Smoke and Lyrics

by Holly Hall

  And they better fucking covet that shit.

  I have to remind myself she’s not mine to protect, even as I remember the way she wiggled in close to me in her sleep; how she’d smile to herself every time I said something self-deprecating or charming; the feel of her hands in my hair and how she couldn’t care less how hard she was pulling; the sounds she made when I spread her on the bed and tasted her.

  I shift in my seat and she looks over at me like she can read my thoughts. If she looked down at my lap, it wouldn’t be hard to figure out where they were going.

  “Having flashbacks?” she teases. I throw her a forcefully indifferent look.

  “There are a few highlights worth remembering, no?”

  “Such as?”

  I glance over at her, putting an elbow on the wheel so I can tick them off on my fingers. “The surprise guest I had in the shower this morning, that thing you did with your mouth, how you try to hold in all your sounds and it just makes you that much louder when you—”

  “Got it!” she grits out, and I catch her blushing. I smile to myself. There are ways around her walls, she just doesn’t know I know them yet.

  I drop Lindsey off at her apartment and brace myself against the unwelcome prospect of being alone. I dig my phone out of the console and power it on, skimming the onslaught of missed calls and texts. One from Ross, a few from my manager, and a string of messages from Carter.

  I should feel grateful that after countless strikes, Ross hasn’t dumped me on the curb ass-first. I know that. But I don’t feel remorse. I don’t feel I owe him anything. What I do feel, for the first time in a long time, is a flicker of hope. So I call him back and tell him I’ve spent some time away, that I’ve caught some inspiration.

  Because that little flicker of hope? It’s been too long since I’ve seen it, and I know too well what happens when it goes out.

  “I’m glad to see you back,” Ross greets, straightening from the wall he’s leaning against to grasp my hand. The studio is busier today, but I made it clear to Ross that I didn’t want much fuss over my session.

  “I’m glad to be back.” I follow him down the hall into the space we’re using for the day.

  Once we’re behind closed doors, Ross turns to me and drops a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry if I came off as insensitive last week. Your success means a lot to us, for your sake, but your health—your future—is most important.”

  I give him a tight-lipped nod, appreciating the effort but not believing for a second that his words are genuine. My success, and therefore his success, rides on the health of our business relationship. He doesn’t want to screw that up.

  “So, what have you written?”

  “It’s all up here,” I say, my finger on my temple.

  Ross shrugs, dropping down into a desk chair. “All right, let’s get you in the booth.”

  Once I’m in front of the mic stand, headphones on, I crack my neck and clear my throat. Ross gives me the nod. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  I close my eyes and summon the melody, tapping my boot in time to the music I’m pulling from memory. Thinking of the night that inspired the song, I let the emotion fill me up before beginning. I sing the song straight through, hardly coming up for air until I finish the last chorus. There’s a sort of magic that happens when you perform a piece you’ve connected with, and I’ve been around the block enough to know I’ve nailed it.

  It feels like a year of silence expires before Ross finally speaks. “Where the hell did that come from?” He spreads his hands incredulously, but there’s glee in his eyes. He knows we’ve got something. “That’s the Jenson I know. The tension, the rawness, that’s what I’ve been looking for.”

  To say I’m back is presumptuous, and to infer I’m the same is bittersweet. So much life separates me from the man I was. I rub the back of my neck, feeling the first hot prickles of anxiety.

  “What the hell happened to you, man? Who the hell happened to you?”

  “I just had a breakthrough,” I say. After all, it sounds like the most cliché thing in the world admitting this burst of inspiration has stemmed from meeting a woman, and how can I even explain Lindsey?

  Ross steeples his hands. “How many other breakthroughs have you had?”

  “A few,” I admit.

  He taps his fingers against sly lips, and I can practically see the gears turning in his head. “Let’s put it to some music, see how you feel.”

  I nod, releasing a loaded breath. It’s a relief to feel the music again, like all of it was cranked up tight around my spine, building pressure, with no outlet. After just one run-through, gaining some semblance of “normalcy,” some of that’s been released. Even if I did dare him to drop me just the other day. Making music again feels right; it’s probably the only thing I can say that about.

  I leave the studio feeling less refreshed than I expected, with a bad craving for something smoky and smooth. I give in to one of those and chain-smoke all the way home. Deciding I don’t want to go back to my virtually empty apartment to sit with my feelings, I turn around and head back up the street. Some coffee, maybe, or one of those fancy-ass sandwiches. Yeah, that’s what I need.

  I finally got Lindsey’s number on the way back from the cabin. Seems our discussion the other night gave her some peace of mind. I don’t tell her I’m coming, but she appears unsurprised to see me when I walk through the door of Rhythm and Beans. This time she bites her lip and smiles instead of ignoring me completely. Progress, I tell myself, although toward what end, I have no clue.

  Her long hair is tied back in a funky braid, pieces pulled loose and drifting, and she’s got on a pair of black jeans that come up high on her waist and make her ass look fantastic. I order two coffees and a sandwich—a panini, come to find out—and am content to watch her from a window seat while she dotes on customers. Then she makes her way over to me.

  “Hello,” she says, perching a hip on the stool beside me.

  “Hello, lovely.”

  She looks worn out from the day and positively stunning. She nods toward the other coffee. “Expecting company?”

  “If I’m lucky.”

  Scanning the room as if to ensure nobody needs her, she wraps both hands around the mug and inhales above the rim before taking a long gulp. It’s fixating. “Mmm. How did you know this is exactly what I needed today?”

  I shrug. “It’s what I needed. So, I have some news.”

  “News, hmm?”

  I lean forward, fingers drumming on the table to match my eagerness. “I went into the studio today, sang the song I wrote after the bar that night.”

  Lindsey’s eyes widen, and she licks her lips. “So your career isn’t over.”

  “No. I mean, it didn’t go over well that I left town without telling anyone and didn’t answer my phone the entire time.”

  “That does seem to piss people off. What did you call it? The song?”

  “It doesn’t have an official name. I’ve been calling it ‘Bourbon and Velvet’ in my head.”

  “Creative.”

  “Yeah, well, ‘Popcorn and Wine’ was taken.” She rolls her eyes at me, and then I remember the last song I sang that was written about someone else, an innocent with my heart wrapped around her. What a shit show that caused. “You know, I never asked you if you minded.”

  “Minded what?”

  “If I sang the song. You are the inspiration, after all.”

  She looks at me over the rim of the mug. “It’s your song. It’s your story to tell.”

  I fiddle with my thumb ring, watching the Celtic symbols go around and around. My story. What a road it’s been. “How are the photos, by the way? I never asked.”

  At that, she can’t hide her smile or her pride. It comes off her in waves. “They’re good. I think you’ll like them.” The rosy tint to her cheeks tells me they’re better than good, but I don’t push her. She’s not the braggy type.

  “I can’t wait to see ’em. When are you
off?”

  “A few minutes, actually. Why?”

  “I was messing around on my phone earlier and found another Thai place. I never did get to try those dumplings you told me about.”

  “It won’t be like Chati’s.”

  “No, but you never know how Happy Thai measures up until you try it.”

  She raises one eyebrow, judgment all over her face. “Happy Thai?”

  “Yep. Probably the least intimidating place to have dinner, ever. Just two happy friends, eating some Happy Thai.”

  She rises from the table, taking her mug with her. “Fine. But only if you stop saying ‘Happy Thai.’ And I get to go home and change first.”

  “Deal. I am happy to be getting Thai with you.”

  Flipping me off behind her back, she unties her apron and goes to the back to get her things. I wrap up my sandwich and ask for a bag to go, and then we’re headed to Lindsey’s apartment. She watches the buildings pass as I drive, always searching for something. I’d like just a minute to get inside her head, see what it is she’s reaching for. Whether any of those things would even make sense to me, I can’t say for sure.

  Lindsey

  “Welcome back to my humble abode,” I tease, flinging open the door with a flourish.

  “It smells like old takeout,” Jenson comments, sidling inside. Despite his celeb status, he has this ease with which he conforms to every setting, including my disgusting apartment. Though his wrinkled nose tells a different story.

  “That’s probably accurate, although the age of said takeout is questionable.” I’m trying to hurry through the living area when I hear someone clear their throat. Isaac. He’s pretending to read, his nose in a magazine across the room, but I know better. He’s dying to be introduced.

  Throwing him a bone, I gesture to Jenson. “Jenson, I don’t think you’ve gotten to meet my other roommate, Isaac. Isaac, Jenson.” Isaac does a double take from the bean bag across the room, dropping the magazine a few inches, and I rush through to the hallway, hoping he won’t stop us to chat. If anyone will recognize Jenson and make a huge fuss about it, it will be him. Jenson waves hello, and I think I hear a “Jenson King?” but I’m already to my bedroom sans Jenson.

  “There you are,” Anika says from her bed. She’s got one foot propped on our nightstand, doodling in her sketchbook. Her sudden presence reminds me I haven’t seen her in over a week.

  “What’s up? Where’ve you been?” I drop my bag and root through my dresser, trying to find something that isn’t torn or artfully bedecked in cigarette burns. It’s been so long since I’ve gone out to a proper dinner, not just a show or a club, and my usual wardrobe of fishnets and ripped denim won’t suffice.

  “I’ve been here! I think the real question is, where have you been?”

  I wave a hand, dragging out a silky, blush-colored camisole. Good enough. I start to pull off my work shirt, mumbling through the fabric. “I took off sick for a few days. Went camping with a friend.”

  “Oooh, with BMW guy?”

  My arms get stuck in the sleeves of my shirt, my blood chilling. “What?” I exclaim, feeling panicky.

  “You know, BMW guy. I always see him waiting around. I finally stopped to talk to him when I saw him in Rhythm the other day. He wasn’t very friendly until I told him I’d seen him outside our apartment building a few times. He said he knew you. I figured that was the guy you’ve been disappearing with.”

  I ignore the rip as I finally tear the shirt over my head, replacing it with the camisole. He was in Rhythm? At my job? Anika doesn’t seem to catch on that something’s gone awry. “Did you say anything else? Did he say anything?”

  “Not much. He seemed to know you pretty well, mentioned you two had met through some photography thing.”

  “This place has to be against health code or something,” a voice interrupts from the doorway. Jenson’s standing with both hands above his head, braced against the top of the frame. How long has he been there, and how much has he heard? I can’t discern anything from his expression, his eyes are as day-dreamy as always.

  “Oh, hello,” Anika says as primly as possible for someone wearing a nearly see-through tank top, noticeably bra-less.

  “Lucky for us, we’re not a restaurant,” I manage to say. “This is Anika, by the way.”

  “Jenson,” he says, smiling warmly. So far, so good. “This place is like a clown car. Just when I think I’ve met everybody, more people come popping out.”

  “Don’t worry about them, it’s my opinion that matters,” Anika says with a wink. Great. I’ll be fielding her and Isaac’s questions for the next month. “You need something to wear over that?” she asks with a jerk of her head.

  “Yes, please.”

  Anika sidles past me to dig through her side of the closet, then passes me a green, military-style jacket.

  “Thanks.”

  “No problemo. Where are you kids headed?” She makes a show of not staring at Jenson for too long, but I can see she’s dying to grill him.

  “Happy Thai,” Jenson declares, grinning.”

  “Right on. It’s not Chati’s,” she adds, and I let out a sigh.

  Jenson smiles again, but his eyes are on me. “Ready?” I nod, more than ready to get out of here before Sebastian shows up to pick his brain about guitars. I feel Anika’s eyes on our backs, but for the moment, she controls her obvious curiosity.

  Just as we’re passing back through the hallway, there’s a knock on the door. I freeze mid-step. Nobody ever knocks. Any friends of ours just walk right in, and people who aren’t friends don’t know where we live. Except. . .

  Time seems to stand still, and my head swims. This can’t be happening right now.

  “Door!” Isaac yells.

  Jenson shoots me a sidelong glance from where he’s paused slightly ahead of me, probably wondering what my problem is.

  I hear a thunk of something, Isaac’s magazine on the coffee table, and then he appears, glancing through the peephole before opening it.

  And then I see them. And it’s worse than I expected.

  “Lindsey!” Blake Kendall squeals, skirting around Sebastian and trotting over to me. She doesn’t even heed the strange stains on the carpet or the takeout cartons piled in the living room, she just wraps her arms around me. I hug her back, spotting my cousin Landon over her shoulder.

  “Hi, it’s . . . I’m so surprised to see you guys!” I say once I’ve found the words. Jenson observes from a distance, a pleasant expression on his face. He’s unshaken, as usual.

  “Hi, Landon,” I greet when Blake’s finished fussing over me. She steps aside and I crash into my cousin’s open arms, forgetting about Jenson and the way my apartment looks in this moment.

  Landon’s the brother I never had, the second reason I hated leaving Denver. Despite being so worldly, he’s not too proud to get down on my level and teach me things other photographers of his status wouldn’t bother to spend their time on. He’s both my idol and the comfort I sought when my parents divorced and I couldn’t bear to speak to either of them. But that means I know Landon better than most people. He can be a little snobby, quick to judge and quicker to dismiss anything and anyone he perceives as a waste of time. How Blake got past his frigid defenses will always be a mystery, no matter how many times she tells the story.

  Jenson offers his hand to Blake first, and she accepts it warmly. “Jenson. Nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you, Jenson. I’m Blake! Are you one of the crazy-ass roommates we keep hearing about?”

  I almost choke on my own spit. “Uhh, not quite,” I answer, diverting attention from Jenson’s look of amusement so Blake doesn’t read too much into it.

  When Jenson turns to Landon to do the same, Landon looks at his hand for a second longer than necessary. To prove a point, I suppose. Make it clear he’s less than thrilled to meet the new guy in my life.

  “We weren’t sure you’d have company, Linds,” Blake says, talking over the tension.


  Looking over at Landon, whose expression hasn’t changed from resting-bitch-face since he arrived, I say, “Speaking of, what are you guys doing here?” They live together in Denver, where Landon owns his photography studio and gallery. They haven’t had a chance to visit me yet, but I vowed they’d never step foot in this place when they did. No matter how old I get, I don’t think I’ll ever outgrow the need to win Landon’s approval. And I know for a fact this place falls far short of what he deems acceptable.

  “Blake wanted to surprise you,” Landon says evenly, finally breaking the silence. I’ve never been so conscious of the overflowing trash can and stacks of dirty dishes in the kitchen. Not to mention the sooty ashtrays, the broken blinds, the mismatched furniture. The roommate in purple pajama pants currently watching our exchange with rapt attention.

  “We both wanted to surprise you. What are you guys doing now? Are you busy?” Blake asks, looking between Jenson and I with hope in her bright green eyes.

  “Umm,” I stammer, at a loss for words.

  “Nope,” Jenson answers, looking down at me. “Not at all.”

  “Perfect! We want to take you to dinner. You too, Jenson, if you’re hungry.

  “Always.”

  I don’t see a way out of this, so I guess Jenson—the guy who has no commitment to me and whom I’m casually hooking up with—is going to get to know my family.

  Dinner goes better than expected. Blake keeps the conversation going, asking about everything from work, to photography, to the nightlife of Nashville. Landon’s hardly done anything other than agree to something Blake’s said, or make a comment on the entertainment business. Blake admits to recognizing Jenson halfway through the night, and most of the way through her drink, stating she just wanted to play it cool, and Jenson handles her with the same humility with which he handles everyone. I can tell she likes him, but her opinion is not the one I’m worried about.

  It’s only after our plates have been cleared away that I realize I’ve been hanging on every word Landon says and each one he doesn’t, analyzing each look he’s sent across the table. Between him and Jenson, I feel like I’m trying to keep track of an Olympic ping-pong match. I’ve kept a casual eye on Jenson throughout the night, watching him carefully sip his beer, but he’s remained composed, unruffled. I wonder if the impulse is there to order something harder. After this dinner, I wouldn’t be surprised.