3. Effie
THREE
EFFIE
In Effie’s room that night, when everything else was quiet, she could hear the waves of Lake Michigan lapping at the dunes on the shore.
She couldn’t be sure which direction the lake was, despite having stared it down on the way through town. It was a strange feeling to hear the water without seeing it for the trees. The rolling, constant sound lulled her into a deep sleep.
The next morning, Effie woke with lyrics in her mind. She dressed in a white tank top and distressed Levi shorts. Sauntering into the kitchen on sleepy legs, she found a bouquet of white daisies and a note from Brett. She put on a pot of drip coffee before picking up the note.
Her thumb traced over his scratchy scrawl almost involuntarily. Like something remembered from a dream, his handwriting brought forth an unexpected swell of emotion in her. For half a moment, she couldn’t breathe as she thought of all the notes he’d left her on hotel pillows, in Shay’s studio. She kept them all locked away in a box. Which was silly, she knew, but her parents taught her from a young age to document everything, and that was everything .
Once she loosed the air from her lungs, she braced herself to read his words.
Help yourself to anything you need. Use any rooms, any spaces, any tech you want to get your work done. I can show you how to use the sauna later and if you need help with anything in the studio, I’ll be around in the afternoon.
She hummed, folding the note into her pocket to save with the others. Once the coffee finished and she sipped a fresh cup, she tried not to remember the last time the two of them were in a recording studio together. It was early in their fling and, as always, it was a secret.
Effie had always valued privacy in the studio, keeping the number of people present tight. But she hadn’t thought twice about having Brett there when he asked about her album, Once Bitten . She’d written most of it swathed in their hotel sheets in the blue dawn morning light, strumming her guitar over room service breakfast or the night’s last glass of champagne.
It felt so normal to have Brett there as she recorded tracks and he watched her work. But wasn’t that something ? The way his eyes followed her every move, as if the work she did was holy. She lit up under his perceptive gaze, her blood fizzing through her veins. Here and there he offered notes, careful not to overstep with Shay. Effie could see even then that he would make a good producer. When he eventually shared his secret wish with her to do just that, it all made sense.
Thinking back, Brett may have been right: maybe Shay knew all along. For being her long-time collaborator, he didn’t question why Brett was there, only welcomed him when he arrived and gave them an awful lot of alone time between songs. Sharing that day with him was the most intimate she’d ever been with a partner. It felt good.
She remembered Brett’s eyes lighting the fuck up as she sang a brand new track from the isolation booth, “Apology For The Memories.” Try though she might, she couldn't fool herself. She wrote that song for him. Effie never told him that part.
Leaning against the counter, awash in memory, Effie slipped her tiny notebook from her pocket. She clicked her pen a couple times before jotting down hot coffee , scribbled notes , white daisies . That was often how her songwriting happened; little bits of half-thoughts dashed off in stolen moments. It was how it had to happen when she was living in New York City and constantly on the go from one event to another.
Now, she could slow down and savor creating. She had plenty of time. Forever. At least it felt that way.
Walking through the studio, her bare feet glided smoothly over the concrete floor. It felt good against her feet, naturally still cool even in the early morning humid heat.
Clutching her coffee mug, she toured around the big, open workspace, inspecting which tech Brett had outfitted it with. The space was stunning. So freaking comfortable. The walls, paneled with warm cedar wood, and soft, vintage rugs covering large swaths of the cement floor, helped deaden the echo of the cathedral-like ceilings. On one end, a floral-patterned sofa sat while instruments cluttered the room: a grand piano and a variety of keyboards, drum kit, guitars of all types, mixing boards and a computer for blending all the melodies together. The isolation booth took up one side of the room and the massive glass sliding doors let in as much natural light as possible.
She had snippets of tons of songs in her notebooks, but nothing was ready for this kind of official treatment. Not yet. But now she was eager to start, and for that she needed her guitar. Something about this place really did encourage creative flow. As usual, Shay had steered her in the right direction.
She padded back up the stairs to her room. Warm sunlight streamed through the open window. Her guitar case lay on the bench at the foot of her queen-sized bed. Running her fingers over the crystal, she watched the light reflect around the room.
Effie slipped her notebook from her pocket. Rainbow prism , apparatus , golden .
She took a deep breath and popped open the guitar case. Her pretty pink acoustic guitar lay inside on its bed of pink velvet.
“Stella,” she murmured as she lifted out her old friend.
It wasn’t the fanciest guitar she owned by far, but it was her favorite. Old reliable. The one instrument on which she had single-handedly written all of her favorite songs.
Squinting around the room, Effie couldn’t find a spot she wanted to perch. Instead, she wandered back downstairs, strumming as she tread barefoot through the studio. She hummed along to the refrain before stopping mid-stride to pull out her notebook again and write it down.
The worn-in couch on the living room side of the studio caught her eye. She plopped down and pulled a little side table toward her.
The next couple of hours passed in a haze of productivity. Effie picked her guitar, the pads of her fingers tingling where she pressed them into the strings. Going between her guitar and her notebook, she finished the lyrics of one song and started the beginning threads of a dozen more, refilling her coffee cup multiple times through the morning.
When she finally felt spent, she stood and stretched sky high, her tank top creeping up to expose her belly, and turned. With a start, she noticed Brett sitting outside the large window on the patio, a book in his lap. He looked up from his paperback, black plastic frame glasses perched on the edge of his nose.
Effie giggled through the window separating them and she unlatched the door to step outside. “Glasses?”
“I need them to read. I’m old now.”
She scoffed. “Hardly.”
“Don’t flatter me.”
“What are you reading?” she asked, walking through the threshold and into the fresh air.
Brett flipped the book back and forth. “Just some historical biography.”
Suddenly, the strangeness of their situation washed over Effie.
“How did two of our generations’ biggest musicians end up in a cottage in the middle of nowhere Michigan?” she asked, suddenly shy and unsure of their arrangement. Her cheeks heated, and she ducked her head, smiling—or was she frowning?—at the floor.
Brett ran a hand over his beard, ruffling it up before smoothing it down again. “Honestly, I’ve been thinking the same all day.”
“It’s a little absurd, isn’t it?” she asked. But was it just because it was them ? Not because Hoax’s multi-platinum albums sparkled on the studio walls, reminding them of their careers?
“What about our lives hasn’t been?”
She snorted a little laugh through her nose. He had a point there. “I suppose my life will always be abnormal.”
“That’s show business,” Brett said flatly, an attempt at a joke that didn’t quite land.
Effie walked on her tip-toes across the brick patio and plopped into an Adirondack chair, her cut-off jean shorts riding up a little as she sat. She didn’t miss how Brett’s gaze flicked to the bare expanse of her thigh.
Brett curled his paperback in his hands. “I know I said I would give you space but thought I’d come check to see if you needed anything and I heard you playing. I hope it’s okay that I sat here and listened. I always used to love seeing you work.”
Effie remembered sitting in his hotel bed, naked, playing his guitar and scribbling down notes. That morning, all those years ago, she hadn’t intended to write a song, but that one poured out of her as he watched. “Easy Doesn’t Do It” became the most popular song from Once Bitten .
Brett cleared his throat. Was he remembering the same moment?
“But…I’ll leave you be,” he said, making to stand. “Sorry, I don’t mean to intrude.”
“No,” she said, eager to clear the air of the awkwardness. “It’s okay. I don’t mind if you’re around. I’m in your home, after all. I’m the intruder.”
Intruder. The word sent a little spark into her fingertips, and she pulled out her notebook to jot it down.
“I’m happy to host you, Effie.”
Somehow, she still didn’t truly believe it. Brett Blue wore an easy smile, seemingly embracing this arrangement without a hint of doubt. They had been planning this for months. Despite endless opportunities for her to go literally anywhere else in the world, she chose northern Michigan with Brett. Now that she was here, her world tilted on its axis. Maybe it was the shake up she needed after all.
She paused, letting it sink in. “It feels nice here. To be still.”
“And it’s only been half a day.”
She laughed. “I know. Can’t believe I ever finished a song in the city.”
It was a joke, of course. Because she had trained herself to write at anytime, anywhere, and they both knew it.
Brett swallowed and she watched the column of his throat work. After spending barely five minutes together, she already wanted him. She wasn’t some lovesick girl anymore, but he was still so sexy. The dark hair on his forearms caught the afternoon sunlight. His messy salt and pepper hair begged for her fingers. She wanted to grab onto his tidy beard and rough it up.
Now it was her turn to clear her throat, swallow. “You’ve put together quite the studio out here, Brett,” she said, desperate for anything to focus on that wasn’t his body.
“Oh yeah?”
“Looks all up to date in there.”
“I’m usually out here, even if I’m not recording music.” He stretched his arms over his head, his black t-shirt riding up to expose his curly, black happy trail. A flush of warmth settled in Effie’s stomach. “And I love producing. Surprisingly, more than I expected. I guess it’s in the Blue blood. Shay being a genius and all. Nightowl is my happy place.”
“I know what you mean.” She really did. At thirty-seven, she didn’t have twelve albums and as many Grammys to her name without being absolutely obsessed with the process of writing and recording music.
“Want to hang out in the studio?” Brett asked, putting aside his book.
She smiled. Is this what normal feels like? “Of course.”
“Okay, hold on a sec. We need a drink first.” Brett jumped out of the chair, leaving the creased paperback in his seat. “Follow me.”
She did, right back into the bright kitchen. Brett headed for the counter as she pulled out a chair at the table.
“Tea?” he asked, pulling down two porcelain teacups covered in pink flowers.
“Tea?” Effie wrinkled her nose.
“You’re right, something stronger.” Brett opened another cupboard over the sink and pulled out a bottle half filled with amber liquid. “Bourbon?”
“That’s where you keep your bourbon?”
“My kitchen bourbon.” He smiled, crooked and charming as hell.
Effie laughed, a full sounding thing that surprised her.
“Single or double?” he asked, grabbing the bottle around the neck and looping one finger through both teacup handles, and sitting down at the table.
“What do you think?”
He poured them both a double, then passed her the delicate cup before they clinked them together.
“To making magic.” She held his gaze as she took a sip.
The sweet caramel bite of the liquor coated her tongue before she swallowed. It burned down her throat and lit a fire in her belly.
In the studio, everything seemed to sparkle in the afternoon sunlight. Or maybe it was the balloon inflating in her chest. The buzz of creativity. She took a deep breath, pulling it all in, and catching the warm, woody, lived-in scent of the place.
“So airy and big.” Effie raised her arms over her head and twirled on the cool cement floor underfoot, feeling as if she could float to the ceiling. “I could write in here forever, I think.”
Her cheeks flushed hot at her reference to forever , but Brett didn’t seem to notice.
“I love being in here. The closest thing to a church you’ll ever find me in.” Brett leaned on the massive mixing console.
“I’m impressed,” she said, weaving through the beautiful clutter of the space. It really was cozy.
With a start, she realized her dream studio was just like this. She imagined it as she shared pillow talk with Brett in hotel rooms around the world. Did he remember? Is that why he’d designed it this way? She didn’t have the courage to ask.
“Well, you inspired a lot of the design,” he said, picking up her thoughts.
Her cheeks warmed again. “Oh?”
Brett clicked his tongue. “Come on, Ef…” he trailed off. When she looked at him, his frown revealed his thoughts; this was hurting him, too. “We don’t have to pretend that we don’t have a history. I remember a lot…everything…with you, about you.”
Effie’s heart clenched. This was dangerous territory. They’d already been down this road once, the road where they meant something to one another. And maybe it was a terrible decision to come here because it put her heart on the line once again.
But, god, something felt so freaking good. Being here, being around Brett. It was twisted…but she’d lived a twisted life.
Before she answered him, she slipped her notebook from her pocket and jotted that down. Twisted life .
He snorted a soft laugh through his nose. “I remember that, too.” Brett stepped toward her, closing the space. “You have to write everything down before it leaves that beautiful brain of yours.”
“I remember, too,” she confessed and then swallowed. “But mostly I remember you leaving, Brett. Deciding we were through without even asking me.”
Hurt flashed through his eyes. “Princess…”
Oh . Brett had always called her that in the bedroom, worshipping her from head to toe as she lay back against the pillows and he kissed every inch of her body. She remembered the feel of his beard tickling all over her curves, how her nipples pebbled under his touch. Things she tried so freaking hard to forget and yet couldn’t.
“This is dangerous.” She licked her lips as his warmth came even closer. They were only inches apart now. Effie curled her bare toes.
“But is it wrong?” His voice was rough as gravel on the path they’d walked to this little oasis.
Every space they shared back then felt like this. A little reckless but grounded. Their own private haven, a hideaway from the chaos and the celebrity and the rumors and the tabloids.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked.
It would hurt, she knew, letting him back into her life. But wasn’t she already intruding on him? And he allowed her to be there. Here. In his hiding spot. Away from Hoax’s stardom, the pain Phoenix had left behind. As much as she didn’t want those old feelings to resurface, she couldn’t deny that in the mere hours they’d been reunited, exactly that had happened.
“I’m scared,” she whispered.
“I am too. I have been for every moment of my cursed life. Up on stages, traveling the world, all of Phoenix’s antics and…problems.” He shook his head. “But it’s different with you. It always has been.”
“I get it,” Effie said. “When we were together, all my nightmares seemed so small, petty.”
With a quiet laugh, she scribbled in her notebook again. Petty nightmares .
“Effie,” he said, hushed, bringing her back into the room.
“Hmm?”
“Would it be okay if I kiss you? If you say no, I won’t ask again, I promise.” He breathed deeply through his nose, as if trying to draw her essence inside his own shell.
Flinging caution to the wind, Effie closed the space between them. Their bodies nearly flush. “Yes, Brett, you can kiss me.”
Brett curled a hand around her hip and laced the other into her hair, his eyes laser focused on her lips. His fingers raked along her scalp and she leaned into his palm.
How many times had they been here before? And yet, this felt like the first time. Effie’s heart clenched, knowing soon she would miss him again when she was no longer at Nightowl. She hoped this time it wouldn’t break her.
Their lips met with a soft, tentative brush. She sighed into him, and his palm tightened on the back of her head, pulling her closer. Her body lit up, like the soundboard in the studio, blinking and pulsing to the beat. The slow, luscious rhythm they created swelled between them.
She could do this for hours. All night. Kiss this man in this gorgeous studio. But what would that mean?
Pushing back, Effie broke their contact, needing to clear her head of the sounds and stars rushing through her brain. Her fingers itched for her pen—that much she knew. Brett Blue always had that effect on her.
“That was nice.” She meant it, but didn’t know what it all meant . Effie tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, suddenly feeling shy and young again.
Brett cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair, mussing it up. God, he was so handsome.
“Do you want to get to work?” he asked.
And that question was music to her ears. “Absolutely I do.”