Chance laughed. “I don’t feel scared.”
In fact, he was holding her hand and stroking it in a way that could be construed as sexual if she wanted to take her thoughts there. Which she did. “Can I have my hand back?” she asked.
“No. I’m getting inspiration.”
“For what? I thought you wanted to write a breakup album.” She slipped her hand free of his. “That puts a dent in your writing-naked plans that I never agreed to.”
“I don’t see why on either count. We had great sex even when we were fighting all the time. Hell, we had amazing angry sex.”
There went her nipples again. Tight and painful and begging for his touch. She remembered some of those up-against-the-wall sex sessions, which made her hotter than she already was. Angry sex wasn’t necessarily healthy, but that didn’t make it any less hot. Shifting on the hard-packed ground, she ignored his comment. The man didn’t need his ego stroked. Or anything stroked, for that matter.
“I don’t think we should write a breakup album. That’s not what our fans expect from us. They want love songs. That’s a formula that has proven to be successful.” Besides, she was afraid to write a bunch of songs about what had gone wrong between them. Her emotions were still confused and raw, and if they couldn’t even articulate to themselves, let alone each other, what the heck had happened, how in the world could they write songs about it?
He made a face at her. “You want to write a bunch of love songs? That is not going to read as genuine, given our current dynamic. It will sound like drivel.”
“Are you doubting your songwriting abilities?”
It was a jab and she knew it, but she thought she had a valid point. It made sense to give fans what they wanted. Of course, because the suggestion was hers instead of his, he was going to argue about it. It was a completely irritating quality he had. Know-it-all. She felt a familiar prickle of frustration creeping over her.
He gave her a long look. “No. Of course not. But why not do something a little different, keep it fresh? Fans want our story. This is our story. Not a bunch of sappy shit.”
Wow. He was relegating twelve months of her life to “sappy shit.” “I happened to like that so-called sappy shit on our last album. And so did our fans.”
Chance threw a stick into the pond and Dolly chased after it, churning through the water vigorously. She created enough of a splash that it kicked back onto Jolene. She wiped her cheek free of pond water.
“I don’t want to fake it,” he said. “I want to write what I really feel.”
That hurt. It more than hurt. It was like the time when she’d fallen out of a tree as a kid and had the wind knocked out of her. She had lain on her back, stunned, while Elle and Shane had stared down at her, looking fairly alarmed. Her sister had asked if she was dead—maybe she had looked like a fresh corpse, what with her eyes glassy and her breathing at a momentary standstill. For a second Jolene had wondered if she actually was dead, because she couldn’t seem to fill her lungs. There was no air.
That was how she felt now.
And what really busted her hump? She’d thought that after four months, Chance wouldn’t have the ability to make her feel this way. That his ability to hurt her would have expired. But it hadn’t. His comment stung, as had the realization that, despite similarities like being unable to stay in a tree as a child, they were very different people who had some serious communication issues. And that made her all kinds of pissed off.
So she said something that would hurt Chance. Or at least get him mad. She knew she shouldn’t, but it flew right out of her mouth before she could put the brakes on. “You’re right. No one likes to fake things. For example, I didn’t like faking all those orgasms. But sometimes we have to do what we have to do. It’s called being a grown-up.”
He sucked in a breath. “Bullshit. You did not fake all those orgasms.”
“How do you know?” She hadn’t. Not a single one. But let the bastard sweat it. “You can’t prove it.”
“Don’t start with me, Jolene.” His expression was fierce, angry.
God almighty, how she hated that phrase from him. Why was it always her starting it? It wasn’t. But he blamed her every goddamn motherfucking time. Only now she didn’t have to put up with it.
“I’m not starting anything! I’m trying to put forth a concept for our album, and as usual, you’re steamrolling me.” Her daddy had been a steamroller, and she knew that without a doubt, it was a hot-button issue for her. But that didn’t make her wrong. Chance shouldn’t get to fail at the art of compromise every single time.
“Because I think my idea makes more sense,” he said, clearly not intending to back down one itty-bitty inch.
“What a surprise. Of course you do. Because you’re an egomaniac.”
This was going so well. Not.
Chance hit a bad chord and set his guitar down. “That always solves problems, Jolene, name-calling. It’s really so totally helpful.”