Chapter 43
Chapter forty-three
Cole · Now
Paper crinkles in Hendrix’s hand as she scans the page.
I press my back into the couch and bounce my pencil off my knee, sipping my coffee while I wait her out.
A long moment passes with only the low hum of a piano passing through the speakers to fill the quiet.
Then she turns to me with a scowl. “This is God-awful.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and sigh. “I don’t see you coming up with anything better.”
“I gave you a whole track, dude.” She harrumphs, folding her arms over her chest. “All you need to do is use your pretty little mind and come up with lyrics.”
My lips twitch. “You think I’m pretty?"
She lobs a Malteser at my head.
I catch it mid-air and pop it in my mouth.
“We were floating through the air?” she sings, off key and out of pitch. I wince. “What even is that? Are you auditioning to soundtrack the next Snowman film?”
“Give over. That line is great.”
“It’s shit and you know it.”
“You know what, Rixie.” I tap my knuckles on the floor. “I think you’re just jealous.”
“Of?”
“I mean, you’ve said it yourself.” I fold my arms across my chest and grin. “I am the superior lyricist in this partnership.”
Her gaze narrows. “Superior?”
“Hmm.”
“Those sound like fighting words.”
“And if they are?”
She cocks her head. Her tongue swipes over her lip stud and she drums her fingertips into the carpet. “I never lose.”
“Me either.”
“Who’s judging?”
“Axel?”
She shakes her head. “He’ll pick you. He always did.”
“Saint is yours.”
She grins smugly. “Obviously. I've always been his favourite.”
“Carter?”
Her nose wrinkles.
“He’s the most impartial,” I tell her.
“True. Pretty sure he hates me these days, though, so.” She hisses playfully, but her eyes dim, the corner of her mouth tugging down for a beat before she schools her expression. “Can’t see him giving me his vote.”
A weight settles on my chest.
Before I can stop myself, I wrap an arm around her back and pull her into my chest. “He doesn’t hate you.”
“He doesn’t like me, either.” Her breath skates my neck as she peers up at me, her fingers tugging at the end of my t-shirt. “And I’m not giving you an easy win.”
I brush aside the strand of hair falling into her face. “Well, do you have anyone to judge?”
She clicks her tongue, eyes dipping.
Then, she grins. “I do, in fact. But she doesn’t hold back, so prepare yourself.”
“She?”
“Riley.”
“So, we’re both writing a song, and then asking your best friend to judge it? I feel that’s pretty partial.”
She rolls her eyes. “He says as if he didn't just reel off his own best friends as options.”
“Our best friends, Rixie.” I grin.
She flattens her lips. “They're not impartial enough.”
“And Riley really will be?”
“She literally told me yesterday she hates what I write. If that’s not impartial, I don’t know what is.”
I choke on a laugh. “She said that?”
“Yup.” She chuckles. “My girl keeps me humble.”
I purse my lips, pretending to ponder it. Truth is, I’m not going to deny her anything. Even if Riley is biased. If Hendrix wants her to judge our songs, then that’s how it’ll be.
Hendrix blinks, inpatient as she watches me.
“Okay.” I lift a shoulder, exhaling dramatically. “Riley can judge.”
She claps her hands and grins.
I push up to standing and drag her up with me.
“Rules?” she asks.
“No changing the beat, or the melody.”
“You’re never going to get over me kicking your arse when we wrote Neon Daydreams are you?”
“Never.” I flick her nose. “You changed the whole composition.”
“It sounded better.”
“Rixie,” I deadpan.
“Fine.” She stomps her foot. “No changing the beat or melody.”
“And no distracting the other. We play it fair, or we don’t play it at all.”
“What does the winner get?”
“First to finish gets to pick the film we watch tonight. Then we'll come up with something for song winner later.”
Her eyes glimmer. “I don’t recall agreeing to watch a movie with you.”
“Well, you have all those Tony’s pizzas to get through so…”
She props her hands on her hips, her fingers tapping over the slither of bare skin peeking between from her T-shirt. “Ok, Rock Star. I hope you’re ready to watch Moulin Rouge, because I’ve always been a faster writer than you.”
“Baby, you’ve been out of the game for a long time.” My fingers buzz when I squeeze her hip. “I’ve got this in the bag.”
Hendrix leans back on my couch wearing only an oversized shirt and fluffy socks. Her eyes are bright, her grin wide. Moulin Rouge is cued up on the TV, snacks cover the coffee table, and
She waves the remote in the air like a trophy. “Is this the part where I say I told you so?”
I grunt.
I fucking lost miserably.
Hendrix was on the bridge of her second song before I even reached the outro of my first.
I peel my jumper over my head and toss it into the armchair.
She shifts across the couch when I drop down, and hugs her knees to her chest, planting her cheek on her knee.
I’m not sure what I expected when I invited her into my flat. Awkwardness, maybe. But it wasn’t the ease in which she settled into my space. She just kicked off her shoes and made herself right at home in my living room, as if she's done it a thousand times over.
I’d be lying if I said I hated it.
“I still can’t believe you wrote two songs in six hours,” I say.
“What can I say, I’ve been feeling inspired.”
I tug a blanket from the back and throw it over my legs. “Think you’ll keep writing after we’ve done the album?”
“Dunno. Probably not.” She chews her bottom lip. “I’ve got the studio and clients I’ve promised to work with. I don’t know where I’d fit it in.”
“Crazy busy?” I tease, ignoring the twist low in my gut at the reminder that she has a whole life to go back to. One I’m not a part of.
“Something like that.”
“How have I never heard of you in the rock scene?”
She peeks up at me through dipped lashes. “Who’s to say you haven’t?”
“Pretty sure I’d remember if your name came up, Rixie.”
“Hm.” Her lip twitches. “Ever heard of Wren Monroe?”
My brow furrows as I rack my brain.
I reel back, my eyes widening. “You’re kidding me?”
Hendrix watches me, but says nothing as the realisation slaps me in the face.
“How the fuck did I never make the connection? Hendrix Monroe Wren Moore. You’re Wren Monroe? The mastermind mixer behind Riotous’ last album?”
“I mean, I wouldn’t say mastermind, but…” She smirks.
“Holy shit, Rixie. You’ve not only made a name for yourself but everybody wants to work with you. Hell, our old label wanted you.”
Crimson crawls over her cheeks, deepening the freckles scattered there. “I’m good at what I do.”
“Picky too. If rumours are to be believed.”
“Little bit, I don’t exactly need the money,” she says, giving me a pointed glance.
I’m fully aware she’s not slumming it. She still gets a solid cut of royalties from our first two albums. We made sure of that.
“It means I can pick projects I like. I tend to work with up-and-comers, rather than established artists.”
“Do you love it?” I ask, sliding down the couch and propping my feet on the coffee table.
She brushes against my shoulder when she leans closer and tugs the blanket over herself. “I don’t hate it.”
“Not what I asked.”
She sighs, her gaze skimming my wrist.
“I’m good at what I do,” she says again, lifting a shoulder. “Is it what I always thought I’d be doing? No. But that doesn’t make it any less fulfilling. It’s just…” She exhales a short breath. “Different.”
“Different how?”
Her forehead creases as she studies my face. “You really want to hear all about the ins and outs of my job?”
I want to hear about everything, Rixie.
“Hmm. I’m just trying to figure out if I can tempt you to hang around here forever and spend the rest of your days writing songs for Reckless Abandon?”
My tone might be teasing, but my words are true.
If there’s even a small chance I can keep her, I’m taking it.
“Forever, huh?” Her eyes glitter as they trace my face, her lips quirking. “That’s a pretty long time.”
I lick my lips and plant my hand on my thigh. “Is it? I had no idea.”
“You can try and tempt me.” Her fingers graze mine before she presses play. “Now, stop being a sore loser and let me enjoy my prize.”