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He grunted. “You’ll do.”
“Don’t think I’m not aware that you like me a teensy little bit. You’d have otherwise thrown something at my head by now.”
“Almost did a time or two.”
“I don’t doubt it.” In the orangery, I retook my spot on the sofa and picked up my guitar.
He sank onto the nearby armchair. “Thought you’d finished your album.”
“I did. But I came up with a melody last night while I was trying to fall asleep.” Sometimes it happened like that. A tune would pop into my head out of nowhere. “I’vealmostmastered it. This part is annoying me, though.” I strummed my fingers over the strings as I played the melody. “These few notes just feel … out of place,” I added, replaying a small segment.
He leaned forward. “Hand it over.”
Man, I couldn’t help but find it amusing when he threw out these imperious demands worthy of any royal. I carefully passed him the instrument, and my inner teenager squealed becausegahKaiser Wolfe was touching my guitar. She really needed to get over herself.
Positioning it on his lap just right, he said, “How about this?” He strummed out a few notes.
I sat up straight. “NowthatI like.”
We sat there for almost an hour playing, tinkering, debating. It was … amazing. Exhilarating.Definitelyan all-time favorite moment that I’d always treasure.
The joy didn’t come from merely playing with someone of his talent, it came from playing with Kaiser specifically. We weren’t quite collaborating on a project—a dream I’d harbored when I was younger—but it was close enough to count for me.
He slanted his head. “Do you write all your own songs?”
“Yep. You?” I asked, though I already knew the answer was yes—I’d learned that from an interview I’d watched as an infatuated teen in my quest to unearth anything I could about him. To my frustration, he’d always been vague about so many things.
His response was a short nod. “When did you learn to play the guitar?”
“A son of one of Judy’s old friends gave me lessons when I was eleven. Judy bought me my first guitar. She probably regretted it when she had to constantly listen to me play. I could only practice at her place.”
“Why?”
“My dad wouldn’t let me play it at home, he …” I trailed off, not a fan of this subject.
Kaiser’s eyes sharpened. “What?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
He poked the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “I’ll ask you a question. You’ll ask me a question. We’ll keep going until someone cries foul.”
Remembering I’d once proposed that same game, I felt my mouth curve. This was another thing he did nowadays—ask me blatantly nosy questions like it was nothing. Not willing to waste the opportunity to learn more personal stuff about him, I acquiesced, “Fine.”
“What did he have against guitars?”
“Nothing. He just didn’t like it if I was good at something. Jerry Rafferty has to be the most talented person in the room.” He had an aptitude for music and was a damn good piano player, but not quite as incredible as he claimed to be. And he knew it. “If he feels that someone outshines him, he loathes them on principle.”
“And he loathed you?”
I gave a slow nod. Judy had assured me time and time again throughout my childhood that the problem wasn’tmebut Jerry; that he’d seen the ‘light’ I carried and simply couldn’t handle how bright it glowed. “You once said that you had a nomadic childhood. Did you like or hate it?”
“It was no adventure, because it was hard to relax.” He tapped his fingers on the armrest. “Was your father abusive?”
I debated on whether to call him on how he hadn’texactlyanswered my question. Deciding I’d let him get away with it just once, I replied, “Mostly, he just tried to box me in with his many rules. All were unrealistic and to be obeyed without question. There was no room for self-expression in that house. You were to be neither seen nor heard. But he’s not strong and scary. He’s a typical bully—all bluster, only hurts those he considers weaker.”
A muscle in Kaiser’s cheek popped. “He hurt you?”
I swallowed. “Only once. Generally, he was content with just criticizing me—my looks, my weight, my clothes, my eatinghabits, my hair, even my voice. Nothing about me was ever good enough for him. He tried to make me believe thatIwasn’t good enough. And maybe it would have worked if I hadn’t had my grandmother always saying the opposite.”
