Spotlight (Famous Book 2), page 11
Through the glass, he smirks at me as if he can read my mind. Shit, I hope he can’t see what’s going on in here right now.
It takes me a second to realize the song is over.
I fumble to end the recording and give him a thumbs-up.
“How was that?” he asks.
How was it?
I don’t think there are enough words to describe what he’s done to me with this one song.
I clear my throat. “Come hear it for yourself.” I beckon him into the audio room.
He hangs up the headphones and puts the guitar back on the wall with the others and comes to take his seat once again.
I didn’t say anything when he chose it, but that guitar was the one I used on tour with Eleven.
Watching him walk into the booth like a scared little deer caught in headlights was kind of cute, but now I can’t tear my gaze away from him as he walks out all confident, biting his lip a little nervously. If he was anyone else besides Kaylee’s nanny, I’d probably crawl into his lap and offer myself up as a snack.
But he is Kaylee’s nanny, so I won’t do that. Think about it, sure, but I can’t actually do it.
Nope.
Stop staring at his lap, Ryder.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Yes. No. Maybe?”
I smile and don’t give him the option. I hit the playback button.
I’ve produced for a few newbs the label has sent me over the past few months, and one thing I’ve noticed is the first time an artist hears the roughest take they’ll ever have, they’re usually too excited about having a proper recording to really analyze the technical aspects, but as I watch Lyric listen to his voice, to the guitar, and to Hozier’s words, I can tell all those nitpicky things are running through his mind.
“It’s a bit rough there,” he says when he hears a part where he goes a tad off-key.
“No one ever uses their first take. We’ll redo it all. But how does it sound? How does it feel?”
“It feels unbelievable. It sounds not as sellout-y as I thought it would.”
“You’ll be singing boy band songs before you know it.”
He scowls.
“That was a joke.”
Lyric relaxes. “Better be.”
We go back to listening, and at the bridge, something in his face changes. He’s no longer scrutinizing every detail, and he’s finally hearing what I’ve heard ever since I walked in on him singing that stupid Frozen song.
He locks eyes with me as if he can sense me watching him.
“You’re amazing,” I say.
“You are,” he replies. “You made me sound good.”
Oh shit, did I just move closer? “A good producer doesn’t take over. They amplify what’s already there.”
His eyes are so expressive, holding gratitude and a humbleness that the vultures in this industry would take advantage of if Lyric didn’t have the inner strength he does.
“I see you for who you’re trying to be, and I admire it. We need to get record labels to see you the way I do.”
Well, maybe not the exact same way.
Wait, did he just move closer? “Why?”
I’m confused. “Why what?”
Oh, Lyric, please don’t lick your bottom lip. It’s too hard not to—yup, there I go, mirroring his action.
“Why do you see me differently?” he whispers.
The song drowns out, fading into nothing, and all I can hear is my heartbeat pounding in my ears.
I don’t think anyone has made me this nervous and full of want at the same time. No one, in all my years as a closeted artist, has ever been so wrong yet so irresistible.
This isn’t a weak moment like I experienced with Cash; it’s fundamentally deeper.
We may not agree on some things, or a lot of things, actually, but there’s no denying I love the way Lyric is always honest with me. He’s not afraid to give me his opinion, and he doesn’t tiptoe around me just because I’m Ryder Kennedy.
My whole recording career was about that, and even now, while I’m producing, people tell me they trust me and my judgment because of who I am and what I’ve accomplished.
Lyric doesn’t buy into that shit.
He’s unapologetically him, and it’s the biggest turn-on I’ve ever experienced.
I don’t know which of us moves first, but the next thing I know, we’re leaning into each other, so close I can feel his breath on my skin.
“Ryder? You haven’t answered me.”
I don’t think I can. “We should probably, uh, do another take.”
Obvious diversion is obvious.
“We should,” he croaks.
We don’t.
Lyric’s long guitar-playing fingers sneak around the back of my head and tangle in my hair.
I want this to happen for reasons I’m not ready to explore, but I don’t think I have a choice. My body is making this decision for me, and it’s screaming at me to let it happen.
Screw consequences.
The voice of said consequences reaches out from the depths of my soul. “Daddy!”
Lyric freezes, his lips not quite on mine, and it takes a second to realize it’s not a voice inside my head at all but my real-life daughter, who I seemed to have momentarily forgotten existed while Lyric’s mouth was so close.
“Daddy!” Kaylee’s voice comes from the baby monitor.
“Fuck,” I grumble.
Lyric pulls away, and I stand. His eyes go straight to where my hard-on is tenting my jeans, and as much as I’d like to explain, I can’t right now.
And explain what, exactly? That I’ve been thinking about kissing him since the day I met him, and now I’m regretting offering to help him because I don’t know how to keep my hands off him?
“I’ll be right back,” I croak.
I rush through the house to Kaylee’s bedroom, giving little thought to the man I just left and focusing all my energy on getting my dick to deflate.
Kaylee’s in tears when I open her door and get to her side.
I kneel beside her. “Bub, what’s wrong?”
“There were explosions.”
I pause. “Explosions?” Please don’t say poo explosions. Please don’t say poo explosions. I glance down and let out a relieved breath when I don’t see any evidence of an accident.
The joys of parenting.
“Mommy … Mommy’s on fire.”
I climb into bed next to her, hugging her so tightly I fear I might be suffocating her. “It’s okay. You were having a bad dream. It’s okay.”
She sobs on my shoulder while gasping between words. “Can … we … call … Mommy?”
I pat her hair and soothe her with shushing noises. “We’ll talk about it in the morning.”
Hopefully, when you’ve forgotten about this.
“Try to sleep now,” I whisper.
It takes a bit of consoling and rocking, but after about fifteen minutes, she drifts off.
I try not to let my emotions show when it comes to Maggie. Especially in front of Kaylee.
I respect the hell out of Kaylee’s mother, but it’s hard to explain to Kaylee why she’s gone. The times Maggie has been around have been short and confusing for Kaylee. And clearly, my explanations have frightened the poor girl into thinking her mommy is going to explode.
I’m going to have to make some calls in the morning and find out where the fuck Maggie is.
But first, I need to deal with Lyric.
Oh, shit. Lyric.
Now that I’ve had a chance to cool off, I’m dreading dragging my ass back to the studio because I know I’m going to have to tell him it was a mistake.
Or almost a mistake.
Getting that close to him was wrong.
Though, right now, I think my only error wasn’t diving in and kissing him before we got interrupted.
I have to go back down there and either pretend we didn’t nearly kiss—that I wasn’t hard for him before his lips even touched mine—or I have to face it head-on and tell him it can’t happen.
We can’t have that kind of relationship even if something has never felt so right before.
I don’t get to connect with people very often being who I am and doing what I do. When Eleven was together, it was even worse.
Lyric’s different.
And he’s so fucking talented.
After one song, I know we’d make a great team. Not just as producer and artist but as something more. Something I’ve never allowed myself to even contemplate because of Kaylee.
I trudge my way back through the house toward the studio and find Lyric on the couch along the back wall, but when I enter, he doesn’t even look up at me. Instead, he jumps to his feet.
“I should go. I was going to, and then I thought it’d be sucky to leave without saying anything, but I didn’t know what to write if I left you a note, and—”
“Lyric, please sit down.”
His gaze flicks up to mine. “Oh God, I’m fired, aren’t I?”
I snort. “Wouldn’t it be illegal for me to fire you after almost kissing you? That’s a sexual harassment suit the tabloids would love to get their hands on.”
“I would never—” Lyric looks like he’s freaking out.
“I know. Just, please sit? We can, uh, talk.”
Lyric nods and sits but runs his palms over his denim-clad thighs.
I sit on the opposite end of the couch, making sure to put some distance between us.
“Is Kaylee okay?” he asks, and I could kiss him for asking about her first. Not only because it delays the awkwardness that’s about to happen but because it shows he really does care about her.
“She had a nightmare. She has them sometimes.”
“About her mom.”
I cock my head at him.
He points to the baby monitor.
Oh, right. He heard everything.
“You’re really good with her,” Lyric says. “I know you think you have no idea what you’re doing sometimes, but you know what to do when it counts.”
“I’ve never loved anyone more in my whole life, but it’s hard. She is my number one priority.” I swallow hard as I look at him. “Which is why—”
I swear I see him physically deflate before he puts on a weak smile. “I understand. This was a lapse in judgment on my part.” He stands again. “You know, I thought the hardest thing about this job would be working for the hot straight guy. Then I found out you were …” He struggles to find a label because he respects me enough not to put one on me. “Well, yeah, anyway, I’m sorry I couldn’t control myself, and it will never happen again.”
His words feel wrong. They don’t sit right with me.
“Besides, I’m sure this happens all the time, right?” Lyric’s voice cracks. “I’m guessing bonding over recording is how you and Cash happened, so—”
“I feel like I should be offended, but I’m hoping you didn’t mean that the way it came out. That I almost-kiss all the acts I produce.”
“No! I mean, yeah, no, I don’t mean that at all. I’m trying to find justifiable reasons to chalk this up to a heated moment instead of …” Hazel eyes pierce mine.
“Instead of what?” I ask, my voice coming out a breathless mess.
Lyric’s throat bobs as he swallows. “It doesn’t matter. I should go.” He makes no move to leave.
I stand slowly and approach him even slower. “Lyric, I …”
I hate this.
Dismissing Cash was easy because I’m not the type of guy who needs someone or needs sex.
So why do I need Lyric to not walk out that door and leave right now?
“You don’t want to fuck things up for Kaylee,” Lyric says. “I get it.”
“She already loves you. If things didn’t work out … That’s why we should probably forget tonight ever happened. Well, apart from the kick-ass song.”
“Agreed.”
Yet, I don’t stop moving until my body presses against his. “There’s only one problem with that.”
“Mm?”
“I don’t think I can.”
CHAPTER 12
LYRIC
The words are whispered along my skin, and I know I need to be the bigger person here. I need to walk away because Ryder is asking me to.
His number one priority is Kaylee. I need to respect that.
My number one priority should be keeping my professional life, personal life, and my connection to music all separate from Ryder.
Kissing him will mush all of them together, and I won’t be that guy.
Because realistically, there’s only one way this whole situation ends: badly.
“It’s already forgotten,” I say.
Disappointment makes me want to put the words back in my mouth and swallow them down, but I know I’m doing the right thing.
Ryder’s so close, so tempting.
I want to kiss him because I bet kissing him would be fun. But also, kissing him would be agony.
“I should go,” I say.
“Yeah,” Ryder breathes.
“Ryder …”
Something in his heated gaze snaps. He shakes it off and steps back.
Ryder’s blue eyes lose their brightness for the first time since I’ve known him.
I leave the studio and go to get my bag from the nanny’s quarters. Ryder’s footsteps follow me, but I need him to stop.
“I can walk myself out. Have been doing it for a while now.”
“Right. Sorry. Habit. I always walk my artists out, and I guess I’m still in producer mode.”
“Goodnight.”
“Wait,” Ryder says, and I freeze immediately.
My strength snaps with one fucking word.
One.
In that voice I’ve heard a million times, but he’s changed the way I hear it with a single song. I can’t stop the visceral reaction, the need to obey whatever comes out of his mouth.
I slowly turn back toward him.
“It’s late.”
I deflate faster than a balloon.
“You should take my car instead of the bus.”
“What if there’s an emergency and you need to take Kaylee to the hospital or something? You’ll need the Tesla.”
“I know. I’m saying you should take one of the others. I have plenty.”
My mouth drops open. “You want me to take one of your toys? The toys you haven’t even shown me yet because, in your words, they’re your babies? And no matter how many times I’ve said you trust me with your actual baby, you insist it’s different?”
“You make it sound like I think my cars are more important than Kaylee.”
I cock a brow at him.
“Just follow me before I change my mind,” he grumbles.
Ryder leads me out the front and to the warehouse of cars that sits under the house. On the outside, it looks like a usual three-car garage, but open that sucker up, and it’s like his very own Batcave.
I practically trip over my own feet. “Ferrari. Definitely taking the Ferrari.”
“You’re fired,” Ryder jokes, but the panic in his tone is very, very real.
“I’m kidding. I’d probably drive it twelve miles an hour because I’d be too scared to crash it.” I walk along the squeaky floor. “Mustang at the back looks nice. This little roadster is cute.” I run my hand over the hood of the BMW.
Ryder grabs a set of keys off the wall. “Take the Pontiac.”
I sigh dramatically. “The GTO? If I must. This job has the worst perks.”
“I’m the most terrible boss ever.”
“Right? You almost kiss me and then make me drive your fancy-ass car.”
Ryder purses his lips. “When you put it that way, it sounds wrong.”
“You making sure I get home safe is so wrong.”
“You know what I mean. From the outside, everything that happened tonight now kind of sounds skeevy and gross. Like I’m trying to pay you off or something.”
Our hands touch as I take the keys from him, and I have to remind myself to let him go. “For the record? I’ll never think you’re skeevy and gross. Nothing actually happened. You just have a hard-on for music, I guess.”
“Sure. It was music making my dick hard in there. Nothing else.”
I burst out laughing. “Exactly. It had nothing to do with my long golden locks or my winning smile. Not to mention my sunny disposition and nonjudgmental attitude.”
“You know, you think you’re being sarcastic right now, but apart from your stubborn pretentious streak, you’re practically a Teletubby.”
“Fuck off.”
“A Teletubby with a dirty mouth.”
I wince. “Swear jar?”
“Yep.”
“Back in nanny mode, then.” I take out a dollar from my wallet and shove it at him. “Fine. Now, I’m going to go before it gets any worse and I end up having to pay you to employ me.”
“We’ll record more tomorrow night.”
“O-okay. So, the recording thing is still happening?”
“Yes, Lyric, I still want to record your demo. Sex was never a condition of that offer.”
“No, I know that. I just … it might be awkward.” And I don’t know if I’ll be strong enough to walk away again.
I need to find a way to work with him without drooling all over him.
That task might be harder than a guy on a double dose of Viagra.
“We can keep professional distance,” Ryder says. “I’ve been doing it since you started working for me.”
I pull back. “What?”
“Please. You’re gorgeous. I wanted to jump you the day we met even though you insulted me.”
I don’t know what to say to that, but everything inside me wants to make a joke or reply with something witty. The notion that Ryder wanted me when we met is absurd.
The notion this is even being talked about is weird. And wrong.
We stay, standing close enough to breathe each other in, but there’s something more than just a foot of air between us. Feels like finality when it should be a beginning.
“Go home and get some sleep. I’ll see you back here at nine.”
I hold up the keys to his car. “Thanks again for this.”
“You should look at getting a car of your own now that you have income.”
