Colter likes to pass out mindfucks like he’s tossing candy from a parade float and I’m about over it.
I groan, exhaustion heavy and pressing me into my chair. I drop my phone to my desk, remove my glasses, and rub the heels of my palms into my eyes until colorful fireworks burst behind my lids and the tension ache in my neck weakens to a dull throb.
This is the exact shit I didn’t ask for when I opened my own record label. I just want to make music.
My phone buzzes with yet another text, and for a minute, I ignore it, still forcing pressure into my eye sockets to keep the threatening migraine at bay. Some days are just like this. The constant assault of contact followed by an entire week when I don’t even open my office door.
Not today, though. I’ve barely left my desk all morning. Curiosity wins out eventually, and I pick up my phone, holding it a little closer to my face to read the small print.
LORELAI: You provide the wine; I’ll bring the takeout.
I release a slow whistle under my breath. Lorelai. I invited her to my place tonight. For the hundredth time, so it’s nothing new, except that song.
Holy fuck, that song.
And now we come to the reason for my tossing and turning all night for the second straight night in a row. If I’m honest, my friendship with Lorelai Jones has been the cause of an increasing number of sleepless nights over the last decade. It’s also the impetus for my poetry account.
I needed an outlet for the feelings she’s stirred up inside of me. After that song, however … there aren’t enough poems in the world.
Arlo knocks and pokes his head around the corner of the doorjamb. Today he’s wearing a striped vintage bowler shirt and pointed leather shoes that complement his burnt orange fedora perfectly. I crack my neck and replace my glasses to see him better. “Baker’s are all wrapped. Josh offered to pick up some lunch and bring it in. Want anything from Shelia’s?”
At the barest suggestion, my stomach rumbles loudly, echoing in the silence of my office.
Arlo grins and pulls out his phone. “Toasted artichoke sandwich with tots it is.”
I make a face, Colter’s douchey shirtless selfie in the forefront of my mind. “I should probably eat a salad or something green instead of the tots.”
My friend blinks. “You are literally eating a veggie sandwich.”
What am I even doing? It’s not like I’ve ever been fit or muscular in my entire life. Not gonna change today if I skip out on the tater tots. Besides, they’re fried in truffle oil. It would be a sin to turn that down. “You’re right. Close enough. Give Josh my thanks.”
“You can tell him yourself. He’ll be here in fifteen. So.” Arlo folds his arms across his chest after pocketing his phone. “You’re looking like someone scratched your collector’s copy of At Folsom Prison and set it on fire.”
“Shows what you know. I have two copies, and one is locked in a fireproof safe along with an original American Recordings.”
Arlo remains unfazed. I sigh. “Colter wants me to sign over my rights, uncontested.”
“The fuck he does.”
My face twists in a grimace. “Yeah. That. His new tactic appears to be ‘wear him down,’ and it’s nearly working because I don’t want to fucking think about him and his thirst traps anymore.” I consider a second. “But this is what kept me up all night.”
I turn to my phone and tap around for the link Lorelai sent me. While I work, Arlo moves in, and forgoing the chairs, he circles around and perches against my desk, facing me. I turn up the Bluetooth speakers next to my monitor in time to hear the opening chords of Lorelai’s song.
Just like the first, second, third, and fourth times, I have an immediate and visceral reaction to her voice. There’s a breathless quality to it I know I haven’t ever heard from her before. At least not in years and definitely not stone-cold sober. It’s sexy and sensual and teeming with … something I won’t actually say out loud.
Something that brings to mind shifting silhouettes and soft, pliable skin. Moonlight crisscrossing and bleeding through drawn blinds. Swallowed whispers. Feverish wanting.
I come back to myself, double-checking my lap is securely hidden under my desk and clearing my throat. All of that might be in my head. The power of suggestion, maybe. Likely that, even. Which is why I want Arlo to hear. I need to know if I’m projecting before I see her.
Arlo’s expression is hard to read. “Where’s the rest?”
“That’s all there is.”
“She sent a half-finished song?”
“Yeah. And she texted it, rather than emailing like usual.”
Arlo taps to play the song again, possibly because he likes to torture me.
I try not to listen so close this time—to shore up my defenses against the siren’s call of her voice—but it’s inevitable.
So you want me to cannonball into the icy depths of the Pacific and swim until my internal organs flatten and my eyeballs explode? Sure. Just let me take off my shoes first. Can you send them to my nephew along with my spare Xbox controller?
This time, when the last of the clip finishes, Arlo appears different. Smug, even.
“Tell me.”
He shakes his head, playing at being demure. “I mean, I’m no expert in women.”
“You’re the closest I have.”
Arlo smirks, fedora snugly in place on top of his curls. “Which is to your detriment for sure. Nevertheless,” he says. “I would venture to say she’s making a move.”
“A move?”
“Yes, Craig,” he drawls slow as honey from the comb. “A move. She’s trying to get your attention.”
“For what?” My friend stares at me. “Not for that,” I insist, even as my heartbeat kicks into a trot. “This is Lorelai we’re talking about. She was engaged to my bandmate.” I’ve never told him about the one night years ago. It’s never seemed worth mentioning. Ancient history and basically a fluke.
He blows a raspberry right as there’s a knock at the door. It’s Dr. Josh with our lunches. Arlo jumps up from my desk, skipping over to his husband and kissing him on the cheek. “Come on in. We’re gonna eat with Craig. He needs our homosexual input on his hetero life choices.”
To his credit, Josh doesn’t so much as bat an eye. He settles down in one of my office chairs, scoots close to the desk to use it to eat off of, and unwraps his sandwich.
“Play the song for him.”
I peel open my sandwich and frown at it. “Pfft, I’ve heard it enough today. Besides, it feels like an invasion of privacy.” I shrug at Josh. “Sorry.”
Arlo hums in the back of his throat. “Interesting that you think it would be an invasion of privacy. It’s a song. You’re a songwriter and she’s a renowned country artist. This is the business we’re in, isn’t it?”
I swallow my bite before speaking. “I guess, but it’s half-finished.”
Arlo’s sandwich remains untouched in front of him. He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Exactly. That she sent through text, rather than email, like usual.”
“Right. We said this all already.”
“Recapping for Dr. Handsome over here.”