by Max Henry
“Won the lottery with that gene-pool, didn’t you?”
She snorts, turning her head to one side. “Hardly. Do you have any idea how much pressure comes naturally in a household that talented?”
“I could stab a guess.” I neck half what remains of the beer and take a step toward her. “Sit down again. You don’t have to stand because I am.”
Her gaze stays fixed to the sofa. “It doesn’t feel right.”
“Then what does?” Fuck me. I spent dough on making this place more homely. Did I screw it up?
She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, her gaze critical while she appears in thought. After shoving her writing pad back in the bag that she brought in, Jeanie crosses the room to the open fireplace on the shorter wall. She holds both hands out to the flames and then drops to her knees as though she worships the heat that the fire gives off. “Most people have central heating.” Her gaze stays fixated on the flames. “Why a fireplace?”
“It was on the plan.”
“You didn’t request it?” She turns to look at me, hair illuminated by the warm light.
“I didn’t design the house.” Her gaze follows me, tracking my every move as I close the space between us and settle on the floor as well. “It was a package. An experiment by the architect.”
“Most people opt for the standard suburban home when buying off the plan.” Her lips curl at the corner.
“I’m not most people.” Our eye contact; I feel it in my core. She holds my gaze, drawing a deep, steady breath. “Plus, I don’t have time to fuck around with a building project when I’ve got tours and stuff to deal with.” I look at my hands, turning them over to note the hardened skin on my palms.
“I’ve always wanted an open fire,” she muses, lost in the display before her. “It feels welcoming, don’t you think?”
I follow a flame as it dances a pretty ballet across the split log. “If you’re a pyromaniac, sure.”
She huffs a laugh, but it’s not her humor that catches me off guard. It’s the back of her hand when it connects with my forearm. I stay frozen in place, arms looped around my bent legs, ankles crossed, and stare at the spot where she touched me.
“Shit.” She mutters the curse-word to her friendly fire. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cross any boundaries.”
“You didn’t.”
Her head whips left, chin high while she studies me. “You looked angry.”
“Did I?” Not what I felt at all. “I’m not.”
She relaxes, seated on her heels. “You’re hard to read. Have you been told that?”
I nod. And then smile. “Kind of thought you would have figured that out by now.”
I like it when she laughs. It’s not forced and pretty; a simple sound meant to please the object of her attention. It’s genuine and messy—a lot like her.
“Yeah. I have.” Jeanie stares at the fire a while; her head cocked slightly to one side before she reaches out and nudges the end of a log into the heart of the heat. “So, why music?”
She asks the question a second time, but I feel more inclined to answer this time. Maybe it’s the serene look in her eye seated here in front of my fire, or perhaps it’s because when she asked this time, it seemed like genuine curiosity. The first time she asked why, she’d been stiff, clinical. Going through the motions.
Now? It’s as though she actually wants to know.
“You’ve picked by now that I’m not great at voicing how I feel, right?”
I’m gifted with an amused smile and a lift of one eyebrow.
“Anyway.” Back to my hands. “Music was suggested by my third-grade teacher as a way to express myself. He picked up how I shut down when questioned but seemed frustrated at not being heard. He told my parents that they should put me into an after-school program.”
“And so, they did.”
“They did.” I nod, focused on the white edge of my callous as I run my thumbnail over its coarse texture.
“Brave parents putting you in front of a drum kit.”
“I didn’t play drums at the start.”
“What did you play?” She shifts in my periphery, rolling her weight onto one hip.
“My teacher gave me a recorder first. Said it was easier to learn how to read music when your fingers only had one place to be.”
“Makes sense.”
“Once I mastered that, she taught me how to play the piano.”
“Piano.” Jeanie folds her legs before her and rests her elbows on top. Her smile is infectious, hands propped beneath her chin. “How did you transition to drums?”
“The first guy Rey jammed with couldn’t keep an even beat to save himself.” I chuckle at the memory. “He’d start fine, but by the end of a song, they’d be out of time with each other. The drummer would blame Rey, and most afternoons, it’d be up to me to stop Rey from pummeling the guy.”
“So, you figured you’d play for him?”
“Something like that.” She smiles, all dreamy. “What?”
“That’s just really cute. It shows how deeply you love him.”
I lift one eyebrow. Cute?
“Oh, come on.” Jeanie leans on one hand, waving the other through the air while she speaks. “You switch from a piano to drums so that Rey doesn’t have to put up with a bad musician. What else would you call it?”
“I switched to drums so I wouldn’t have to hold him back from killing the moron, so I could get some fucking peace.”
She doesn’t seem convinced. “Still play the piano?”
“I can.”
“But you don’t?” Jeanie leans forward again.
I reach out and push her hair behind her shoulder. The proximity to the flickering flames keeps me on edge. “If I play piano, I focus on the wrong type of composition. To keep my head where it needs to be, I stick with the drums.”
“Play me something, maestro.” She lifts her chin.
“On what?” I scoff. “I don’t have a baby grand in the corner in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Her face falls as she searches the room with her gaze. “Fair point.”
Perhaps I should have invested in a piano instead of a wasted fucking throw rug. “What did your dad want you to do?”
“Huh?” She frowns, fucking hair falling dangerously close to the fire again.
“You said he doesn’t approve of music journalism.” I tuck the strands out of the way again. “What did he want you to do?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugs, freeing a section. “My sister is a pharmacist, and that seems to make him happy, so perhaps something like that?”
“You never asked? Or he never told you what he thought you should study?”
“I studied journalism.” She bops her head. “Whatever else he assumed after that is his problem.”
“Can you just back the fuck away from the fire?” I push her hair over her wool-clad shoulder again and then set my palm against her arm. “I’m expecting to have to throw a bucket of water over you any second.”
Jeanie turns her head toward the flames, eyes widening when she realizes how near she’d gravitated. “Shit.” And then the worst fucking happens.
I see the ember spark, the sap in the wood crackle, but the goddamn thing moves quicker than I can. The tang of burning wool erupts between us.
“Motherfucker!” Hands beating the singed spot at her stomach, she scrambles away from the flames, bumping into the end of the sofa. The whole scene is so comical; I can’t help my damn self.
I laugh.
“Oh, my God. Are you serious!” Her eyes are wide, hands clutching the marred sweater. “You laugh? Like hell, you would have thrown water over me.” She hollers in protest, but the conviction behind the words is weak. “You would have laughed as my goddamn hair frizzled away.”
I snort and then laugh harder. Her rage morphs into amusement, and before long, my little vulture laughs with me.
“Christ, Toby.” Jeanie slumps against the sofa. “What the fuck was th
at?”
“A lesson in fire safety.” I grin. “I know you don’t have one at your place, but you do know flames burn, right?”
“Asshole.” She giggles.
“Dickhead.”
Her chuckles fade, and she rests lounged on my floor with a sated smile on her deep pink lips. I could think of other ways to get that smile there. Ways I have no business entertaining when she’s the mortal enemy. Although seated here on my hardwood, she doesn’t seem so dangerous after all.
She’s like me in that she’s committed to her work. It’s her choice, her passion, and she makes no apologies about that. We’re not as far removed from one another as I first assumed.
“Your life revolves around your work, too, huh?” I settle with knees hooked inside elbows once more.
She sighs, almost remorseful. “Apparently too much.”
“Says who?”
“My sister.” She shrugs. “Charles.”
“That pretty boy fucker who was at your place?”
Jeanie’s dark eyes narrow. “Why don’t you like him?”
“He gives me bad vibes.”
“There goes that intuition.” She mutters under her breath, sliding her legs out before her and jamming clasped hands between. “He’s a good guy.”
“I bet.” I refrain from rolling my eyes like a gossipy girl.
Her chin lifts. “You must have someone like that. A colleague you trust as a friend.”
I take a moment to run the payroll through my mind. “Nope.”
“What about your manager?”
“Don’t trust him.”
“Somebody on the crew?”
“It was our crew who gave you my number.” I lift an eyebrow.
“True.” Her head dips, shoulders curled forward.
I let my gaze drift past her to the bifold doors, the shifting light drawing my attention. “It’s snowing out.” The weather report said it wouldn’t happen until later this week.
Jeanie scuttles across the floor to peer around the chair. “Damn. So it is.”
“I wonder how long it’ll last.”
“It would need to be heavy to cancel my flight tomorrow, wouldn’t it?”
I shift my attention to her, unease a gypsy dancing through my veins while she stares at the falling flakes. “You booked your return ticket?”
Her warm gaze meets mine. “Nope. But I did see there’s nothing available out tonight, so I figured it would have to be tomorrow. I put my name on the waitlist anyway.”
“How long do you intend to stay?” I ask her the same question as I sent in Messenger. Only this time, she seems to get it.
Her lips part, and then she rolls the bottom one between her teeth. “I don’t know.”
“You must need to get back to work on Monday.” I shrug as though it’s a casual observation. It’s anything but. It’s my plea for the assumption to be wrong.
“Yeah. About that.” Her hands come to the side of her face, fingers diving through the strands at her temples. “I don’t know if I’ll have a job in a month or if I want it regardless.”
“What happened?” I rise to my feet and offer her my hand.
She accepts, allowing me to lead her to the sofa while she talks. “Devon announced that the offices are moving to Detroit.”
“Did he?” Fucker figures running away will solve his problems, huh?
“He also hinted very heavily that I might not be on the payroll after they do.” Jeanie settles at one end of the sofa, legs tucked up against her chest and facing me.
I relax at the opposite end, twisted to face her also. Our legs rest dangerously close to one another. “What did you do to piss him off?”
“I’m not sure.”
She has no idea that I stopped by after leaving her place. I’m sure of it. “He didn’t say anything to you?”
“Nope. Just been treating me like the cat’s ass all week, giving me bullshit intern work to do.” Her brow dives. “I figure it’s because I won’t give him the fabricated story.”
“Or because I threatened to sue him if he uses it.” I study her reaction.
She takes a brief second to process what I said. “Pardon?”
I reach my arm along the back of the sofa and fidget with the piping at the seam. “I gave Devon a chance to back down, after what you told me about him running the story regardless. He declined, so I told him to expect a call from my lawyer.”
“What the hell, Toby?” She straightens a little. “Do you think that is some of the reason why he wants to relocate offices?”
“I doubt it. Pure coincidence. Moving won’t make a lick of difference if I can pin him for defamation.”
“Shit.” She glances to the floor. “I didn’t think you’d go that far.”
“Why not?” I lift the leg closest to the sofa’s back and hook my foot behind her thigh.
She checks out the contact. “We didn’t go through with any of it.” Honey eyes lift to mine. “It’s only you, me, and Devon who know what that piece says.”
“Did you know Charles is buddy-buddy with the guy?”
She jerks her head back and smiles. “No.”
“Yes. The fuckers were in a hippy circle when I arrived.”
“A hippie circle?” She snorts at the moniker.
“You know the sort.” I grin. “Where they sit around in a circle and meditate and shit.”
“I know what you mean; I see them do it every day. I just never heard it referred to that way before.” She chuckles. “Hippie circle.”
“Well, pretty boy Chuck sat right next to your boss.”
“Really?” The amusement fades. “He doesn’t usually join in.”
“You’ve never seen him do it before?”
“Maybe a couple of times, but that was a while ago.” Her brow creases, my vulture deep in thought. “Right next to each other?”
I nod. “Told you I don’t trust him.”
“Shit.” She stays quiet awhile, lost in her head. “I better head home tomorrow.” A soft smile, whether to soothe her or me, I can’t tell. “Until he says I’m gone, I still have a job to do.”
“Responsible choice.” Admirable, even, going where you know you’re no longer wanted. I wish she’d stay. “If the snow sticks around, I’d like you to stay.”
She seems confused. “Why?”
I tuck my leg up beside her, effectively caging her in. Jeanie turns her head to one side, but she doesn’t move. It’s intimate but guarded—from both of us. “I want to know who you are when the lights go out.”
Her breath shudders, and she faces the falling flakes outside. “Who are you when it’s dark, Toby?”
I gaze over her shoulder, not focused on anything in particular. “Empty.” She stays silent before me, but I know she listens for more when she shuffles closer. “When we’re on tour or recording, I know who I am. I’m in charge.” I reach out and tug her so that she positions herself between my legs, her back to my front. “Within Dark Tide, I have a purpose. But when that all falls away, it’s as though I’m left searching.”
“For what?” She leans against me. Just the slightest amount, but it’s perceptible enough.
“I don’t know. That’s the issue.”
She draws a deep breath and then reaches out to trace a line down my denim-clad shin. “You think if you had a hobby outside of music, you’d get that sense of purpose back?”
“It seems logical.”
“It seems as though you avoid the truth. You want another distraction to keep you from facing the hard stuff.”
I tilt her face, turning it up to mine. “What hard stuff?”
She rests her head briefly against my shoulder and then pulls free of my hold. “That you don’t know, or like, who you are.”
“We’ve talked about this already.” It occurs to me that she’s turned the conversation around. I can’t pick if it’s a coincidence or her investigative nature at work. “I told you: I don’t know who I am outside of music.”
“I don’t think that’s the actual problem, though, do you?” Jeanie slides free and moves for the fire, warming her hands.
I roll my back against the arm of the chair and watch her, absorbing the fine details such as the amber hues dancing across the highlights in her hair or the way she licks her lips every time the flames dry them out.
“You know who you are, Toby. I’m willing to bet you don’t like it, is all.”
My chest feels hollow. As though she took all the bullshit in there and tore it out for both of us to see. “What’s there not to like?” I default to defense mode. “I’m rich before I’m thirty. People love me. I have anything I could ever want.” I gesture to the house.
She rolls her pretty eyes. “Money doesn’t buy happiness. Everyone knows that.”
“Who said I’m not happy?”
“You’re holding a journo hostage because you don’t want to be alone while you face your bullshit.” She levels me with a hard stare. “Am I right?”
“Partially.”
“What was wrong about what I said?” Jeanie turns to face me, hands on hips.
“I don’t hold you hostage. And I have you here because I want you here.”
“Want me here because I can help you while you face your demons.” She lifts an eyebrow as though to say, “Challenge me.”
The fucking woman is right. I have ample opportunity to work through this shit; all the money in the world needed to pay for professional help unlocking the hidden parts of my personality. And I chose her—a woman who tried to trick and manipulate me for her gain. But I trust her with this. Why? Is it because she might have faced the same? Does she seem like the nurturing type? Fuck, no. So, what the hell is the reason for me to need her as I do? My goddamn hands ache to touch her again. I want to get her down to her underwear and in my bed. I want to spend a lazy morning wrapped around her while she picks and prods at my faults. I crave her dissection, her criticism.
Because I feel as though she’d know best what it is that makes a rock star tick.
“Will you help me?” I offer the words between us as a plea. Quiet and unassuming.
“I can try.” She gives the promise on a sigh.
“First, we need to see how heavy the snow gets before you go ahead and book your ticket.” I rise to my feet and cross over to take a better look. The flurry is steady and even, an indication it doesn’t expect to let up any time soon.
