by Piper Lawson
Tyler’s body stiffens as my words sink in. “Did he ever hurt you?”
His voice is so low I nearly miss it.
“He never touched me.”
“That’s not quite the same.”
My lips curve. “No, it’s not.”
I think of the backhanded comments he muttered when my aunt wasn’t in earshot. How I was useless, didn’t belong, didn’t deserve to live with them.
I know now the words were directed at my dad, not at me, but I found ways to cope. Writing words of encouragement on myself, things I could hold on to, was one of those ways.
Tyler looks past me, his jaw working. “Fuck, you must hate roses.”
He reaches for the flower, and I hold it away. “Not at all. They’re breathtaking and fragile and resilient. For everything in life that sucks, there’s something beautiful if you know where to look.”
The disbelief on his face has me smiling in earnest.
“Our lives are the stories we tell about them. The stories we sing about them,” I go on pointedly. “And our hearts don’t belong in cages. We’re meant to be fragile. We’re born to bleed.”
I squeeze his arm before turning to start back toward the driveway.
“Annie...” His voice is a warning.
I pull up, sighing. “I need this musical. You can let me go to rehearsal, or you can help me.”
He stares me down, emotions running together behind his dark eyes. Helping me would mean more than just going against my dad, and we both know it.
“That’s what I figured,” I say when he doesn’t respond.
When I get to my room, I set the rose on my nightstand and call to tell Norelli I can’t come to practice.
Through the window, I hear Tyler’s voice, Brandon chuckling on the patio.
I drop the phone on my bed and grab my music box off my shelf, the one that plays “It’s a Small World.”
I lift the window frame and chuck the music box into the bushes, where it lands on a garden light with a sickening crunch.
The laughter stops.
9
“You gonna tell me where we’re going on a Friday?” I ask Jax, shielding my eyes against the morning sun.
He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “A meeting. Last day of your suspension, so we might as well get something accomplished.”
We turn off the main road and drive up to a gate. If there’s a house beyond, I can’t see it, just rolling pastures and white fence. Once the gate buzzes us in and we make our way up the driveway, a huge house reveals itself.
After we park, a butler shows us to a bright reading room surrounded by glass overlooking a stable in the backyard where horses play in green fields.
“Jax.” The man walking in looks at ease in jeans and a sport coat.
"Zeke." Jax shakes his hand. “This is Tyler.”
I extend my hand, and he takes it.
Zeke gestures out the window. “These are champion racehorses. Retired now. Some take to it better than others. Some of them you’d swear are replaying the races behind those big eyes of theirs.”
“Zeke left Wicked a number of years back, but he helped with my first platinum album. He now has a number of interests in LA and New York.”
He smiles. “I’ve established more than two dozen major recording artists at three labels.”
My brows rise because that’s impressive.
“I’m going to be honest. Jax tells me you’re interested in a career in the industry. He’s sent me a few of your demos, but I prefer to see things firsthand.”
We follow him to another room, where he flicks the light switch to reveal instruments everywhere.
Zeke passes me a guitar. “Let’s hear it.”
Jax studies me. This is a test.
I can play anything for anyone, but I wasn’t expecting to do it today.
Still, it’s as natural to me as breathing.
The song starts out slow, picks up tempo without losing its mood. It’s thrumming and alive, crisp and precise one second and messy the next.
But all of it’s on purpose.
Everything is on purpose, or you lose more than a moment.
You lose yourself.
When I finish, Zeke’s face is unreadable, until he cuts a look at Jax. “Say it.”
“Told you.”
I pass the guitar back, feeling relief.
“I need someone who’s willing to work hard and who has the natural talent. That spark.” Zeke replaces the guitar before holding out a hand once more.
I go to shake it but stop when I see the business card in his fingers.
I look between him and Jax. “I have another six weeks of school. I’m a senior. I want to graduate.”
Everyone in my family managed it. I’m sure as hell going to.
Zeke smirks as if school is a trivial thing. Jax doesn’t react.
“You know what makes opportunities exciting? They don’t last. Don’t wait too long, kid.”
They make small talk for a few more minutes before we head back out to the car.
The property recedes into the distance as Jax’s Bentley cruises down the road.
“Today was about me,” I say after a few miles.
“I said I’d help you. This was the plan all along—polish your skills and get you out into the industry.”
“Why me?” I ask the question that’s been hanging over me for a year, the one I know the answer to but he won’t admit.
“You remind me of me. Music was more than my pressure release. It saved my life. It’ll save yours, too.”
My fists ball at my sides.
Did you expect him to just say it?
I could call him out right now.
Because he’s not only saving my life…
He destroyed it in the first place.
“What about Annie?” I hear myself ask instead. “She loves music too.”
He shoots me a surprised look. “I don’t want her anywhere near the music industry.”
“The longer you ground her, the more she’s going to dig in.”
“Says the kid who brought her home at two in the morning yesterday.”
My mouth snaps shut. How he knew about that I’m not sure. “She needed someone to talk to.”
Jax shoots me a look as we stop at a light.
There’s no reason for him and Annie to be anything but close. I’m starting to see what I couldn’t before—that the more she tries to let him in, the more he holds her away. She acts as if it’s fine, but it’s not. She’s hurting. I can feel it across the damned patio every night of the week.
“This life can build you up, but it can tear you down even faster,” he says at last. “She’s a good kid. I want her to have the things she wants.”
“You want her to have the things you want her to have,” I correct. “You can’t fill a prison with diamonds and expect her to forget the door’s still locked.”
I think about the letter she’s been sitting on, what she told me about her childhood.
Yeah, Jax asked me to keep an eye out for her, but that’s not why I hung out with her yesterday.
It’s not even why I kept her home.
Somewhere between literally carrying her ass up the driveway and watching her walk away from me, I started to think about how she puts herself out there. She invites the world to reject her, practically demands it, and when it does, she hurts.
But it never occurred to me she did it by choice, that she was aware of it.
Maybe there is something to putting your heart on the line.
We pull up to the gates at Jax’s house, the familiar rows of trees, and the gates swing wide automatically at the sensor in his car. “You’re here because you’re capable,” he says. “But more than that, you fit in. I knew it since the first time I saw you with your damned blue hair and your swagger sitting on my couch with my kid.“
My chest aches. This place is starting to feel like home. More than Philly ever did.
I r
“Call Zeke,” Jax intones, palming the steering wheel as we cruise up the long driveway, the gates closing silently once we’re through. “Not after graduation. Now.”
I’m changing out of my uniform into a jean skirt and a tank top after school when there’s a knock on my bedroom door.
Tyler’s on the other side in jeans and a T-shirt that clings to his body. His hair’s freshly dyed blue, probably something he did to kill time during his suspension, and his expression is determined.
“There weren’t any notes for English today,” I inform him, but he just holds out a music box.
“That broke,” I say, frowning. “It hit a light in the garden and cracked. I heard it.”
“And I fixed it.”
I inspect the case, noticing tiny cracks where the wood split. I open the lid, and the ballerina dog inside starts to dance.
It’s almost as good as new.
“Where’s the music?” I ask.
He rubs a hand over his neck, the most fleeting and un-Tyler-like display of uncertainty I almost miss it. “I figured you’d rather make your own.”
My chest expands so much I can’t breathe, can’t even speak.
Yes, I’d rather make my own. The fact that it even occurred to him has my heart thudding in my chest.
“If that’s too cheesy,” he goes on, “I can—“
“No. It’s perfect.”
“Fine. Let’s go.” It must be my imagination that has his voice sounding rougher than before as he jerks his chin down the hall. “You said you want to kill the musical. You said the problem’s Carly, but if you get more confident in your own craft, rehearsal will go smoother no matter what she does. You’re getting better, but there’re some things we can work on.”
I trail him down the hall and out the side door of the house, stopping to grab flip-flops in the hall. “You’ve been listening.”
“Can’t help it when your window’s open. Sometimes I see you too.”
He turns back to look at me in the garage to see if I’m coming, but I’m frozen in the doorway.
“Come on, Annie. I won’t tell Brandon you get off to him every night if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Tyler cocks his head, grinning, and that spurs me into motion.
I chase after him, shove him with every inch of strength I possess. “You’re full of shit.”
His laughter should be annoying, but I love the sound of it as I follow him down to the renovated tour bus in the driveway.
Inside, a glass door separates the studio from the couches in the lounge area, and Tyler lifts the guitar over his head as he drops onto one of the couches.
“Ryan’s right. You do need a new guitar.” I drop onto the seat across from him, shifting forward to trace a finger across the body of his instrument. The wood is cheap to begin with, and it’s banged up.
“Yeah, well, they don't exactly grow on trees.”
I blink up at him. “They do. They're wood.”
“Smart-ass.” The slow smile that stretches across his gorgeous face is one more reminder something has changed since yesterday when he turned me down.
He’s cautiously open. Carefully receptive.
“First guitar I ever played was my dad’s,” he goes on. “Did I tell you that?”
I shake my head, trying not to look as if I’m living for what he says next.
He starts to play, fingers moving over the strings like it’s a dance he’s done a thousand times. “He wanted to make a career of it. He had a band, used to play local gigs outside of work, odd jobs mostly. He had trouble holding one down, but he did land a gig cleaning at Wicked for a few months. Hell, he even met your dad once when I was too young to remember.”
I’m not listening to his playing anymore, I’m too focused on his words. “Wow. Does Dad remember him?”
His thoughtful expression turns flat. “I wouldn’t be here if he didn’t.”
I start to press, but Tyler stops playing, cutting off the sound before rapping his knuckles lightly on the body of his guitar.
“So, here’s the thing,” he begins. “If you’re gonna stand on that stage, you need to know you’re enough. Don’t worry about what you’re making them feel—think about what you’re creating. What happens after you make it is none of your business. What happens before that is your only job.
“You can hide nerves when you’re playing an instrument with your hands. When it’s your breath, that doesn’t work.” He runs a hand through his hair, making his biceps jump under the T-shirt. “How much do you know about resonance? Reverb? Timbre?”
I shift forward to the edge of the seat, our knees nearly brushing. Frustration seeps into my voice. “Nothing you couldn’t learn on the internet. My dad won’t teach me.”
“I’ll teach you.”
Gratitude has my entire body tingling. I exhale heavily, realizing I haven’t really played with him, in front of him, in a couple years. We were kids then. Now, the stakes feel higher.
“Thank you. We could start with ‘Part of Your World’?”
He’s shaking his head before I finish. “Nothing from the musical. Something else.”
“Okay.” I mentally scroll through the possibilities. “Let’s do something in six-eight.”
“You have a time signature preference?” He grins, and my stomach flips.
“Yes. Six is perfect. It’s like… a Möbius strip. A twisted loop.” I connect my thumbs and pointer fingers, then twist one hand upside down so my thumbs touch my pointer fingers instead. “No end and no beginning but order and momentum. ‘Nothing Else Matters’ by Metallica. The Beatles’ ‘Oh! Darling’. Enough Queen tracks to fill an album.”
He shakes his head, and I think he’s about to make fun of me, but all he says is, “The lady wants six.”
Then he kicks off Queen’s “Somebody to Love,” and my heart lifts.
This is already more fun than rehearsal.
We practice until my throat’s worn out. Tyler accompanies me on guitar, watching, giving notes.
I have so much to learn. This guy is not only the most talented person I’ve ever met—he’s an encyclopedia. We’ve talked music before but not technique, strategy, physicality. My mind races trying to keep up with everything he tells me.
I haven’t felt so alive in ages. Even the best rehearsal has never felt as good as this. Maybe because I have to deal with the glares and the snide comments and the sabotage.
Here, it’s just people who love music. It’s the biggest high there is. More than acing a test or winning an award.
“Better,” he says when we wrap up. ”Now you need to do that at rehearsal.”
I look down at him from where I’m standing, leaning a hip against the wall of the bus. “Carly’s going to be there fucking with my head. It’s like something’s crawling up my spine and I can’t get away from it.”
Tyler turns something over in his mind. “Sing it one more time.”
I start, and he rises, moving to stand behind me.
Close behind me.
He touches the waistband of my jeans, and I jolt. His fingers brush the bare skin of my lower back, and I hiccup. “What are you doing?”
“Keep going.”
The words come out rough as his finger traces a slow path up my spine.
I focus on my breath, my tone, the shape of the vowels and consonants in my head, my mouth, my throat.
I pour everything into keeping my voice level. When he reaches the back of my bra, he reverses directions, stroking back down.
Slower.
Harder.
My shoulders start to shake.
Tyler’s touch searing my skin is nothing like Carly’s sabotage. It’s hard to keep going for an entirely different reason. Every phrase is harder to execute; every word is a struggle for my brain; each vowel sticks in my throat.
Finally, I finish, and his touch falls away.
He doesn’t move. His breath skims my ear when he speaks. “There. That wasn’t so terrible.”
When I turn my head, all I see is his damned perfect mouth at eye level. A wave of longing washes over me. “No. It wasn’t.”
I wait for him to pull back or to crack a joke.
He doesn’t.
His lashes lower, and holy hell, he’s staring at my mouth too, as if it’s all he wants.
Do it.
I want you to.
I swallow, leaning in a millimeter at a time.
His body is tight, controlled. I want to know what happens when he lets go.
“Tyler! You in there?”
My dad’s voice from the driveway outside has Tyler stepping back smoothly.
Like that, the moment’s gone. As if it never even happened.
He reaches for his guitar and jerks his head toward the door, expression unreadable. “I’ll catch you at dinner.”
I lick my lips, nodding. “Yeah.”
The touching wasn’t terrible.
The part where he leaves me wanting more and knowing I’m not going to get it...
That part sucks hard.
10
My weekend did not go as planned.
I’d expected to hang with Brandon and the other guys from our band, fix a weird sound my bike’s been making, and lay down some music with Jax.
I did those things, but they’re not what I remember come Monday, especially when I catch sight of the girl with long, red hair heading determinedly for my locker at lunch.
“You need a new guitar,” Annie states, leaning against the locker next to mine. The side of her forehead meets the metal as she cocks her head at me. “This soph is selling one that looked amazing, so I lined it up for you to try.”
I shut the door. “Seriously?”
“And you have a free period. So, let’s go,” she insists, bobbing next to me down the hall.
Her slow smile has my abs tightening.
I sneak a look at her, the skirt that swings against her smooth thighs, her breasts outlined by the jacket, her silky hair waving over one shoulder.
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