Play Smart: An Enemies to Lovers Rockstar Romantic Comedy (Work For It Book 5), page 15
Oh. Whew.
Because I really like Just Hands.
“Right. She said you were together. She tried to get into the green room with it.”
Nash makes a face. “Shit. When was this?”
Abram shrugs. “I dunno, a few months ago?”
Nash shakes his head. “Sorry, man. I didn’t even think she knew we were friends.”
“Well, she knew.” Abram swats Nash’s arm in a comforting gesture. “Don’t sweat it. Not your fault.”
I study Nash’s expression, understanding his situation in a new light. Superstars like Abram are probably used to this crap. Social climbers come with the territory of being rich and famous, but what about the nobodies that surround them? How often has Nash been used for his connections like this? No wonder he guards his secrets so closely.
“So tell me how the fuck you ended up working with Larinda Scott of all people,” Abram asks.
Nash clears his throat, and it’s my turn to be amused as he struggles for a response. “It’s complicated,” he says.
“Not gonna lie, I’m kind of offended. You ditched me for Larinda Scott? Really, dude?”
Nash rolls his eyes at Abram’s teasing. At least I think he’s teasing.
“It’s not like that and you know it. If I could have stayed, I would have. I just…”
“Yeah, I know,” Abram says, squeezing his arm.
The mood darkens again, and I realize a rescue is in order. I cast a glance at Val, but he’s still floating in a parallel meeting-your-idol plane. I guess this one is on me.
“How did you two become friends anyway?” I ask Abram.
Nash shoots me a confused look, probably because he already told me, but I’m curious about Abram’s side of the story. Maybe his version will even include a verb.
By Abram’s chuckle, I might be in luck.
“Oh man, it’s the best story.”
Nash’s glower is just as promising. “Don’t,” he warns.
“What? It’s a great story,” Abram laughs out. He turns to me, making it clear Nash is losing this one. The winners? Everyone else, because I can already tell this will be awesome. “So we’re on tour, right? I mean, I knew he was good with guitars, but what I didn’t know was how hot he was naked.”
Told you. This is already my favorite story ever.
Abram’s snort when Nash glares at him makes it clear he enjoys tormenting his friend as much as I enjoy anything that involves Nash naked.
“You really don’t have to tell this story,” Nash says.
“He really does,” I say, leaning forward.
“Right, so I’m already running late when I enter the hotel lobby and see my guitar tech in a heated argument with the hotel staff, while wearing a bathrobe.”
“I’m sorry?” I can’t imagine Nash in a bathrobe. Or arguing heatedly.
“Yep,” Abram continues. “It turns out our boy here had gone down to use the sauna and forgot his key—”
“My key was stolen,” Nash cuts in.
“Right,” Abram says. “His key was stolen by the magic key fairies and the staff wouldn’t issue a new one without his ID.”
“It was,” Nash mutters. “Les pulled a prank to get me back for Chicago.”
“Anyway, the best part is, your boy here wasn’t even upset about being practically naked in a hotel lobby; he was mad that this whole debacle made him miss line check and he was about to miss soundcheck as well. The venue was just across the street, so I told him it would be fine with me if he went over in the robe. Turns out that was what he was most worried about. So we did.”
“You did a soundcheck in a robe?” Val asks.
The slightest smile flickers over Nash’s lips. “Maybe.”
“Hopefully you didn’t have to run any cables,” Val says with a smirk.
“You kidding? One of the haze machines was acting up, so this guy was climbing trusses and everything,” Abram says, slinging an arm around Nash.
“It was a stepladder with maybe four steps,” Nash says dryly.
Abram rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Seriously, though. The whole thing was badass. Not many people would’ve had the balls to do what he did. I ended up giving him my shirt when no one had anything he could borrow.”
I see the spark of admiration in Abram’s eyes. It matches the look in Nash’s. Brotherly bonding over a bathrobe. Whatever works, I guess.
“I’m assuming you eventually got back into your room?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Nash says. “We sorted it out after soundcheck. Pretty sure they didn’t want me running around the stage in my underwear.”
“Well, it sounds like it all worked out,” I say. “Good to know this whole story had an H.E.A.”
They exchange a dark look. Oh no. There’s more. There always is with him.
“Yeah,” Nash says quietly. “Hey, so—”
“Whoa, is that the Nash Ellis?” a voice calls from behind us. We turn to see another good-looking man and attractive woman exiting one of the artist lounges.
“Leo, Kaitlyn, hey,” Nash says, probably just as excited to end this conversation as he is to see his friends. “I was hoping you’d be around.”
“You know me. Always around,” Leo says, going in for another one of those hug-back-slap-shake things. The woman who must be Kaitlyn settles on a regular hug which seems warm and affectionate.
“Hi. Leo DaVinci.” The guy holds out his hand to Val and me.
I think he’s joking about his name, but his expression remains serious. Leo DaVinci. Okay. Um, his parents must be interesting.
“Leo is also Abram’s girlfriend’s brother,” Nash explains, while we exchange handshakes.
“Yep, although oddly enough Mona hooked up with my boy here in spite of me, not because of me,” Leo says.
Wait.
Leo DaVinci has a sister named Mona. “Let me guess, you have another sister named Lisa?” I joke.
Four serious expressions stare back at me, along with a mortified one from my brother.
“Yes,” Val hisses.
“Oh,” I say through the awkward silence. “Um, right. Nice to meet you.”
After several excruciating seconds, Abram, Nash, and Kaitlyn snicker, and I breathe a sigh of relief when Leo joins them.
“We’re just messing with you,” Leo says. “I mean, not the name part. That’s legit. It’s what happens when your parents are DJ Tang and Exotica.”
I swallow my embarrassment and shrug. “It’s fine. Our parents are Rhonda and Burt and named him Perceval.”
“Perceval?” Leo asks.
“I go by Val,” my brother mumbles.
“Dude, I got you. Believe me,” Leo says, patting his shoulder.
“Just Kaitlyn, here,” the woman I kind of don’t hate says with a chuckle. “I feel so boring.”
“Like you could ever be boring,” Nash snorts.
They exchange a grin that melts Nash’s face into a blast of affection. He’s more relaxed in this moment than I’ve ever seen him. These are his people, and here’s another hint that his line about not fitting in or caring is bullshit.
Here is where he belongs and this is what he cares about.
“Hey, if you all are done playing the Cool Nametag Game, you mind if we finish tracking these vocals so we can grab lunch?” Abram asks.
“You want to hang with us in the control room?” he directs to Nash.
“Yeah, man. Of course,” Nash says.
“You ready to see the promised land?” he adds to Val as Leo, Kaitlyn, and Abram disappear into the room.
“Yeah, for twenty-two years,” Val says.
Nash smiles and waves him toward the door. “Hope you got your shit together, because your day is just beginning.”
I can’t decide which is better: your dreams coming true, or watching someone you love’s dreams come true.
Nash wasn’t kidding about Val’s day. After he had his mind blown by whatever magic was going on in the control room, he had it completely obliterated when Abram asked if he wanted to jam a little before lunch. Leo had to take off, but Abram, Kaitlyn, Nash, and Val are now rocking out on the other side of the glass, while I look on with Control Room Guy. Phil, I think his name is?
“He’s something special, huh. It’s a damn shame.”
I look down in surprise at quiet Maybe-Phil. It’s the first thing he’s said since the musicians left us alone in awkward silence.
“Who’s special? Abram? It’s a shame?”
The man glares at me like I’m an idiot. To be fair, in this world, I kind of am.
“No. Not Abram. Nashville.”
“Nashville?”
Again with the why are you stupid? look. “What kind of friends are you again?”
“No, I know. But he goes by Nash. Why do people keep calling him Nashville?”
“Everyone called him Nashville back in the day. I mean, look at him.”
I do, and my stomach goes tight. He’s always beautiful, but out there, lost in music with three other musicians who breathe it like he does, he’s… transcendent. There’s no other word for it. Happy in a way I’ve never seen. Even seated beside one of the biggest rockstars in the world, I can’t take my eyes off him. The way his fingers glide over the strings like that guitar is another appendage, the way his gravelly voice sends shivers over my skin as it breezes through the studio headphones we’re wearing. He’s playing his original song, “I’m Fine,” like it’s an international hit, not some musical journal entry he messes around with in his living room. And suddenly, it feels wrong. Everything, just, disordered. The universe doesn’t make sense when a person like that isn’t sharing music like this.
Phil-ish pulls one of the headphones from his ear like he wants to say something, so I do the same.
“We called him Nashville because the kid is music. You see it, right?”
“Yes,” I say, gazing through the glass at the breathtaking, complex, exasperating puzzle I want to solve. Heat spreads through my entire body, passion like I’ve never felt before. Not just sexual tension, something else. Something bigger and transformative. What makes me come alive like that? Nash’s question in his apartment that night floods back.
“Of all the possibilities in this vast universe to make your mark on history, how did you come to the conclusion that working at Reedweather Media was the path worthy of you and your talents?”
I hated the question, because I hate questions I can’t answer.
“Yep, it’s a damn shame,” Maybe-Phil mutters, drawing me back to our awkward bonding.
“Why do you say that?” I ask. “Because he doesn’t want to be a recording artist?”
“Is that what he told you?” the man asks with more than a hint of irritation. “That’s his story now? He doesn’t want it?” He shakes his head. “Stupid kid. Talented, stupid kid.”
“So he did want to record at one point.”
“Wanted to? He could have been huge if that asshole hadn’t ruined his career.”
My blood goes cold. “Which asshole?” He can’t mean Abram. I mean… right?
The man sends me a suspicious look like suddenly he’s not sure I actually am friends with Nash. He’s not far off. We’re here as coworkers. We almost hooked up because of a superficial attraction as coworkers. He spends so much time with me because we’re coworkers.
Right?
Right.
“Tyler. Obviously,” Phil-Guy says. “Pirate Orgy?” He squints at me like I’ve probably never heard of music either, and I force a smile.
Okay, yes, I know Pirate Orgy. Who doesn’t? And maybe I’ve even heard their lead singer is an asshole. What I didn’t know was that he had a tie to my fr—coworker. If I can’t get any more info out of Phil-Whatever, I’ll be doing another full-scale internet search tonight.
“Right. Tyler ruined his career,” I say with what I hope is an appropriate amount of duh-I-knew-that.
He glances at me again as if he suspects I didn’t know that.
By his tight smile, he must realize he screwed up and gave me new information. Shifting in his seat, he pulls the headphones back over his ears in a definitive end to our conversation.
I lean forward and study the quartet through the pristine glass again.
Nashville. It’s not okay that that boy is a has-been at age twenty-four. It’s not okay that he’s not making music full-time, period.
I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself.
While Nash releases his soul into a studio that should own him instead of shun him, I pull out my phone and open a search app.
Don’t do this, Paige. This will end badly.
Yes. It will.
So badly.
I type “Tyler Pirate Orgy and Nash Ellis” into the search field.
13—RECONNECTING
NASH
Paige has been acting weird. Well, weirder than usual anyway. Talk about a buzzkill. After an amazing half hour of recharging my soul with Abram, Kaitlyn, Val, and my guitar, we returned to the control room to confront a brooding Paige Andrews. I thought that was my role in our little duet, so I’m not sure of the logistics if both of us are broody.
Lunch has fared no better, with Paige glowering at everyone from our server, to the couple at the table beside us, to Abram Fletcher who probably isn’t accustomed to being glowered at. The expressions reserved for me are even more cryptic. I can’t begin to interpret the rainbow of facial cues I’m getting from across the table.
Worst part, I don’t know if she knows she’s being thorny. And maybe horny? Is she trying to kick me or caress me with the foot that keeps crashing into mine under the table? At least, I hope it’s her foot. I look at Abram who’s in deep conversation with Val and Kaitlyn. He doesn’t look like a dude who’s playing footsies with me at the moment.
“You okay?” I ask her.
“Fine, why?”
“Um, because, that?”
“Because what?”
“‘Fine, why?’” I mimic with what I’d consider very accurate Paige snappiness. “You’ve been irritable since the jam session. Were you mad that we left you? I just thought… I mean, for Val—”
“The jam session was amazing,” she says, one hundred percent snappily.
“Oh.” I clear my throat. “So, what is it then?”
“Nothing. I don’t know why you think there’s a thing.”
“There’s clearly a thing.”
“Unless you’re referring to my delicious chicken Caesar salad, there is no thing.”
I’m no detective but her demeanor doesn’t seem related to a chicken Caesar salad.
“Okay, whatever,” I say, focusing back on my regular Caesar salad. It’s far from the best I’ve ever had but at least it’s not yelling at me.
“Why did you really quit music?” she blurts out.
The crouton I just swallowed lodges in my throat when I look up again.
“What?” I croak.
“You heard me.” Her eyes narrow with what maybe is chicken-Caesar-salad ire? “I saw you in the studio,” she continues. “I saw the way your soul bloomed while you were playing. How can you tell me music isn’t your life when it’s who you are?”
“It is my life. I make my living through music.”
Well, “make a living” might be a stretch. Marcos and Nate would argue my “living” is pretty far from made at the moment.
“No, you make a living helping other people make music.”
“I still make plenty of my own. Just because a passion doesn’t pay the bills doesn’t mean it’s any less valuable.”
She quiets, and my heart races as she studies me. Can she read the lie behind my excellent point? I’m not wrong, except by implication. I think she’s about to concede when the hardness returns to her features.
“But your passion almost did pay the bills, didn’t it? You had a record deal.”
Any remaining appetite I had drains away. If she knows that then…
I clench my fist and draw in a stuttered breath.
“You had a record deal and a hit single. You even toured with Pirate Orgy. So three years ago you wanted to make a living making music. You can tell me your version of what happened or let me believe what I read.”
I meet her gaze, my stomach rioting against this conversation. Abram looks over as if he senses something’s wrong. He’s always been perceptive like that, which is even more reason why I can’t do this right now. Not because he doesn’t know the story but because he knows it better than anyone.
“Not here,” I say, silently pleading with her. “Please, just… not here.”
Her expression softens, but the sudden pity is even worse.
“Then where?” she asks, making it clear she’s not letting this go. And honestly, what choice do I have? She already thinks she knows. She’s ready to judge and weigh in on my life just like everyone else. I can let her believe the bullshit floating around or tell her the truth.
“Hey, man, you good?” Abram asks.
I look over, wincing at the concerned wrinkle in his brow—and Kaitlyn and Val’s.
Then again, maybe this is the perfect place to release the demons. At the very least, a public setting should prevent any fistfights from breaking out.
Abram stiffens abruptly, ending the debate. I breathe easier at the flash of irritation in his face before he plasters on his stage smile. For one of the first times since we’ve become friends, I’m happy to be interrupted by gushing fans.
Except the woman who approaches has her eyes locked on someone else.
Me.
“Nash?”
Shit.
“Ophelia, hi. It’s good to see you,” I lie.
I feel Paige’s curious, then irritated reaction when the woman rounds the table for a hug. It’s the same response she had when Delia greeted me at Framework Studios. I never even went out with Delia, but I have no doubt that Paige now thinks I’ve slept with every person in L.A.
Why do you care what she thinks?
I don’t. I can’t. I won’t.
My gaze brushes over her smooth, sharp features. Why do I have to be so attracted to her wrath? It’s a dangerous reality when we’re wired for constant friction.
Friction. All the hot, wild friction.
Because I really like Just Hands.
“Right. She said you were together. She tried to get into the green room with it.”
Nash makes a face. “Shit. When was this?”
Abram shrugs. “I dunno, a few months ago?”
Nash shakes his head. “Sorry, man. I didn’t even think she knew we were friends.”
“Well, she knew.” Abram swats Nash’s arm in a comforting gesture. “Don’t sweat it. Not your fault.”
I study Nash’s expression, understanding his situation in a new light. Superstars like Abram are probably used to this crap. Social climbers come with the territory of being rich and famous, but what about the nobodies that surround them? How often has Nash been used for his connections like this? No wonder he guards his secrets so closely.
“So tell me how the fuck you ended up working with Larinda Scott of all people,” Abram asks.
Nash clears his throat, and it’s my turn to be amused as he struggles for a response. “It’s complicated,” he says.
“Not gonna lie, I’m kind of offended. You ditched me for Larinda Scott? Really, dude?”
Nash rolls his eyes at Abram’s teasing. At least I think he’s teasing.
“It’s not like that and you know it. If I could have stayed, I would have. I just…”
“Yeah, I know,” Abram says, squeezing his arm.
The mood darkens again, and I realize a rescue is in order. I cast a glance at Val, but he’s still floating in a parallel meeting-your-idol plane. I guess this one is on me.
“How did you two become friends anyway?” I ask Abram.
Nash shoots me a confused look, probably because he already told me, but I’m curious about Abram’s side of the story. Maybe his version will even include a verb.
By Abram’s chuckle, I might be in luck.
“Oh man, it’s the best story.”
Nash’s glower is just as promising. “Don’t,” he warns.
“What? It’s a great story,” Abram laughs out. He turns to me, making it clear Nash is losing this one. The winners? Everyone else, because I can already tell this will be awesome. “So we’re on tour, right? I mean, I knew he was good with guitars, but what I didn’t know was how hot he was naked.”
Told you. This is already my favorite story ever.
Abram’s snort when Nash glares at him makes it clear he enjoys tormenting his friend as much as I enjoy anything that involves Nash naked.
“You really don’t have to tell this story,” Nash says.
“He really does,” I say, leaning forward.
“Right, so I’m already running late when I enter the hotel lobby and see my guitar tech in a heated argument with the hotel staff, while wearing a bathrobe.”
“I’m sorry?” I can’t imagine Nash in a bathrobe. Or arguing heatedly.
“Yep,” Abram continues. “It turns out our boy here had gone down to use the sauna and forgot his key—”
“My key was stolen,” Nash cuts in.
“Right,” Abram says. “His key was stolen by the magic key fairies and the staff wouldn’t issue a new one without his ID.”
“It was,” Nash mutters. “Les pulled a prank to get me back for Chicago.”
“Anyway, the best part is, your boy here wasn’t even upset about being practically naked in a hotel lobby; he was mad that this whole debacle made him miss line check and he was about to miss soundcheck as well. The venue was just across the street, so I told him it would be fine with me if he went over in the robe. Turns out that was what he was most worried about. So we did.”
“You did a soundcheck in a robe?” Val asks.
The slightest smile flickers over Nash’s lips. “Maybe.”
“Hopefully you didn’t have to run any cables,” Val says with a smirk.
“You kidding? One of the haze machines was acting up, so this guy was climbing trusses and everything,” Abram says, slinging an arm around Nash.
“It was a stepladder with maybe four steps,” Nash says dryly.
Abram rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Seriously, though. The whole thing was badass. Not many people would’ve had the balls to do what he did. I ended up giving him my shirt when no one had anything he could borrow.”
I see the spark of admiration in Abram’s eyes. It matches the look in Nash’s. Brotherly bonding over a bathrobe. Whatever works, I guess.
“I’m assuming you eventually got back into your room?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Nash says. “We sorted it out after soundcheck. Pretty sure they didn’t want me running around the stage in my underwear.”
“Well, it sounds like it all worked out,” I say. “Good to know this whole story had an H.E.A.”
They exchange a dark look. Oh no. There’s more. There always is with him.
“Yeah,” Nash says quietly. “Hey, so—”
“Whoa, is that the Nash Ellis?” a voice calls from behind us. We turn to see another good-looking man and attractive woman exiting one of the artist lounges.
“Leo, Kaitlyn, hey,” Nash says, probably just as excited to end this conversation as he is to see his friends. “I was hoping you’d be around.”
“You know me. Always around,” Leo says, going in for another one of those hug-back-slap-shake things. The woman who must be Kaitlyn settles on a regular hug which seems warm and affectionate.
“Hi. Leo DaVinci.” The guy holds out his hand to Val and me.
I think he’s joking about his name, but his expression remains serious. Leo DaVinci. Okay. Um, his parents must be interesting.
“Leo is also Abram’s girlfriend’s brother,” Nash explains, while we exchange handshakes.
“Yep, although oddly enough Mona hooked up with my boy here in spite of me, not because of me,” Leo says.
Wait.
Leo DaVinci has a sister named Mona. “Let me guess, you have another sister named Lisa?” I joke.
Four serious expressions stare back at me, along with a mortified one from my brother.
“Yes,” Val hisses.
“Oh,” I say through the awkward silence. “Um, right. Nice to meet you.”
After several excruciating seconds, Abram, Nash, and Kaitlyn snicker, and I breathe a sigh of relief when Leo joins them.
“We’re just messing with you,” Leo says. “I mean, not the name part. That’s legit. It’s what happens when your parents are DJ Tang and Exotica.”
I swallow my embarrassment and shrug. “It’s fine. Our parents are Rhonda and Burt and named him Perceval.”
“Perceval?” Leo asks.
“I go by Val,” my brother mumbles.
“Dude, I got you. Believe me,” Leo says, patting his shoulder.
“Just Kaitlyn, here,” the woman I kind of don’t hate says with a chuckle. “I feel so boring.”
“Like you could ever be boring,” Nash snorts.
They exchange a grin that melts Nash’s face into a blast of affection. He’s more relaxed in this moment than I’ve ever seen him. These are his people, and here’s another hint that his line about not fitting in or caring is bullshit.
Here is where he belongs and this is what he cares about.
“Hey, if you all are done playing the Cool Nametag Game, you mind if we finish tracking these vocals so we can grab lunch?” Abram asks.
“You want to hang with us in the control room?” he directs to Nash.
“Yeah, man. Of course,” Nash says.
“You ready to see the promised land?” he adds to Val as Leo, Kaitlyn, and Abram disappear into the room.
“Yeah, for twenty-two years,” Val says.
Nash smiles and waves him toward the door. “Hope you got your shit together, because your day is just beginning.”
I can’t decide which is better: your dreams coming true, or watching someone you love’s dreams come true.
Nash wasn’t kidding about Val’s day. After he had his mind blown by whatever magic was going on in the control room, he had it completely obliterated when Abram asked if he wanted to jam a little before lunch. Leo had to take off, but Abram, Kaitlyn, Nash, and Val are now rocking out on the other side of the glass, while I look on with Control Room Guy. Phil, I think his name is?
“He’s something special, huh. It’s a damn shame.”
I look down in surprise at quiet Maybe-Phil. It’s the first thing he’s said since the musicians left us alone in awkward silence.
“Who’s special? Abram? It’s a shame?”
The man glares at me like I’m an idiot. To be fair, in this world, I kind of am.
“No. Not Abram. Nashville.”
“Nashville?”
Again with the why are you stupid? look. “What kind of friends are you again?”
“No, I know. But he goes by Nash. Why do people keep calling him Nashville?”
“Everyone called him Nashville back in the day. I mean, look at him.”
I do, and my stomach goes tight. He’s always beautiful, but out there, lost in music with three other musicians who breathe it like he does, he’s… transcendent. There’s no other word for it. Happy in a way I’ve never seen. Even seated beside one of the biggest rockstars in the world, I can’t take my eyes off him. The way his fingers glide over the strings like that guitar is another appendage, the way his gravelly voice sends shivers over my skin as it breezes through the studio headphones we’re wearing. He’s playing his original song, “I’m Fine,” like it’s an international hit, not some musical journal entry he messes around with in his living room. And suddenly, it feels wrong. Everything, just, disordered. The universe doesn’t make sense when a person like that isn’t sharing music like this.
Phil-ish pulls one of the headphones from his ear like he wants to say something, so I do the same.
“We called him Nashville because the kid is music. You see it, right?”
“Yes,” I say, gazing through the glass at the breathtaking, complex, exasperating puzzle I want to solve. Heat spreads through my entire body, passion like I’ve never felt before. Not just sexual tension, something else. Something bigger and transformative. What makes me come alive like that? Nash’s question in his apartment that night floods back.
“Of all the possibilities in this vast universe to make your mark on history, how did you come to the conclusion that working at Reedweather Media was the path worthy of you and your talents?”
I hated the question, because I hate questions I can’t answer.
“Yep, it’s a damn shame,” Maybe-Phil mutters, drawing me back to our awkward bonding.
“Why do you say that?” I ask. “Because he doesn’t want to be a recording artist?”
“Is that what he told you?” the man asks with more than a hint of irritation. “That’s his story now? He doesn’t want it?” He shakes his head. “Stupid kid. Talented, stupid kid.”
“So he did want to record at one point.”
“Wanted to? He could have been huge if that asshole hadn’t ruined his career.”
My blood goes cold. “Which asshole?” He can’t mean Abram. I mean… right?
The man sends me a suspicious look like suddenly he’s not sure I actually am friends with Nash. He’s not far off. We’re here as coworkers. We almost hooked up because of a superficial attraction as coworkers. He spends so much time with me because we’re coworkers.
Right?
Right.
“Tyler. Obviously,” Phil-Guy says. “Pirate Orgy?” He squints at me like I’ve probably never heard of music either, and I force a smile.
Okay, yes, I know Pirate Orgy. Who doesn’t? And maybe I’ve even heard their lead singer is an asshole. What I didn’t know was that he had a tie to my fr—coworker. If I can’t get any more info out of Phil-Whatever, I’ll be doing another full-scale internet search tonight.
“Right. Tyler ruined his career,” I say with what I hope is an appropriate amount of duh-I-knew-that.
He glances at me again as if he suspects I didn’t know that.
By his tight smile, he must realize he screwed up and gave me new information. Shifting in his seat, he pulls the headphones back over his ears in a definitive end to our conversation.
I lean forward and study the quartet through the pristine glass again.
Nashville. It’s not okay that that boy is a has-been at age twenty-four. It’s not okay that he’s not making music full-time, period.
I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself.
While Nash releases his soul into a studio that should own him instead of shun him, I pull out my phone and open a search app.
Don’t do this, Paige. This will end badly.
Yes. It will.
So badly.
I type “Tyler Pirate Orgy and Nash Ellis” into the search field.
13—RECONNECTING
NASH
Paige has been acting weird. Well, weirder than usual anyway. Talk about a buzzkill. After an amazing half hour of recharging my soul with Abram, Kaitlyn, Val, and my guitar, we returned to the control room to confront a brooding Paige Andrews. I thought that was my role in our little duet, so I’m not sure of the logistics if both of us are broody.
Lunch has fared no better, with Paige glowering at everyone from our server, to the couple at the table beside us, to Abram Fletcher who probably isn’t accustomed to being glowered at. The expressions reserved for me are even more cryptic. I can’t begin to interpret the rainbow of facial cues I’m getting from across the table.
Worst part, I don’t know if she knows she’s being thorny. And maybe horny? Is she trying to kick me or caress me with the foot that keeps crashing into mine under the table? At least, I hope it’s her foot. I look at Abram who’s in deep conversation with Val and Kaitlyn. He doesn’t look like a dude who’s playing footsies with me at the moment.
“You okay?” I ask her.
“Fine, why?”
“Um, because, that?”
“Because what?”
“‘Fine, why?’” I mimic with what I’d consider very accurate Paige snappiness. “You’ve been irritable since the jam session. Were you mad that we left you? I just thought… I mean, for Val—”
“The jam session was amazing,” she says, one hundred percent snappily.
“Oh.” I clear my throat. “So, what is it then?”
“Nothing. I don’t know why you think there’s a thing.”
“There’s clearly a thing.”
“Unless you’re referring to my delicious chicken Caesar salad, there is no thing.”
I’m no detective but her demeanor doesn’t seem related to a chicken Caesar salad.
“Okay, whatever,” I say, focusing back on my regular Caesar salad. It’s far from the best I’ve ever had but at least it’s not yelling at me.
“Why did you really quit music?” she blurts out.
The crouton I just swallowed lodges in my throat when I look up again.
“What?” I croak.
“You heard me.” Her eyes narrow with what maybe is chicken-Caesar-salad ire? “I saw you in the studio,” she continues. “I saw the way your soul bloomed while you were playing. How can you tell me music isn’t your life when it’s who you are?”
“It is my life. I make my living through music.”
Well, “make a living” might be a stretch. Marcos and Nate would argue my “living” is pretty far from made at the moment.
“No, you make a living helping other people make music.”
“I still make plenty of my own. Just because a passion doesn’t pay the bills doesn’t mean it’s any less valuable.”
She quiets, and my heart races as she studies me. Can she read the lie behind my excellent point? I’m not wrong, except by implication. I think she’s about to concede when the hardness returns to her features.
“But your passion almost did pay the bills, didn’t it? You had a record deal.”
Any remaining appetite I had drains away. If she knows that then…
I clench my fist and draw in a stuttered breath.
“You had a record deal and a hit single. You even toured with Pirate Orgy. So three years ago you wanted to make a living making music. You can tell me your version of what happened or let me believe what I read.”
I meet her gaze, my stomach rioting against this conversation. Abram looks over as if he senses something’s wrong. He’s always been perceptive like that, which is even more reason why I can’t do this right now. Not because he doesn’t know the story but because he knows it better than anyone.
“Not here,” I say, silently pleading with her. “Please, just… not here.”
Her expression softens, but the sudden pity is even worse.
“Then where?” she asks, making it clear she’s not letting this go. And honestly, what choice do I have? She already thinks she knows. She’s ready to judge and weigh in on my life just like everyone else. I can let her believe the bullshit floating around or tell her the truth.
“Hey, man, you good?” Abram asks.
I look over, wincing at the concerned wrinkle in his brow—and Kaitlyn and Val’s.
Then again, maybe this is the perfect place to release the demons. At the very least, a public setting should prevent any fistfights from breaking out.
Abram stiffens abruptly, ending the debate. I breathe easier at the flash of irritation in his face before he plasters on his stage smile. For one of the first times since we’ve become friends, I’m happy to be interrupted by gushing fans.
Except the woman who approaches has her eyes locked on someone else.
Me.
“Nash?”
Shit.
“Ophelia, hi. It’s good to see you,” I lie.
I feel Paige’s curious, then irritated reaction when the woman rounds the table for a hug. It’s the same response she had when Delia greeted me at Framework Studios. I never even went out with Delia, but I have no doubt that Paige now thinks I’ve slept with every person in L.A.
Why do you care what she thinks?
I don’t. I can’t. I won’t.
My gaze brushes over her smooth, sharp features. Why do I have to be so attracted to her wrath? It’s a dangerous reality when we’re wired for constant friction.
Friction. All the hot, wild friction.
