When another shoe hit the wall, Della got off her call and slid out of the banquette.
Enough already. Storming down the hall, she knocked on the door. “You doing okay, Diva?”
“Fine.” His gruff tone held a clear edge of Fuck off.
But she wasn’t intimidated. “How about a lunch break?”
“Not hungry.”
“Huh. ‘Cause you sound hangry to me.”
No response.
“Look, you’re obviously not accomplishing anything, so why not take a break? We can go to the aquarium.” Does Vegas even have one? “Oh, how about the Hoover Dam? I’ve never been there.”
“I can’t. I have to get it right for the show tonight.”
“Not to point out the obvious, but the song’s been this way the entire tour. It can be this way tonight. If you give your brain a break, you might get it right in time for the LA shows.”
He went quiet on her.
“Look, let’s go get some lunch. What about that diner your family used to go to? You can get pancakes, French toast, and the country breakfast.” She listened for a response. “And I’ll even let you get the waffles, too.”
Silence.
She pressed her ear to the door, and one second later, it opened. Just a crack.
Bex stood there in a rumpled T-shirt, messy hair, and enough scruff to make her want to run her fingers through it. And then he broke into a boyish smile. “Waffles?”
Her heart swelled to bursting. “Anything your heart desires.”
“I believe you. You seem like the kind of woman who’d make all of a man’s dreams come true.”
Heat blazed a trail from her earlobes all the way down to the soles of her feet.
What does that mean?
What the ever-loving-hell does that mean?
But then his expression shuttered again. “But I can’t go out while Van’s doing radio interviews. Thanks, though.” He shut the door.
“Fine.” Going back to the kitchen, she pulled some salads and drinks out of the fridge, found some snacks in the cupboard, and grabbed a sheet from the closet. Arms full, she kicked the door. “Open up.”
“In a minute.”
“If you don’t open the door right this minute, I’m going to hang a sign outside the bus that says Rock Star On Board. Come Party!”
The next thing she knew, the door flung open, and Bex stood there looking at the food in her arms. “What is all this?”
“Lunch.”
He relieved her of the bottles of sparkling lemonade. Just as he was about to set it all on the coffee table, she said, “Wait.” She spread the sheet out over it. “We’re having a picnic.”
When he didn’t argue, she glanced up to find him watching her with a delighted expression. He set the food down, and she went back for silverware and glasses. Then, they sat side by side on the couch and dug in.
She swiped a tortilla chip through the guacamole and stuffed the whole thing in her mouth.
“Hungry much?” he asked.
“Starving. And FYI, I’m not the kind of girl who’s self-conscious about eating in front of other people.” She loaded another chip. “Get in my mouth.” She noticed his notes on the floor and read them while she chewed. Huh. Every single line he’d crossed out shared one similar attribute. “You’re forcing a happy ending.”
“What?”
She gestured to the notebook. “The song. Maybe that’s why it’s not working for you. Maybe their story doesn’t end well.”
“You said that’s what you like about my songs. That they end ‘in triumph.’”
“Maybe the triumph is that they split up and find their true happiness with other people. The right people.”
“That’s not what the song’s about. They’re committed to each other.” He stopped eating, looking truly upset. “Why would you say that?”
“I don’t know. I guess it’s the way he describes her. It’s like he feels affection for her, but none of that tear your clothes off I have to have you kind of love.”
“That’s because they’ve known each other a long time. That kind of passion fades.”
“It’s a song. Your listeners want high emotions, high stakes. They want to feel something. In real life, couples might be pals. Maybe they marry because they’re compatible or they both want kids, and they’ve reached a certain age, but in songs or books or movies, who wants a boring couple like that? So, either make this couple volatile and interesting or break them up.”
“What’s your idea of interesting?”
“Well, conflict, right? They love each other, but they can’t be together…because she’s his brother’s girlfriend.”
“This isn’t a soap opera. That’s not what I write about.”
“Cool, but this song isn’t working. So give them a conflict. Maybe he loves her but he’s not in love with her anymore.”
“Maybe he never was.” Underneath the flatness of his tone, she heard an undercurrent of worry.
She stopped chewing to look at him. “That would change the entire song, but it could be really powerful. Realizing you’re not in love with someone, but you love them enough that ending the relationship will cost you something big. An important friendship, a connection to a family you’ve grown close to. She can be the one person in the world he wants to talk to, hang out with, and confide in, but not the woman he wants to fuck senseless.” She slapped her hand on the table. “That’s it. That’s the song. I love her, but my hands want to explore someone else’s body. I love her, but I ache for someone else.”
He dropped his fork and picked up the pencil. As he wrote furiously, she sat quietly eating her lunch, dying to know what he was writing, what he was thinking, but not wanting to disturb his flow.
The energy coming off him was electric. He was a true creative genius, and she got such a high off just being there while the ideas gushed out of him. It made her want to get her own notebook and start writing.
When he finished, he set the paper down and loaded his fork with salad. “Now, I’m hungry.”
She smiled, and while he ate, she filled him in on all the things she’d accomplished. He nodded, seeming pleased and relaxed. “Martin said he turned down the licensing deal for Tomorrow Again, and that the producer doubled his offer.”
“The designer uses child labor. He can’t use our song no matter how much he pays us.”
“That’s what Martin told him.”
Bex set his fork down and shifted back on the cushion. “I’m stuffed.” He smiled at her. “Let’s order dessert.”
“You never eat dessert.” She unconsciously reached to pat his taut belly but jerked her hand back. No more of that.
“Yeah, but I want lobster tails.”
“You just said you wanted dessert. Now you want seafood?”
“No, Carlos’s lobster tails are epic. They’re like cannoli, only it’s a flaky, sweet, crunchy pastry and a creamy filling. You’ll love them.”
“Okay, you’re triplets, right? You’re the third brother I haven’t met yet?”
He chuckled. “What, I can’t want dessert?”
“So, all it took to change your mood was editing a few words?”
“No, the right words.” He smiled so sweetly his dimples popped. “You did good. I couldn’t get it right because I was on the wrong track. I was stuck in a groove, and once you kicked me out of it, I could see it from a new perspective.”
“Are you going to show me what you wrote? Or do I have to be like every other googly-eyed fan in the world and hear it when Van sings it tonight?”
“Why, are you going to the show?”
“It’s Vegas. Of course, I’m going to the show. Come with me. You can wear one of your disguises.”
“They only work from a distance. When you’re sitting next to someone on the subway or standing in a crowd backstage, they start to wonder, and then it doesn’t take them long to figure it out.”
“Poor baby, stuck on a luxury bus on a world tour with the most famous rock band in the world. Sleeping all alone on his mattress stuffed with hundreds of millions of dollars.”
“Oh, okay.” He nodded like I got your number. “You’re one of those people who thinks money can buy happiness.”
“Um, pretty sure that’s why you got into this business to begin with.”
“You got me there.” Closing his eyes, he set his bare feet on the edge of the coffee table. “I think I need a nap now.”
“Okay, old man.”
“I do feel old sometimes.” He said it quietly.
“Well, before you nod off, can you play me the new song?”
He opened one eye. “What, give you a free acoustic performance?”
“I mean, I could pay you something.”
“You can’t afford me.”
“Not to hurt your feelings or anything, but you’re just the brother of a famous musician, and it’s kind of sad that you want to ride on his coattails. Tell you what, one day, after Van retires, I’ll help you book some piano bars, and you can bill yourself as a Van Claybourne tribute band.”
He laughed. “You’re a cold, cold woman.” Setting his feet on the floor, he reached for his guitar and started strumming. “How quickly they forget who writes his material.”
“Is it really about the song, though?” She loved teasing him. “Or the hottie who’s singing it?”
He shook his head, strumming, fighting a grin.
“You’re giving me credit on the liner notes, right? ‘Cause I want royalties.”
“I’ll pay you a consultant fee in the form of a lobster tail.” The melody changed, and she tried to place this acoustic version with one of the songs she knew so well, but this was one she’d never heard.
In fact, it wasn’t Van Claybourne’s style at all. She went quiet, listening. It was beautiful and so evocative a knot formed in her throat.
When he finished, every emotion his melody had conjured lingered in the air, like the hint of her mom’s perfume in her closet back home. “What was that?” Her voice came out a whisper.
“Did you like it?”
“I loved it. It was…It doesn’t even have words, and I felt more from it than any song I’ve ever heard. Did you write it just now?”
Instead of answering, he played another one. He sang of longing and loneliness, the dream of finding a home and the right person to share it with. The isolation of being surrounded by people but not having that one person who sees you for who you are.
When he finished, he drank right out of the bottle of lemonade, not once looking at her.
He still felt alone. For all his money and travels and the closeness of a twin brother, he still feels the same loneliness that every other human being on the planet feels.
“I got my boobs when I was eleven. And I went from being a kid to a sexpot over the course of one summer. Instead of people wanting to hang out with me because I was fun, they wanted to date me so they could touch my tits.”
She could tell that every fiber of his body was attuned to her, listening.
“And when I told you I had good intuition, that’s why. I became an expert on knowing a man’s intentions. And let me tell you, once you have a body like this, very few men want to get to know the real you. Other than Micky, you’re the only person who knows I write poetry. It’s not that I’m not ashamed of it. It’s that no one’s asked what I’m into.” Waves of sexual tension radiated between them. She didn’t doubt he wanted to reach out to her as much as she wanted him to just do it. Because connecting on this level emotionally required touch.
Fusion.
She watched as his hand curled into a fist and discreetly slid under his thigh.
She yearned for this man.
Wanted him beyond reason.
But something held him back, and she was pretty sure it had nothing to do with her job.
“So no one knows your song catalog better than I do.” She tried to lighten the mood. “And I’ve never heard either of those songs, so what gives? Is that new material for the next album? Are you going in a new direction?”
“Hell, no.”
“Then, what are they for?”
“Me.” He cut her a look. “And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone about them.”
“What do you mean? They’re beautiful songs.”
He hunched a shoulder. “They’re ballads.”
“And I guarantee, if you released them, they’d be a smash. Do you have more of them?”
He got up. “A few. But let’s keep it between us.” He started tidying up their lunch, dropping forks into one of the bowls and stacking the containers.
“I will. That’s a given. Everything we talk about stays between us but help me understand why it’s such a big deal. They’re beautiful songs.”
“They’re off-brand.” When he walked out of the room, she followed.
“Did the label reject them?”
“No one’s ever heard them but you.” When she jolted, and her eyes widened, he said, “That’s what I started with. Ballads.” He dumped the bowls and silverware in the sink.
“When you were a teenager, performing on the street?”
“Yep.”
Oh, God. Tell me that bully didn’t make fun of you. “Okay, so the kids didn’t just tease you for singing on Freemont. They made fun of your love songs?”
“Yes. But that’s not why I switched it up. Once my family was singing with me, we had to do bigger, livelier songs. It took a while before we found our voice. It was basically figuring out which songs got the best response.”
“Bex, I’m no record executive, but I’m a big music fan. I’m your listener, and I’m positive if you released these songs, you’d have fans crying and screaming. You guys would be the next generation of the Beatles.”
He tipped his head back and finished off the lemonade, tossing the bottle in the recycling bin. “What we’ve got works.”
“Only because you haven’t tried performing one of your ballads.”
“I did, remember? And it was all fun and games until kids from school walked by and started singing like their nuts were in a vise.”
“I hate what they did to you. I swear to God…I want to hunt those kids down.”
“They’re not worth it.”
“Are you kidding me? Imagine what direction you would’ve taken if they hadn’t done that.” But she didn’t want to dwell on what might have been. “Play me another one.”
His gaze dropped to the floor. “I don’t have any others.”
She burst out laughing.
“What?”
She gave him a gentle shove. “You totally just lied to me.”
He cracked a grin. Pinching two fingers together, he said, “A little one.”
“You have a treasure trove of ballads, don’t you?”
“How many notebooks full of poems do you have in your closet?”
She probably had a hundred of them. “You seriously have that many?” She couldn’t believe it. “That’s your true calling. That’s the music you should be playing. You, not Van.”
Grabbing his shoulders, she spun him around and marched him back into the lounge. She pushed him onto the couch and thrust the guitar at him. He scowled at her but started strumming anyway, and she sat down beside him.
How? Seriously, how did a melody make you feel so much? There were just some songs that grabbed the wheel and steered your emotions in whichever direction they wanted.
You’re amazing, she mouthed.
He smiled.
With each song he played, she fell a little deeper in…like with this man. It wasn’t just his talent—though that was a glowing, pulsing force within him. It was the way he nailed universal emotions. His kindness, his loyalty, his strength, and his vulnerabilities. She liked every single thing about him.
And right then, she knew she had to show him her words. Springing off the couch, she ran up to her bunk, pulled the notebook out from under her pillow, and brought it back to him.
He was just putting the guitar back in its case. “Oh, I thought I’d driven you away with my sappy drivel.”
“It’s not drivel, you goofball. It’s brilliant and beautiful. It’s magic.”
He tipped his chin to her book. “What’ve you got there?”
All that eagerness shriveled into a wad of fear. “Nothing. It’s stupid. I was just being impulsive.”
“That’s your poetry.” He flicked his fingers in a gimme motion.
“My poems are literally nothing like your lyrics. I have no idea why I wanted to get them.”
“Sure, you do. I was showing you a glimpse of me, and you want to show me you.” He grabbed her arm and tugged, making her drop onto the couch beside him. “Hey, I want to see more than your boobs, okay? Very much.”
She smiled, but the way he looked at her made her restless.
I would quit my job this second just to finally taste that sexy mouth.
With the hunger in his eyes, she knew she hadn’t been wrong last night.
This is real. This is potent.
And you know what? Fuck it.
Screw the money. Screw the job.
I’m going to do it.
I’m going to kiss him.
Because nothing mattered more than finally having the love she’d always dreamed of.
Cupping his jaw, she leaned in so close she could feel the gentle gust of lemonade-scented breath on her skin.
“Hello?” someone called. “Bex?” A swish of fabric came hustling down the hallway.
And then a woman wearing a frothy white wedding dress burst into the lounge. “Surprise. Guess who’s getting married tonight?”