I was beginning to think music wasn’t the only language that was foreign to Wyatt. It seemed understanding me and my style of songwriting was, too. Which made me miss Lola even more. I was beginning to realize I’d taken our effortless rhythm for granted.
Lola had a bright clear voice that suited my songs. Wyatt’s sound was much huskier. Not in a bad way, it just wasn’t really what I’d had in mind for my songs.
We were practicing Bent, one of my original pieces. It was meant to be a song about surviving the struggle of finding love and having the strength to move on when it wasn’t right. It had a haunting chorus that would be a natural fit for a voice like Lana Del Rey, but with Wyatt’s powerhouse pipes, it sounded more like I was being shouted at by Freddie Mercury.
When Wyatt first opened his mouth to sing, I’d been so caught off guard by his voice that I’d stumbled over the chords and had to start over. Now my problem was I couldn’t take my eyes off of him.
Even though I didn’t like him, he was undeniably attractive. But with that voice? He was kind of mesmerizing.
It was messing with my head.
I mean, you don’t expect someone who looks like he belongs in Fall Out Boy to sound like they could belt out rock operas in their sleep. It was honestly unsettling.
Truthfully, I was more than a little envious of his raw talent. Gorgeous, rich and he could sing? It really wasn’t fair. If I hadn’t already hated Wyatt Nash, his stunning voice sealed the deal.
Wyatt sighed and stood up, pacing the tiny practice room. He laced his fingers and stretched them above his head, letting his hands rest atop his messy black hair. I really hated when he did that. It made his thin black t-shirt ride up, showing a sliver of snow-white skin just above the waist of his snug jeans.
He wore his pants low, accentuating his narrow hips and the appealing way his muscles created shadowed hallows that my eyes begged to follow. The sexy lines of his stomach funneled my attention to the low-slung leather belt at his waist, making my throat go dry.
I quickly forced myself to look away.
“We aren’t getting any closer to finding our groove, are we?” he asked, sounding frustrated.
I shook my head. “Nope.”
“This is the definition of madness, you know? Trying the same thing over and over, expecting different results.”
“Fine, then you make a suggestion.”
Wyatt stopped walking, his piercing green eyes raking over me, a wave a heat flushing me from head to toe. “You could sing the bloody song for me, so I know what you want.”
“I told you. I’m not a singer.”
“Neither am I!” Wyatt shouted.
I recoiled at his outburst.
Seeing my frustration, Wyatt changed his approach. He blew out a breath and crouched in front of me, his hands landing on my knees, shooting sparks straight through me. I swallowed hard and forced myself not to concentrate on the tingle of electricity spreading up my thighs.
“Look,” Wyatt purred. “I know you’re trying. I’m just frustrated because your music is brilliant. The world deserves to hear it.”
The earnestness in his eyes made my cheeks flush. At this rate another compliment would make me burst into flames. “Thanks,” I managed.
“You’re welcome.” Amusement sparked in those dangerous eyes of his again. “Will you not sing it to me, just once so I can do it justice?”
My throat closed up as his green eyes continued to transfix me. All I could hear was the pounding of my pulse as his fingers gripped my knees.
“Just once,” he begged again, his voice soft and hypnotic. “I won’t let you down.”
I didn’t acknowledge making the decision, but before I knew it, my head was nodding in agreement.
Wyatt’s eyes lit up. He eagerly released my knees and pulled his chair closer, sitting down to face me.
I swallowed hard and strummed the first chord, but self-consciousness speared me. I held my palm against my strings to quiet them.
“Why’d you stop?” Wyatt asked.
“I can’t do it with you staring at me.”
He gave me a thoughtful look, then leaned forward and pulled off my glasses.
“Hey! I need those to see.”
“Maybe, but not to play.”
“Are you an optometrist now?”
He snorted a laugh. “No, just observant. You close your eyes when you play. This way you won’t be tempted to open them and watch me watching you.”
“Yes, but I’ll still know you’re there,” I huffed.
“Fine.” He stood up and walked over to the light switch, flipping it off. Darkness bathed us and it took a moment for me to make out his silhouette in the shadows. “Pretend it’s just you,” he said, moving to take a seat on the piano bench behind me.
I wrinkled my nose, hating that he was being so logical. But he was right. This was helping. I took a deep breath and channeled my inner strength.
Music had always been my safety net. I could count on it. It didn’t judge or ridicule. It created, it comforted, it calmed me. And like this, with the lights off, and blurry vision, I could imagine I was anywhere.
I pictured my bedroom, pretending this was just another night, strumming out another song by myself. Before I knew it, the words flowed from me as effortlessly as they always did when I was alone.
“I don't fit in.
Don’t know where to begin.
Can’t stop wondering,
what’s it all about?
I feel the music calling.
But how can I leap,
when I’m already falling?
I’m stronger than you think.
I am bent, not broken.
I am bent.
Bent.
Bent.
Not broken.
Can't break my heart.
Won’t let you in.
This is just the beginning.
Bending, swaying, torn open.
I am bent, not broken.
I am bent.
Bent.
Bent.
Not broken.
Running from your secrets.
Your face, your mouth, your lies.
Don’t speak the words.
Don’t let me in.
I know your lips only drip sin.
I don't fit in.
Don’t know where to begin.
Only that the music’s calling.
Thank you for this fear,
this fear of falling.
This is just the beginning.
Bending, swaying, torn open.
I am bent, not broken.”
I let the last note fade in a soft decrescendo. When the room fell silent, I sat there for a moment, my blood still singing long after my voice was absorbed into the blackness. The rise and fall of my chest kept the rhythm of the music while my entire body continued to hum with euphoria.
This was what I loved about composing—creating something from nothing. Just me and my guitar, bleeding out words until I was empty enough to be filled back up by the music. It was like harnessing magic. And it was completely and absolutely the only thing I wanted to do for the rest of my life.
I was so absorbed in my post-composing glow that I’d almost forgotten Wyatt was still in the room with me. The sound of the piano keys tinkling out my song alerted me to his presence.
I was awestruck at the ease in which Wyatt replicated my melody. He was playing without sheet music. He’d heard the song more than a few times, but still, to be able to play by ear was incredible.
I’d spent years of hard-earned babysitting money taking enough piano lessons to learn how to play. And still, I was nowhere near as skilled as Wyatt was.
The piano’s rich sound filled the room with effortless beauty as Wyatt began belting out the chorus. The sound was so intoxicating, I forgot myself and started to sing with him. By our second time around I’d started playing my guitar to accompany the piano. The sound of our voices mixed with the piano and guitar was so per
fect and unexpected my chest swelled with emotion.
We were making music!
Could anything else in the world match this kind of joy?
Chapter Fourteen
Wyatt
I caught my breath, collected myself and walked to the light switch, flipping it on. I watched Layne squint in the light. Her cheeks were flushed, her chest heaving as much as mine.
Closing the distance between us I swept her into my arms, lifting her petite frame off the floor as I crushed her in a bear hug. “We did it!”
She laughed. “We did!”
“That was bloody amazing!” I said, spinning her around. “I knew you had a diva buried deep down in there somewhere!”
Giggles erupted from her so suddenly I nearly dropped her. It wasn’t the sound so much as what it did to my insides that shocked me. I set her down and took a step back, hiding my alarming rush of emotion behind the safety of sarcasm. “Penny Layne, you’ve been holding out on me.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“That voice! You can sing.”
Her cheeks turned that pretty shade of pink I was beginning to crave.
“And you can play,” she shot back, nodding at the piano. “How can you play like that and not read music?”
I shrugged. “I was just messing around.”
She glared at me. “You know, if I wasn’t already a member of the I Hate Wyatt Nash Club, that comment right there would’ve made me join.”
I winked. “What can I say, I’m hard to love.”
The way she quickly looked away made me think she thought the opposite, which stirred my desire. Maybe this two-week distraction would be more fun than I’d thought. “I’d say we’re off and running, Penny Layne.”
“It’s a solid start,” she agreed.
“Shall we call it a night?”
She nodded. “Sure. We can work on the next song tomorrow.”
“I think we should perfect this one first.”
“It sounded pretty perfect to me,” she replied.
I gave her a smoldering grin. “This is just the beginning,” I teased, quoting the song. “When we’re done, I want to feel torn open.”
Layne flushed as I recited her lyrics. “I guess there’s always room for improvement,” she admitted, stuffing her things into her bag and shrugging on her coat.
“Need a ride?” I asked, flipping my keys in my hand.
“What I need are my glasses,” she said, holding her hand out.
I’d almost forgot. I slipped them off my head, but before handing them back I stepped closer, taking in her unencumbered features—creamy skin, delicate chin, heart-shaped lips and stunning big brown eyes. “You know,” I said, my voice gravelly and low. “Your eyes are kind of beautiful. You should go without glasses more often.” I placed them into her hands, unable to resist letting my fingers unnecessarily brush across hers. Layne’s cheeks flamed.
It was too easy.
I smirked and in a moment of mercy, opened the door, letting Layne and her pretty pink cheeks escape to the hall.
“So, what do you say?” I asked. “Do you want a ride home?”
“With you?”
I pretended to look around the empty music wing as we walked down the hall toward the parking lot. “Do you have a better offer?”
“No, I just didn’t expect you to have your car back.”
“Yeah, well turns out my mother’s easier to win over than you are.” She rolled her eyes as a thought dawned on me. “How were you planning to get home tonight?”
“I was going to walk.”
I balked. I didn’t know where she lived, but the coffee shop we’d been at yesterday was at least three miles from school and there weren’t a lot of houses in between. “Do you always walk?”
“No. I told you, Lola is usually my ride.”
“Don’t you have your driver’s license?”
“Yes.” Layne offered nothing more.
“Then why don’t you just drive yourself?”
“What is this, twenty questions?”
“Just trying this small talk I’ve heard so much about,” I teased.
I caught a whisper of a smile on her lips. “Not all of us can afford BMWs, Wyatt.”
“Pssh! A BMW? It’s like you don’t know me at all, Penny Layne,” I teased, knocking my shoulder into hers to deepen her smile.
“Okay, smart guy, what do you drive?”
“An American classic, of course.”
“Of course.”
I beat Layne to the exit and opened the door to the parking lot. I couldn’t help picking up my pace, more than a bit excited to show off my baby.
“This is Scarlet,” I announced proudly as we approached my 1969 Firebird Coupe. “Three-hundred and fifty horses of pure American muscle under the hood,” I said, patting the shiny red paint job affectionately.
“She’s beautiful,” Layne said, playing along.
“Thank you.”
I walked to the passenger side and used my key to unlock the door for her, wondering if the invention of automatic locks were to blame for such gentlemanly acts disappearing.
“Thanks,” Layne said, ready to slide into the supple leather interior.
I put a hand on her waist to stop her. “Not so fast. You have to agree to the rules first.”
“There are rules?”
“No eating or drinking in the car, that includes chewing gum,” I added sternly, remembering the time I’d taken Nicole Fraser to the movies and had to drive home in my underwear when her obnoxious neighbor dumped soda all over me because he was secretly in love with her. I’d been in such a foul mood I hadn’t noticed I’d stepped in gum and got it all over my poor baby’s floor mat.
“Reasonable,” Layne offered.
“And no one touches the radio but me.”
She smirked. “I can live with that.”
I opened the door wide and stepped back. “Then your chariot awaits.”
She rolled her eyes, but a hint of her smile was still there.
Chapter Fifteen
Layne
“So, where do you live?” Wyatt asked, pulling me from my reverie.
I’d been fully absorbed in the warmth and comfort of Scarlet’s plush leather interior. I never fancied myself a car girl, but this wasn’t really a car, it was a work of art.
Wyatt kept it in immaculate condition and despite it being a classic, Scarlet wrapped me in her intoxicating mixture of new car smell with a hint of leather. That combination along with the sweet sounds of Jim Morrison serenading me from the radio had lulled me into a dreamlike state.
But of course, I’d been rudely ripped from my daydream with thoughts of Wyatt seeing my house.
I looked around, quickly getting my bearings. We were just approaching Main Street. “Um, you can just drop me off here.”
Wyatt glanced at me quickly. His crooked smile seemed to say he thought I was joking.
“N-no, really,” I stammered. “Just drop me at the coffee shop. I want to grab a cup.”
He gave me another odd sideways glance. “I can stop for a coffee if you’d like.”
“Oh, that’s okay. I don’t want to hold you up.”
He slowed the car and eased it to the curb by the coffee shop, putting it in park. Wyatt slung a lazy arm over the back of my seat, hitting me with the full weight of his gorgeous green eyes. “What’s going on, Penny Layne? Embarrassed to bring the riffraff home?” His dark eyebrows wagged playfully.
I huffed a laugh. “No, I’m sure my mom would love you.”
He gasped. “She’s not a member of the I Hate Wyatt Nash Club?”
“Shut up,” I teased. “I just feel like a latte and a walk.”
He watched me like he could sense the lie. Why had I said latte? I actually hated coffee. I much preferred tea. And I couldn’t resist a good scone. I realized that probably made me sound more British than Wyatt, despite him being the one with the accent.
I met his intense ga
ze hoping he wouldn’t call my bluff. The coffee shop had started out as an excuse to avoid him seeing my house, but now that I was thinking about scones, I truly did like the idea of stopping in.
“So, what, you expect me just to drop you off here at night and let you walk home?”
“It’s not a big deal. I like walking. It’s when I do some of my best songwriting.”
He considered it, then shook his head. “Nope. It’s late and it’s cold. If something happens to you, I’ll never be able to appeal for the disbandment of the I Hate Wyatt Nash Club. I can’t allow it. Get your order to-go. I’ll wait.”
“What about Scarlet’s no food and drink rule?”
“I didn’t say you could drink it in the car.” He winked.
Wyatt-freaking-Nash just winked at me. I had no words. Luckily, I didn’t need them.
He spoke again. “Keep the lid on and I’ll make an exception just this once.”
I ignored my galloping heart, got out of the car and walked around to Wyatt’s side, leaning down. He rolled the window down and I gave him my I’m-not-joking expression that I’d perfected after countless hours of babysitting. “Wyatt, I don’t need a ride. I’m giving you an official pardon.”
I expected a witty comeback, but something like disappointment flickered across his emerald eyes. “If you say so.”
“I do.”
Wyatt recovered his easy smirk, tipping his cool black fedora at me. “Goodnight, Penny Layne.”
“Goodnight.”
I waited on the curb, watching wistfully as Wyatt’s taillights faded into the distance. Scarlet’s rumbling purr grew fainter by the second, only making my chill worse. When I was alone, I shivered, letting my shoulders slump. Regret filled me as I turned away from the coffee shop and headed up the hill to my house.
As much as I wanted a nice hot tea for the short walk home, I wanted to have lunch money for tomorrow more. But even more than that, I realized I wanted to be back in the warm interior of Wyatt’s car, listening to him sing along to classic rock, calling me Penny Layne and making my heart race with his annoying little smirks.
Kissing The Hero (The Dangers of Dating a Diva Book 2) Page 6
