Chapter 11 – Malcolm
Chapter Eleven
Malcolm
Imake a point of waking up early. Is it weird that I wait in the living room, so the first thing Lumen will see is a friendly face? Hopefully it’s thoughtful and romantic rather than obsessive or creepy.
It wasn’t easy to force myself out of her room last night. There was plenty of space on the bed for me, and I’m sure she would have slept better if she was snuggled up to my chest.
I’m a cuddler.
Or I want to be with her.
I’m an affectionate person.
She triggered my instincts, and now we’re both going to have to live with the fallout.
Kincaid and Riser leave around eleven to find a local gym. Sometimes the venues have workout areas, but this one doesn’t. I’m actually relieved that they won’t be around to get on my ass.
Parish comes out a few minutes later, and I almost laugh.
I swear he was avoiding Daddy Kincaid, which I get.
Parish’s long black hair falls around his chest as he reaches into the pocket on the club chair. His hair is the longest of all of us, but it’s buzzed close to his skull on the sides. It’s a crazy effect, and it looks killer when he rocks out.
He pulls a small box from the chair pocket and drags the coffee table closer. “Wanna do a line?”
“Coke?” I ask because I don’t fuck with crystal. That shit is toxic, like straight-up chemicals. At least coke and weed come from plants.
“Yup,” he agrees.
I shrug. “Sure.”
Tennyson joins us a while later, and we shoot the shit, chilling in the living room.
My foot bounces as I check the door to Lumen’s bedroom. It feels like it’s taking forever for her to wake up, but if she doesn’t show her face in the next thirty minutes, I might pop in and check on her.
She needs rest, but it’s getting close to when Tangled Desires should be done practicing.
Not only am I anxious to see how she’s feeling this morning, I’m stressed about letting her listen to the music I’ve been working on.
Back when Drew was with us, he put out nonstop bangers. Any time I tried to help, I ended up dragging him down.
That’s what it felt like, anyway.
So, I stopped trying to contribute.
Damn, dude.
It might be time for me to get back in with my psychologist.
Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria has fucked up my life on more than one occasion.
I’ve got doctor-diagnosed ADHD, and I do a lot better when I’m medicated.
The meds produce the same reaction as coke, so I don’t feel guilty about self-medicating.
The doc kept drug testing me every time I had to refill my prescription.
I failed every time for weed, which isn’t even a big deal.
His condescending comments got old, and I just never went back.
Bullshit like that is why people self-medicate in the first place. No one wants to feel like they’re on trial just for trying to gain access to the medication they need to be able to function like a normal human being.
I bend over, doing a line off the tray on the coffee table.
The residue is disgusting as I hold my nostril, sucking up whatever is left in my nasal passage. It’s bitter and tastes faintly like chemicals as it slides down the back of my throat, but I don’t hate it.
I love the way my mouth, throat, and face go numb. It’ll pump me up for about ten minutes before it levels me out enough that I can focus.
“Um, your chick is awake,” Ten whispers, slapping my chest.
My head whips up, and he’s right.
Whoa.
Lumen is always beautiful. The times I’ve seen her, she’s been in jeans and band tees. Last night, she was in a skirt and a tank top. She usually wears a little eyeliner, mascara, and lip gloss.
She went all out this morning.
I never saw her leave the room, and I’ve been watching, so she must have done her hair and makeup in the bedroom.
Her hair is curlier than I’ve seen it, and she’s decked out in a full face of makeup. Her eyes are rimmed in thick black liner, while her lashes look particularly long and full. The extra makeup makes her bluish-gray eyes stand out even more in contrast.
It’s hard to tell from this distance, but it seems like she’s wearing foundation.
Damn.
I wonder if she had to cover the bruise she got in the pit.
Popping up, I wipe my hands off on my jeans and head around to greet her.
She’s in this sexy dark gray dress that hangs off one shoulder.
It has long sleeves and laces up the sides, making the dress tight around her middle, but it flares out around her hips.
There are little rips above the hem, showing naughty peeks of creamy skin.
It ends a few inches down her soft thighs.
She’s got on a pair of hooker boots that lace up the front and have a decent heel. It gives her an extra few inches of height.
The combination shows surprisingly little skin—outside of her neck and upper chest.
Is it weird to be attracted to those sexy little indents surrounding her clavicles?
Fuck.
I could totally trace those with my tongue.
Oh, Jesus.
My dick perks up, hardening as I slide my gaze up and down her one final time.
How long has it been since I’ve had sex?
It’s not only the five weeks we’ve been on tour. I spent almost a month and a half back home with my family after my dad’s health scare. My mom would’ve bitched me up one side and down the other if she saw me trying to sneak out, and honestly?
I wouldn’t have blamed her.
For the first time in my life, I couldn’t focus on anything outside of how much it would hurt to lose one of my dads. It only took a decade for me to grow up and get hookups out of my system.
Damn.
I’m practically a saint.
It hasn’t been that long in the grand scheme of things, but it currently feels like forever.
“Good morning, Lulu.” I smile brightly as I come to a stop in front of her.
My hands land on her hips, and I bend down, pecking a kiss on her cheek. She’s definitely wearing concealer, but the faint redness from where she was whacked in the pit is visible up close.
Dammit.
I hate that she got injured at one of our shows.
“Want some breakfast?” I offer. “It might be cold, but I didn’t know what time you normally wake up, so I had catering drop it off early. It’s lunchtime. I could call over and have them bring something by.”
I smile, nodding.
Ten and Parish laugh, indicating that I might be trying too hard.
Oh well, fuck them.
“They almost always have burgers, sandwiches, or salads ready to go,” I say, trying to tempt her with the foods that always work on me.
They also have this disgusting low-calorie chicken that makes me gag every time I smell it, but I don’t mention it because I will hurl if it comes onto this bus.
The same thing happens with the seafood and tofu options they carry.
I’ve basically banned anyone from eating them within fifty feet of me.
“Come sit down.” I grab her hand, leading her over to the couch.
She settles onto the end of the sofa where I was sitting earlier, so I take the middle cushion and toss my arm around the back.
“Are you hungry?” I ask, wondering why I can’t shut up. “Did you want breakfast or lunch?”
“I’m not hungry.” She nods to the table. “But I wouldn’t turn that down.”
Riser said Tangled Desires’ bus was covered in paraphernalia, so I’m not sure why I’m surprised.
Not in a bad way or anything.
I’m the last person who would blame someone for numbing their pain.
I guess I just feel protective over her, which is weird, but she was dating a rock star. She’s traveled on tour for over a month. She’s probably not as sheltered as I’ve made her out to be in my mind.
“Go for it,” Tennyson says, smiling lazily as he stretches back against his chair.
“Hold on.” I lean forward and grab one of the straws, pushing it out of the paper it comes in. “Let me cut you a fresh one.”
The scissors are somewhere… I pat around, finally locate them, and cut the straw down to size before handing it off.
They test us for everything under the sun before each tour. My results were all negative, but I have no idea about Ten and Parish. Either way, it’s safer if no one is sharing straws.
“Thanks,” she says, laughing. “I feel fancy now.”
I bark a laugh as my eyes meet Tennyson’s. She holds her hair back, bending closer to the coffee table, and Ten mouths, I like her.
I nod, smiling like an idiot.
Me too.
Now I just have to convince her to stick around long enough to get to know the real me.
Not the rock-star stage persona.
Somehow avoid being the fuckup everyone always accuses me of being.
Hell, I don’t even know if I remember who I was before we exploded onto the scene, but I’m going to try to show her.
I won’t be able to do that if she leaves as soon as we have a night off.
I need to find a way to make her want to stick around. That’s going to be an uphill battle when there’s the high likelihood that she’ll run into her ex on a daily basis.
I’ll just have to figure out how to make it worth her while.
I’m not a suspicious person.
I’m way more likely to go with the flow without questioning anything.
That’s why it’s so strange that I’m sure Lumen is hiding something. She took my cobbled-together intro and the few lines I had for the verse and spit out a chorus, bridge, and a hook in less than an hour.
She didn’t just craft them.
She nailed the entire energy I was trying to convey.
“When The Time Comes,” is what I wrote on the flight back to Florida after my dad had his heart attack.
Benji called and told me to get my ass back home because they’d filled Drew’s spot. The label wanted us practicing to ensure we would mesh well, but I was terrified my dad would have a setback and die while I wasn’t around.
Lumen took the emotions and fine-tuned them into something that isn’t specific. Each listener will hear what they want to hear, applying it to what’s going on in their life.
That’s the key to writing music that hits the audience right in the soul.
I’m not jealous.
I’m baffled.
Are we that in sync?
Or is she truly that talented?
“Do you like it?” she asks, letting Kincaid’s Telecaster hang from the strap around her neck.
Under normal circumstances, he’d kick my ass if he saw me letting anyone play his baby. If he witnessed what I just did, he’d be too shocked to knock me out.
“I kept your chord progressions, intro, and verse. I just added the little bit we talked about to the lyrics,” she says, moving to pull off Kincaid’s guitar.
She’s a dirty little liar.
She tweaked everything I gave her…
For the better.
I’m not even mad.
I think that sensation in my gut might be awe.
If this is what she can create in an hour, what could she compose in a month?
“No, don’t take it off,” I say, shaking my head. “I want you to show me what you did.” She’s only a few feet away, and I move behind her.
I curl around her back, making sure I’ve got a view of her hands.
Lumen peeks at me over her shoulder.
“If you lean back, it’ll be easier for me to see what you’re doing,” I lie.
I can see fine, but I want her touching me. She leans her shoulders back against my chest, and it does give me a better view.
Her hands are small compared to mine, but she plays with no trouble. She definitely changed up some of what I had noted for the song.
It sounds better than what I had, and my stomach flip-flops with a weird feeling as she hums.
When she starts singing, my jaw falls.
There’s no reason she’s not signed to her own contract. They’d want her to work with a vocal coach to help with the things she hasn’t been trained in, but she could fill her own venues.
That’s not me looking at her with rose-colored glasses, either. She needs to learn diaphragm support and how to control her tones, but she’s got killer pipes, and it doesn’t even sound like she’s pushing her range.
She runs through everything she created, and I don’t even think I can take cowriting credit at this point.
It’s all her.
My mind races a thousand miles a minute, trying to figure out how to broach the subject of asking her to stay and work with me on making more songs.
Fuck.
I really like this chick.
I don’t want her to get away.
I hand Lumen a bottle of water as we linger around near the door.
The guys should be in soon for our practice, and I’m practically giddy to tell them what I’ve learned.
“You’re a musician,” I say, grinning like a fiend. “Jesus, woman. Why the hell do you hide a voice like that?”
“What?” she sputters, taking a step back. “No. My dad was a musician. Not me.”
Was?
“Did he pass away?” I ask, wondering if he was someone I’d recognize.
“No, he’s still alive,” she says softly. “I guess he still is a musician. You don’t stop being one because you’re no longer performing.”
“Then just because you’re not performing, it doesn’t mean you’re not a musician.” I nod at the stage. “You’ve got crazy talent, Lulu.”
Her head shakes, and it’s like I can see her shut down before my very eyes.
“I’m sorry.” I hold up my palms, wondering where I went wrong. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I was just trying to give you a compliment.”
“Thanks.” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach those bluish-gray eyes of hers. “All I did was keep you company while you worked out the kinks in your song.”
My head tilts.
That’s absolutely not what happened.
Either her ex made her downplay her talent to make himself feel better, or he convinced her that her contribution was small compared to what he did with crafting songs.
“You should be proud of what you created,” she says, pointing at my chest. “You have nothing to worry about. The guys are going to love it.”
I have no doubt they will, but I’m also not the type to take credit for someone else’s work, and that no longer feels like the song I created.
Right now doesn’t seem like the right time to push, but I am going to encourage her at every chance until she realizes how goddamn talented she is.