as if worried she’d leave a dent behind.
And judging from how she’s monitoring her phone, she’s still preoccupied and pissed.
Brady and Tai raged hard last night and slept in, missing the flight.
Our breakfast time in the lounge turned into a furious stream of texts and whispered curses.
Shae’s stepped in to get them re-booked, but Gia hasn’t been the same.
“Hi. Welcome.” The same attendant who almost ushered Gia into the back appears, bringing with her a haze of heavy perfume that tickles my nose.
“I’m Anita,” she says, leaning in close, all smiles and claws. “Can I get you a champagne or a cocktail?” She flicks the barest glance at Gia. “And a juice for your daughter?”
My lungs strip raw. I count the passing seconds, the negative creep. I don’t know what’s worse, the tight, horrible silence, or Gia and her flushed cheeks. I’m too flustered to speak.
“He’s my guitar player,” she finally grits out, like she’s explaining basic English to a recent refugee. “And bring me a double rum and Coke. Lots of ice.”
Anita’s smile slides off her face, and mine would too, pinned with Gia’s glower. I can hear her thoughts, clear as day: Double dog dare you to ask for my ID.
“I’ll have a vodka soda, please,” I say, a strange bubble in my throat as the words come out. And I will not say anything else until I am safely drunk.
“And bring us all the snacks you have.” Gia plasters on a fake smile that masks her true mission: she plans to run this woman off her feet all flight with endless asks.
Anita wisely moves on to an older couple ahead of us with a bright, forced Hello. I clear my throat, praying this moment shrinks into a story we tell ourselves later and laugh. Not even five minutes in, and I feel like trash that someone forgot to take out. So much for the high life.
“Don’t go too crazy with the booze,” I warn her. “It dehydrates you.”
Gia holds my gaze for a long five seconds. I watch her breathe, the rise and fall of her chest. The sad realization suddenly smacks me in the face —I sounded like a father.
Can I ever catch a break?
“I’ll drink however much I want.” She flips her hair, chin high and proud. “Even if it takes ten drinks to forget I’m not supposed to be here.”
Crossing one leg over the other, she angles herself toward the window. Fuck. She’s retreating behind her armor, the electricity from our dare fizzing out hard. First, the boys screw up, then Mr. Chaperone kills the buzz.
That’s what I get for trying to protect her.
What she heard was control. What I meant was care.
But maybe with Gia, those things can’t coexist.