by K. Bromberg
Add to that too much driving. Too much thinking about Grady.
And that’s why this song isn’t working. Because every time I sing the lyrics, I think of him.
Of the confusion I feel.
Of wanting more with a man when I’m in no place emotionally to want more.
Of wanting more with a man who will never be able to give it to me.
The chords play again, and I lift my eyes to meet Jett’s. They used to hold so much for me, but now I look at him and feel nothing.
So I close my eyes and think of Grady and feel everything.
“You are my shot in the dark.
The flame I can’t put out.
The dream I need to walk away from.
Because it’s myself I constantly doubt.
But you’re under my skin.
You’ve tattooed my soul.
The fate of my heart yours to control.”
The gravel of Jett’s voice fades, but I hum the ending again. Tears sting my eyes so I keep them closed past the last chord played and the room falls silent. It’s Grady I’m singing to, but when I open my eyes, it’s Jett’s eyes I meet. He’s staring so intensely that a lump forms in my throat, and I’m not sure why.
“Can you give us a minute?” Jett asks, not shifting his gaze as chairs scrape across the floor, instruments are put down, and the sound booth switch is turned off. When the door shuts behind the last person, he asks, “You okay?”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
“It’s weird being back in here, isn’t it?” His voice is soft, warm.
“It hasn’t been that long.” And mine is barely audible.
“He’s hurt you, hasn’t he?”
I keep my face impassive, at least I try to, and lower my eyes from his, aware enough to know Jett is the king of taking advantage of my emotions. “No. There’s nothing really to hurt. I’m getting over you, and he’s dealing with his own issues.” I tighten the strings on the neck of my guitar to busy myself. “We’re at the right place and the right time for each other.”
“Dylan, I don’t believe that for a second. I miss you. I miss us. Didn’t it feel weird walking into your house without me there? My stuff. The smell of my cologne. The music I always have on? I mean, look at us. Look at the music we’re making right now. You can’t do that if you don’t have a special connection with someone.”
It was weird walking into my house without Jett’s presence, but it was even more so when I realized it didn’t feel like a home the way Grady’s does.
“Jett, can we just get this song—?” And when I turn to look up, Jett is right there, in my space. His hand is on my cheek. His face is tilting forward. His breath is on my lips.
I close my eyes out of habit, and the minute his lips touch mine, I stand abruptly and shove my chair back with a clatter. “No,” is off my tongue as my chest heaves and heart twists and insides riot.
“Dylan. Babe . . .”
I stand in the empty studio—a place symbolic to us—and look at Jett. I see everything that is familiar to me. The everyday norm I used to have. I know what life is like with him—unpredictability and spontaneous chaos. A life-long party of insecurity and self-doubt.
And then I picture Grady. Shirt off. Eyes wary. Smile cocky.
You’re my shot in the dark.
He’s everything that is outside my box.
The flame I can’t put out.
He’s everything I want, and I know exactly what to expect.
The dream I need to walk away from.
The outcome is predetermined.
But you’re under my skin.
The emotions are under lockdown.
You’ve tattooed my soul.
The future is nonexistent.
The fate of my heart yours to control.
And yet, he’s the one I’m thinking of right now, not Jett. It’s his kiss I want to taste, not Jett’s. It’s his bed I want to crawl into, his scent I want to smell on the pillowcase when I’m tired and an emotional wreck.
Not Jett’s.
“He’s a rebound, Dylan. I’m the real thing, standing here in front of you. Wanting you.”
His words strike my ears, but it’s Grady’s from the other night that still ring true. His honesty. His anger. His truths.
“No. You aren’t what I want anymore. I used to wait for you. Want you. Need you. But after what you did to me, and the things that Grady has taught me about myself, it no longer holds true.” I look around the room, needing an escape, a moment, anything to gain physical distance from him. “We’re over, Jett. We’re done.”
I look at him one last time before I leave the studio, feeling strength when I never had it before. I’m not going to be a victim, someone whose worth is determined by what a man feels about me.
Then I think of Grady and know I’m not quite there in terms of confidence. I think it will take me a while to believe the things he said about me. Beautiful. Wanted. The things wet dreams are made of. The woman I keep thinking about, keep wanting more from. I feel a different form of vulnerable.
The first is a welcome change; the second scares the shit out of me. If Jett is right about anything, it’s that Grady is a rebound and rebounds never last. I lean against the wall outside the studio and rest my head against it.
It’s fine. I’m fine. Grady being a rebound is perfectly okay because I’m going to be back here full-time in a few weeks anyway. It’s probably best this way. I can enjoy what I have with Grady while it lasts and then walk away better for it and thankful he helped me get over Jett.
“The fact that you’re out here eating dinner should worry me, right?” Kai asks through a laugh. I look up from where I sit, my back against the building’s brick wall, and my senses soaking up everything so perfectly Los Angeles around us. The distinct sounds of people getting to where they need to be in horns and sirens and laughter. The warm night air that’s stifling, when in Sunnyville it always seemed refreshing.
“Am I that bad?”
“Nah. You are a perfectionist. There’s nothing wrong with that. And you’re exceptional at what you do, so you’re forgiven for being a pain in the ass.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Your version of pain in the ass is nothing compared to that pain in the ass,” Kai says as he lifts his chin to the studio where Jett is.
“Talent never overrides tact, huh?” I say when I’ve turned a blind eye to Jett’s stunts for so long.
“Never.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Thanks for coming out on such short notice.”
“I promised I’d be here.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure Callum and the other execs weren’t feeling confident after Jett pulled a Jett last time we were here.”
“What was his temper tantrum over?
His laugh says it all. “The whiskey was wrong. The room was too hot. The light was too bright—same old prima donna bullshit. So much so that he waltzed out in a tizzy saying he didn’t have the right atmosphere to make music in.”
“Christ.” Will he ever grow up? How did I put up with this for so long? Why did I enable him? Because I was blinded by what I thought was love.
“They weren’t too happy when no tracks were laid down or recorded.”
“I’m sure they weren’t, but I did my part, Kai. Jett had lyrics to put vocals to. Not all of them, but a good portion, so he should be a lot further along than he is.”
“He should be . . . but he isn’t the same unless you’re here.”
I’m sick of hearing this.
“He’s a big boy, who’s going to have to figure out how to deal next go round. Or rather, I should say the label is going to have to figure out how to manage him. My handholding is done after this album.”
“The Jett whisperer.”
“If I don’t ever hear that again, it won’t be soon enough.”
He lifts his eyebrows and sighs, knowing exactly what I’m referring to. “You doing okay? I’m sure this can’t be easy on
you after, you know, everything he did to you . . .”
“You know?” I ask, voice incredulous, eyes darting around to see if anyone is around to hear him.
“Yeah.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I overheard him on the phone with the other chick. He was blaming her one minute for you finding out about them, then telling her you meant nothing to him the next.”
“I-uh—”
“Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.” His smile is sincere and his eyes are full of compassion. Relief surges through me knowing I don’t have to hide from every person what’s going on. “This can’t be easy for you.”
“I’m good.” I force a smile I’m sure he doesn’t believe. “The time away has been good for me.”
“Time away is always good for the soul. And the heart.”
“That remains to be seen,” I murmur to myself as I collect my trash and stand. “You ready for me to be more of a pain in your ass?”
“Bring on the pain.”
We laugh as we enter the studio. The humor lasts us for the first two hours and then slowly begins to dissipate with each repeated take. With every lyric I ask Jett to sing again. With each one of my requests to start over.
“Dude, I’m done for,” Jett says as he dives headfirst into the couch in the studio.
The night has turned to early morning, time unknown since the soundproof booth is windowless.
“You’re such a pussy, Kroger. What’s it been? A whole month since you were in here last? Everything is exactly how you want it—the light, the thermostat, the whiskey—and you still can’t hang? Dude, we’re going to have to revoke your rock-star status.”
Jett lifts his middle finger into the air but keeps his head buried in the pillows.
“Uh-oh,” Kai says. “McCoy has that look on her face that says she isn’t satisfied yet.”
Henry groans and slumps where he sits at the soundboard. “Seriously? We’re going on, what? Ten? Eleven? Forty hours now?”
“I know, but our time with Dylan is limited. Surely by now you understand her level of perfectionism.”
Jett lifts an eye up from where his face is buried in his crossed arms. “I’m not liking this already.”
“Definitely revoking your status,” Kai jokes and then smiles when he meets my eyes before looking to Henry. “Hang in there. I know it’s a long day, but stay focused because this is when songs typically are made into hits.”
“If you two little old ladies are done complaining, I’d like to get started.” I lift my eyebrows as if impatient.
“Yes, ma’am,” Kai says and offers up a salute. “Where do you want to start?”
“I’m not completely sold on ‘No Matter the Cost’ yet,” I say, referring to the song title. “I need to work it through a couple more times and hear the playback. Something isn’t sitting right with me, and I’ll know it when I hear it.”
“Jett?” Kai prompts.
“Let Dylan run through it. I need a fucking break.”
Kai looks over to me, and I nod, telling him I’m good singing the song myself. There is a short instruction given to Henry about where he needs to cue the music as Jett rolls over on his side and starts scrolling through something on his phone.
“You ready, McCoy?”
“Start from the top.”
I put the headphones back on and enjoy the absolute quiet before the music floats through them. I imagine the hard edge of a guitar and the strident beat of the drum that will accompany the current piano background paired with my acoustic guitar.
I close my eyes and feel the music, my fingers on the strings, the emotion of the past few days flowing through me, and wait for my mark.
And then I begin to sing.
“There’s a Santa Ana moving in.”
Bowie, who’s joined me in the apparatus bay, nods. The warm Santa Ana winds are never welcome in this heat. “I know. You can feel a fire in the air.”
“Lotta dry brush after a long summer without rain.”
“Spells trouble.”
“It spells overtime,” he says with a laugh, and I shake my head even though he’s right. “You’re gonna show up, right?”
He’s the fourth guy to ask me this question, just in a different way. It seems to be a coordinated effort to make sure I’m not going to bail on the calendar shoot.
“I told you I’d be there. Satisfied?”
“Baby, I’m never satisfied,” he teases, “but I’ll take what I can get.”
“If you’re looking my way for your satisfaction, you need serious help.”
“I always need help, but I’m glad to hear you’re going to show us all up.”
“Like I said, I’ll be there,” I grumble, already regretting agreeing to this.
“You want to head out and grab a beer after shift? Try to put a little fat on that belly of yours so we don’t look so out of shape in comparison in the pictures? That is, of course, if you don’t have other plans with Dylan.”
I know a fishing expedition when I see one. “She isn’t around.”
“She head back to L.A. already? I thought she was here for a few more weeks.”
“So did I,” I murmur as I double-check my gear in my riding spot on the engine. Anything to occupy myself and avoid this conversation.
“She coming back?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Well, is her shit still at your place?” he continues.
“Bowie, why don’t you just come straight out and ask me whatever you’re trying to ask me.” I slide a glance his way and wait for him to acknowledge my question.
“Are you hitting it, or what?”
I tuck my tongue in my cheek and place my gear in the grab rail. “And that’s your business why?”
“Because I’m trying to figure out why you’re in a shitty mood when you’ve been Mr. Happy for the past month or so.”
“Mr. Happy?” I chuckle. “That sounds like a bad nickname for my johnson.”
“So?”
“You know, if you worked out as much as you ran your mouth, you’d be in killer shape.”
“This is easier. And you’re changing the topic.”
“Yes. Her stuff is still in her room,” I say, not realizing until now how important that is.
“Thank fuck, because you need that hose of yours serviced before your next shift so I don’t have to deal with your grumpy ass.”
“At least I have someone to service mine,” I call over my shoulder as I walk out of the bay.
I take a deep breath and stare at the front door. Nothing has changed in the few days since I’ve been gone, and yet, nothing feels the same.
The time away. The time with Jett. The clarity I gained with distance. I’m in more than like with Grady Malone.
It’s a confession I’ve refused to acknowledge, but now I’m standing at his front door, summoning the courage to open it, I can’t refute it.
How did I not see this coming? How have I lived here with him, shared his space, and convinced myself that roomies with romp time would be okay?
The worst part about recognizing it is knowing it can’t go anywhere. We can’t go anywhere. If I let myself fall for him, the love won’t be returned and I’ll be left brokenhearted again. Although, I suspect it will take my heart longer to recover from Grady Malone.
So I lie, and tell myself the here and now is exactly what I need. Grady is in fact a rebound and that is all it will be. I’m about to walk into this house and pretend as if we are still enjoying each other and that’s enough for me.
I take a deep, fortifying breath, shove my heart down as deep as it can go beneath the scarred layers of hurt, and enter the house.
The television’s on, and I can hear Petunia rooting around. I find Grady passed out on the couch, uniform on, belt unbuckled, arm hanging over the edge.
Every part of me that said I needed to keep my emotions at bay falls completely and utterly silent when I see him. I want to reach out and touch hi
m. I want to curl up beside him. I just want to be with him.
Instead, I walk to the side of the couch with my bag in my hand and my heart in my throat and acknowledge this is going to be so much harder than I thought it was going to be. Uncertain of why I’m doing it, but doing it nonetheless, I sit on the edge of the cushion and reach out to touch his cheek, the urge too hard to fight.
“Hey, you,” he murmurs in his sleep-drugged voice, a lopsided smile on his lips. “Long shift.” His eyes flutter open briefly and then close at the same time he reaches out and pulls me into him. I’m part on his chest, part on the cushions, and when his arms wrap around me and he presses my face to nestle in the crook of his neck, all resistance leaves me.
Before I can sink into the feel of him—the warmth of his body, the scent of his cologne—his soft snore fills the room. I snuggle against him, breathe him in, and realize how much I missed him in the short time I was gone.
Sure, I used to miss Jett when he was touring. Of course I enjoyed the crazy, frantic sex we’d have the minute we’d see each other again. Hell, I even loved the way we’d rip our clothes off, as if we would die if we weren’t skin to skin, but this feels different. This isn’t only about the physical. This is about comfort, about feeling wanted here. About feeling like I belong here in this life. With him.
Grady mumbles something in his sleep and presses a kiss to the top of my head as if it’s the most normal thing to him.
And as I lie there with him and slowly drift off to sleep, one thought is heavy in my mind: how will I walk away from this?
Grady’s kissing me.
We’re on the shoreline at the lake house, the sand is beneath my back, the sun’s heat is on my skin, and Grady’s lips are on mine.
It’s a dizzying, mind-numbing kiss that feels as if it could go on forever without me tiring of it.
Grady.
He’s my only thought. The only thing I want. The only thing I need.
His hand slides up my torso and over my arms and then cups the side of my neck. He deepens the soft sigh of a kiss. It’s lazy but thorough. It’s passive but desperate. It’s greedy but generous.
