Chapter Twenty-One #2
“This is the room I lived in after my dad kicked me out—and for probably more years than Barrett would’ve preferred,” he says on a laugh.
I slip past him into the room. It’s neutral and plain now, but I can imagine eighteen-year-old Dax hitting his head on the sloped ceiling, mattress on the floor, his guitar tucked into the dormer, his Vans neatly stowed under the dresser.
He sidles up behind me, encircling me in his arms, his steady breathing ruffling my hair. “Are you sure about including us in your article?”
Us. We’re slow-walking our way back together, at least until the article is done, but there’s nothing slow about the affection warming my insides at the word.
I chew on the inside of my cheek, nodding slowly. “Yeah. Enough things have been written about you from dubious sources. It’s better I come out the gate with it than have it come out some other way.”
He hums against my neck, and I twist around to peer at him. “Are you okay with it?”
His expression softens. “More than okay with it.”
“But what if we—” I can’t say break up. “The article will be out there forever.”
“I’m not worried about that.”
I nod, not entirely sure which part he’s referring to.
It feels too soon to be making references to forever.
“You’re the only one I don’t need to reinterview,” I remind him.
He gave me his Nixed sound bite last night before our call took a turn that was definitely off the record.
“Unless you’ve figured out your plans for what’s next? ”
“You,” he says without hesitation.
I frown up at him. “That’s not a real answer.”
He laughs. “Why not?”
I rub the scar on my ring finger automatically.
“Because—” Because I’ve lived in the aftermath of what happens when you make someone your whole world.
I don’t know why I’m about to qualify his unserious answer with a too-serious one.
I swallow the words, counter with the other question swirling in the back of my brain.
“Why was Marcus so surprised you shared Nixed? The album is dark, sure, but I’m not that fragile,” I joke.
His arms drop from around me as he moves to the edge of the bed, sinking onto it and guiding me to stand in between his legs.
“Because he doesn’t know I didn’t send you every song.
” My hands still, halting my absentminded tracing of the fraying seam at his shoulder.
“There’s a song I couldn’t finish, a song for you, that I wasn’t quite ready to share yet. ”
“I see,” I say on an exhale. “Do you—” I pause, taking a deep breath as Dax interlaces our fingers. “It’s okay if not, but do you think you’d ever share it?”
He smiles softly up at me. “Yes.”
“Yeah?”
His grin stretches, his dimple winking into existence. “Yeah.”
“When?” I whisper.
A laugh gusts out of him. “You want me to get a calendar?”
I shake my head, sinking down onto the edge of the bed, straddling his lap.
“No, not a date. More like a moment?” Pushing him back onto the bed, I guide our conjoined hands over his head.
“Would you share it before or after we finally”—I tug on his earlobe with my teeth—“have sex?” The groan that escapes him is tortured.
“Before or after we tell people about us?” At that, he beams, and I can’t help but mirror it, the thought like sunshine in my chest. “Before or after you leave me to go on tour?”
The reminder is like an ice bucket over us, the inevitability that he will be leaving for long swaths of time over the next two years.
“I can’t answer that yet.”
Disappointed, I let go of his hands, sinking back onto my heels. He props himself up on his elbows.
“Is it… bad?” I ask, forcing the words out.
He shakes his head. “No.”
I lick my lips, and I’m acutely aware of the way he tracks the movement with his eyes. “I do see you, Dax. I hope you know there’s nothing you could say that’s going to scare me.”
He stares at me for a long moment, a disbelieving huff escaping him.
“What?!”
He pushes up, pressing his forehead to mine as he encircles me in his arms. “I see you, too, Sloane Donavan. Well enough to know there are things that scare you.”
My face screws up, and he smiles softly, smoothing the crease between my brows.
“I want us to get it right this time,” he whispers against my cheek.
“Me, too,” I whisper back.
“Do you trust me?”
“Yes,” I say automatically.
“And I trust you”—he sinks his teeth into the side of my neck and I squeal in surprise—“to finish this damn article with the quickness, because I fucking miss you.” His arms tighten around me, pressing me to him, a certain part of him pressing into the backs of my thighs, letting me know how many different ways he misses me.
I grin into his dimple before placing a kiss there. “Well, then, you better leave me to get back to work.”
And like the asshole he is, for the second time in as many days, he does.
Only this time, before slipping out the door, he turns back, extending his hand to me. He drags me back downstairs, pulling a chair out for me at the breakfast table before hollering down the basement stairs. “Oi, one of you fucks get up here.”