CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE SABRINA
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
SAbrINA
The sex is burning hot and bittersweet. When it’s all over, I lie on my side with my head on his bicep while he rests on his back with the covers pulled to his waist. Everything is so quiet.
Through the window, I can see a manicured lawn and a cardinal sitting on the edge of a lawn chair.
I wonder if he’s ever had time to sit there, or if he’s gone so much that the birds use it alone.
“Should we talk about the elephant in the room?” I whisper.
“What’s that?” he murmurs.
I glance up. His eyes are shut.
Slam.
Sitting bolt upright, I pull the sheet over my chest. He pushes himself to his feet and grabs some sweatpants from the dresser, pulling a t-shirt over his head.
“Was that a car in the drive?” I ask.
He nods, tossing me a button down shirt made of soft, stretchy material.
It hangs far enough that I don't need pants, but I still grab my panties and shorts from the floor and pull them on.
I follow him out to the kitchen and through the window.
I can make out a topless sports car. A man stands beside it with a phone to his ear, back to the house.
“Who is that?”
“Jamie,” he says, voice low.
He doesn’t seem angry, just tired. I pull back and skirt around the other side of the counter.
Coen’s footsteps track across the floor, and then he opens the door and steps onto the porch.
They stop. I grab a coffee mug and a pod, setting them up and hitting the button.
The man’s footsteps join them, and the door opens, the room filling with a new presence.
I turn around, fixing a smile on my face.
Oh, Jamie is not what I expected. He’s about the same age as Coen, but he’s a little bigger, bulkier, and very handsome.
I guess I never really asked how old he was, but I had a different image in my head when I heard agent for a songwriter.
His hair is cut short, light brown, and he has a short beard, just stubble, plus a mustache.
He’s in a shirt similar to the one I’m wearing—a stone beige, rolled up to his elbows.
It looks like he was more formal when he got up, but then the day wore on him.
I have to resist taking out my phone and snapping a picture for Serena. Just like she knew Coen was my type, I can tell she’d eat up Jamie on a platter.
“Hey,” he says, not smiling.
“Hi,” I squeak.
Coen skirts around him. “Don’t be an asshole.”
Jamie lifts his palms. “I haven’t said a thing. When you get in?”
“About an hour or so ago.”
He leans on the counter, gesturing. “Time enough to get sex hair, I see.”
I touch my hair, flushing. Coen flips him off and takes my coffee from the machine, setting it on the counter.
“I got some shit for Mason if you want to meet at the studio later today,” says Coen.
“Good,” Jamie says.
It kind of feels like there’s a lot they want to say right now. My stomach twists, and I wonder if Coen intends to put me on a plane before he heads to the studio.
“You want a coffee?” Coen asks.
“Sure.”
I stay quiet, sipping my coffee, because I need something to do with my hands. Jamie is leaning one hand on the counter, the other on his hip, and he won’t stop looking at me. Not glaring, just studying me carefully. Does he think I’m some kind of gold digger? I look away.
“We can get coffee on the way if you want to go now,” Jamie says.
“Sure. Groceries should be here by now. We can get a bite on the way.”
Jamie pushes off the counter and goes to the door, disappearing. I turn on Coen, my heart thumping.
“Do you want me to go now?” I whisper.
“No,” he says firmly. “Please stay.”
“I don’t think Jamie wants me here.”
“Trust me, if Jamie didn’t want you here, he’d be a lot more of an asshole. That’s just Jamie.”
I nod just as Jamie appears again with the groceries.
“I’m gonna get dressed,” I say, backing up into the safety of the bedroom. Immediately, I hear both men’s voices start up. They’re not arguing, but I don’t want to hear what they’re discussing, so I shut the door and grab my bag, tossing it on the bed.
I pull out my last clean pieces of clothing, a short denim skirt and a white cropped shirt.
It only leaves a tiny sliver of waist bare, and it’s short, but not so short my ass will be out.
I duck into the bathroom and turn on the shower.
Even though we’re using condoms, I’m still a little messy after sex.
Loitering by the counter, I pick up my phone.
Should I text Serena?
Instead, I hit the call button and wait. She picks up on the second ring.
“Hey, long time, no call,” she says.
“It’s only been a couple days.” I roll my eyes.
“Where are you?”
“In Nashville, at Coen’s house,” I say, dropping my voice. “That’s not important. I met Jamie, and he is your type. You would eat him up.”
“Oooh, really? Send me a pic?”
“I’m not going out into the kitchen while they’re talking and taking a photo. Look him up online. I’m sure he has a Wikipedia page.”
“Oh, good idea.”
There’s a short silence. Then, I hear a soft oh my God.
“Okay, you weren’t joking,” she says.
“I was not.”
I jump out of my skin as someone knocks on the bathroom door. “Shit, I have to go. I’ll call you later.”
I hang up in the nick of time as the door creaks open.
“Can I come in?” Coen asks.
I pull it the rest of the way, stepping aside so he can step in. His face is sober, and my heart drops to my toes. My fingers tighten on the phone.
“You—”
“I want you to stay,” he blurts out.
I’m speechless. He clears his throat, waiting.
“Until when?” I whisper.
“I don’t know. Just please, don’t go.”
I can’t deny him asking makes me want to cry with happiness for a second. Then, reality sets in. I can’t just leave. I don’t want to just leave the ranch and run off with him. I love my dad, despite everything, and I am attached at the hip with Serena. Plus, that’s my land.
My home.
“I can stay until Aunt Eugenia has to leave,” I manage. “But that’s only a day or two.”
“Good. Stay.”
I nod, head whirling. What did Jamie and him just talk about? Before I can say another word, he takes me by the chin and kisses me hard.
“Go on, shower,” he says. “Meet us in the kitchen.”
He disappears, and I go dazed into the shower.
It only takes five minutes to get scrubbed up, dried off, and into my clothes.
Then, I put on my cowboy boots and grab my purse.
When I step into the kitchen, they’re talking quietly by the island, and they stop the second I appear.
Coen has his notebook in one hand, phone in the other.
“Alright,” says Jamie, flipping his keys. “Let’s rock and roll.”
We leave the house, and Jamie gets behind the wheel of his car—so expensive, I have no idea what make or model it is.
Coen helps me into the back seat and sits in the passenger.
Then, we’re off, flying down the state route leading into the city.
Jamie drives too fast but like he knows what he’s doing.
I’m not sure what to expect for a studio, but it’s not to drive right through the downtown to what looks like an industrial district before he turns off into a gravel drive.
He cuts the engine.
“Anybody using the studio right now?” Coen asks, getting out.
“Dax was here a couple days ago. Other than that, no.”
Coen lets me out, hand on my back. Jamie’s eyes follow the movement, but he doesn’t say anything.
He just circles the vehicle and goes to unlock the blacked out glass door.
When we step inside, I’m hit with the faint scent of incense and wood.
Jamie flips on all the lights, and we’re in a plain front room with a hallway to the right.
“I told him not to burn that in here,” Jamie grumbles.
“It’s fine,” Coen says, taking my hand.
We go down the hallway, entering a studio space with bamboo wood walls, a black floor, and couches along the wall. It’s plain but cozy, and clearly expensive. There are instruments and sound equipment in spades. On the far wall is a fancy guitar, a little brass plaque I can’t quite read beneath it.
“You want anything, baby?” Coen says. “Water, coke? We have a coffee maker?”
Why is it so embarrassing for him to say that in front of Jamie? Maybe because he’s been watching me like a hawk. I glance over, and if Jamie hears anything, he doesn’t turn around as he sinks down at the keyboard.
“I’m okay,” I say. “I’ll sit over on the couch.”
He leans in, but that’s too far for me. I shake my head and give him a stern look, retreating to the couch. Curling up in the corner, I wrap a blanket around my legs.
“You got lyrics or music?” Jamie says.
Coen sinks to a chair by the keyboard and tosses the worn notebook. Jamie flips it open and starts reading.
There’s a very long silence. Minutes tick by. I watch the clock above the door, counting down at least ten of them. Jamie shifts and leans his elbow on the keyboard, flipping a page. Nobody speaks for another fifteen minutes. Finally, Jamie clears his throat and snaps it shut.
“Why don’t you step out and call Mason?” he says. “Ask if he can meet tomorrow.”
Coen stands. “Here?”
“Yeah, we can stay up and finalize everything tonight.”
Coen doesn’t speak. He just leaves. The door swings shut, and Jamie stands, lifting the notebook.
“He wrote this on the trip?” he asks, turning his light blue gaze on me.
I nod, a little cowed. Jamie runs a hand over his face.
Silence.
Tick…tick…tick. Distantly, I can make out Coen talking and pacing in the hall.
“He hasn’t written like this in ten years,” Jamie says finally.
I swallow, body tingling. “Is that good or bad?” I ask.
“It’s good,” Jamie says. “I know I probably seem like an asshole today. I’m just protective, and I don’t know you.”
“I get it,” I say quickly.
“But this is good shit. Really good shit. Maybe some of the best he’s written.”
I’m quiet, but inside, my heart thumps so hard, I feel it everywhere. Finally, I clear my throat.
“So he’s good on the Mason album?” I ask lightly.
Jamie’s jaw works, and then he nods. “The stuff for Mason is great. It’s the entire album he wrote on the back of the pages I’m more concerned with.”
He lifts the book, flipping it open. Every single bit of those blank pages is full of words, music, arrows, circles, tiny notes in boxes.
When he ran out of space in the middle, he turned the book and used the margins.
When did he have all the time to do that?
Was he waking up during the night to write?
“Wow,” I whisper.
Jamie turns, setting the notebook up on the keyboard.
His fingers hover over the keys, and he ticks his tongue, like he’s testing the beat.
Then, he starts playing, and everything goes still around us.
The saddest, prettiest melody comes out.
It’s clearly folk, gut-wrenching even without lyrics.
A lump forms in my throat. All I can think about is the first night we slept together, how quiet, how guarded Coen was.
How we woke up before the sun rose and left the house in the blue light to see the horses.
It makes me remember what it felt like sitting beside him in the truck. Both looking for something. Neither knowing really what we’d find.
Jamie’s fingers falter, then fall silent.
I clear my throat. “What’s that one called?”
He picks up the notebook. “Hit the Road, Cowboy.”
I smile, despite my wet lashes. I said that to him the day we left, and he said it back to me the next day.
A hint of panic sparks in my chest.
I’m broken by that melody. Shattered. And I want to go home and curl up beneath my blankets, because right now, I know I’m well on my way to loving Coen Taylor, and I don’t know how to deal with that.
Everything my father ever warned me about churns through my head.
My father would know. He’s the person who did all the hurting, and he’s still warning me away.
The door opens, and Coen appears. I drop my face, pretending to curl deeper into the blanket.
“Mason is coming over now,” Coen says.
“I need some stuff from the store,” I say abruptly. “Jamie, can you take me while they do their thing?”
Both men stare at me, confused.
“Uh, you okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, grabbing my purse. “Girl stuff.”
“Okay,” Coen says, coming over and bending to kiss my head. “Jamie can take you. There’s a Walmart not too far.”
“Perfect.”
I’m out the door, striding down the hall. Jamie comes after me, eating up the distance with long legs, but I’m bolting so quickly, I’m outside by the time he catches up.
“Hey,” he barks.
I skid to a halt, turning. “Can you take me to the airport?”
“What? Why?”
I take a heaving breath. “I’m not running. I need a breath. I need space to think.”
Tears finally escape and slip down my face.
“My mom’s in New York,” I manage. “I just want to see her.”
He takes his keys out but doesn’t move. “Did me saying he hasn’t written like that in ten years freak you out?”
“Yeah,” I say. “It kinda did.”
Neither of us say a word. It’s not just about the music.
It’s that we both know Coen was lost in a wave of exhaustion, taken by a tide that pulled him under.
And we both know he’s rising to the surface, that I’m the reason for it.
But I don’t know what it all means for me, for the future.
Jamie nods, striding to the car. We both get in, and I sink back in the passenger side.
“I’m not gonna lie about where you’re going,” Jamie says. “He’s probably gonna come right after you.”
“That’s fine,” I whisper, shutting my eyes.
He puts on his sunglasses and accelerates. We’re back on the road and flying toward the freeway. My stomach grows colder the further we get from the studio.
I’m a coward.
Either that, or I’m only human.