Overtones (Songs and Sonatas Book 6)

by Jerica MacMillan

  “Cool.” Why is that so hard to discuss? I turn to look out the windshield at the passing scenery, shifting so my feet are up on the dash. Maybe he’ll feel more comfortable if I’m not looking at him. I can feel his gaze flicking over me, and I wait a beat for him to say something, but he doesn’t. “Internship for what?”

  He scratches his jaw, the rasp of his fingernails against his stubble loud in the relative quiet of the car. Damn him and his square jaw and sexy stubble and infuriating inability to answer a simple question.

  But he finally relents, shifting his shoulders like his shirt is too tight as he drops another crumb of information. “I’m interning with a producer.”

  I look at him then, arching an eyebrow. “A music producer?”

  He nods.

  “So you’re going to be a grunt and get coffee and stuff?” My incredulity is practically dripping from my voice, but I can’t help it. This arrogant guy doing grunt work just seems … unbelievable.

  He smirks. “Not exactly.”

  That’s not even a crumb. That’s … I’m not even sure what to call it. A molecule. A nanoparticle of information. That’s like a single note when you want to hear the whole symphony.

  He glances at my face and lets out a bark of laughter.

  I glare at him. “You’re …”

  “Charming?” he supplies. “Handsome? Magnificent?”

  “Arrogant much?” He smirks again. “I was going to say infuriating. Tight-lipped. Shut tight. Constipated.”

  He makes that choking sound again. “I’m sorry?”

  “You’re excused.”

  That provokes another laugh, but he shakes his head. “That wasn’t an apology. What do you mean I’m constipated?”

  “With information.” I wave a hand at his head. “You have some kind of blockage that stops the flow of words, only allowing you to give out tiny nuggets of information. Pebbles. Grains of sand.”

  That only provokes more laughter, but the laughter seems to relax him. He adjusts his grip on the wheel, leaning his left elbow on the window ledge and settling back into his seat. He shoots me a glance, eyebrows raised. “You really wanna know?”

  I nod once, decisively. “I do.”

  Chapter Five

  Brendan

  I run my tongue over my teeth and glance at Lauren out of the corner of my eye. She’s waiting patiently, her face open and interested.

  It’s stupid, really. I have no reason not to discuss this. It’s more of a habit of keeping to myself, not revealing too much, especially not to new acquaintances. Being the drummer in Brash, and now having Jonathan everywhere again, when people find out who I am, they get this gleam in their eyes. Like they just found the golden ticket for Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. And it’s me.

  Lauren isn’t that way, though. She knows all that shit already. Her best friend’s married to my brother, for God’s sake. And she’s sharing a house with Charlotte James, the missing pop princess. Who’s not really missing anymore, after she showed up at my brother’s wedding yesterday. She tried to keep a low profile, but she should’ve known better. She was recognized so fast it wasn’t even funny. And now her cover’s blown.

  Although, since Lauren is a serious violinist—a serious musician, studying music and learning all the inner workings—she might not have much of an appreciation for what I do. But this is going to be a long trip if I piss her off in the first couple of hours.

  “I make beats.”

  She blinks a few times as she processes that. Then she throws up her hands in frustration. “See? You’re just proving my point.” She wiggles her finger at me. “Constipated. All up in here. Only giving me tiny crumbs of information.” She pauses, and I wait to see what else she has to say, because for damn sure she has something else to say. “You make beats.” She says each word slowly, giving them equal weight.

  I nod.

  “What does that even mean?”

  That makes me laugh. “Hang on. I’ll show you.” I tap on my phone, splitting my attention between the largely empty freeway and the screen, and pull up a playlist. Choosing at random, I tap one. A simple piano melody fills the car. Oh yeah. This is a good one.

  When the melody starts over, a kick drum and a high hat come in, giving another layer to the music. Each repetition of the melody has another layer of samples underneath. Percussion, synth, power chords on a guitar. Each layer is simple, but at its peak, it’s a complex tapestry of sound. I’m quite proud of this one. This is one of the tracks I sent to The Professor as an audition for the internship. It’s what landed my dream job, assuming the internship turns into a paid position. I’ll get to work with one of the top hit makers in the industry, setting me up perfectly to go out on my own in a few years.

  I keep an eye on Lauren as she listens, her brow furrowing as she leans forward as though to get closer to the music. When it reaches its climax in a burst of sound, the simple piano melody comes back for one last reprise before it too fades away.

  She sits still, her legs folded under her, her hands clasped in her lap, her body still leaning toward the center of the dashboard where my phone sits in the holder clipped onto the vent.

  Then she points at my phone. “What was that?”

  “A beat track.”

  She shakes her head. “No. That melody. I recognize it, but it’s wrong. I can’t place it.”

  A smile tips up my lips. “What do you mean it’s wrong?”

  She waves her arms in front of her, letting her hands flop around. “Oooh! You are so irritating! Why can’t you just answer a freaking question?”

  I laugh again. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to irritate you, I swear.” She gives me a narrow-eyed glare of disbelief, which makes me laugh again. “I promise. I can’t help myself. To answer your question, that’s the hook from one of Jonathan’s songs. ‘Pretty Obsession.’ I sampled the melody, subbed in a piano, then layered all the other sounds beneath it.”

  Her mouth drops open. “You did all that?”

  “Don’t look so shocked.”

  She snaps her mouth shut and shakes her head. “No. It’s just. That’s not what I was expecting. That was … Man. Does composing run in your family or something? Does Colt write music too? Are Gabby and Jonathan going to have little Mozarts who start composing by age five, running around and correcting everyone’s music and giving it back to them?”

  Laughing, I hold up a hand. “Whoa, there. Number one, I don’t think Jonathan and Gabby are going to be popping out babies any time soon. That whole life-on-tour thing doesn’t lend itself well to parenthood. Or morning sickness. And what you just heard isn’t composing.”

  She snorts, crossing her arms. “And what would you call it?”

  “I told you. I make beats. The only thing original to me on that track was the beat. I stole the melody from Jonathan and used his chord progressions for the backing. I just sampled the instruments and layered them all together.”

  “Uh-huh. And how is that not composing?”

  I fidget, tapping out a rhythm on the steering wheel with my thumbs. “How is it composing?”

  She eyeballs me for a second, and I can feel it, like she’s measuring me. I hold my breath, waiting for her to render her judgment. For reasons I can’t explain to myself, what she says matters. A lot.

  Then she lets out a sigh. “Look, I’m going to start talking music now. Try not to fall asleep, since you’re driving and all.”

  “Babe, I don’t think you talking music is going to bore me.”

  She looks doubtful, but takes a deep breath. “So, right. Sampling and quoting are both legit compositional techniques. Twentieth century music is full of both. Last year we studied a piece that quotes huge sections of a Mahler symphony, but interspersed it with the composer’s original work.”

  I look at her sideways again, but she seems to be done. “Right, so that wasn’t at all boring since you spoke for about five full seconds, and I’m not exactly quoting a Mahler symphony. Or int
erspersing it with original work.”

  She chuckles. “Fine. There’s no Mahler, but I’m assuming you’re not writing for an art music audience.”

  “Uhh.” I think I’ve heard Jonathan and Gabby arguing about art music before, and what the definition of the term should include, but I tuned them out. “Sure. So what?”

  “Fine. What about Steve Reich?”

  “Who?”

  She waves a hand. “Another composer. It was a while ago, so he didn’t have the technology you do, but all of his compositions are tape looping. The craziest piece that we listened to in class was where he took a cut from the testimony of a guy who’d been badly beaten, I can’t quite remember the exact quote, but something about opening up a wound and letting the blood out—”

  “That sounds delightful.”

  “Right? Anyway, he took this loop of tape and layered it a bunch of times, each time a tiny bit shorter than the last, so they start out in sync but then start getting off in these phases, and it’s the trippiest thing to listen to first thing in the morning in your music theory class.”

  I laugh. This girl makes me laugh without even trying. I can see how easy it is for her to have that trail of broken hearts behind her like I accused her of last night. She never denied it, so I can’t help thinking I’m spot on with that call. But if she’s like this with everyone, I can see how they all fall under her spell. It’s going to be an effort not to do the same.

  “I bet. But what’s your point, exactly?”

  A smile is tugging at her lips, but she gives me a heavy sigh and looks at me like she’s tired of explaining remedial concepts to me. “My point is that quotation and sampling are legitimate compositional techniques. If that’s so, then you’re a composer.”

  “Alright, fine. I concede your point.”

  She gets a smug look on her face and does a celebratory wiggle in her seat, which draws my eyes to her breasts. I force myself to look back at the freeway. I’m driving. Need to stay focused on the road. Not on other ways I’d like to make those breasts jiggle …

  Chapter Six

  Lauren

  “I’ve never been to Las Vegas,” I comment as we pass another sign advertising one of the casinos that we’ll reach in about half an hour at our current pace. Though I’m assuming we’ll hit more traffic once we get closer. There’s been more than I would’ve expected in the middle of the desert, but I guess everyone goes to Vegas in December. Merry Christmas.

  Brendan glances at me, surprise written all over his face. “Seriously?”

  I shake my head and spread my hands. “I’m a northwest girl. It’s a long drive or a plane ticket to get there. Not exactly in my backyard. I’ve been to Canada a bunch.”

  His eyes slide back to the road. “I’ve been to Canada.”

  I lean on the armrest between us, propping my chin on my fist. “Ever been when you weren’t giving a concert?”

  That sexy little smirk crosses his lips as he glances at me again. “No.” He says it like admitting to that fact is giving up a critical point in a game.

  And it’s my turn to smirk. “See? That’s not all that far away for me. But for you …”

  “Point taken.”

  I sit up and blow on my knuckles, buffing them on my shirt. Score one for me. Because all of our exchanges are this way, a battle for points. What does the winner get? I have no idea. But I could think of a few prizes I wouldn’t mind …

  “We’ll need to stop soon for gas and food.” When he starts talking, I realize I’ve been staring at his mouth. I jerk my eyes away, looking at the shades of brown and weird little cactus-y things all around us. And I thought the drive across central Washington was ugly. It’s got nothing on this.

  “I was planning on stopping at a gas station outside of Vegas. There are some nice ones with big convenience stores and fast food chains.” His eyes flicker to me. “But if you want, we could stop in Vegas. Hit a casino, play some slots, go to the buffet for lunch, get a speedy Vegas experience.”

  “I thought the point of Vegas was to get drunk, see a bunch of shows where you can ogle mostly naked people, blow a wad of cash, and make questionable decisions, because what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. How are we going to fit that into a couple of hours?”

  The look he gives me feels like it should sear the clothes off my body. Or at least singe them a little. But no smoke means no fire, so maybe I’m just imagining that. Even if I’m not, I don’t need to go there anyway.

  “Questionable decisions? Like what?”

  I shrug. “I’m sure you can use your imagination.” We’ve already discussed threesomes and naked houseboys. And with his laugh, his sexy smirk, his heated looks, I’m already a little wound up. I’ve had a long, self-imposed dry spell. I don’t need to encourage more dirty talk.

  I promised myself no more guy drama. After the disaster of an almost-relationship last summer, I vowed to focus on me for at least a year. No more dating every guy that catches my attention. No more kissing every boy that looks pretty. No more hooking up with guys when there’s no chance of a long-term anything.

  Even if he is tempting—more tempting than anyone I’ve encountered in quite a while—nothing can happen here.

  He drums his fingers on the steering wheel, which I’ve noticed he does a lot. When he’s thinking or when the silence stretches between us for longer than a few minutes, he starts tapping out interesting rhythms. At one point after we came over the mountains from California into Nevada, I joined in, tapping on my leg with one hand and the door handle with the ring on my other, adding my own layer of beats and different sounds to his. The grin he’d given me when I started took over his whole face, and we riffed like that for a while, until I tried something that didn’t work at all with his beat and it all fell apart while we laughed.

  Now we’re hitting more traffic, and he’s having to pay attention to the other cars as well as look for a place to stop.

  He glances at me again. “We could stay the night? Make a Vegas addition to our trip.”

  I open my mouth to respond, not sure what I’m going to say. Everyone makes Vegas out to be this mecca of fun, but gambling hasn’t ever appealed to me. And I’m not sure what I’d do if I got drunk with Brendan. He’s too … tempting. Plus, I need to save my cash for next semester. Blowing it on slots and drinks and tickets for shows seems like a bad idea, though it would be really fun to drag Brendan to a Thunder from Down Under show …

  But I shake my head. “No. I want to have plenty of time in New York. I haven’t been there either, so I’d like to see a few sights while we’re there.”

  His eyes are wide this time when he looks my way. “Seriously, woman? Where have you been?”

  “I’ll tell you where I haven’t been—on tour with my brothers where I travel all over North America and perform for the masses.”

  I don’t mean my tone to come out as sour as it does, but I’m apparently more bitter about this than I realize.

  He reaches over with one hand and pats my knee, which surprises me. We haven’t really touched outside of performing our official wedding duties. But he pulls his hand back after giving my knee a little squeeze. “Hey. I wasn’t trying to piss you off. I guess I just assume everyone’s seen the major sights in the US, you know?”

  I don’t have anything to say to that, so I just hum again.

  He doesn’t say anything for a few minutes either as he navigates off the freeway to a huge gas station oasis. When he stops in front of the pump, he undoes his seatbelt and turns his body toward me. “How about this—we’ll drive back this way and spend a couple days in Vegas. You can fly home from here, or I can drive you all the way back to LA and you can fly home from there. Whichever’s easier.”

  “Oh, uh …” I blink at him, not sure what to say.

  He gives me a shrug and a boyish smile. “Think about it. We don’t have to decide today. Let’s see how much time we have left when we’re ready to leave New York, okay?”

 
“Um, okay.”

  “Great.” He taps the steering wheel. “I’m going to fill up. Let’s get some lunch here, and then we’ll grab snacks for the next leg. There’s a whole lot of nothing between here and Denver.”

  “Wait. Aren’t we going through Utah before we get to Denver?”

  He grins again. “Yup. Southern Utah. There are tiny towns here and there along the way, but not much in the way of civilization.”

  We spend almost an hour there, and Brendan won’t let me pay for anything. Not my lunch, not my snacks, and when I offer him money for gas, he won’t take that either. I’m a little bit annoyed, but mostly confused. I know from Gabby that the Brasher boys have a nice trust set up. And I’m sure Brendan and Colt get paid for their Brash reunion performances on Jonathan’s tour. So fine, maybe he can afford this better than I can.

  But letting him pay for everything makes this feel like something it’s not. We’re not together. I’m not his girlfriend. We hardly know each other, though that’s becoming less true with each hour that passes. Traveling together breeds an odd sort of intimacy, and even though it’s only been a few hours, I can feel it creeping up on us, pulling us together. We already have a few inside jokes and we’re only in Las Vegas. Google Maps says it takes forty-three hours to get to New York City from Montecito.

  At this rate, we’ll be best friends by the time we’re ice skating at Rockefeller Center.

  Chapter Seven

  Lauren

  Brendan points at the blue freeway sign as we pass it. “Rest stop coming up. You need to stop?”

  I let out a big yawn. “Yeah. I need to pee, and I wouldn’t mind stretching my legs.” I give him the side eye. “Maybe I can drive for a while.”

  He chuckles. “With you yawning like that? Maybe you should crawl in the back and take a nap. You can drive in Colorado, since you bragged earlier about your abilities in the mountains and on snow.”