“I know.” I nodded, unable to meet his eyes.
“What . . . will you be okay today?” he asked, sounding unsure.
I snorted. “O’Dea, I’ve been taking care of myself a long time. I’ll be fine for a day, just like I was fine yesterday.”
“Aye, well . . .” He slid an old-fashioned flip phone across the island, drawing my questioning gaze. “It’s only a phone. No internet. I’ve programmed my number and Autumn’s number in it. You need anything, you call.”
I reached for it. The man kept surprising me. “Thanks. You have other artists you’re trying to pull in?” I asked, desperate to remind myself that’s all I was to this man. An artist on his label. That he’d forced my hand with his own cold ambition.
“It’s more complicated than that. I oversee the entire department.”
“Your card says executive, not A&R director.”
His lips pinched together for a moment. “I’m not technically the director. A man named Kenny Smith is the director and has been since the label opened thirty years ago. He’s . . . grown out of touch with the industry.”
“He’s lazy,” I surmised.
“That too.”
Indignant, I said, “So you’re doing his job while he gets the title, the money, and the credit?”
“It’s the oldest story in the book.”
“But surely your uncle must see it?”
Anger tightened his features but he didn’t respond. I could see the muscle in his jaw twitching as he reached for his car keys. “I better get going.”
Disappointed at the way he could shut down on me, I found myself instantly retreating. I flipped open the old cell, pretending to be interested in it.
I felt his gaze. “Last chance to tell me if you need anything before I go.”
I shook my head, not looking at him. “I don’t need anyone.”
The air in the room seemed to physically shift, like his reaction to my Freudian slip caused it to thin. He waited for me to look at him and as much as I wanted to withstand his stare, I was compelled to draw my head up.
His expression was hard and he opened his mouth, as if to say something, but then stopped himself.
Feeling almost light-headed with the tension, I sought to break it. “If you’re worried I might talk to the mailman, don’t be. I’ve got nothing coming in the post.”
O’Dea decided to take offense at my joke. “For the last time, you’re not a prisoner.”
And suddenly not in the mood to pretend this guy was my friend, I curled my upper lip in disdain and referred to how we’d ended up here in the first place. “You sure about that?”
His answer was to march out of the apartment and slam the front door with such force, the impact shuddered the walls.
THE FIRST TIME THE CELL made a noise that day, it was a text from Autumn.
How does Thai food sound tonight? Xo
Worried that she was feeling compelled to babysit me, and not really wanting to spend time with anyone whose big brother was making them spend time with me, I blew her off.
Not hungry. Maybe some other time.
To which she replied:
Well, of course you’re not hungry now. It’s only 2pm. I’ll be over at 7pm. Thai or not to Thai? Xo
I smirked. Apparently, there was no getting rid of her.
To Thai. Thx.
She’d sent me a smiley face and something else that only came up as a question mark on my cell. I guessed it didn’t have the software update for the new emojis.
The cell went off a few hours later; this time it was ringing and the caller ID said “Killian.”
I thought about not answering it, but that was childish and honestly, the thought of continuing this little game of who can piss the other off more exhausted me.
“O’Dea,” I answered.
He seemed to hesitate a moment before he said, “I just got off the phone with the police. They still haven’t found the boys. Or your guitar.”
Disappointment flooded me as I suddenly realized I might never get my beloved Taylor back. My throat closed tight at the thought.
“Skylar?”
I cleared it, trying to push the sob that was closing it back down. “Yeah, I heard you.”
He was so quiet I thought maybe he’d hung up. I was about to do the same when he said, “They’re sending a sketch artist over to the flat.”
I felt somewhat relieved that the police weren’t giving up. “Okay. When?”
“The artist will be there in an hour. Her name is Shelley.”
The fact that they were sending someone over so soon made me even more hopeful that they might catch the little pricks. “Got it.”
“Call if—”
“I need anything,” I finished wryly. “I know.”
“Right.” He hung up without saying goodbye.
“Ass,” I mumbled, throwing the cell across the floor out of reach.
It was hard to get back into my book anticipating the arrival of the sketch artist. And Shelley, a petite brunette with big round blue eyes, turned up at my door not too long later. I didn’t know what I was expecting from a police sketch artist but it wasn’t Shelley. Her hair was cut pixie short and she had piercings all along the cuff of her right ear. Her lip was pierced and her entire right arm was covered in colorful tattoos.
Despite having the appearance of an extrovert, Shelley seemed shy, almost nervous, and I wondered if she recognized me. The entire time I described the boys to her, I worried about her telling someone she’d sketched for Skylar Finch. As soon as she left, I called O’Dea.
“What’s wrong?” he answered, sounding concerned.
For a moment, it threw me. “Is that how you always answer your phone?”
I could practically feel him shifting in agitation. “Skylar?”
“Shelley . . . I think she recognized me. What if—”
“Part of her job is strict confidentiality. She won’t—she can’t—say a word.”
“Okay. You’re sure?”
“Do you think you’ll ever be ready for the world to find you?”
Nope.
“I need time. You promised me that at least.”
“And it’s a promise I intend to keep.” He hung up.
“Ugh!” I shook the cell, desperate to throw it across the room again. The guy really needed to learn to civilly finish a conversation.
* * *
THE GENTLE ACOUSTIC FILLED THE apartment and I closed my eyes against the sight of O’Dea expertly playing his Taylor. He distracted me from the music.
And the music was good.
When he finished, I opened my eyes, unable to help the surprise in my voice. “It’s really good.”
He shot me a smug look. “Ever the shock.”
“Well . . . it is shocking,” I admitted from my seat on the floor. I was leaning against the chair while O’Dea took his usual spot on the couch.
We were on week three of working on the album. It had been a little tense between us at first but as the songwriting wore on, everything else melted away, including our exasperation with one another. We worked late and O’Dea cooked while I sung lyrics to him that he yayed or nayed.
It felt like we existed on some lonely part of the planet where there was only music and creativity. I couldn’t describe it, but as the days passed, as I poured my heart out into the music, I felt something ease from my chest. At night when he left, I felt a melancholy I didn’t want to explore.
Together we’d pieced the songs together but most of the melodies came from me and O’Dea tweaked here and there.
This was the first time he’d said outright, “No, none of that works, let’s try this.”
And his was better. A lot better. I couldn’t even hide how impressed I was, even though it would inflate his already bloated ego.
“You want to try it with the lyrics?”
I picked up my notes. “Go for it.”
He played the intro chords and then I jumped in.
“There’s a girl on the corner,
Selling love for a meal.
Every kind of love,
Except the kind that’s real.
“There’s a boy watching over,
With a gun to his head.
Forced by the needle that
Pulls the trigger instead.
“You say
You’re found and can see.
Does that include the Lost forgotten
By you and me?”
He stopped playing. “Well?”