MUSES AND MELODIES

by Yarros, Rebecca

  My gaze jerked to hers, and I felt the blood drain from my face.

  “Shit,” she muttered. “I really wanted to be wrong.”

  “I’m not…tangled.” I knew exactly what I was getting into.

  She sighed. “Look, I love Nixon like a brother. You know that. But you should cut your losses and run. He’s not stable.” Her words were at odds with the kindness of her tone.

  “I’m the stable one.” I fidgeted with the pass that hung around my neck. “I’m not blind. My eyes are wide open to everything he is. And besides, we’re not…” I stumbled. “We haven’t…” If my tongue would have cooperated, that would have helped.

  “You haven’t slept with him?” Her eyes narrowed.

  “No. Not that it’s any of your business.” I turned to face the band but felt the weight of her stare.

  “Good.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose. “If it were anyone else, Zoe, I wouldn’t care. But I’ve watched Nixon go through women like a river for the better part of a decade. He doesn’t alter course. Doesn’t give concessions. And when he hits the self-destruct button, he takes out everyone in his path. Jonas and I just know when to head for the high ground.”

  “He doesn’t scare me.” I shrugged, my stomach flipping at the fib.

  “He should.” She tilted her head. “You really haven’t slept together?”

  “No.”

  “Huh.” Her expression shifted into confusion for a second. “That’s not like him.”

  “I know.”

  My cell phone buzzed, and I looked down to see a message from Ben. “I have to go.”

  Quinn nodded, then touched my elbow as I turned to leave. “Zoe, I need you to know that I think you’d be incredibly good for him. I’m not trying to protect him by warning you off, I’m worried for you.”

  “I know.” I forced a smile and headed for Nixon’s dressing room. Quinn was protective of Jonas and Nixon, everyone knew it, but in this instance, she really was looking out for me.

  I waved to the roadies I recognized as I walked down the hallway. Thank God this was just a two-show stint, and I only had Nixon to worry about. I’d never been a tour manager. I couldn’t even imagine handling a whole tour the way Ethan did, but that was exactly what I’d be doing for whichever band I took on first. I’d come into Hush Note when they were already big enough to have Ethan on the road and Ben in the office. It would take me a few years to bring one act, let alone several, up to a level even close to that.

  Ben broke away from Ethan when he saw me coming. “Did you get a chance to listen to Seven to One?”

  “Bass player needs to be replaced.”

  He grinned and nodded like a proud father. “He does. Which is why I’m guessing they’ll be looking for new management soon.”

  “How soon?” A little bubble of excitement fought through my practical pessimism.

  Ben lifted a shoulder. “I would guess it’s going to take the other members another few months to figure it out. Timing might be right.”

  “You think?” My head swam with the possibilities. In a few more months, I’d be looking to sign my first band.

  “I do, especially since the Berkshire brothers formally gave me the approval to promote you once this is over.”

  “Really?”

  “As of this morning. They’re really impressed at how well Winters is doing.”

  “Well, that’s all him.” My heart jumped. It was really happening.

  “And you. Seven to One would be lucky to have you, kid.”

  It didn’t matter that I was twenty-six years old, I’d always be a kid to Ben.

  “Are you talking about me again?” Nixon asked, coming up behind me.

  “The world doesn’t always revolve around you, Winters,” Ben lectured but smiled. “You look good, though. Feeling good?”

  “Absolutely,” Nixon answered, flashing that million-dollar smile. “Straight and narrow too. Shannon here is quite the disciplinarian. Keeps me solid.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Glad to hear it. She’s going to make a lucky band even luckier when she branches out on her own here in a few months, although I hate to lose her.” His smile dipped. “You sure I can’t talk you into another year? At least until the new interns are potty trained?”

  I laughed. “I think you’ll do just fine.”

  Nixon tensed beside me, and my stomach sank.

  “Fine then. Think about what I said, though. They might be worth keeping your eye on,” he said to me, then clapped Nixon’s shoulder. “You really do look good.”

  “Thanks,” Nixon answered as Ben left, heading the opposite direction.

  “Nixon—”

  “Not here,” he ground out, then plastered a smile to his face as a group of venue staff passed by. His hand splayed over the small of my back, ushering me down the hall. The touch was possessive but nothing out of the ordinary to onlookers.

  The gaggle of women outside Nixon’s dressing room perked up as we turned the corner, but he ignored them all, passing by the security guard with a nod as he led me into his dressing room and shut the door.

  “You’re leaving?” he asked, pinning me in place with his gaze.

  “No. Not exactly.” I tucked my hair behind my ears and leaned back against the counter. Why was it that dressing rooms all felt the same? “I’m staying at Berkshire, but I won’t work for Ben anymore.”

  “You’re not leaving Berkshire. Just me.” He cringed. “Just us. As in, the band.”

  “You’re not my band, Nixon. You’re Ben’s. I’m getting promoted, not leaving you.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? Why am I hearing about it in the goddamned hallways?” He laced his fingers and linked them above his head.

  “Because I just heard about it in the hallway, and until it was set, I wasn’t allowed to say anything! Nothing was official, at least not until right now.” I took a deep breath, trying to remember there were staff members and fans outside that door. “I take my job very seriously.”

  “I’m well aware.” His eyes widened as his mouth fell slack. “Holy shit. That’s the deal you made with Ben, isn’t it? When this”—he motioned between us—“started, you said you made a deal with Ben. I just didn’t press the issue. You made a deal about me.”

  Heat rose in my cheeks. “Yes. The deal was that if I got you through the shows already on the books, I’d get my own band to manage, as long as the partners agreed.” My voice fell to a whisper.

  “February,” he said softly, his arms falling to his sides.

  “February.” I nodded.

  The space between us crackled with tension. I just couldn’t tell if that crackle was electricity or the warning that sounded just before you fell through the ice.

  Three heavy knocks sounded at the door.

  “Come in,” Nixon called back.

  Chris, the security guard, popped his head in. “Sorry to bother you, but there’s a woman out here who’s pretty insistent that she see you.”

  My stomach pitched and rolled. So far, he’d kept his word, but how long would it be before I was too complicated, too physically unavailable for him to stick around for?

  “Not interested,” he answered Chris, but stared straight at me.

  “Okay. She’s not typical, if that makes a difference. She’s older than your usual…you know,” Chris added.

  “Still not interested,” Nixon responded.

  The nausea in my stomach subsided as Chris shut the door.

  “I’m not leaving you,” I said softly, pushing off the counter.

  “For another few months,” he retorted, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it onto the couch.

  “You knew you only had to keep me around through the February shows.” My mouth went dry at the sight of those familiar, cut lines, all brilliantly inked in various shapes and patterns. “Remember? You didn’t even want me here.”

  “I didn’t like you then!” He marched toward me, but I held my ground. “When were
you going to tell me?”

  “As opposed to liking me now?” I fired back. “I was going to tell you when Ben—my boss—told me I could!” I raised my finger to point but ended up tapping him lightly on the chest.

  “I like you just fine, Zoe. One day, you might start to believe that.”

  I lifted my chin. “You want me. There’s a difference.”

  He cocked his head to the side and dragged his heated gaze up my body in blatant appraisal. I ignored the way my breasts tightened and my blood grew hot. “Spoiler alert, Zoe. I’ve always wanted you. I’ve dreamed about stripping these dresses off you for years.”

  My lips parted. He noticed.

  “You’re not going to say the same?” He lowered his lips until they grazed mine.

  “I’ve never seen you in a dress.”

  He grinned. “Smartass.”

  “Every woman I know wants you,” I whispered. “You make every eligible bachelor list. Every sexiest man. Every hottest musician. You’re well aware of your own appeal.”

  “I don’t give a shit what every other woman wants. I’m asking you.” He sucked my lower lip between his, then scraped it along his teeth before releasing it.

  “Yes, I’ve wanted you since the day I met you.” The admission came in a rushed whisper, but it was there.

  He smiled, long and slow. “Good. It’s nice to know we’re on equal footing on that issue.” He turned abruptly and tugged a new shirt from the hanger. That one would end the night with whatever fan in the crowd caught it. He’d stopped wearing his own shirt out years ago.

  “You walking me to the stage, Shannon?” he asked.

  Shannon.

  “Absolutely.”

  He slung his favorite Les Paul over his back, then opened the dressing room door. “They’re all yours.”

  The stagehands marched in to begin the evening routine of ferrying Nixon’s guitars to the stage. Once they’d all been taken, Nixon held the door for me.

  “Thank you,” I said, walking through it.

  He followed, putting his hand on my lower back. Right where it belongs.

  “I’m still pissed at you,” he whispered in my ear as he waved to a wide-eyed fan with a backstage pass.

  I turned my face, bringing us dangerously close for being in public. “But you still want me.”

  His jaw ticked.

  “Nixon!” a woman shouted behind us, her voice shrill and high.

  It was nothing out of the ordinary, but Nixon’s hand tensed on my back.

  “Nixon! Please!” the woman shrieked.

  We both turned at the same time to see a middle-aged blonde trying to barrel her way past security.

  “Look, a show before the show,” Quinn quipped as she stepped from her dressing room and joined us.

  Nixon’s eyes hardened in a way I’d never seen before as he stared at the screaming fan.

  “Nixon!” she wailed as Chris looped his arm around her stomach, keeping her from charging our direction. Something about her triggered my memories, but I wasn’t sure what. Security kept a list of rabid ones, the fans who crossed the line, so surely, she wasn’t one of them.

  “Nix?” Chris questioned, avoiding her flailing fists.

  “Not interested,” Nixon responded, his voice as cold as his eyes.

  He turned us back around and walked, his muscles so tight I thought he might snap before we made it to the stage.

  Jonas walked out of his dressing room, much to the delight of a group of fans corralled off the hallway. Nixon loosened up as the trio stopped to sign a few autographs and snap pictures. I bit my tongue when one woman offered up a part of her body to be signed. My own body rebelled at the thought, flaring uncharacteristically with a jealousy so hot I lifted my fingers to my face to feel if my skin registered the temperature change. It did. I didn’t want his hands on her, or any other woman, for that matter. I wanted him to be mine.

  I exhaled a sigh of relief as Nixon chose her arm.

  Quinn glanced between Nixon and me, lifting an eyebrow and mouthing tangled before turning to sign another autograph.

  She was right, I was tangled. I wanted him for more than a few months. Somewhere between his penthouse in Seattle and the ranch in Colorado, between the private jets, the dressing rooms, and my mom’s kitchen, I’d fallen in love with him. No wonder I was willing to break all the rules.

  “So, you won’t be running,” Quinn said softly as she came to my side.

  “It’s too late for that,” I whispered.

  Her eyes flared, and her shoulders tensed as she glanced again between Nixon and me, as if that charged, crackling space between us was a tangible thing. “God help us all.”

  “It will be fine,” I argued, forcing a smile to my face as Nixon and Jonas finished up.

  “You have to keep a clear path to the high ground. It’s the only way to survive him,” she warned quickly and quietly as the guys headed our way.

  “This is where I leave you,” I said to Nixon, who appeared calm and collected to the average viewer, but I knew better. That little spark of panic in his eyes, the set of his jaw, the flicks of the pick across his knuckles…he was most definitely not fine.

  And it was my fault. I should have told him I was leaving, should have broken that rule too. Had I ruined everything before we’d had a chance to try?

  He nodded. “See you after the show.”

  I caught his hand after Quinn and Jonas had already turned, then looked up into those dark eyes with as much conviction as I could possibly will into mine. “I have wanted you since the first day I met you. I listened to you play long before that. We’ve never been on equal footing. You blew me away through the radio of a pickup truck in the middle of Colorado when I was eighteen years old, Nixon. I wanted you long before you ever laid eyes on me.”

  His eyes widened slightly, but I saw that spark in his eyes settle. His jaw loosened. Then he nodded and pressed a hard kiss to my forehead, despite our very public setting.

  “Zoe,” he whispered against my skin, like it was the answer to a question I hadn’t asked.

  Then he walked off with his bandmates to do whatever it was they did before the show.

  They were knee-deep in the middle of the third set when I realized why that shrieking fan had bothered me so much—she had curly blond hair.

  Just like Ashley’s.

  13

  ZOE

  I scrolled through the latest contract offer with a little more force than necessary, skimming my fingers over the trackpad of my laptop as I sat at the dining room table.

  I’d waited six days for Nixon.

  Then seven.

  Now eight.

  He’d been quiet since we’d come back to Colorado, or maybe focused was a better word. He’d been kind, ridiculously courteous, and even conceded to my movie pick without complaint last night. He’d been…professional.

  Not once had he brought up the deal I’d made with Ben, or the rather embarrassing confession I’d given him before he’d taken the stage in Tacoma. He didn’t mention the woman with the curly blond hair, or that we’d earned a curious stare by more than one roadie when he kissed my forehead.

  Nixon was cool.

  Nixon was calm.

  Nixon was collected.

  I was the one going out of my fucking mind. I was in love with him, and there was nothing I could do about it. My heart had abandoned all logic, all reason, and embraced the complete madness I’d brought myself into.

  The grandfather clock in the family room chimed ten, and I scrolled on, mentally formulating the precise rejection for this particular offer. Ben might be proud of me and ready to set me free, but he wasn’t done handing me the grunt work, which was just fine with me, since it wasn’t like I had anything else to do.

  Nixon appeared in the doorway and stretched, revealing the strip of his stomach that carried the tattoo, Apathy is Death. If that were the case, I wouldn’t be dying any time soon, because the heat that licked through my belly at th
e sight of his abs was anything but apathy.

  “How much longer are you working for?” he asked, bracing his palms on the doorframe.

  “Just about done,” I replied, forcing my eyes back to the screen.

  “Is it important?”

  “No. Just reading an offer so I can reject it tomorrow.” Something you’re familiar with.

  “Okay. Well, I’m going to head up to bed,” he said.

  “Good to know.” I could have sworn I saw him crack a smile from the corner of my eye, but it was gone before I looked up.

  “Want to come with?” His voice went all gravelly.

  “I’m sorry?” I looked up at him and raised my eyebrows.

  “Do you want to come to bed with me?” There was nothing but pure intent in his eyes.

  “Is that a trick question?”

  He stalked forward, his gaze lazily traveling over my baseball tee and pajama pants. “It’s been forty-eight hours.”

  I turned in my chair to stare up at him. “Okay, I’ll play your little game. Forty-eight hours since…” What? The concert? Ben’s little reveal? My single-sided confession?

  “Since I walked off the stage.” He braced one hand on the back of my chair and the other on the table. “Forty-eight hours and”—he glanced at the clock on my laptop—“three minutes.”

  “Aww, look at you, telling time,” I teased, giving his cheek a little pat.

  He turned his face and pressed a kiss to my palm, then raked his teeth over the pad of my thumb and swirled his thumb over the sting.

  My breath caught. “You have my attention.”

  The smirk that played across his face sent my heartbeat through the roof.

  “Nixon,” I warned. If this was his new form of getting under my skin, I was going to lose my shit.

  “I’m level. I’m steady. And the only craving I have is for you. There’s zero chance this has anything to do with the show, or the high, or even jet lag. I’ve been counting down every single minute since I walked off that stage—hell, from the moment you said you wanted me first. In a few months, you won’t even be on staff, which knocks another barrier out of the way. Therapist said to give it a day, so I gave it two.”

  I swept my tongue across my suddenly dry lips. “It’s been forty-eight hours.”