It isn’t a full-on lie. Just a small one. Infinitesimal, really.
“Is an hour okay? I haven’t showered and I smell like someone spilled a case of beer over my head.”
“No problem. I’m sending a car over now since it’s going to be an hour in this traffic.”
“Okay, see you then, Oak.”
At least she’s calling me Oak. I’ll take it.
*
When you’re inspired, stuff happens in a nanosecond. While I’m waiting for Vaughn to show up, I jot down a bunch of lyrics. After nixing about a dozen of them, I shuffle the rest into something resembling a song and hand it off to King. I drum a few different beats on the desk while he considers the words.
“Yeah, I like this.” He hums a few chords. “Maybe faster over the bridge. Like—” He drops the notepad on the console and demonstrates.
I sing the first verse to his beat and it’s perfect. We grin at each other. Something is cooking here and it’s delicious. Working with King is everything I thought it would be. He makes me feel comfortable, even when he’s asking probing questions like when was the last time I was moved by a song, any song? He shares personal stories, ones about his own failures, and that courage prompts my own. King’s like a producer and therapist wrapped up in one genius mind.
My phone beeps and I lift a finger for King to hold on for a minute.
I’m here.
A jumble of words fight for dominance: yes, finally and thank God.
“Vaughn’s here,” I tell King. “Mind if we take five?”
“Nope. I’ll go out back and pretend I’m trying to stop smoking.”
We slap each other’s hands and I go to let Vaughn into the studio.
“You came,” I say.
Her face is a bit pale, but she still looks beautiful. I’m starting to love the fact that she doesn’t wear makeup. Everything about her is natural and honest and so frickin’ awesome. As I pull her inside, I’m fighting the urge to kiss her.
Inside the studio, a water bottle is waiting for her on a side table, and I bribed a blanket off one of the studio assistants upstairs. It’s kept cool in the studio because of the instruments and the equipment. She might get cold since she lives in tank tops.
“I didn’t see any cameras outside,” she says as we reach the studio door.
I push it open for her and then lead her over to the chair I set up for her. “Yeah, about that. I might have lied.” I gesture for her to sit, and she collapses into the chair. “Claudia didn’t say you needed to come.”
A furrow creases her forehead. “Then why am I here?”
I pull up a stool and pick up my Les Paul guitar, settling the body across my thighs. “I thought you might want to hear the music I’m doing with King.”
“Huh.”
There it is again. The big sigh.
I set down the guitar and stand up, irritation crawling across my neck. This is a big deal and not only doesn’t she appreciate the gesture, I don’t think she has a clue what it means. I rub a finger across my forehead. How do I explain this to her without coming across like a giant douche?
“So generally when artists are making music, it’s just them and other musicians and the producers.”
She winces. “So this is a big thing?”
Pride makes me shrug carelessly. “Not so big.”
“I’m screwing up everything, aren’t I?” Her gaze darts toward the door, as if she’d like to be anywhere but here.
“Am I keeping you from something?” I can’t keep the chilliness out of my tone.
“No. I’m just...hungover. I drank too much last night.” She gives me a wan, unhappy smile.
Her lack of enthusiasm, her obvious desire to flee, is like a punch to the gut. “That all you regret from last night?” I say harshly.
“I guess. I mean, I’m sorry I drank so much and passed out in your bed.” She’s studiously avoiding my eyes.
“You’re sorry for passing out in my bed,” I repeat. “That’s what you regret? Drinking too much and passing out in my bed? What about fucking Luke?”
“I slept with Luke?” She leaps to her feet, horrified. “How—”
“No, I meant Luke. You kissed Luke.”
Guilt flashes across her face. “Oh. That. I was hoping you wouldn’t mention that.” She visibly swallows. “It wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had.”
Not the best idea? I nearly shout. Talk about an understatement.
“Then why’d you do it?” I ask tersely.
“Because I was drunk. And because I felt crappy and awful after all that stuff W said to me. And because Luke was there.”
Pain arrows through me. I’d convinced myself that she’d mistaken Luke for me, but apparently that’s not what happened at all. She’d known she was kissing someone who wasn’t me...and that realization is crushing in a way I hadn’t expected.
I stare at her in disbelief. “So you would’ve made out with anyone? Is that what you’re saying? Didn’t matter who it was as long as they had lips and a tongue?”
Vaughn cringes. “No, that’s not it. I was...drunk,” she says again, sounding defeated. “I was drunk and upset and I wanted you and couldn’t find you, and Luke was suddenly there and he was flirting with me and...” She trails off.
One of her jumbled sentences sticks out to me. “You wanted me?”
She bites her lip.
“You were looking for me?” I study her embarrassed face. “Because you...wanted me. What does that mean?”
“Nothing,” she mumbles. “It means nothing, okay?”
“Dammit, we both know that’s not true.” I jam my hand through my hair in frustration. “It does mean something. You were upset and you went looking for me. Because you want me, Vaughn. Just admit it.”
“You want me to admit it? Fine! I admit it! I like you, Oak. I like you and I’m tired of pretending and I can’t stop thinking about kissing you and—”
I don’t give her time to finish that thought. I grab her, instinct overriding rational thought. I grab her and kiss her like I wanted to last night. Like I’ve wanted to since...since she stared at me with stars in her eyes at the beach. No, before then. When ice cream dripped on her fingers and I had my first taste of her sweetness. Maybe even earlier, when she was tart and sassy.
I’ve wanted this kiss for so long that I drink from her lips as if she’s the only pool of water in the biggest desert on earth. And under my mouth, she melts. Her own lips part and she kisses me back.
And it’s everything I’d imagined. Better than fifty thousand people shouting your name. Better than a sold-out Madison Square Garden crowd singing your lyrics back at you. Better than the greatest song ever sung. Her arms twine around my neck and I lift her up, face level so I can kiss her longer, harder, deeper.
Her tongue slides into my mouth and someone moans. I think it might be me. But then it’s both of us, because my lower body starts grinding against her, and I know it feels as good to her as it does to me.