Play Smart: An Enemies to Lovers Rockstar Romantic Comedy (Work For It Book 5), page 12
“I’d love to meet your friends.”
“Really? Oh. Uh, cool.”
“Why do you seem so shocked?”
He shrugs, another smile seeping onto his face. “No reason. It’s just, I figured you weren’t into the whole angsty artist scene.”
“Angsty artist? Is that what you are?” My tone is teasing, but my question is not, and when he shrugs again, the issue that’s been bugging me since the first time I searched his name slips out. “Why can’t I find your music anywhere?”
“Because I don’t release it,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Why not?”
“It’s not my thing.”
“Not your thing? You’re a musician. How is making music not your thing?”
“I make music. I just don’t share it.”
I shake my head, confused by this exasperating, complicated boy. “Why not? It would be easy for you. You’re so well connected. I mean, you’re besties with Abram Fletcher.”
Oops. Said that a little loud and now we’re getting all kinds of looks. The other travelers are devouring Nash. It’s obvious they think they’re about to board a flight with a rockstar, even if they don’t know which one.
Nash looks away. “We’re not besties.”
His confidence has melted into a slight frown that makes my chest tighten.
“Sorry,” I say.
“For what?”
“For saying that so loud. Everyone’s staring now.”
“They were already staring.”
It’s my turn to be surprised. He noticed that? He never seems to notice anything. Or maybe he does and just ignores it. I think back to what Marcos said about protective apathy. How much of his life does he gloss over and bury to guard his heart?
“Well, you kind of stand out,” I say to lighten the mood.
His lips twist up. “Do I?”
“Yeah. I mean, it’s hard not to notice you.” I wave over him and don’t like when his smile falters again.
“Right. The tattoos and piercings,” he says.
“No. The fact that you’re gorgeous.”
I expect a resurgence of cocky charm, but his brows pinch together and he anchors his gaze on the floor.
“I worked for him. That’s how I know Abram,” he says.
“Worked for him?”
“On the crew for Redburn, back when they still toured. I was his guitar tech.”
My eyes widen as I study him. Seriously? Wow. That’s a huge revelation and yet… it feels incomplete.
“It’s cool you kept in touch after all this time. That must have been years ago.”
“Yeah, a little over three years.”
“Does he keep in touch with a lot of his roadies?”
His gaze snaps to mine. Okay, so maybe my question contained a tad more sarcasm than I intended.
“You’d have to ask him,” he says, and I sigh with defeat. Never mind. Guess this is the end of today’s frustrating trickle of Nash Ellis information.
“You never answered my original question,” I say when it becomes clear that’s all I’m going to get. “Why don’t you release your music?”
“Why are you so nervous?” he returns, trying to change the subject.
Of course he is. God forbid he actually open up about something.
“I’m not nervous,” I lie, accepting the subject change anyway. No point pissing him off right before we have to spend hours smashed together on an airplane.
A hint of humor returns to his expression when he reaches over to rest a hand on my knee. “We’re getting motion sick from this leg. You’re definitely nervous.”
Heat spreads through my jeans, and I try to stay casual. He can’t know there’s a zoo of invisible Disney animals singing around me from his touch. His fingers stay on my leg a few seconds too long, and he pulls away abruptly, as if he got lost in the connection as well and just realized what happened. The crease returns to his forehead, and everything in me wants to reach over and lace my fingers with his.
And kiss him.
And strip him.
And tackle him.
Not gonna happen. He’s not interested anymore, remember?
Right. Neither am I.
Liar.
Oh my god, Brain! Will you shut up?!
“Fine. Yes. I’m afraid of flying,” I say, straightening when he opens his mouth to respond. “And if you tell me statistically I’m more likely to die in a car crash than a plane crash, I will punch you. Phobias have little to do with reason most of the time.”
His smile returns. “I wouldn’t dream of it. I was going to say I am too.”
My retort withers on my tongue as I stare at him. “You’re afraid of flying?”
“Yes.”
“But how… I mean, you’re so calm right now.”
He shrugs. “I may look calm, but I’m not. I’m terrified. I don’t like heights or enclosed spaces. Flying is my worst nightmare. Throw in a few spiders and a blackout and you’ve pretty much got a straight flush of my phobias.”
“Wow,” I say, shaking my head. “You hide it well. You always seem so relaxed. I guess I thought you were…” I bite my lip to stop the word that was about to come out.
“You always thought I was what?” he asks when I trail off. He looks more curious than angry.
I swallow and force it into the open. “Callous.”
He flinches and lowers his gaze.
“Not in a cruel way,” I rush out. “Just aloof and indifferent. Like nothing really touches you.”
He doesn’t respond at first, and I watch his face for clues. Something hit him hard, but he’s proving my point with my inability to read him.
“If you can’t see it, you can’t use it against me,” he says quietly.
My heart jolts in my chest.
He doesn’t look at me as he gets lost in some distant recess of his head. As usual, a part of me wants to follow him there. The other part is relieved I can’t.
And then my own head spins with a realization.
“Is that why you don’t share your music? If they can’t hear it, they can’t use it against you?”
His eyes flicker to mine before darting away again.
That’s it, isn’t it? That’s the key to this man. If we can’t see his art, we can’t tear it down. His music, his heart, his soul. They’re all intertwined into the core of who he is, and my stomach drops at the memory of what Marcos said.
“Most people aren’t damaged by dreams they never achieve. It’s having those dreams ripped away that break us.”
God, what happened to this guy?
It’s a moot point when Val returns with a couple bottles of water and a dopey expression on his face. He hovers a few feet away as if waiting for permission to approach royalty. If I weren’t still so shaken by this latest Nash Ellis insight, I’d laugh at the way my brother fanboys over our friend.
“Hey!” Val says. “You’re here.”
“I am,” Nash replies, light returning to his face. He shifts in his chair to make it obvious Val can take the seat beside him.
“Water?” Val asks, holding out one of the bottles as he joins us.
“Wait, wasn’t one of those for me?” I ask, giving him a hard look.
He returns a sheepish smile. “We can share.”
“It’s fine,” Nash cuts in, patting a bottle shoved into a pouch on the side of his bag. “I’m good. Thanks, though.”
“Oh, okay. Great. Um, so, what row are you in?” Val asks, sounding nervous. “Oh. Wait. Fourteen. Duh. You and Paige are together, right?”
Nash leans back, more amusement spilling onto his features. He’s definitely picking up the weird bro-crush happening right now.
“Row fourteen, yeah. Sandeke Telecom booked our flights together.”
“We booked mine separately,” Val says, wincing the second the words come out. “Obviously,” he mutters.
“Well, I’m glad you were able to come,” Nash says, and my heart warms at the way Val perks up.
“I’ve always wanted to see L.A. Thanks for letting me tag along.”
“You never thanked me for any of this. I’m the one who invited you,” I say, and Val gives me his familiar irritated-brother look.
“We’ll make sure you see whatever you want,” Nash says. “In fact, I have some people I’d like you to meet.”
“Really?” Val’s face lights up. “Like who?”
A smug smile settles on Nash’s lips, and I’m starting to think the callous, indifferent pillar of apathy is actually kind of enjoying this inadvertent mentorship of my brother.
“We’ll see who’s around,” Nash says with a mischievous grin.
11—BONDING
NASH
“What do you mean you only have one room available?” Paige hisses at the desk clerk with impressive vitriol. Vitriol. There’s an underappreciated word. Has anyone ever used that word in a song? Has anyone ever used that word ever in regular human interaction?
These are the questions I’m pondering while Paige argues with a computer. The poor hotel employee operating it keeps making bug eyes at the screen as if willpower alone will make an extra room available. We considered another hotel, but it was already late, our ride had already left, and we already had reservations here—tomorrow, apparently.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am. We have you checking in Friday night, not Thursday. Today is Thursday,” he adds, not without a flair of… vitriol.
Oh boy.
Paige stiffens, her eyes narrowing on the young man. “I’m well-versed in basic calendar science, thank you very much,” she snaps.
I toss the guy an apologetic shrug.
“It’s true,” I say. “She’s awesome at calendars.”
Paige fires an eye-dart at me.
“What?” I ask. “Just last week I was all, ‘When’s Tuesday?’ and you were all, ‘Yesterday.’”
Her scowl does not appreciate my support. “You’re not helping.”
“How exactly would I help?” I ask. One, because I live to piss her off, and two, I’m actually curious. “I mean I could hack the computer and make it look like there’s another room available, but that would be super awkward when we bust in on some dude pleasuring himself in the shower.”
“Gah! I hate you.” She swipes the keycards off the counter.
“And thank you,” she barks at the hotel clerk.
I actually think she meant that sincerely. Paige’s “agitated filter” makes everything come out like a professional wrestler hyping up a crowd. Believe me, I got plenty of it on the plane when her nerves about flying transformed into irritation about everything I did, from resting my arm on the armrest to breathing air at an unacceptable rate.
The car ride was no better. I could do nothing right, but strangely it didn’t bother me. It was kind of cute, actually. I knew she was just projecting her insecurities, and as she yelled at me for buckling a seatbelt without untwisting it first, it occurred to me that Paige Andrews is my foil in every way. She’s all passion, while I’m cool composure. She’s a motivated, high-achieving perfectionist, while I’m… not. She’s naïve in a lot of ways, privileged and innocent to the struggles of life, while I was world-weary and jaded by the time I was twenty-one.
Maybe that’s why she fascinates me. Maybe every abrasive interaction we have leaves a small piece of our strengths in the cracks of the other’s weaknesses. She could use some chill, fun, and new experiences. I could use some, well, everything, probably.
Also, for the record, she doesn’t like the way I keep gum in my pocket, crinkle the wrapper, or chew it. Come to think of it, she might just have an issue with gum. I file that away for future ammunition.
For now, I watch her cute butt stomp toward the elevators with the massive suitcase she insisted on transporting herself because, and I quote, “the wheels can stick and it can get tricky.” I assured her I’ve never lost a game of wits to a suitcase. That earned me another laser glare.
As we follow behind, Val and I make a silent pact to let this tantrum fizzle out instead of stoking the flames, but man do I love stoking her flames.
In all the ways.
“I can’t believe this,” she says, after giving the floor-seven elevator button the beating of its life.
“The prospect of sharing a room with us is so horrible?” I ask. “There are two beds. It’s not like we have to sleep together.”
She looks at me like I just said something entirely different. Wait, is the flush on her cheeks even from anger? Her sudden fire looks dangerous, and I pull my gaze away, not liking the way my body ignites in response. I know she wants to hook up again, but she doesn’t understand reality like I do. My heart can’t handle another blow, and the fact that I’m denying myself something I so clearly want is evidence I’m doing the right thing in keeping my distance.
I care too much. I don’t know how it happened, but I’m terrified the next time we’re in bed together it’s going to be more than sex for me. I’m going to want something I can’t have, will never have, because no amount of someone’s strengths can fill the crevices carved into my soul.
And suddenly, I’m just as pissed at that damn computer. Why couldn’t it have an extra room? You know what? I’m mad at the floor-seven button too.
Val and Paige look puzzled when I pound it again for no reason.
“You have to wait for all the lower floors, honey. They go in order,” the lady behind us explains with a patient demonstration of numbers.
I smile back my thanks, and yank out my phone when it buzzes.
Abram: We still on for tomorrow?
Hell yeah, I type back.
10 at the studio? We can grab lunch after and I’ll show you the equipment if you’re still interested in buying it, he responds.
Me: Totally interested. Paige and her brother will be with me too if that’s cool.
Abram: Of course. Just glad to see you. Kaitlyn’s still in town for that awards thing also.
Me: Sweet. Is Martin with her?
Abram: Nope. All clear.
Yeah, Abram and Kaitlyn’s significant other aren’t exactly besties.
“We’ve got plans tomorrow,” I say as the door opens on our floor.
“With your friends?” Val asks.
It’s obvious he’s fishing for names, which makes it even more fun when I say “yeah” and start down the hall toward room 709. No way I’m missing the chance to watch the kid shit his pants when I introduce him to Abram Fletcher and Kaitlyn Parker.
The room itself is clean and modern when we arrive, just… small. It would’ve been a tight fit for two, but three? Especially when one of those occupants is a vibrant, intelligent woman you can’t stand and are also incredibly attracted to. Said woman is now rolling her massive (and apparently “devious”) suitcase through the door, then stops.
“This won’t work,” she says.
“It has to work,” Val says, pushing past her. He drops his hiking backpack on one of the beds and throws himself on the mattress beside it.
I’ve stayed in a lot of hotels over the years, and “two beds” often means two queens. Sometimes two full beds, but this one? Neither of those things. I didn’t even know they made adult beds this small.
“It’s fine,” I say, urging Paige and her suitcase inside. “You and Val can take the beds. I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“You’re not sleeping on the floor,” she growls. “Val and I will share.”
“Yeah, no,” Val says. “There’s barely room for one person, definitely not two. It’s fine. I’ll take the floor. I’m the third wheel anyway.”
“Not a chance,” Paige says. “Not with your back problems.”
“That hasn’t bothered me in weeks.”
“Yeah, because you’ve been careful! I’ll take the floor.”
“You can’t take the floor. Your allergies…”
While they argue, I drape my jacket over a chair, pull the extra blanket from the closet, and spread it out on the carpet between the window and furthest bed. I grab one of the pillows from the pile on the mattress and test out my makeshift sleeping arrangement.
“What are you doing?” Paige asks suddenly, hand on her hip in all kinds of antagonism. She definitely doesn’t like the way I lie on blankets on floors.
“Resting.”
“I already said this wasn’t happening,” she snaps, waving over me.
“Well, you’re not the only one who gets a say.”
“It’s not fair, though!”
“What’s not fair?”
“This! You shouldn’t have to sleep on the floor while we get the beds.”
“What does fairness have to do with it?”
“Fairness is always relevant.”
I squint, curious about her world where fairness is always relevant. Sounds nice.
“Okay, look,” I say, pushing up to my elbows. “I appreciate the sentiment, but it’s not necessary. I’ve slept on crates, concrete, asphalt, van floors, truck beds, tile, carpet, grass, the backseat of every kind of vehicle you can imagine—if it exists, I’ve slept on it. I promise a night on a soft blanket won’t kill me.” I add a smile for reassurance, but my humor fades at her expression. “What?”
All traces of anger are gone as she studies me.
“Nothing,” she says quietly. “You… Um, okay. If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.” But it doesn’t seem like my assurance is easing whatever’s troubling her.
I pop up from the floor to end whatever this is and help her haul her suitcase onto the bed. Her tension eases at the sight of the cornucopia spilling out when she unzips it. Uh, she knows we’re only here until Sunday, right?
“I’m gonna go find food,” Val says, moving toward the door. “Got one of the keys.”
“Sounds good.” Paige is still focused on her suitcase.
The door clatters at Val’s exit, and I watch as Paige extracts three hangers’ worth of outfits from her bag.
“What are those for?” I ask. I’m not sure I’ve ever packed anything on a hanger, let alone three in one shot.
“The Gaming Competition. Obviously.”
I survey the rainbow of fabrics she’s currently aligning in the closet.
