Flushing, I looked away.
I’d always had a thing about a guy’s hands, especially watching them play guitar. When Micah found out, he teased me about it.
“Does that get you hot?” He’d grinned, tickling the guitar strings. “Does it make you feel good?”
“Kicking you in the nuts will make me feel better.” I’d laughed, throwing my notebook at him. “I’m never telling you anything again.”
“How about this?” Micah had stood up, doing a complicated riff as he walked over to me. His green eyes danced with amusement and longing. He got down on his knees in front of me and made me laugh harder as he played a Spanish serenade. “A serenade for my se?orita,” he’d cracked.
God, I love you, I’d thought, impulsively leaning in to press a kiss to his lips.
When I’d pulled back, he’d seemed stunned. And then he grinned. “It does get you hot.”
“Skylar? Skylar?”
I blinked, coming back to the apartment, to Killian. “Yeah, what?”
His eyebrows drew together. “Where did you go?”
“To a place that’s gone.”
After a moment of study, he smirked. “You are a writer.”
“Then let’s write.”
Without looking at the paper I’d given him again, O’Dea played my half-written tune. I was so impressed I almost missed my cue.
“Hey, baby, go home,
Stop holding me down
’Cause you’ll keep holding me down for life.
“Your toxic love seeped into my blood,
Twisted kiss drowning me in its mud,
But I need to breathe tonight.
“You know it’s true, I loved you.
You know it’s true, I needed you.
“And what is worse I let you love, love, love
Me till you’d fucked the love right out of me.”
O’Dea stopped playing and stared, scrutinizing me. I shifted, uncomfortable with that gaze that seemed to see too much. “That’s all I’ve got so far. What do you think?”
“It works. I like that a lot of your lyrics are a little dark juxtaposed with upbeat tunes.”
“You know I was thinking this one could have a kind of electro-pop, synth-pop sound to it. Like Sia, Halsey. That kind of feel.”
“Is that how you envision the album?”
“O’Dea, let’s be serious. I don’t know how to envision an album I don’t want. I can, however, envision songs. That’s how I envision this song.”
His lips pinched together at the reminder I was doing something I didn’t want to do. As usual he didn’t acknowledge it. He settled into his guitar. “Again. This time cut the first ‘Me’ from the second-to-last line of the chorus. It doesn’t fit.”
We did it again. And the bastard was right.
“It works,” I agreed. Begrudgingly.
“Is it about Micah Murphy? The song?”
My breath caught, even though it wasn’t really a surprise that he’d guessed correctly. “Is that going to be part of this? You want to know what’s behind the lyrics?”
“You can tell me as much as you’d like. But if you want me playing go-between with you and your band when the news breaks of your return, maybe I should know exactly what I’m getting in between.”
“Nothing as far as I’m concerned.”
“And as far as he’s concerned?”
“I wouldn’t know anymore.”
“But there was something? The tabloids were right?”
“We weren’t good for each other,” I offered. “We brought out the worst in each other. I let him . . . I let him manipulate me too long. And I retaliated too much.” I flinched, shocked I’d said that all out loud. And to him of all people.
“Writing helps.” O’Dea shocked me even more with his response. “I know you think you’re running away from what happened. I know you won’t go to therapy. But maybe this is your therapy.” He nodded to the notebook in my hand. “You’re doing something about it, even if you don’t think you are.”
I didn’t know how to reply. It was almost kind. No. It was kind to reassure me I wasn’t as big of a coward as I was starting to feel these days.
“And it makes for great music.”
And there he was!
I made a face at him and thankfully it broke the intensity between us.
“The next verse . . .” I tapped my pen against my notebook.
“Hey, baby, I’m gone ,
I’m trying to right all our wrongs,
So don’t come looking for me tonight.”
I sang the words directly into O’Dea’s eyes and when I was finished, I couldn’t help feel curious about the intensity of his gaze as he watched me. What the hell went on in his head? It was a mystery. Finally, he said, “Pen.”
After I threw it over to him, he scribbled on the piece of paper I’d given him, filling in the music for the new verse.
“Your wicked games are out of my head,
I uncovered all the lies you ever said,
And now I’m free for life.”
O’Dea raised an eyebrow. “You write fast.”
“Sometimes. Sometimes it comes to you. You know exactly what you want to say. When I first started writing this one, I’d just left for Europe. I didn’t know what I wanted to say. Now I do.”
He threw the pen back to me. “Better write it down.”
As I scribbled down the words, he asked, “And is that how you really feel? Or is it how you wished you felt?”
And for some reason—maybe it was the magic of songwriting—I answered honestly as I stared at the words. “It’s how I feel with three thousand miles between us.”
How I would feel if I ever had to face Micah again was a totally different story.
“And then into the chorus,” I said before O’Dea could respond.
“Repeat of the first?”
“Yeah.”
All too soon, I forgot why we were writing together. I forgot about the album that loomed over my head like a giant, hungry eagle.
Instead I enjoyed the process. I enjoyed writing music with someone smart, someone who seemed to get my music, and everything else drifted away. We even laughed together and worse . . . we agreed all the time.
The sound of my stomach rumbling broke the spell.
“Shit, what time is it?” O’Dea’s eyes widened at the sight of the sun dipping below the buildings across the Clyde.
“We’ve been at this for hours.”
“You need to eat.” He put down his guitar and strode into the kitchen. “What have we got?”
“I have a meal plan, remember.”
“Where is it?”
“In the drawer to your left.” I watched him, bewildered. Was he going to cook my dinner?
It became clear as he studied the meal plan and then pulled out the ingredients from the fridge and cupboards that he was. Watching him do this quickened my heart rate.
His phone buzzed as he chopped up vegetables for a stir fry. “One second.” He pulled it out of his pocket and then cursed when he saw the caller ID. “Hey,” he answered, sounding a little breathless. “Aye, I know, I just remembered. I . . . no, I’ll be there . . . Don’t . . . I know . . . Look, we’ll talk about it later. I’ll see you soon.” He hung up and actually looked regretful. “I forgot I have a dinner tonight that I can’t miss.”
Oh.
Okay.
Shit. That was not disappointment I was feeling. It was not!
This was O’Dea, for God’s sake. He was not the man to incite my disappointment. Ever. He couldn’t be. It wasn’t allowed. I wouldn’t allow it. Reality check, please!
Just because we did the whole songwriting thing well together did not a friendship make. “Go. I can make my own dinner.”
“But your cast . . .”
“I’ll manage.” I got up to take over. “Seriously. Go.”
His expression turned remote again. “I’ll leave my guitar. I’ll be back tomorrow after the manager interviews. Remember to read that folder.” He pointed to it on the counter. “I’d tell you who I recommend but I’m afraid you’ll deliberately not choose the person to spite me.”
I made a face.
“Okay.” He grabbed his keys. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I mused over all this time he was dedicating to me. Where were his other artists in all this?
“I’ll be here,” I muttered.
He’d disappeared down the hall and I waited to hear the bang of the front door closing behind him. I didn’t. Instead I heard his footsteps coming back and looked up from the vegetables. O’Dea stood in the doorway, studying me intensely.