A Love Song for Dreamers (Rivals Book 3)

by Piper Lawson

  “Tell me why the woman who wanted me out of her life followed me around the world.”

  Her groan has the hairs on my neck standing up. “I didn’t want you gone, Tyler. I wanted...”

  “What?”

  “I wanted you back. I wanted you to feel like yourself again.”

  I take a drink of water, wishing it was something with a kick.

  “Sometimes, I wonder what would’ve happened if you’d come on tour,” I tell her. “Or if I’d stayed in New York. If we’d still be together now.”

  Annie shoots me a look. “It would’ve been a different end, that’s all. You held me at a distance. You were the one who was hurt, but I was the one who felt helpless.”

  When I imagined her with me, I never considered that I wouldn’t let her be with me the way she wanted to, the way she needed to.

  The reckoning I had to have with myself was steep. The work and music and touring gradually broke me down, healed me.

  I couldn’t have done that with her there. I would’ve taken it out on her, used her, abused her.

  We would’ve split anyway—if she hadn’t stayed in New York, if I hadn’t left.

  Something loosens in my chest. I glance over at her, her face lit up in the lights as she watches the band, breathless and engrossed.

  I lean in at the next break. “Tell me about your show.”

  Annie’s face transforms. Any angst disappears, replaced by anticipation and genuine delight. “It’s a fantasy story about a girl born without a heart, but she doesn’t want anyone to know. So, she goes on a quest to get one—not because she wants to feel, but because she’s worried her body will give out without it. And on the way, she meets all these people, including this guy who makes her realize she wants to feel after all.”

  I’m sucked in already. She’s always had the power to fascinate me, to take my world and wrap it around her, like that towel by the pool, so she’s at its center.

  “And you’ll star in it.”

  She shivers, her eyes sparkling in the dark. “I want that more than anything.”

  I want to press her, but she’s scanning the room.

  A number of people have their phones out, but the cameras aren’t pointed at me.

  “This show will make for some great clips,” she says absently.

  “They’re at a concert and they’re not even watching.”

  “They’re involving people in their experience. It takes two seconds. No wonder you drive your marketing people crazy. Give me your phone.”

  I unlock it and hold it out.

  “Now put an arm around me and look at the stage.”

  “You Annie Leibovitz all of a sudden?”

  But I do as she asks, pulling her against me.

  Instantly my body’s on alert. She’s slow curves and I want to drag the hem of that shirt up and trail my fingers along her skin. Turn my face into her neck and lose myself in her rose scent.

  “Broody enough for your brand?” she teases, holding the screen out.

  The image is a kick in the gut.

  In it, Annie’s looking at the camera, though in the darkness, it’s hard to recognize her.

  I’m watching the music like I’m distracted—by it or the girl in my arms, it’s impossible to tell—but it’s tense and natural at once, as if she’s part of me, an extension of me.

  I want to back that photo up, to save it. To preserve it somehow so I never lose it, or her.

  “Marketing’s gonna come in their pants,” I say at last.

  As I tuck the phone away—I’ll post the pic when I get back to the hotel, because otherwise, we’ll get swarmed—more than a few pairs of eyes are on us.

  It’s understandable. We might not be dating, but she’s still fucking awesome. She’s got the same wonder at the world, plus a confidence that’s new. It’s fascinating, and sexy.

  “It’s late,” she says when the show wraps up and the patrons stream toward the doors. “I shouldn’t have stayed out so long. Sophie’s already not sleeping. I don’t want to wake her up.”

  A warning flashes through my brain, one I promptly ignore thanks to the concert or her closeness or the fact that it feels as if we’re the only people in the world despite the rest of the giddy crowd dispersing to the parking lot.

  “My hotel’s close. You can crash. I have to be at the studio early tomorrow anyway.”

  She doesn’t answer, and when I clue into why, my abs tightening as the shitty reality comes back to me.

  Not only is she not mine, she belongs to someone else.

  “If it’s the boyfriend you’re worried about, I promise I won’t touch you.”

  “Ian and I broke up.”

  If she didn’t have my attention before, she does now. “What?” I glance back toward the building. “That time you went to the bathroom an hour ago?”

  She waves a hand. “We ended it last month.”

  “And you didn’t tell me about it yesterday because…”

  Annie shakes her head. “Because it didn’t matter.”

  I don’t believe her.

  It’s not my business, but it feels as if it is. The concern I felt for her, the irritation and contempt towards this faceless guy is still there, but it’s competing with something I’ve been ignoring.

  The pull I’ve always felt when she’s around.

  Knowing she was with someone made it easier not to stare at her too long, to think about what used to be.

  “Do you still have your bike?” she asks as she shifts inside the rental car.

  “Yeah. It’s in LA.”

  Annie shakes her head as she reaches for the seatbelt. “I always imagined you taking me on it.”

  Adrenaline surges through me.

  “I imagined taking you on it too.”

  The way my voice drops leaves no question as to what I’m imagining.

  Her hands freeze on the seatbelt, those full lips parting.

  I force my attention out the windshield before she can reply, but as I pull out of the parking lot, it’s all I can think about.

  Her on my bike.

  In my lap.

  Bending her over my arm while I rock my hips into her, against her, that red hair trailing over the handlebars.

  Because the moment she told me she was single, the rules changed.

  Not the rules for what happens next between us, but the rules for what goes on in my twisted head.

  We go back to my place, and she heads for the pullout couch in my suite.

  But I stop her, tugging her toward the bedroom. “You’re not sleeping on the couch.”

  I go to the dresser and grab a clean T-shirt, tossing it at her. She lifts her hands in surprise, catching it. “Thanks.”

  “Sure.”

  I reach for the bottom of my shirt and strip it over my head, tossing it on the nearby armchair.

  Her eyes widen on my body.

  The last times we were together physically, I took my pain out on her. My fear. My frustration.

  I want a chance to prove I’m not that guy anymore. Not because we have a future together, but because I want to show her the man I became while she wasn’t looking.

  I want to know if I can still make her scream.

  “What’s that?” Annie’s attention drags to something across the room.

  I turn and see the object leaning against the wall by the dresser, the one that’s so familiar I barely notice it anymore.

  “My guitar.”

  “You still have it.”

  “Of course I do. Twenty-four frets. Rosewood. I fucking love that guitar. Some love lasts a lifetime.”

  “Just not ours.” She blinks fast. “I’ll change in the bathroom.”

  She heads that way, closing the door quietly behind her, and I rub my good hand over my neck and wonder what the fuck I was thinking bringing her here.

  I shift into bed in my boxer briefs and exhale the breath I’ve been holding for longer than I can count.

  The way Annie looke
d at me a second ago, it was almost as if she was accusing me. Like the way I loved the guitar she gave me outlasted how I loved her.

  It’s not true. The words feel as if they’re coming from inside me and outside at once.

  But it is. I’m over her. I told myself that for the last two years, since before I believed it.

  Eventually, I started to.

  She returns a moment later, crawling in next to me. Her light floral scent has me itching to reach my good arm around her and tug her body against mine.

  Instead, I fist my hand at my side.

  I remember every time we’ve shared a bed.

  From the first time after her party in high school when I wanted to know she was okay to the time after prom.

  The time in her dorm room at Vanier when I made her come for the first time.

  The hotel in LA when I showed up at her door, swore she meant everything, and we made love for hours.

  I think about the beds I lay in alone, nameless hotels in cities I barely remember.

  Getting to perform for big crowds, having money and fans and influence for the first time—at least a backup band that listened to me for once instead of the other way around—mattered, but not nearly as much as it should have.

  In months of touring, the only woman who ever got me off was Annie Jamieson. Her face, her voice, her damned memory was the only one I wanted in my bed.

  I never told anyone, and I’m sure as hell not going to tell her as we lie next to each other, staring at the ceiling, still buzzed from the music.

  But her closeness has my heart thudding hard enough to bruise my ribs.

  “I was thinking about what you said. How we wouldn’t have lasted on the road, and it wouldn’t have worked if I’d stayed.” My words echo in the dark. “You found yourself in New York and I lost myself there.”

  For a moment, I wonder if Annie’s already asleep, until I feel the bed sink as she turns toward me.

  “I replayed it in my head a thousand times. What I could’ve done differently. Giving you more space, or less. Trying to make it work from a distance.”

  I exhale hard. “No. I wish I’d been better in those moments. The last few times we were together... it wasn’t good. I hate that you’ll always remember me like that.”

  I feel her inch closer, her breath lightly fanning my lips. “I remember we used to dream about this. You having a recording career and me being on stage. And now we are. So it all worked out, right?”

  The question in her voice has my chest tightening in a way that’s dangerous.

  “Yeah. It all worked out.”

  9

  “I don’t want to wear that.” Sophie gives me pre-schooler side-eye, then runs across the room toward her toys.

  I sit back on my heels, the dress clutched in my hands, and wish for caffeine.

  I offered to take my half sister to daycare today before starting on my work, but it’s proving harder than expected.

  I scan her room, looking at the white furniture, the rainbow bedspread, the corner box of toys and puzzles where she’s currently pulling things out, one after another.

  “Hey, let’s play a game,” I decide. “If you can pick out all your school things, I’ll sing you a song in the car.”

  Miracle of miracles, it works.

  After dropping her off, I head to the café that used to be my favorite in high school and open my tablet.

  When I emailed Miranda to say I’d be in Dallas a couple of weeks working, she agreed. I promised we’d email every day or two to talk progress.

  There’s another person I need to update, and I’m less optimistic about the response I’ll get.

  Most of the musical is scored, but some of the lyrics aren’t finished. In particular, there’s a song between the two main characters I can’t get right.

  Back in school, it always seemed that emotions flowed through me, desperate to get out. All I had to do was put them on a page.

  But writing a musical isn’t only about feeling—it’s about story—a narrative that was born to be told through song, one that can only be fulfilled in that format.

  Even though I was involved in this show from the earliest days—the idea was Miranda’s and mine, and it started being crafted back the first semester we worked together on the other show—it’s not something you can half-ass like an assignment for course credit and cross your fingers for a good grade.

  Getting a new musical to the stage requires millions of dollars, and while there’s not one way to get it right, there are so many ways to get it wrong.

  Which is why I need to call Ian.

  He didn’t leave a message when he called yesterday, which is Ian-speak for “I’m too important to leave a message.” But I can’t put this off.

  I hit his contact on my cell, my stomach clenching. The line rings, and I turn the coffee cup in my hand.

  Voicemail kicks in and I take a breath before starting.

  “Ian, it’s Annie. Elle said you were looking for me. I wanted to let you know I’m staying in Dallas for a couple of weeks while I finish the book for the musical. Once Miranda and I are satisfied with it, we’ll send it to you and the three of us can discuss it in advance of the reading. Despite…what happened between us, I assume you’re still interested in being a primary funder, which is why I want to keep you as informed as possible. If you have any questions or concerns, you know where to reach me.”

  I click off, satisfied I got my point across.

  It’s a moment before I realize someone’s stopped near my elbow. I glance up and nearly knock my tablet off the table.

  “Pen!” I squeal as my friend breaks into a grin. I jump up and hug her familiar form, dressed in a cute black jumpsuit and wedge sandals. “What are you doing here? I thought you were traveling to cover entertainment news at the newspaper!”

  “It’s my parents’ twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, and a bunch of our family’s in town. So, I’m home for the week.” My friend cuts a look toward the menu, and I scan the pastry cabinet while she orders. “What are you doing here?”

  I tell her about my dad’s party, that I decided to stay. “But my dad and I haven’t really talked,” I finish.

  “Which is why you’re here at the café, avoiding him and wearing clothes you bought junior year?”

  “Not avoiding. Working.” I glance down at my white tank top tucked into denim shorts. “And I didn’t really pack for an extended stay, so I raided my high school clothes. They’re tighter than I remember.”

  “Yes. And also, you look amazing.”

  I laugh.

  Pen gets her drink, and I order a croissant.

  “So, you using your dad’s new studio while you’re home?” she says once we’re sitting back at the table.

  “No, but Tyler’s working with my dad.”

  She nearly spits out her coffee, laughing. “Tyler Adams, international music sensation, Prince of Oakwood, King of Vanier, Duke of Annie Jamieson’s heart, is in Dallas.”

  She has the decency to lower her voice when she says it.

  I break off a piece of the croissant and shift in my seat. “We went to a concert last night.”

  When he showed up at the pool, all frustrated and gorgeous and making me remember how things used to be, I wanted to go with him even though it was a bad idea.

  Plus, we had fun. God, we had so much fun, more than I’ve had in a long time.

  His intensity’s still there, but he has this new relaxedness too. He was always sure of how to act in the world because he figures out everything and everyone, but now it’s like the wheels in his head aren’t turning quite so fast, as though he’s not so busy judging everything and everyone.

  “I’m glad you guys are making nice. I remember how hard it was on you when he left.” Pen’s voice pulls me back. “Would you ever get back together?”

  “No.” The word comes out fast. “I’m not going near men for a long time.”

  Even if Tyler’s more gorgeous than ever, an
d everything about him beckons me closer.

  Lying in bed next to him last night, hearing his steady breathing, feeling his closeness, was not something I’d planned. But we’d had such a good time and I didn’t want to wake up half the house by getting home late.

  Saying yes to the innocent offer to crash left me with more than I bargained for.

  “I know you and Ian dated for six months,” Pen goes on.

  “Meaning?” I arch a brow and she lifts both palms.

  “Hot rebound sex. Hear me out,” she goes on at my expression. “Tyler’s fire. Always was, and he’s only gotten hotter with age and the whole famous thing.”

  “He’s not that famous.”

  She cringes. “If you’re in Rolling Stone, you’re famous. If you’re playing a benefit concert this weekend in LA with four other Grammy-winning acts? You’re famous. The point is, you’re both unattached. You’re in Dallas, and he’s living in the pool house.”

  “Helping at my dad’s studio,” I correct. “The universe doesn’t want us to get back together.”

  “Maybe the universe wants you to bang for old time’s sake.”

  Shivers run down my spine, settle in my breasts and between my thighs.

  Sex with Tyler is a terrible idea. Not because I’m not attracted to him. Seeing him strip off his shirt last night to reveal miles of cut pecs and abs covered with swirls of ink... It took everything in me not to melt into the carpet of the fancy hotel suite.

  Is that why I didn’t want to tell him about Ian—because I was afraid I couldn’t handle him if he knew?

  I shove the thought down. I can handle Tyler.

  All of him.

  He’s changed over the past two years, and so have I. I’m not a kid anymore, I’m a grown woman with a career and the ability to know what’s right for her.

  Pen gets up and hugs me again. “Well, I need to go check in with the caterer. It was good to see you. We need to get lunch when we’re both back in New York.”

  “Done.”

  She waves and vanishes out the door, and I glance at my phone.

  I had it set to silent, but the voicemail is lit up, and the number has my good vibes evaporating.

  Ian’s smooth voice flows out of the speaker when I hit Listen.

  “Annie. When you called, I was having breakfast with a couple of colleagues who’ll be attending the reading at the end of the summer. Given how soon that is, I need more than a promise to share the book when it’s finished. Not only am I hosting this reading, but I’m inviting funders from my own network. It may be your work, but it’s my reputation on the line.” Pause. “I don’t want you to turn what happened between us into an excuse to be unprofessional. What happened with that woman wasn’t personal, and it had nothing to do with you and me. Maybe you’re too young to understand the difference. Someday, you’ll—”