Chapter 19
Levi
Do you know how it feels to sing a love song with your enemy? Your very cute, extremely mad enemy? It stinks. And with every rehearsal I feel a part of my soul being ripped from my chest.
Ever since Tate announced that she was going to win (insert laugh here), she’s been leaning in.
Literally and figuratively. Yesterday, we were practicing in the studio, and she stood from her stool, slotted herself right in front of me, cupping my cheek during the second chorus.
I held my guitar so tight I left marks where it sat on my thighs.
The worst part is it’s only been two days since the duet disaster, or what I like to call D-Day.
I’m supposed to meet her in an hour for another torture session—I mean, rehearsal—before tomorrow’s show.
I’m not worried about her winning, but I don’t feel great about where we are and what I said and how I acted, and now it feels too late to backtrack.
Downstairs everyone is lying around the house haphazardly.
Living here often reminds me of waking up after a house party.
..minus the fun, alcohol, and an extremely well-off friend.
On my way to the kitchen, I walk through the foyer that feeds into a short hall to the kitchen.
The art in this place is unique. A bunch of headless statues and random paintings have given me haunted house vibes more than once.
As I prepare to make my left into the kitchen to whip myself up some of my famous coffee-cup French toast, something catches my eye in the hallway.
Something like honey brown tendrils. The same ones that hang like ivy around every one of my dreams and nightmares.
I stop, look towards the kitchen, and then back through the hallway.
I really shouldn’t... I’ll see her in less than an hour.
Curiosity wins as I take a careful step into the hall where she disappeared.
I know from my tour with Gabriella that this hallway leads to a massive study.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves of books cover each of the four walls while a large mahogany desk anchors the whole room, commanding attention from anyone who enters.
Like a total weirdo, I stop at the threshold and try to control my output of breath.
“Alright, let’s start at the breakdown,” I hear her say. But to whom? Gabriella? No, that girl is way too prideful to ever ask for help.
“Just forget it, Tate. It’s hopeless,” a very male voice responds.
“You’ve totally got this. You just need to get out of your head,” she protests. “Yes, ‘Open Arms’ has high notes, but they wouldn’t have given it to you if they didn’t think you could do it.”
There’s a pause. I’m dying to take a peek in but getting caught would be nothing short of humiliating. I wait another second for him to respond, but it’s Tate again.
“Here.” Then I hear the sound of feet hitting the wooden floor before silence again.
Where did she go? Is she sitting with him?
Next to him? In front? I would be happier if she was actually levitating, I think.
I take my shot and sneak a peek. Tate is side by side on the corner love seat with Slater.
I don’t know much about him other than what he’s told the group.
He’s twenty-two and from Austin, Texas. He wants to be a country music singer. .. And people say I’m stereotypical.
I watch, my face pressed to the doorframe.
She’s looking over a sheet of music. Her bare thighs bump up against his and I feel my blood heats to something volcanic.
My stomach tangles itself in knots the more I look, knowing darn well this isn’t my place.
Tate’s not mine. In fact, she’s less mine than she was earlier this week due to my big, dumb mouth.
I pull from the door, ready to take myself out of my misery when something stops me.
He adjusts, pulling his body back behind Tate’s curled-over torso in one large stretch with both hands up in the air.
His dark-brown eyes catch mine and his mouth grows into a crooked smile.
I narrow mine back at him as he falls back into position beside her, but this time his arm is draped over her back.
I’m going to be sick. Or I’m going to make him sick.
There’s no other option. I start moving, leaving my brain somewhere in the hall.
Tate looks up at the sound of my feet and then narrows her eyes before standing.
“Levi, why are you here?”
Why am I here? Because I want to put my fist through Slater’s face. I can’t say that though. At least not to her.
“Are we still on today? Looks like you have a lot of work to do in here.” I let my eyes slide to Slater’s before going back to hers. The way she’s rolling her lips into each other tells me she’s not thrilled with that response.
“I’ll be th—” Something behind me stops her train of thought. Then something like humor covers her eyes and I’m scared to know what she’s looking at.
“Levi?”
I know that voice. Where do I know that voice from? My brain flips through my mental Rolodex, but I can’t place it. I turn slowly and my brain finds the page. It’s her. The blonde, tattooed bartender from the first night. What is happening right now?
“Hi...you.”
I hear Tate snort somewhere behind me.
“I know this is, um, weird, but I was hoping we could talk.” I watch as her pointed tongue traces the line of her bottom lip.
She’s beautiful, like a tattooed Michelle Pfeiffer.
Long, icy-blonde hair hovers over high cheekbones and sky-blue eyes.
She’s hot, but it’s doing nothing for me right now.
In fact, I’m dreading the moment I’m no longer in the same room as Tate, but I did this to myself.
“Oh, hey... you guys, this is...” I start to introduce before realizing that I still don’t know her actual name.
“Kim.” She fills in.
“Kim,” I repeat.
“Can we?” She flicks her head motioning back towards the hall.
“Yeah, of course. I was just about to make breakfast. Are you hungry?”
“Starving,” she says, but in a way that makes me feel like I’m not going to get my French toast.
“How about you show me your room first? I only have a minute.”
“Mm,” is all I can manage. Tate witnessing the whole thing makes this extra painful.
I start moving back through the hall like a cow to the slaughter.
When we reach my room, I let her walk in first. She’s in a white tank top covered with small cherries and jean cutoff shorts.
It’s November. But everyone’s saying it’s normal to have an Indian summer in LA.
“Close the door, please.”
I turn, looking longingly at the empty space in the hall before obliging.
“Come here,” she calls, sitting on the foot of my bed. Once I’m close enough, she runs her hands up the sides of my thighs to my hips and back down again.
“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.
Come down here.” She pulls at one of my belt loops, and like the dog I am, I obey as she pulls my body to hers.
I try to keep my expression neutral, but once I’m on top of her, all I see is Tate.
My head is filled with Tate. What must she be thinking?
Is she going to hate me? On the other hand, maybe this is exactly what I need to get over whatever this thing is with Tate.
Kim grabs a fistful of my hair from the back of my head, using it as leverage to pull my mouth to hers. Familiar lips press themselves into mine, her tongue begging for entrance. I open, but my movements are lazy, and after a minute she stops, pushing my face back with her hand.
“Gosh, if I weren’t me, I would swear you’re not into it.” She says it lightly but to the point. I roll off of her and onto my back, letting the mattress knock my hat to the floor. I cup my forehead, pressing the hair up and out of my face.
“I know, I’m sorry. I’m pretty bad company right now. It’s hard for even me to be around me.” I turn my head to look at her. She’s looking back at me thoughtfully. Probably thinking I’m a puzzle with one too many pieces missing.
“What’s this tattoo for?” I ask, turning to my side and tracing the outline of a black clapboard on the inside of her wrist.
She inhales a deep breath, like she’s been asked that too many times, before telling me, “It’s nothing.”
She rolls to match my body, lying on her side. I reach over to push a flyaway blonde strand from her face.
“It’s obviously not nothing. You got it tattooed on your wrist.”
She laughs, shoving me once in the shoulder for good measure.
“Well, like a lot of little girls growing up in Hollywood, I dreamed of being an actor and making it onto the big stage. My mom is in the industry, so it always felt like joining the family business.”
“I think that’s cool. You should do that,” I chime in, and this time I let her push me onto my back.
“I think I liked you better when you had me up against a wall.”
“Yeah, well, I was definitely more on brand then.”
She rolls till she’s lying on her belly, looking down at me, lips twisting in consideration.
“Does this have anything to do with that walking pack of Skittles you’re always around?”
Just the mention of Tate makes me feel dizzy. Is she still with Slater? How many times did he “accidentally” touch her?
“Levi?” She’s giving me a clinical stare.
“Yeah, I guess it does.”
“You caught feelings, which explains why this”—she waves her finger between us— “sucks so bad.”
“I feel like sucks is a little strong. It wasn’t that bad...”
“Yes, if I enjoyed making out with a corpse then you would be perfect.”
I roll my eyes, but don’t put up a fight. “I was definitely lackluster,” I concede.
“So, what are you going to do about your girl?”
My girl. HA. I wish... Wait, what? I’m getting so far away from why I came here, I don’t even know what I want anymore.
“I’m not sure,” I say honestly, moving to get my phone from my pocket and check the time. “I’d better figure it out quick though. I’m supposed to do rehearsals with her in the next fifteen minutes.”
“Just tell her how you feel and then take the next indicated step.”
Normally, I hate advice. It always sounds like it rolled right out of a fortune cookie, but not this. This feels manageable. Tell her how I feel and take the next indicated step.
She pulls herself to a stand, ironing out the wrinkles in her top with a quick brush of her hand. I follow, ready to walk her out.
“You stay. We don’t need to create any more drama for you. I know the way.”
Man, in another life she would be perfect. She’s easy, smart, beautiful. Old me would have kicked my own butt for letting this girl go, but that’s the thing...old me is gone and Kim is a little too monochromatic for me now.
Once the door closes, I collapse back onto my bed, the mattress bouncing a bit at the impact.
How do I feel? I like Tate. I don’t like when other men touch her or talk to her.
Hmm, the last part is a little possessive.
But I do like Tate. So, I’ll tell her and then take the next indicated step.
Yep, that’s what I’ll do. But what is the next indicated step?