Heartthrob Hotel Collection, page 48
I raise a finger to argue. “Yeah, but you wrote Pure Blue on Harmony,” I point out.
“I did. Along with Power Play and Save Me and Holler at the Back and…” He sinks into a thousand-yard stare. “Good god, that woman brought me to life.”
“The mistake you made with Harmony was not keeping it professional,” I say. “I can keep this professional.”
“Should I call Harmony?” he asks us. “I feel like I should call her.”
“Don’t call her,” Bronson says, using the best possible moment to hit his three-words-a-minute limit.
Knox shakes off the disappointment and turns back to me. “Wait, keep this professional? You’re already working together?”
“Kind of,” I answer. “I have formally extended an invite. I expect her to give me an answer tonight.”
I turn around to check the entrance again. Still no Marla.
“You must have already written a song on her if she’s got an invite,” he says.
I nod. “As a matter of fact, I have.”
“Well, let’s hear it.”
I reach into my pocket and withdraw my phone. “Now, it’s still rough in spots, but…”
I set it down face up in the center of the table and hit play. Unique Utopia starts up, quiet, melodic chords echoing over top of one another.
Knox tilts his head in that way it always does when he listens to new music. It’s never a decent indicator for whether he likes it or not, so I just sit back and wait through the first two verses.
Bronson nudges my arm and gives me a thumbs up.
“It’s different,” Knox finally says.
“It is,” I agree.
“But good. Damn good.”
“Thank you.”
“You should definitely play this at the meeting on Friday,” he says. “Addison will play anything, but Katrina will surely hate it. She’s picky but… easily persuaded.”
Bronson nods in silent agreement.
I hesitate as a rumble fills my gut. “I’ll think about it.”
“Either way,” Knox grabs his drink, “I’m officially looking forward to what you and Harmony 2.0 come up with next.”
“Marla,” I say. “Her name is Marla.”
I twist around out of habit again and scan the bar entrance for that red hair.
And I find it.
Marla sits at the bar near the center with what looks like a rum and coke nestled between her hands. My eyes drift down to her loose denim jacket and stylish black pants, a very different look that I haven’t seen on her before. She throws her head back and laughs, shaking around an adorable messy ponytail I’m sure took several minutes to achieve.
I crane my neck to see who she’s talking to and there’s Doc the bartender leaning in close with his tatted-up, sinewy forearms on full display along with a big, white, toothy grin.
I pat Bronson on the shoulder. He scoots over to give me space to leave. “I’ll be right back,” I tell the table as I slide out of it.
I quickly head toward the bar, trying to consciously make it look less like a full-on panicked beeline and more like a casual stroll.
“I’m telling you, it’s true,” I overhear Doc say.
“I’m telling you, you’re full of it,” Marla replies.
“Well, we’ll see.”
“I’m sure we will.”
I sidle in beside her and set my empty bottle on the table. “Hey, Doc, can we get another round?” I ask, casually butting in.
He nods. “You got it, Jo.”
I pretend to see Marla for the first time. “Oh, hi there!” I greet.
“Hello,” she says, her laugh still lingering in her mouth.
“I didn’t see you. Did you see me?”
She nods, peeking over my shoulder toward our table. “I did. Yeah.”
“Why didn’t you come over?” I ask.
Her ponytail shakes with a nervous laugh. “I see Jonah Botsford, Knox Benton, and Bronson Isaacs sitting around a table… and you expect me to come say hi without liquid courage first?”
I sigh. “You know, you’re right. You’re totally right. I’m sorry. Sometimes I forget how intimidating we can be.”
She shrugs as Doc returns with three fresh beer bottles. “It’s all right. Gave me a chance to catch up with Doc for a while.”
He flashes me a wink and I squint.
“Oh, yeah?” I ask. “What were you talking about?”
“Nothing important,” Doc says. “Right, Marla?”
“Right,” she says, smiling at him. “Very mundane.”
“Didn’t look very mundane,” I say.
“Well, it was.” Doc tosses a dishrag onto his shoulder. “Excuse me.”
“Bye, Doc,” Marla says, casting him off with a wave.
I study her as she takes a sip with her straw, tight lips pursing between two bright pink cheeks. “Hey, so, have you given any thought to what we talked about before?” I ask her.
Marla swallows hard. “Uh…” She chuckles. “It’s kind of the only thing I’ve thought about today.”
I smile. “Really?”
“Yeah, I can’t say my classes often get interrupted by rock gods who want to partner up with me.”
“Oh, come on. That’s not that rare,” I joke.
She smiles weakly. “I’d have no idea what I’m doing.”
“You’ll learn.”
“And my schedule is hectic, to say the least.”
“We’ll make time.”
“And…” She sighs.
“What?” I ask.
Marla pauses to scratch behind her ear. “I want you to promise to not make fun of me or laugh at me or anything like that if I suck.”
“Ditto,” I say. “I have feelings, too, ya know.”
Her dimples show as she smiles. “Okay, then.”
“Okay?” I repeat.
“Okay.”
“That’s a yes? You’ll work with me?”
“Yes,” she says. “I will try and work with you.”
I raise my bottle, gesturing for her to the same and she picks up her highball glass. They barely tink together, creating a dull, unmemorable sound but I don’t think that matters right now.
“Come on,” I tell her. “I’ll introduce you to the guys, we’ll shoot the shit for a bit, and then we’ll go upstairs.”
She blinks twice. “Upstairs?”
I nod. “Yeah. We’re starting tonight.”
“Tonight?” she parrots back, still firmly on her stool. “We’re starting tonight? Upstairs — in your room?”
“Is that okay?”
Marla hesitates, each second adding another blush of color to her cheeks. “No, that’s fine, fine,” she sputters out. “I’m fine with that.”
I catch myself starting to look down her short legs to her cute slip-on sandals. With any other girl, I’m sure I’d pick up one of the fines from her sentence and turn it against her. Maybe tell her she’s more than a little fine or some clichéd bullshit to hint at something more than small talk.
I stop myself.
I didn’t ask Marla here for that. I asked her here to help me lock into a headspace that seemed so far out of reach until recently.
She’s my muse. Nothing more.
I can keep this professional.
Easy.
I was never worried about Knox and Bronson disliking Marla.
It’s always a possibility when one of us introduces new blood to the band. Friends, lovers, even family members can throw a wrench into a decade of partnership (the aforementioned Harmony being a notable highlight) but I knew the second I got Marla to the table she’d work her ego-stroking fangirl magic and the boys would be puddles within seconds.
Addison and Katrina, however…
They’re a little harder to please.
Baby steps.
Tonight, the one I was worried about was her.
Shy, timid Marla Gorchinsky.
But once she got that liquid courage in her, her shoulders relaxed. Her words came faster. She started to seem more and more like the fun girl she dressed up as.
Makes me wonder how much of the Marla iceberg she’s let me see so far.
With hair like fire
and eyes like rain,
she’s cold as ice…
I reach into my back pocket for my notebook.
Knox sets his fourth — or was it fifth? — empty bottle down and stretches his arms over his head. “Well, I’m good and sloshed. I’m gonna go find me that blonde.”
I laugh as I quickly jot my thoughts down. “And sometime between now and the morning, you should ask her for her name. Pro tip.”
He flattens both hands on the table to steady himself as he stands. “That’s why I like you, Jo.” He points at me and talks to Marla. “This guy’s gotten me more tail than… something with a lot of tail.”
Marla smiles. “Yeah, I can see why you’d need some help with that.”
My jaw drops and Bronson cracks up. “Ohhhh!” I say. “Shit.”
Knox bows with respect. “Well, you got me there, Marla.” He points dual finger guns and smiles. “I’ll pay next time. See you kids later.”
I point a gun right back. “Have fun, Knox. Remember to wrap it.”
“And there he goes again.” He pats my shoulder as he walks off. “Keeping me safe.”
I shake my head at Marla. She chuckles softly. “Hey, Bronson,” I say at him. “You sticking around here for a while?”
He eyes the gaggle of new ladies spilling in from the lobby. “I think so,” he says.
“All right.” I laugh and look back at Marla. “You wanna head upstairs?” I ask her.
Her face falls an inch, but she nods quickly. “Sure,” she says.
10
Marla
Jonah swipes his keycard and the door unlocks. He steps inside and holds the door open for me, making a wide, swooping motion with his arm to tempt me inside. “Come on in,” he says.
I linger in the open doorway, my feet digging into the blue and gold carpet.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I answer. “I just... realized that I’ve never actually been in a suite here before.”
He tilts his head in surprise. “Really?”
“Well, I worked the desk, so I knew what was in here — amenities and whatnot — but... I just never got the opportunity to step inside…”
Jonah smiles and holds the door open wider for me. He waits silently, the curls of his smile digging into his cheeks as he watches me.
I take several steps inside and pause. “Hmm...”
“What?” he asks.
“Thought it’d smell differently,” I joke. “Like caviar or Chardonnay.”
“I can order up one of each if you don’t feel fancy enough,” he offers, still grinning.
“No, thank you.”
He laughs and opens the closet by the door to hang up his jacket. “Feel free to snoop wherever. I’ve got nothing to hide.”
“Awesome.” I let my wandering eyes take in my new surroundings. From the bright lamps to the stocked mini-fridge to the jacuzzi tub in the bathroom.
So, this is what life is like for a Botsford on a daily basis. Must be nice.
My gaze falls to the giant bed and I instantly gasp.
“What?” Jonah asks somewhere behind me.
I step closer, not daring to go too close as I admire the abused neck and vicious curves and smooth wood. “That’s your guitar,” I say.
He stops beside me and nods. “Yeah. It is.”
I twitch slightly as he gives me the look I’ve been dreading since we started hanging out together and he saw me for what I really am...
A crazy fangirl.
“Can I...” My voice falls as I try to hold myself together. “I mean, could I just... can I touch it?”
Jonah bites his cheek to smother his laugh. “I’ll do you one better. How about you hold it?”
My eyes widen. “Can I?”
He bends over and grips it by the neck. “Go ahead,” he says, offering it to me.
I shudder from head-to-toe. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” He extends it closer. “Take it.”
I blink twice and stare at the guitar for a moment before reaching out a quivering hand.
Jonah pulls it back. “You know what?” he says quickly. “How about you sit down first?”
“Okay.” I shift a step back and lower down to the edge of the bed. “That’s a good idea, actually...”
He steps forward, bridging the short gap to stand above me. “Two hands,” he warns, his voice playful but still very serious.
I present both palms, fingers still shaking. “Got it,” I say.
“Ready?” he asks.
“I’m ready.”
“You sure?”
I laugh. “Yes!”
“All right...”
Jonah slowly hands me the guitar, keeping a tight grip on it until we’re both sure I’ve got it. I carefully rest it face up on my lap and admire the gentle imperfections from years of play.
“Wow,” I whisper. “Jonah Botsford’s guitar. He wrote Down Down Baby on this thing,” I murmur.
“I know. I was there.”
I look up and cringe at myself. “Right. You. You wrote Down Down Baby on this thing.”
Jonah takes a knee in front of me and looks up through the spiky tips of his bangs pressed down by his navy-blue beanie. I hesitate to look back, knowing his expression has certainly morphed to judgment by now, but I can’t help myself. I look at him and he silently smiles through a nervous gaze.
“What?” I ask, equally as uneasy.
He inhales. “I’m about to show you something,” he says.
“Okay...”
“I’ve never shown it to anybody before.”
I swallow hard. “Uh...”
“Are you ready?”
“Nope.”
Jonah laughs and reaches behind him. He pulls his notebook from his pocket, the one I noticed him scribbling in throughout the evening, and holds it out to me. “Here,” he says.
I slowly shift the guitar off my lap and abandon it on the bed behind me. “What is it?” I ask as I slowly take the notebook. It doesn’t seem very old, but it’s heavily used and practically falling apart. I hold it loosely, scared to make it worse.
“It’s my idea book,” Jonah answers. “Or... something. I’m not sure what else to call it.”
“And... you want me to read it?”
“Honestly, no. Not really,” he says. “But I just feel like you should.”
I nod before slowly flipping the cover and scanning the first page. It’s dated with a day back in February with lines of words I can barely read but I make out a few with a similar, punchy structure.
“Song lyrics?” I ask.
Jonah stands up and paces the carpet by the window. “Attempts at them,” he says. “I have dozens of notebooks just like it in a box at home. It usually takes less than a few weeks to fill one cover-to-cover but this one...”
“Eight months,” I say with a nod.
“Exactly.”
I turn the pages, doing my best not to disturb them with rips or skin oils. Most pages contain crossed-out lines and doodles. Others have lyrics I recognize from old songs, perhaps from some attempt to kickstart his creative energy with words he already knew by heart. March passes. April. May. The summer months on tour. One long, seemingly endless drought until autumn. Until two days ago.
Now, the pages are completely filled from top-to-bottom, starting with one bolded word written in all caps.
UTOPIA.
“Wow,” I say, peeling my eyes up to Jonah again. He’s standing still now with one shoulder slunk against the window and his stare directed at the streets below. “You got Unique Utopia from that one conversation with me?” I ask.
Jonah nods. “That’s never happened to me before.”
“And you think that if we hang out more, it’ll keep happening?”
He pushes off the window. “That’s the theory.”
I squint. “Seems… plausible, I guess.”
He grabs the chair by the writing desk and sets it down in front of me. I quickly realize that I’m barely breathing as he sits down, our knees just inches away from touching.
“Guitar, please,” he asks, extending his hand.
I twist to grab it, carefully clutching the neck and body as I hand it to him again. “So, how does this work?”
“Well…” Jonah balances the guitar on his knees, “when you pluck the strings, it makes a sound. Like this.” He strums a chord, smirking at me.
I scoff. “I meant writing a song.”
“I know,” he says with a laugh.
“Do you start with a title?” I ask. “A lyric? A chorus? Or do you write the music first and put words to it later?”
“All of the above, honestly,” he answers. “There’s no wrong way to do it. Knox, for instance, usually figures out a rhythm first. I’m more a words first kind of guy.”
I pick up the notebook. “Hence this thing.”
“Exactly. My songs come from images, feelings, that sort of stuff.”
I scan the top page again. “This sounds hard,” I say.
He smiles. “It can be.”
“Like… how do you know which image or feeling to chase?”
“Welcome to the struggle.” He chuckles. “Sometimes Jordan will tell us to do more love songs and that narrows down the creative pool a bit, which can be helpful. Restrictions aren’t always a bad thing.”
“Should we do that then?” I ask.
“A love song?”
I swallow hard. “I meant… narrow the pool. Not specifically a love song, but if you had ideas for one then I don’t see why not…”
Jonah sits still. His eyes study mine as his fingers lightly brush along his strings. The rest of his body doesn’t move an inch and I begin to wonder if someone hit the pause button on our world.
I shift slightly. “Jo?” I ask.
“Why not,” he murmurs.
“What?”
“Say that again.”
