by Lee Piper
“Thank fuck.” My brother shakes his head, relief rolling off him in waves. “You scared the shit out of me, sis. What happened?”
I try to sit up, only my feet are held in the air. I look at the person who is holding them. “Um, Tobias?”
His grip on my ankles tightens. “Yeah?”
“Why are you holding my feet?”
“You fainted.”
“I’m kinda getting that.”
“It’s what people do when someone faints.”
“Is it?”
He blinks. “Isn’t it?”
We stare at each other for a moment before laughing. The wall between us dissipates and I can finally relax, knowing our relationship is once again solid. It only took me collapsing to do it.
Mental note—fainting has its benefits.
Jasper crouches beside me. “Come on, let’s get you up.”
With his and Tobias’s help, I’m vertical in no time. I do a quick body check. Huh. Despite feeling a bit woozy, everything else is okay. There are no broken bones or strains, not even a bruise. Strange, considering I crumpled onto concrete. I guess my skull is thicker than I thought.
I take in my surroundings. My bandmates’ faces display varying degrees of anxiety, and the seriousness of the situation dawns on me. I need to time my freak-outs better.
Movement to my right catches my eye.
“Reid.”
I knew I could smell him.
“Where is your shirt?” Because that’s the most important issue here, obviously. Not the fact that I passed out, nor the fact that I need to overcome my phobia in the coming weeks. Nope. His damn nipple ring catching the light is what my brain deems most important. Man, I must have hit the floor hard.
In answer to my question, Reid indicates the ground. His shirt is a rumpled mess at my feet. I can even make out a Shiloh-sized head imprint on the material.
“Oh. Right,” I stammer. “And why are you here?”
A coldness settles in his gaze, and I kick myself for being an ungrateful bitch. “Tobias wanted to borrow my bass pedal.”
I turn to my friend. “What’s wrong with yours?”
He shrugs. “The spring snapped. Must have been from when I, ah, threw it.”
“It’s lucky Reid showed up when he did,” Jasper adds. “If it wasn’t for his quick reflexes, you’d be in the hospital with a concussion right now.”
Swallowing, my gaze settles on Reid’s stoic form. “Thank you.”
He gives me a chin dip but remains silent.
“Why did you faint, sis?”
“Yeah, what happened?” Tobias asks.
I hold up placating hands. “Whoa, guys. Take it easy.” Nibbling my bottom lip, I try to think up an excuse. “I was excited by what Vivienne said, that’s all.”
“You passed out from excitement?” Jasper’s stare is incredulous. Fair enough—it’s a rubbish explanation.
“Yeah.”
“You’re kidding.”
I look at Tobias. “Nope. I’m a regular swooning belle.” My laughter is shrill.
Reid stares at me for a moment. Like the rest of my band, he knows I’m talking out of my ass, but thankfully, he remains silent.
“How about you head on home?” Jasper suggests. “Might be a good idea for you to chill for a while.”
My incessant nodding starts up again, and it’s only when my brother raises one eyebrow that I remember to stop. “Good idea.”
“Want me to take you?” Tobias asks, his gaze hopeful and full of… no. It can’t be.
The need to get out of here reaches critical levels. I shake my head. “No, thanks anyway. You need to change bass pedals. I can walk.”
“No,” Reid interjects.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” He moves to where I’m standing. “You’re not walking by yourself after what happened. I’ll drive you.”
Tobias turns his back without another word. A dark part of me is beyond relieved.
Jasper grins at Reid. “Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”
“Hang on.” I place my hands on my hips. “I haven’t agreed yet.”
“You will.” My brother winks before pulling me in for a tight hug. He kisses the side of my head. “Get out of here. Cancel your shift at work, and I’ll check on you later.”
Jasper and Reid fist bump. With a sardonic grin, Reid gestures toward the exit. “Shall we?”
Muttering under my breath, I stalk out of Rising Star.
A short while later, we’re driving back to my place. I rest my head against the open window, the sea breeze buffeting my hair every which way. However, my gaze barely takes in the coastal view as it flashes past.
“What am I going to do?” I murmur.
Reid’s hand rests on my knee. My gaze darts to his, and for the first time in forever, his eyes are gentle. It’s hard to breathe.
“What am I going to do, Reid?”
“You’re gonna write.”
I blink.
He turns his attention back to the road. “Embrace what you’re feeling and turn it into a song. Don’t hide from it. Write it.”
To my absolute horror, tears form in the corner of my eyes. What is with me and crying lately? It’s pissing me off. “I don’t think I can.”
He gives my knee a gentle squeeze but remains silent. For some reason, it makes me want to cry harder.
For the remainder of the journey, Reid’s hand never wavers. It warms my skin, the contact strengthening my resolve. I need to stop running. I need to face the tempest, arms wide, head thrown back, and body braced for the onslaught.
I need to write.
Reid drops me home, muttering something about checking in on me later. I’m too raw, too frustrated, too damn terrified to think that far ahead. Even his tight ass serenading me as he walks away isn’t enough to rouse me from my despondency. I think I’m broken.
With a heavy heart and waning libido, I let myself inside. Scanning the living room, my gaze lands on what I’m after. “There you are.”
Picking up my trusty soccer ball, notebook, and pen, I make my way back outside. It doesn’t take long to walk to the beach, probably because my mind is elsewhere. However, when my feet sink into the warm sand, I pause.
“Beautiful.”
The coast stretches for miles in both directions, the cloudless sky imitating its boundless expanse. A soft breeze plays with my hair, and the sun kisses my skin. A smile teases my lips.
Since it’s too damn hot to boot the ball around, I park my ass on the sand. After shuffling side to side until there are no uncomfortable lumps trying to impregnate me, I’m finally comfortable. Mostly.
Yanking off my shoes, I bury my toes in the sand. “That’s better.”
I place the soccer ball next to me, ensuring it doesn’t roll into the ocean never to be seen again. Next, I open my notebook, retrieve the pen from behind my ear, stare at the blank page in front of me, and wait. And wait. And wait.
Nothing.
“Flipping hell. This is what I get for listening to a man who eats gravy.”
Shutting my eyes, I try to concentrate. I even make a sound similar to a person who has eaten way too many bananas. Nope, not a single lyric is squeezed from my subconscious. I’m creatively constipated.
Groaning, I turn to the soccer ball. “This is hard.”
Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t answer.
“What am I meant to write, huh?”
It sits there, impassive.
“Am I meant to write about leaving Reid?”
The ball’s silence is really grating my cheese.
“What about hiding my phobia from everyone? Living a life of fear? Not wanting to let the band down? Wanting—no, needing—to sing, yet struggling to find the words?”
Nothing.
Christ. I offloaded to a polyester sphere.
Flopping back onto the sand, I throw one arm over my face. With my eyes shielded, I discover the waves washing onto the shore and retr
eating unexpectedly soothing. I lie for what feels like hours, listening. The rhythmic phenomenon sounds like a kickass metronome. The beat is slow, but damn, it’s good. Soon enough, faint words swirl in my brain, growing more tangible the longer I listen.
I sit up, ignoring the sand on my back, and reach for my notebook and pen. Memories, fears, love, heartbreak, joy, devastation. It’s all there as the words form verses then a chorus. I don’t even notice the sun as it slips behind the horizon, I’m too engrossed in writing.
Once I’ve got the skeleton of the song down, I nod. “Not bad.”
I tap the pen against my bottom lip, re-reading my handiwork. After making some changes—a word here, the rhythm there—I lean back and let out a low whistle. “Epic. This song is going to be epic.”
I can hear it now. It’ll start with vocals, slow, dark, poignant. The lead guitar will kick in, the riffs intricate and alluring, followed by the complex layering of bass notes. At the pivotal moment when my heart is laid bare and my voice trails away into a blanket of silence—boom. Drums will thunder through the darkness and the guitars will once again weave their dirty melodies while my voice bleeds the words.
“Wow.” I blink, sitting with the myriad of emotions coursing through my body. Throwing the notebook to one side, I lie back again, exhausted. “Fuck, that was intense.”
After a few minutes of staring at the first sprinkling of stars, I collect my gear and make my way home. I need a shower and a nap. Stat.
Part of me isn’t shocked to see Reid waiting by the front door. His gaze roams my sand-encrusted form and comes to rest on what I’m guessing are two bloodshot eyes. A tingle does its best to rouse my spirits, but other than that, I’ve got nothing.
Without a word, Reid takes my keys, inserts them in the lock, and opens the door, gesturing for me to move inside. I barely nod, too drained from my metaphorical bloodletting to comment on him acting as though it’s his own darn house.
“Shower,” I mumble, dumping my gear in the hallway before trudging upstairs.
I have no idea if Reid nods, smirks, or does the freaking tango. I’m past caring about anything other than washing this day away.
After my shower, I emerge reborn. My hair is washed, my hip-hugging jeans are comfy, and my black shirt is snug. Hell, even my lacy bra and G-string make me feel like a million bucks. I take a deep breath and exhale. I’m good to go.
Stepping inside my bedroom, I freeze. “What are you doing?”
Reid is on my bed. Correction, Reid is reading on my bed. An arm rests behind his head while his free hand holds the book in his lap. I blink. It takes a solid fifteen seconds to realize his attention is focused on my notebook. The one I poured my entire flipping soul into not one hour ago.
Cue meltdown.
I dive for the book. And miss. Oh boy, do I miss. Instead of swooping in and claiming what is rightfully mine, I end up half straddling the guy. With a grunt, Reid holds it high above his head. It might as well have been launched into the stratosphere. He’s too tall and his limbs are too disproportionally long. The upside, however, is my girls are shoved in his face. One can only hope he suffocates.
“Give it back.”
His reply is muffled.
Shifting back slightly, I allow a slither of oxygen between him and impending death. “What did you say?”
Reid quirks an eyebrow. “No.”
Damn that sexy eyebrow.
“Swear to God, Tate, I’ll knee you in the ballsac if you don’t give me my notebook.” More useless arm flailing.
“Give it a rest, woman. I need to finish this.”
“How much have you read?” Shrill doesn’t even begin to describe my pitch. I shuffle farther up his muscular thighs, Gwendolyn eyeballing the bulge in his pants. “How many times do I have to tell you that shit’s private?”
I make another pathetic attempt at reclaiming my book, growing more and more aggravated. I’m blaming it on a combination of our close proximity, being unable to lay my hands on what is rightfully mine, and the very real threat of my pussy turning rogue.
“Damn it, Reid. Ouch.” I rear back, stunned. “Did you just bite my nipple?”
“Yep.”
I pause. The air between us grows thicker. My eyes drop to his parted mouth, the need to tug on his lips with my teeth reaching reverse cowgirl levels.
Clearing my throat, I ignore the way his gaze darkens as his eyes take in the damp patch left on my breast. “I want my notebook.”
As usual, he ignores me. “You wrote.”
“Yeah.”
“How was it?”
Shaking my head, I roll off his lap, thankful for the figurative ice bath. After squeezing next to his large frame on the queen bed, I lie back and stare at the ceiling. “Horrible. It was like getting a lobotomy.”
I can sense his gaze on me.
I sigh. “It was hard, you know? Not like the other songs I’ve written, not even the emo ones I wrote in high school.”
Reid snorts, and I pinch his side. “What was that one you wrote in sophomore year?”
I cover my eyes with one hand, groaning.
“Something about your life resembling a shoebox?”
“Shut up. It was deep and metaphorical. No one understood what it was like being a middle-class white girl living in a free society, okay? It was tough.”
He’s silent again, and for a moment, a perfect moment, we are how we used to be.
I want to tell him I miss him. I want to say I’m sorry for fucking him over so cruelly. I want to murmur how lying this close reminds me of everything I’ve lost.
But I don’t.
I swallow the words.
Reid attempts to continue reading, but I grab his wrist, instantly reminded of how powerful his arms are. “Don’t.”
His eyes scan my face. “Why not?”
I can’t handle the scrutiny. I can’t expose myself so completely. You will ruin me.
I’ve lost my lady balls. They’re nowhere to be found. “Please just… don’t.”
His gaze shuts down. Any warmth I thought I saw is now a figment of my imagination. Reid closes the notebook, dropping it onto the floor with a thud. He sits up, his back to me. By the tension radiating from his broad shoulders, I’d say he’s pissed.
“You’re pissed.”
Silence.
“Look, I can’t read auras, but I’m pretty sure yours is flaming red. With fireballs directed at my head or something.” I swallow. “Why? Because I asked you not to read something that’s personal?”
Silence.
“For fuck’s sake, talk to me.”
Reid’s voice is tight. “You used to share everything with me. Before you grew close to Tobias, it was us.”
The need to touch him is overwhelming. I want to skim my hands across his skin, soothing away the hurt. Only I’m fairly certain he would shrug me off and move away. So like a ninja, I play with the hem of his T-shirt instead. “I know.”
“We had no secrets, no lies between us.”
“I know. Hang on, what do you mean by lies? I’ve never lied to you, not once.”
“I read the first verse.”
My mind winds back, trying to remember what I wrote and how it could possibly be construed as a lie. Nothing.
“It talks about wanting to be free from the pain and the guilt of your past.”
“So?” For some reason, hearing Reid talk about my lyrics is beyond uncomfortable. It’s like a coach saying you played like shit despite having the game of your life. Anger simmers in my stomach. “I do want to be free of it.”
“Bullshit.”
Not. Cool.
“What did you say?” My tone is dangerously soft. If he isn’t careful, someone is going to get castrated and it sure as fuck won’t be me.
Reid jumps to his feet and storms to the other side of the room. He spins around. To say he’s furious would be spot-on. “I said, it’s bullshit.”
Following his lead, I jump off the bed. Gra
nted, not nearly as cleanly on account of scrambling to my feet and all. But hey, the idea is there.
I tread toward him, my body pulsing with unshed fury. “What do you take me for? A masochist? Of course I want to be free of the pain and guilt.”
“No, you don’t.”
Our toes touch as we stand chest to chest, our frantic breaths mingling in the space between us.
“Yes. I. Do.”
Reid closes the remaining gap, the silver flecks in his gray eyes growing exponentially darker the longer we glare at one another. “Let me guess, it’s a slow song, right? The verses follow the story of a girl trapped in the cage of her own making. She sings about wanting to be free, about wanting to escape.” He snorts. I really want to punch him in the baby-maker. “You’re so fucking predictable.”
A red mist descends.
I push hard against his chest, furious when it does absolutely nothing except prove how little upper body strength I have. “What the hell is your problem? You told me to write, so I wrote. You told me not to hide from my emotions, so I didn’t. What more can you possibly want from me, huh?” I throw my arms out wide. “Do you want me to bleed for you? Do you want me to write lyrics in my own blood?” Pointing at the discarded book lying a few feet away, I cry, “It’s done! I’ve fucking done it! My blood is on those pages.”
Reid grasps my thrashing arms, pinning them behind my back with one hand. Gwendolyn wants more. She needs to shut the fuck up.
“What you’ve written is self-indulgent. It’s four minutes’ worth of hedonistic shit not worthy of music.”
Sweet Lord, give me the strength not to commit murder.
“Don’t fucking write about wanting to get rid of guilt. Jesus Christ, woman.” Reid’s eyes are so piercing, so full of anger, I can barely breathe. “Write about doing it, about actually having the courage to change.”
Despite the slither of truth seeping through my fury-addled brain, he’s still an asshole. “I hate you so much right now.”
“Trust me, darlin’, the feeling is mutual.”
And with those words, the fight drains out of me. I stand there, more depleted than when I first returned from the beach. My gaze roams his absurdly symmetrical face. “Sometimes I look at you and it’s a stranger staring back at me.”
