The Songbird Sisters

by Rachael Herron

  As Lana Darling’s first song ended, Taft stood. He walked to the front table, where a man and woman were involved in a heated discussion about the jalapeño poppers they’d ordered that afternoon.

  “I’m telling you, they used light cream cheese.”

  The woman shook her head. “It was probably full fat. You’re not allergic, anyway. Just shut up.”

  Taft rapped the tabletop with his knuckles so hard he made their Long Island iced teas jump. “Hi. Why aren’t you clapping?”

  Startled, the couple clapped.

  Taft could feel Lana’s stare on the back of his neck.

  The man’s mouth dropped open. “You’re … wait, are you –?”

  “That I am. You mind if I sit down here with y’all?”

  The woman stuttered. “Taft Hill, my God. Of course, sit with us.”

  Taft pulled out the chair, straddling it backward. “Great.”

  Both scrambled for their phones, but Taft raised a hand, palm down. “Put ’em away. Enjoy the show.”

  “Can you just – one picture with me?”

  “After.” Taft raised a finger to his lips. “You’re in the presence of a legend.”

  “Sorry,” the woman said. “Sorry. Of course. You are a legend, I know.”

  Taft blew out a sharp breath. “Not me. Her.”

  Lana, only six feet away, snorted. It wasn’t a giggle, and it wasn’t a chuckle. It wasn’t ladylike. It was a snort of derision. It was loud and held no apology. She fiddled with her C-string and started the next song.

  Taft fell a little bit in love.

  The couple left four songs later, and they missed the best part.

  Lana sang “Blame Me.”

  * * *

  Blame me, for not saying no.

  Blame me, for wearing that dress.

  Blame me, the way I do.

  Blame me, for not saying yes.

  * * *

  He wanted it.

  The song, that was.

  Taft wasn’t ready to admit he wanted anything else. That song, though – it was perfect. Even the people who’d rolled in drunk and got drunker listened to it. Lana’s last line rolled over the tops of the audience’s heads, and the room felt blessed. She’d anointed them with the truth. This was church in Nashville, and she was a conduit to a country god.

  “Thank you.” It was the first (and last) thing she’d said to the audience. She didn’t have patter or snappy dialogue. She’d just sung.

  Now she was done and stepping off stage.

  Taft waited until she came out of the green room to accost her. “Lana Darling. I’m Taft Hill.”

  She shook his hand and nodded. She didn’t pretend not to know him, which was a relief.

  “Can I buy you a drink?”

  She shook her head, and the long white-blonde tips of her hair hit the tops of her breasts. “Thanks, but I’ve had a pretty shitty day.”

  “Me, too. Can I buy that song? The last one?”

  Lana stared at him. “Seriously?”

  Taft crossed his heart, something he hadn’t done since he was in second grade. “It’s the best song I’ve heard in years. Do you sell your writing?”

  “Hell, yes.”

  “Has anyone else offered on it?”

  She shook her head. “My agent fired me today. This was my last gig in town. I haven’t sold a song in a year, and I’m pretty sure my career is over, so yeah, if you want it, you can have it. You’ll have to change it quite a bit, though. It couldn’t be more in a woman’s point of view if it tried.”

  Sheer happiness, that’s what the feeling was. And for the shit day he’d had, the relief of it was even sweeter. “Help me revise it.”

  The surprise on her face was exquisite. “You’re really into this.”

  “I can’t even tell you. Please let me buy you a drink.”

  Lana narrowed her eyes, and Taft felt a thrill run right down his body, through his boots and into the floor. “Hmm.”

  “Tequila was made for bad days and new partnerships.”

  “I can’t argue with that.”

  Taft ignored the people snapping pictures of them. They’d hit The Tennessean tomorrow, but that was fine. He didn’t care. On second thought, he found he actually liked the idea that the tabloids would pair them up. Huh. “Well, right up until I heard you sing, today was the worst day of my life.”

  She looked up at him. If she stepped forward, the top of her head would fit right under his chin, and for a second, he wished she would. Just so he could see if he was right.

  Finally she spoke. “Tequila sounds good, but I’m tired of this place.”

  “You want to go somewhere else?”

  “Not to a bar.”

  Her meaning didn’t hit him for a moment. When it did, the lust that gut-punched him almost brought him to his knees. “My place isn’t far.”

  “Give me the address.”

  Fifteen minutes later, he handed her a shot of Cazadores. Nerves, sudden and unwelcome, jumped through him.

  Lana didn’t look tense, though. She looked as cool as she had on stage. She stood at the floor-to-ceiling glass window that looked over Centennial Park. “Great view. A little high up, though. Does it make you dizzy, looking out?”

  The only thing making him dizzy was her. “Nope. Where’s your place?”

  She gave a half-smile, that pixie mouth of hers twisting sideways. “Over in the Gulch.”

  “Great location.”

  “Yeah, well. It’s not mine. I’m couch surfing, staying with my friend Jilly, before I head west.”

  West. That wasn’t what he wanted to hear. “Why are you …?”

  “Let’s do some revision, huh?” She tossed back her tequila and held her glass out for another shot. “And let’s get drunk.”

  Chapter Twelve

  It wasn’t a surprise to Lana when Taft Hill had asked her to get a drink with him.

  It was a surprise when he’d asked to buy the song. Her first impulse had been to say no. It was her song, a hard song, a song that told the truth but still covered up the most important thing, a thing she still couldn’t get close enough to name. Her second impulse – the one she sensibly acted on – was hell, yes. She could use the money.

  It took until they were in his apartment – his glorious penthouse of a place, a far cry from the futon she was borrowing at Jilly’s place – that she fully understood they were going to rewrite it. Together.

  She took the tequila he offered her and sat on the floor in front of his coffee table. It was irregularly shaped, made of shiny black stone, and it had probably cost more than a month’s rent. When she touched its top, it felt like icy velvet. On second thought, it probably cost more than her car.

  Carelessly, he set down two glasses of ice-water. No coasters. “One glass of water for every drink, that’s what I always say.”

  “That’s not exactly the cowboy way, is it?” Lana leaned back against the buttery leather couch she couldn’t even begin to financially appraise.

  “Yeah, this cowboy has had his share of hangovers. I might be too old for them now.”

  “How old are you?”

  He appeared to think. “Thirty-five. No, thirty-six. I just had a birthday.”

  “Happy birthday.”

  Taft shrugged. “It wasn’t, not until the end.”

  “What happened at the end?”

  “You came over.”

  That was how he’d spent his birthday? Alone in a tourist trap? “Okay, then. Happy birthday.” Lana lifted her glass, and they clinked again.

  “Thanks.”

  The air grew thick. Lana felt a fine trickle of sweat between her breasts. It wasn’t hot in here. He was the heat. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “Revise the song, I mean,” she clarified.

  “Oh, that.”

  “Then we’ll fuck.”

  Taft, sipping his drink, coughed violently. “Wow.”

  Lana pulled
a pencil out of her bag. “Let’s get to it.”

  He caught his breath, and they started at the top, working their way down.

  “So. The male point of view.” Taft tapped on the words.

  “Yeah, well, if you’re singing it, the whole thing has to be, right?”

  “Can we fit two more syllables in somewhere? If we can fit in ‘she said’ then we can change less. It turns into a story I’m telling about someone I care about.” Taft moved sideways and angled the page so she could see it better.

  Their thighs touched. Neither drew away.

  Lana wondered if it was possible for jeans to spontaneously combust. “Yeah,” she said. She wanted to kiss him. No, she wanted to bite him. To chew on him, to see what he tasted like. Instead, she stuck the side of her finger in her mouth and gnawed on the skin. “What about if we take out ‘today.’ Then it would be … no, wait.” She drifted off, feeling the heat of his leg against hers.

  Song, song, back to the damn song. Getting the songwriting royalties on a song with Taft Hill would do wonders for her bank account, and if it actually charted, she’d be rich. “This is hard.”

  Then she thought about what else was hard in the room, and she lost the ability to focus on the black marks on the page.

  “Here, let me.” As he reached out to take the paper, his arm brushed across her breast.

  He knew it. He made eye contact with her as he drew back his arm.

  Holy fuck, she wanted this guy.

  Taft scratched some notes on her paper. “Okay. This might be it.”

  Lana looked over his shoulder. She scratched out his words. She wrote over them. “Better now.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.”

  Lana couldn’t take much more. She took the pencil out of his hand and laid it on the table. She lifted his wrist, bringing it to her mouth.

  His eyes widened, and she saw the intake of breath he sucked into his lungs.

  Then she bit him.

  Hard.

  “Ow!” Taft jerked back his hand and rubbed his wrist. “I didn’t expect that.”

  He had tasted like she thought he would, a little soapy and a little salty. “Did you mind, though?”

  “Hell, no.” He offered his hand back. “You want more?”

  She laughed. Taft’s dark-blue eyes were easy to read. He was as turned on as she was. He was delighting in putting off the next move, too. It felt delicious, like being thirsty all day and just looking at the glass of ice-water, delaying the pleasure of drinking it.

  Four more lines tweaked, and they were done.

  He sang it under his breath and she joined him on the chorus. She inserted a harmony she’d always heard in her mind, but since she’d sung it by herself hadn’t been able to try.

  It was good.

  It might be really good.

  Taft leaned his head back on the couch, looking up at the ceiling. “I’ll get my agent to contact yours.”

  “I don’t have one,” she reminded him.

  “To contact you, then. Standard royalty split.”

  “Yes.”

  “This is going to be big.”

  She couldn’t help the smile of disbelief that crossed her face. “If I had a nickel …”

  “I feel it. It’s my superpower, to know a hit when I hear it.”

  “That’s a damn fine superpower.” And she believed it. She looked around the room, the tall windows, the heavy drapes, the gilt-painted Fender Telecaster propped on a steel stand in the corner. “And that’s obvious.”

  He laughed. “I wish. This is what you get when you’re Palmer Hill’s son. The hits are just extra.”

  “Must be nice.”

  “Yeah,” Taft said slowly. “I thought so.”

  “Anyway.” It was time to have sex, before she burst into flames. Then she could get out of here and recover from this unexpected man.

  “Anyway,” he echoed. “Is this song about you?”

  It was a punch to the throat. “No.”

  “You sure?”

  Lana turned to face him, putting six inches of extra space between them as she did so. “You new to songwriting? It’s not usually autobiographical, no matter what people say.”

  “I’d say it’s not always autobiographical. Sometimes it is. I’m just checking. This song is about a girl who got attacked, and I just want to make sure that girl isn’t you.”

  “Yeah, well. No, it’s not.” Anger seeped from her blood into her bones. What if everyone really did think that? What if it got big, and her sisters found out she was the songwriter?

  He narrowed his eyes. “So it is about you.”

  “I said it’s not and I meant it.” Lana slid up from the floor to sit on the couch. She was above him now, which felt better. “But I don’t want people thinking it is. I have a business account from when I was thinking about starting my own label – you can pay that instead of me.”

  Taft shrugged. “It’s your song. Whatever you want. I just think you’re protesting too much, that’s all.”

  “If I’m upset that some people might try to track it back to my life? Of course I am. Are we agreed? You’ll buy it from my business name?”

  “What about a pen name?”

  “Not a bad idea.”

  “Can I pick it?”

  Her default answer, the word that sprung to her lips, was no.

  Taft held up a hand. “Before you say no, just think about it. My other superpower is naming things.”

  God, his eyes sparkled. Could a person get plastic surgery of the eyes to make them do that? Because the way they caught the light was practically unnatural. “Really.”

  “Really. So can I?”

  Lana crossed her arms. “Try.”

  “Candy Floss.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Flossy Petal.”

  She snorted. “No.”

  “Petal Whispers.”

  “That’s a porn name.”

  He nodded hard. “Oh, yeah. All right, what about Whisper Frankfurter?”

  “You’re terrible at this. I don’t need a pen name.” No one would notice who’d written the song with him. It didn’t matter.

  “Birdie Sweetiepie.”

  “Oh.” It was adorable. It sounded like a name her mother would have called her in teasing. “That’s …”

  “That’s your new name. I’m going to start calling you it immediately. Hey, there, Birdie.”

  “Come on.”

  Taft grinned. “You love it.”

  She kind of did love it.

  And that made her stomach clench.

  She was selling this song to him? This song? She’d already verbally agreed. In Nashville, a handshake agreement was as enforceable as a signed contract.

  This song was about her.

  To prove it wasn’t, she was going to sell it to one of the biggest stars in the industry.

  She was a freaking idiot. Anger started, low in her chest. What kind of moron was she?

  “Birdie.” He chuckled.

  She should have kept the song. She should never have sung it to begin with. This was all her fault.

  It was always her fault.

  Lana tugged on a bracelet. “Okay, so whatever. We’re done with the song?”

  “We are if you say we are.” He was still looking at her questioningly, as if she were a puzzle he wanted to solve.

  There was only one way to derail a man who had that particular curious look on his face. “Take me to bed.”

  Taft stood.

  He pulled her to her feet from the couch.

  Then he threw her over his shoulder, and Lana went into a full-blown panic attack.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lana was hot as hell, and Taft wasn’t sure how he’d gotten so lucky. He had, though, and he wasn’t going to throw away his shot.

  “Take me to bed,” she said.

  That’s where Taft made his mistake, or at least that’s what he guessed later. He stood, tugging her to her feet. In a move
he thought would be funny and sweet, he picked up Lana and threw her over his shoulder. “I drag you to my bedroom,” he roared. “Like a caveman!” She was so light he felt like he could carry her for hours. He tossed her onto his bed with a laugh.

  Then Lana went sideways.

  She launched at him like a wildcat. Yeah, she was into it – that didn’t seem to be the problem. She ripped at his belt buckle and tore his shirt in her haste to get his clothes off. She hit his hands away when he tried to help her with her own shirt and jeans. In a blurred few seconds, they were both naked.

  Her skin was clammy, as if she was covered in sweat. “Hurry up,” she panted.

  Was she actually okay? “Hey, slow down a sec.”

  Lana bit at his mouth and Taft realized he hadn’t even kissed her yet. Not properly. He took her face in his hands and tried, but she pulled away with a brittle laugh.

  “I don’t like slow,” she said.

  “We have time.” He wanted to study her body, to run his hands down the planes of her ribs, to cup her ass, to see if she was sensitive at the back of her knee. He wanted to lose himself in exploring her.

  “I don’t care.” She pushed him backward, hard, and then flung herself to straddle him. She had a condom in her hand – where had it even come from? – and she rolled it onto his cock, which was traitorously eager for her touch. He should slow this down – this didn’t feel right – but then she was on him, above him, taking him into her and moving fast. She was tight and wet, and God help him if he could stop her. Her breasts were high and small, her nipples dark.

  But her eyes were closed, her chin turned so that even if they were open, she’d be looking out the window. Not at him.

  And while she felt like sex on a stick, while he wanted to come so bad he literally hurt, it wasn’t right. He held her waist and slowed her. “Hey.”

  She slapped at his hands. “Stop it. Let me.”

  “Lana.” Using more force than he thought he would have to, he physically lifted her off him with a grunt. Then he scooted backward, panting, so his back was against the headboard, and she was straddling his knees. “This doesn’t feel right.”

  “What?” Her mouth was a sneer. “Too much for you?”

  “Hell, yeah!”