“Oh.” Her face fell. “Well, I tried to set up a catering company with my ex-boyfriend. He was supposed to run the company, manage all the business stuff, and I would do the cooking and baking. But he stole my money and created an investment portfolio with it. Because I didn’t stipulate legally what the money was for when I authorized the transfer of funds to him, I have no proof that he stole the money. I could have taken him to court but it would have been lengthy and stressful. Killian was mad I didn’t do it.”
“No wonder. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, it’s okay.” She smiled brightly. “I’m over it. I just started seeing someone new and he’s . . . different. A gentleman through and through. We’ve gone on three dates and he hasn’t even pushed for sex yet. And he has more money than me, so I know he’s not after that.”
“I’m glad.” And I was. Autumn was sweet. She wore her heart on her sleeve. She deserved someone who would be gentle with it.
“Plus, Killian took care of Barry. My ex,” she explained.
“How so?”
“He ruined him. I don’t know the hows and I don’t want to know.” She shot me a pained look. “You know how people say karma will get you . . . well, if you treat me badly, Killian is the karma that gets you.”
An ache streaked across my chest, so deep that I lifted my good hand to soothe it away. It was jealousy, I realized, shocked. What must it be like to have someone care about you that fiercely? To have someone like O’Dea, who was cold with everyone else, treat you like you were all that mattered?
Once upon a time, my mom had been that person. My fierce protector.
I closed my eyes tight. She kept invading my thoughts, breaking through.
“Talk about something else,” I insisted, needing a distraction. “Anything.”
“Oh.” Autumn’s brows pinched together in worry, but she said, “I saw these amazing Kurt Geiger platforms for you. Do you wear heels?”
My smile was grim but relieved. “How high are they?”
“WELL?” AUTUMN ASKED.
She’d driven me back to the apartment and insisted on waiting for O’Dea to come over so she could see his reaction to my transformation.
If I wasn’t mistaken, he’d stumbled a little when he first saw me as he walked into the living area of the apartment, so I know the haircut took him by surprise. Good surprise or bad surprise, I didn’t know, because he’d immediately started making himself a coffee with only a casual “hello” thrown our way.
Autumn stood in the middle of the sitting room with her arms crossed over her chest, watching him impatiently as he moved around the kitchen. I sat on the sofa, not acknowledging the flare of agitation I felt at his lack of response. I stared out at the river, pretending I couldn’t care less what he thought.
And I couldn’t care less!
He was an ass.
“Well what?” he asked, coming around the island with his coffee.
His sister gestured at me. “Skylar’s hair.”
“It’s fine.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Fine?”
O’Dea expelled one of his exasperated sighs. “Autumn, Skylar and I have work to do.”
She glared at him. “Fine.”
The glare melted from her face, softening to a sweet smile as she bent down to press a kiss to my temple.
The affectionate gesture startled me and I couldn’t help but smile at her in return. “I’ll see you later. Call me if you need anything?”
“Call you how?” O’Dea stepped forward with a scowl.
“I gave her a phone, big brother.” She kissed his cheek. “Brenna wants to check in with her, and it might be good for Skylar to start checking in with the world again.”
She’d suggested I ease myself into googling the band members so I wouldn’t be caught unawares later. But the thought made my stomach clench. Moreover, I didn’t want to tell her because the phone was thoughtful, but the idea of being reachable, being “tagged” by a cell phone again made me squirm.
“And did you check if Skylar was ready for a phone?” O’Dea asked, surprising me with the considerate thought.
“If Skylar is ready? Or if you’re ready for Skylar to have the independence of a phone?”
“Skylar is sitting right here,” I muttered.
O’Dea heard me. “Do you want a phone?”
I shrugged, still not wanting to hurt Autumn’s feelings.
“She doesn’t want a phone,” he surmised. “Give me the phone.”
“Killian,” Autumn huffed. “She’s right. You’re being controlling.”
“I’m not. Skylar doesn’t want the phone.”
“Skylar?”
I gave her a regretful shake of my head. “I’m not ready for the cell. Sorry.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“Because it was sweet of you. I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”
“You should be honored, Autumn,” O’Dea said. “She doesn’t care if she hurts my feelings.”
I smirked. “That’s because you have none.”
We stared at each other, as if daring the other to look away.
“Okay.” Laughter trembled in Autumn’s voice. “I’m going to go. Skylar, give the phone to Killian. He paid for it anyway.” And then she was striding out, her heels clacking down the hallway. “Ooh, Killian, you brought your Taylor! Have fun!”
And then the door slammed shut.
Expression quizzical, I sat up. “Your Taylor?”
He threw back the rest of his coffee, putting the mug down on the counter. Without meeting my eyes, he turned away to walk down the hall. “You can’t play,” he called out, “but I can. And we have an album to write.”
When he returned, he had a guitar case in hand. He put it up on the island and opened it. I stood to get a better look, my fingers itching to play it, but instead of taking out the guitar, O’Dea pulled out papers.
“The contract.” He handed it over to me. “I canceled the makeup artist since Autumn took care of that.” He indicated my face. “I’ve set up interviews with a few managers in the morning.” He held out a small folder for me to take. “All three are in there. Their credentials, everything. Talk to them. Get a feel for them. Make a decision. Once that’s done, you hand the chosen one that.” He tapped the top of the contract. “He or she will make sure you’re taken care of before you sign it.”
“I know how it works.” I dropped the papers on the counter by the guitar. “So, I’m just supposed to pick a manager in one day?”
“No, I’ll give you the weekend to think about it.”
How was I supposed to do this? Gayle had been my manager since I was sixteen years old. I trusted her. “Magnanimous of you.”
“I’d prefer it if we could get through the day without the sarcasm.”
I stared incredulously as he pulled a Taylor Dreadnought out of its case. Okay, he had great taste in guitars. So what? “Since when do label execs write albums?” The answer was never. “Don’t you have a producer who could work with me?”
“I used to be a music producer at the label.” He strolled over to the sofa with the guitar.
A producer before he was an exec? He didn’t seem old enough to have accumulated all that experience. “How old are you?” I sat down on the chair across from him.
“Thirty.”
Six years older than me. He’d packed in a lot in a short time. “If you’ve been an A&R executive for five years, then you were a pretty young producer.”
“I haven’t been an A&R executive for five years.”
I frowned. “But Autumn said you’ve brought in a lot of successful new artists in the last five years.”
“I have. As a producer. I worked for Skyscraper and several other labels, depending on who the artist was. But my goal has always been A&R at Skyscraper. I got that job eighteen months ago.” There was a bitter note to his tone and it reminded me of what Autumn said about their uncle making Killian jump through hoops.
; “Your uncle’s a bit of a hardass, huh?”
Surprise flared in his eyes for a second but was immediately flattened by understanding. “Autumn.”
“She told me about your uncle. That he’s the label head.”
“Aye.”
“And that he’s hard on you.”
O’Dea’s features grew taut with the subject. “He expects the best, that’s all. And so do I. Let’s get to work.”
Okay. Got it. Subject off-limits. “I’ll get my notebook.”
When I returned, he held his hand out for it.
“You’re joking, right?”
“Well, I’m assuming you’ve written the sheet music in there?”
“I have.” I’d also written really personal shit in there. “Point?”
“I’ll need it.” O’Dea gave me his intense, focused stare. “To play because you can’t.”
I flipped through the notebook until I found the sheet music to one of my unfinished songs. I ripped it out and handed it to him. “I’ve been working on this one.”
He nodded but looked less than pleased as I sat down with the notebook open, ready to write. “You ever going to trust me?”
“Doing this,” I gestured between us, “is trust.”
He didn’t respond but I guessed he was satisfied because he glanced at the paper, put it down, and strummed the guitar to tune it. My gaze followed the way his long, masculine fingers plucked at the strings and I felt a little flutter low in my belly.
It was a feeling I hadn’t felt in a long time.
Flushing, I looked away.
I’d always had a thing about a guy’s hands, especially watching them play guitar. When Micah found out, he teased me about it.
“Does that get you hot?” He’d grinned, tickling the guitar strings. “Does it make you feel good?”
“Kicking you in the nuts will make me feel better.” I’d laughed, throwing my notebook at him. “I’m never telling you anything again.”
“How about this?” Micah had stood up, doing a complicated riff as he walked over to me. His green eyes danced with amusement and longing. He got down on his knees in front of me and made me laugh harder as he played a Spanish serenade. “A serenade for my señorita,” he’d cracked.
God, I love you, I’d thought, impulsively leaning in to press a kiss to his lips.
When I’d pulled back, he’d seemed stunned. And then he grinned. “It does get you hot.”
“Skylar? Skylar?”
I blinked, coming back to the apartment, to Killian. “Yeah, what?”
His eyebrows drew together. “Where did you go?”
“To a place that’s gone.”
After a moment of study, he smirked. “You are a writer.”
“Then let’s write.”
Without looking at the paper I’d given him again, O’Dea played my half-written tune. I was so impressed I almost missed my cue.
“Hey, baby, go home,
Stop holding me down
’Cause you’ll keep holding me down for life.
“Your toxic love seeped into my blood,
Twisted kiss drowning me in its mud,
But I need to breathe tonight.
“You know it’s true, I loved you.
You know it’s true, I needed you.
“And what is worse I let you love, love, love
Me till you’d fucked the love right out of me.”
O’Dea stopped playing and stared, scrutinizing me. I shifted, uncomfortable with that gaze that seemed to see too much. “That’s all I’ve got so far. What do you think?”
“It works. I like that a lot of your lyrics are a little dark juxtaposed with upbeat tunes.”
“You know I was thinking this one could have a kind of electro-pop, synth-pop sound to it. Like Sia, Halsey. That kind of feel.”
“Is that how you envision the album?”
“O’Dea, let’s be serious. I don’t know how to envision an album I don’t want. I can, however, envision songs. That’s how I envision this song.”
His lips pinched together at the reminder I was doing something I didn’t want to do. As usual he didn’t acknowledge it. He settled into his guitar. “Again. This time cut the first ‘Me’ from the second-to-last line of the chorus. It doesn’t fit.”
We did it again. And the bastard was right.
“It works,” I agreed. Begrudgingly.
“Is it about Micah Murphy? The song?”
My breath caught, even though it wasn’t really a surprise that he’d guessed correctly. “Is that going to be part of this? You want to know what’s behind the lyrics?”
“You can tell me as much as you’d like. But if you want me playing go-between with you and your band when the news breaks of your return, maybe I should know exactly what I’m getting in between.”
“Nothing as far as I’m concerned.”
“And as far as he’s concerned?”
“I wouldn’t know anymore.”
“But there was something? The tabloids were right?”
“We weren’t good for each other,” I offered. “We brought out the worst in each other. I let him . . . I let him manipulate me too long. And I retaliated too much.” I flinched, shocked I’d said that all out loud. And to him of all people.
“Writing helps.” O’Dea shocked me even more with his response. “I know you think you’re running away from what happened. I know you won’t go to therapy. But maybe this is your therapy.” He nodded to the notebook in my hand. “You’re doing something about it, even if you don’t think you are.”
I didn’t know how to reply. It was almost kind. No. It was kind to reassure me I wasn’t as big of a coward as I was starting to feel these days.
“And it makes for great music.”
And there he was!
I made a face at him and thankfully it broke the intensity between us.
“The next verse . . .” I tapped my pen against my notebook.
“Hey, baby, I’m gone ,
I’m trying to right all our wrongs,
So don’t come looking for me tonight.”
I sang the words directly into O’Dea’s eyes and when I was finished, I couldn’t help feel curious about the intensity of his gaze as he watched me. What the hell went on in his head? It was a mystery. Finally, he said, “Pen.”
After I threw it over to him, he scribbled on the piece of paper I’d given him, filling in the music for the new verse.
“Your wicked games are out of my head,
I uncovered all the lies you ever said,
And now I’m free for life.”
O’Dea raised an eyebrow. “You write fast.”
“Sometimes. Sometimes it comes to you. You know exactly what you want to say. When I first started writing this one, I’d just left for Europe. I didn’t know what I wanted to say. Now I do.”
He threw the pen back to me. “Better write it down.”
As I scribbled down the words, he asked, “And is that how you really feel? Or is it how you wished you felt?”
And for some reason—maybe it was the magic of songwriting—I answered honestly as I stared at the words. “It’s how I feel with three thousand miles between us.”
How I would feel if I ever had to face Micah again was a totally different story.
“And then into the chorus,” I said before O’Dea could respond.
“Repeat of the first?”
“Yeah.”
All too soon, I forgot why we were writing together. I forgot about the album that loomed over my head like a giant, hungry eagle.
Instead I enjoyed the process. I enjoyed writing music with someone smart, someone who seemed to get my music, and everything else drifted away. We even laughed together and worse . . . we agreed all the time.
The sound of my stomach rumbling broke the spell.
“Shit, what time is it?” O’Dea’s eyes widened at the sight of the sun dipping below the buildings across the Clyde.
“We�
��ve been at this for hours.”
“You need to eat.” He put down his guitar and strode into the kitchen. “What have we got?”
“I have a meal plan, remember.”
“Where is it?”
“In the drawer to your left.” I watched him, bewildered. Was he going to cook my dinner?
It became clear as he studied the meal plan and then pulled out the ingredients from the fridge and cupboards that he was. Watching him do this quickened my heart rate.
His phone buzzed as he chopped up vegetables for a stir fry. “One second.” He pulled it out of his pocket and then cursed when he saw the caller ID. “Hey,” he answered, sounding a little breathless. “Aye, I know, I just remembered. I . . . no, I’ll be there . . . Don’t . . . I know . . . Look, we’ll talk about it later. I’ll see you soon.” He hung up and actually looked regretful. “I forgot I have a dinner tonight that I can’t miss.”
Oh.
Okay.
Shit. That was not disappointment I was feeling. It was not!
This was O’Dea, for God’s sake. He was not the man to incite my disappointment. Ever. He couldn’t be. It wasn’t allowed. I wouldn’t allow it. Reality check, please!
Just because we did the whole songwriting thing well together did not a friendship make. “Go. I can make my own dinner.”
“But your cast . . .”
“I’ll manage.” I got up to take over. “Seriously. Go.”
His expression turned remote again. “I’ll leave my guitar. I’ll be back tomorrow after the manager interviews. Remember to read that folder.” He pointed to it on the counter. “I’d tell you who I recommend but I’m afraid you’ll deliberately not choose the person to spite me.”
I made a face.
“Okay.” He grabbed his keys. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I mused over all this time he was dedicating to me. Where were his other artists in all this?
“I’ll be here,” I muttered.
He’d disappeared down the hall and I waited to hear the bang of the front door closing behind him. I didn’t. Instead I heard his footsteps coming back and looked up from the vegetables. O’Dea stood in the doorway, studying me intensely.
As Dust Dances ~ Samantha Young Page 11
