As Dust Dances ~ Samantha Young

by Young, Samantha

  It made me squirm. “What?”

  “The hair looks good.”

  He was gone before I could reply. I stared warily at the spot he’d been standing in moments before, hating that I cared that he liked my hair.

  * * *

  “WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU aren’t choosing any of them?”

  I was unmoved by O’Dea’s frustration. “Just as it sounds. I’m not choosing any of those people to be my manager.”

  As promised, he had given me the entire weekend to mull it over, but I’d known from the moment the last guy walked out of my apartment that I wouldn’t be choosing a new manager. It required too much trust. Plus, this person would be in my life a lot and I was already overwhelmed by O’Dea, Autumn, and Brenna after eighteen months of being alone.

  O’Dea glowered at me as I finished my breakfast. “Does this mean you’re not signing the contract?”

  I nodded over my shoulder to the couch. “It’s there. Signed.”

  He looked even more pissed off. “Please tell me you did not sign a major record deal without the advice and guidance of a manager.”

  “Yes. I’m a moron.” I rolled my eyes at his melodrama. “O’Dea, this is the fifth one of these I’ve signed and I actually read them before I sign them. I know what a legit contract should look like. Okay? Or are you trying to tell me that you’re planning to screw me over?”

  “Of course not.” He looked peeved. “I just want to know why you don’t want a manager.”

  “I can manage myself.”

  He seemed to contemplate this as I finished my omelet and hopped off the stool. I was about to attempt to rinse the plate one-handed before putting it in the dishwasher when he took it out of my hand and nudged me out of the way.

  I refused to acknowledge the way my skin prickled at his nearness.

  “Thanks,” I muttered, finding a safe distance on the other side of the island.

  “So . . . What did you get up to yesterday?”

  I smirked at his back. The question was asked far too casually.

  Yesterday was the first day he and I hadn’t seen each other since I moved into the apartment. Autumn had stopped by for some lunch but the rest of the day I got to spend reading. The Friday after my interviews with the managers, O’Dea had taken me to my health check. I’d also explained how important dental health was to me and he’d gotten me an appointment after the health check with his dentist. The nurse at the first appointment had taken much the same tests they’d taken at the hospital, but she also threw in an STD test. I wanted to tell her it was pointless, but the truth was the last person I had sex with was Micah and there was more than a possibility the manwhore might have passed something on to me.

  As for my dental appointment, it wasn’t too bad. I’d been vigilant about my teeth while I was homeless.

  After the dental appointment, O’Dea had asked me if there was anything else I needed before he returned to the office, and I said that I was out of books to read. We stopped at a bookstore and he disappeared while I mused over what to buy.

  As I was deciding between two fantasy books, he returned holding a bag with the bookstore logo on it and handed it to me. “An e-reader. We’ll set you up an account and you can download what you like.”

  “You need a credit card for that,” I’d argued as I followed him out of the store.

  “I’ll give you mine.”

  I’d scowled. “No, you’ve already spent too much.”

  “The company has.” He’d opened the passenger door to his car for me. “I need to get back to the office. Get in.”

  I’d scooted in, feeling uncomfortable about taking the money for this when it hadn’t bothered me that he was feeding and clothing me. “I have money,” I’d muttered as he drove away.

  “That you can’t access without alerting everyone of your whereabouts. You ready for that yet?”

  No. No, I wasn’t. “I’ll pay you back.”

  So, I’d spent two hours the day before trying to decide what I wanted to read on my e-reader, and except for lunch with Autumn, I’d spent the day devouring two books.

  Saturday was spent writing with O’Dea again. We mostly tweaked the couple of finished songs I’d written. Like last time, it was a lot more fun than I cared to admit out loud.

  “I had lunch with Autumn,” I answered his question.

  He stuck my plate and a couple of mugs from the sink into the dishwasher and turned to me. He leaned back against the kitchen counter, his arms crossed over his chest. “Aye, she told me. What else?”

  “I’m sorry, um, when did you become my prison warden?”

  “It’s only a question.”

  “It sounds like an interrogation.”

  He cocked his head, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Why don’t you want to tell me what you were up to yesterday?”

  I laughed at the ridiculousness of the conversation. “O’Dea, I read two books yesterday. That is the extent of the excitement that was experienced in this apartment.”

  “So why evade?”

  “I’m not! You’re . . . you really are acting like I’m in prison here.”

  “You know you can come and go as you please, but until the idiot who put you in hospital is caught, I do worry about you wandering around on your own. Which is what you did yesterday.”

  Confused, I shook my head. “What are you talking about?”

  “I bumped into Callum, your neighbor on the second floor, as I was coming up here this morning. He’s a graphic artist for the label.”

  “Okay.”

  My response made him glower. “You met him yesterday.”

  “I did?”

  “Skylar . . .”

  I met a Callum yesterday? I wracked my brain trying to—“Oh. The guy with the beard?” I’d taken a brief walk down the riverbank for some fresh air in the morning. When I was coming back into the apartment building, a guy with a beard had held the door open for me. I hadn’t thought anything of the encounter because we’d merely smiled at each other and said hello.

  “Aye, the guy with the beard.”

  I scowled at his annoyed tone. “Why are you acting like I’m hiding something from you?”

  “Because you are. I asked you what you did yesterday and you omitted that you spent time with a bloody stranger and told him who you are. For someone who is trying to keep a low profile while we write this album, it surprised me, that’s all.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? I took a walk down to the river. I needed fresh air. When I came back, the guy with the beard held the door open for me and we exchanged hellos. End of story. Why are your panties in such a twist, O’Dea?”

  “That was it. That was all that was said?”

  I wanted to slap that suspicious look off his face. “I’m not exactly in the mood for making new friends, so yeah . . . that was it. And don’t ask me again because I don’t appreciate being treated like a liar.”

  After a moment’s contemplation, O’Dea sighed and uncrossed his arms. “Shit. He must have recognized you. I passed him on the way into the building this morning and he asked me when Skylar Finch moved in.”

  Panic suffused me. “What?”

  O’Dea’s expression softened. “Hey, don’t worry. I warned him not to open his mouth.”

  “You trust that he won’t?” I went to reach for a glass of water and my hand shook so badly, I had to wrap it around the glass to stop it. The idea of the paparazzi turning up at the apartment terrified me.

  O’Dea’s strong hand covered mine around the glass. His warm fingertips were calloused from playing the guitar. The act itself was surprising enough but the fierceness blazing from his eyes took my breath away. “He won’t tell anyone, Skylar,” he promised. “You’re safe here.”

  With my heart racing for an entirely new reason, I couldn’t tear my eyes from his as I nodded. “Okay.”

  As if he’d just realized what he’d done, O’Dea let go of my hand around the glass as if it had scalded him and
abruptly moved back to his side of the island. That bland mask came down over his face again. “I need to be in the office today, but I’ve cleared my schedule for the next few days so we can work on the album here. We will, however, eventually have to take this to the label to start recording.”

  “I know.” I nodded, unable to meet his eyes.

  “What . . . will you be okay today?” he asked, sounding unsure.

  I snorted. “O’Dea, I’ve been taking care of myself a long time. I’ll be fine for a day, just like I was fine yesterday.”

  “Aye, well . . .” He slid an old-fashioned flip phone across the island, drawing my questioning gaze. “It’s only a phone. No internet. I’ve programmed my number and Autumn’s number in it. You need anything, you call.”

  I reached for it. The man kept surprising me. “Thanks. You have other artists you’re trying to pull in?” I asked, desperate to remind myself that’s all I was to this man. An artist on his label. That he’d forced my hand with his own cold ambition.

  “It’s more complicated than that. I oversee the entire department.”

  “Your card says executive, not A&R director.”

  His lips pinched together for a moment. “I’m not technically the director. A man named Kenny Smith is the director and has been since the label opened thirty years ago. He’s . . . grown out of touch with the industry.”

  “He’s lazy,” I surmised.

  “That too.”

  Indignant, I said, “So you’re doing his job while he gets the title, the money, and the credit?”

  “It’s the oldest story in the book.”

  “But surely your uncle must see it?”

  Anger tightened his features but he didn’t respond. I could see the muscle in his jaw twitching as he reached for his car keys. “I better get going.”

  Disappointed at the way he could shut down on me, I found myself instantly retreating. I flipped open the old cell, pretending to be interested in it.

  I felt his gaze. “Last chance to tell me if you need anything before I go.”

  I shook my head, not looking at him. “I don’t need anyone.”

  The air in the room seemed to physically shift, like his reaction to my Freudian slip caused it to thin. He waited for me to look at him and as much as I wanted to withstand his stare, I was compelled to draw my head up.

  His expression was hard and he opened his mouth, as if to say something, but then stopped himself.

  Feeling almost light-headed with the tension, I sought to break it. “If you’re worried I might talk to the mailman, don’t be. I’ve got nothing coming in the post.”

  O’Dea decided to take offense at my joke. “For the last time, you’re not a prisoner.”

  And suddenly not in the mood to pretend this guy was my friend, I curled my upper lip in disdain and referred to how we’d ended up here in the first place. “You sure about that?”

  His answer was to march out of the apartment and slam the front door with such force, the impact shuddered the walls.

  THE FIRST TIME THE CELL made a noise that day, it was a text from Autumn.

  How does Thai food sound tonight? Xo

  Worried that she was feeling compelled to babysit me, and not really wanting to spend time with anyone whose big brother was making them spend time with me, I blew her off.

  Not hungry. Maybe some other time.

  To which she replied:

  Well, of course you’re not hungry now. It’s only 2pm. I’ll be over at 7pm. Thai or not to Thai? Xo

  I smirked. Apparently, there was no getting rid of her.

  To Thai. Thx.

  She’d sent me a smiley face and something else that only came up as a question mark on my cell. I guessed it didn’t have the software update for the new emojis.

  The cell went off a few hours later; this time it was ringing and the caller ID said “Killian.”

  I thought about not answering it, but that was childish and honestly, the thought of continuing this little game of who can piss the other off more exhausted me.

  “O’Dea,” I answered.

  He seemed to hesitate a moment before he said, “I just got off the phone with the police. They still haven’t found the boys. Or your guitar.”

  Disappointment flooded me as I suddenly realized I might never get my beloved Taylor back. My throat closed tight at the thought.

  “Skylar?”

  I cleared it, trying to push the sob that was closing it back down. “Yeah, I heard you.”

  He was so quiet I thought maybe he’d hung up. I was about to do the same when he said, “They’re sending a sketch artist over to the flat.”

  I felt somewhat relieved that the police weren’t giving up. “Okay. When?”

  “The artist will be there in an hour. Her name is Shelley.”

  The fact that they were sending someone over so soon made me even more hopeful that they might catch the little pricks. “Got it.”

  “Call if—”

  “I need anything,” I finished wryly. “I know.”

  “Right.” He hung up without saying goodbye.

  “Ass,” I mumbled, throwing the cell across the floor out of reach.

  It was hard to get back into my book anticipating the arrival of the sketch artist. And Shelley, a petite brunette with big round blue eyes, turned up at my door not too long later. I didn’t know what I was expecting from a police sketch artist but it wasn’t Shelley. Her hair was cut pixie short and she had piercings all along the cuff of her right ear. Her lip was pierced and her entire right arm was covered in colorful tattoos.

  Despite having the appearance of an extrovert, Shelley seemed shy, almost nervous, and I wondered if she recognized me. The entire time I described the boys to her, I worried about her telling someone she’d sketched for Skylar Finch. As soon as she left, I called O’Dea.

  “What’s wrong?” he answered, sounding concerned.

  For a moment, it threw me. “Is that how you always answer your phone?”

  I could practically feel him shifting in agitation. “Skylar?”

  “Shelley . . . I think she recognized me. What if—”

  “Part of her job is strict confidentiality. She won’t—she can’t—say a word.”

  “Okay. You’re sure?”

  “Do you think you’ll ever be ready for the world to find you?”

  Nope.

  “I need time. You promised me that at least.”

  “And it’s a promise I intend to keep.” He hung up.

  “Ugh!” I shook the cell, desperate to throw it across the room again. The guy really needed to learn to civilly finish a conversation.

  * * *

  THE GENTLE ACOUSTIC FILLED THE apartment and I closed my eyes against the sight of O’Dea expertly playing his Taylor. He distracted me from the music.

  And the music was good.

  When he finished, I opened my eyes, unable to help the surprise in my voice. “It’s really good.”

  He shot me a smug look. “Ever the shock.”

  “Well . . . it is shocking,” I admitted from my seat on the floor. I was leaning against the chair while O’Dea took his usual spot on the couch.

  We were on week three of working on the album. It had been a little tense between us at first but as the songwriting wore on, everything else melted away, including our exasperation with one another. We worked late and O’Dea cooked while I sung lyrics to him that he yayed or nayed.

  It felt like we existed on some lonely part of the planet where there was only music and creativity. I couldn’t describe it, but as the days passed, as I poured my heart out into the music, I felt something ease from my chest. At night when he left, I felt a melancholy I didn’t want to explore.

  Together we’d pieced the songs together but most of the melodies came from me and O’Dea tweaked here and there.

  This was the first time he’d said outright, “No, none of that works, let’s try this.”

  And his was better. A lot bet
ter. I couldn’t even hide how impressed I was, even though it would inflate his already bloated ego.

  “You want to try it with the lyrics?”

  I picked up my notes. “Go for it.”

  He played the intro chords and then I jumped in.

  “There’s a girl on the corner,

  Selling love for a meal.

  Every kind of love,

  Except the kind that’s real.

  “There’s a boy watching over,

  With a gun to his head.

  Forced by the needle that

  Pulls the trigger instead.

  “You say

  You’re found and can see.

  Does that include the Lost forgotten

  By you and me?”

  He stopped playing. “Well?”

  “I already told you it works. I’m not rubbing your ego any more than that.”

  Something sparked in his gaze, something almost flirtatious, but he looked down at the sheet music, hiding it from me. Still, a little smirk played around his mouth.

  I couldn’t help but grin. He wanted to say something dirty in response to that. I’d bet my Taylor on it if I had it. Something I was learning about O’Dea as we worked together: he actually did have a sense of humor.

  “You know you want to say it.”

  He flicked me a wicked look and I ignored the flutter in my belly. “Can we be professional, please?”

  “I’m not the one who took something dirty out of what I said.”

  “I didn’t.” He shot me a deadpan look.

  “O’Dea, I know you’re very good at the intimidating, no one is allowed to know what I’m thinking gig you have going on, but I hate to burst your bubble—I’m learning your tells.”

  “You learn what I allow to you learn,” he said arrogantly.

  “And I’m learning a lot. Someone must trust me,” I teased.

  Looking exasperated, he gestured to the notebook in my hand. “You have lyrics to finish.”

  “This is all I’ve got.” I slumped back against the legs of the chair behind me. “I told you . . . sometimes it comes, sometimes it doesn’t.”