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“Take you to bed,” he sighs, and if I could straddle him on his bike and fuck him right now just so I don’t lose this feeling, I would. But I want to savor every inch of him, to know he is mine and no one else’s. I want him in my bed, eyes focused on me when I fall apart around him.
I shake those thoughts from my mind so I can focus on him. “What do you want to do with your life?” I clarify.
He leans back in the booth, his long arms still reaching across the table. His thumb rubs circles on the top of my hand.
“You’re gonna think it’s stupid,” he answers, pulling away from me bashfully.
“I would not.” I grab his hand back, squeezing it tightly.
“There’s this old record store going out of business in Santa Monica that I’ve been thinking about buying.” He blushes, and I find it so fucking sexy.
“Wow.”
“See, I told you it was stupid,” he says, his shoulders slumping.
“No!” I exclaim, my eyes growing wide. “I just didn’t know that’s something you would want to do. I thought maybe you’d start your own band or join another. You’re so talented,” I reassure him.
“I think I’m done playing.” This time when he pulls away, he’s out of reach for me to bring him back.
“That would be a shame, Cash. You really are one of the best bassists I know.” He was worshiped by other bass players who wanted to emulate him. He knew how to let a song breathe and play it perfectly every time. Everyone thinks the front man drives the band, but it’s really the bassist, and Cash knew how to command every song right along with Jack.
“I just can’t imagine playing with anyone else,” he says sadly.
“You can talk about him. It’s okay. I mean, if you want to.”
Cash lets out a big breath. “I was only a good bassist because of him.” The thought makes me sad, because Cash doesn’t need Jack to be great. “There was something about the two of us playing together that brought out the best in me,” he says sadly.
“I’m sorry.” I was the one who took that away from him. It’s almost as if Jack is the sun that we all orbit around. I can’t seem to write anything without him, Cash can’t play bass with anyone else, and Wade has gone back to college, avoiding music altogether. It is incredible how one person has so much power over all of us.
“Let’s not go down that road just yet,” he warns, and I agree.
“I think you should buy it,” I say, changing the subject. I sit up straight and look at him with determination.
Cash gives me that beautiful smile of his, the one with the dimples and his incisors showing, making him seem so much younger than he is. We are only twenty-five, but it seems like we have lived a lifetime already.
“Yeah?” he asks, knitting his eyebrows together.
“Let’s go look at it tomorrow,” I say excitedly, wanting to know what he sees in this record store that is so special. “That’s if you want me to go with you?” I tone it down because I don’t want to infringe on his space. I don’t have a place by his side just yet.
“I’d really like that,” he replies, grabbing my hand and pressing a kiss to it. That one kiss means everything to me.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Get Over Yourself
“WHY DID YOU want to work with me anyway?” I ask Peter. We are working in the studio again today, determined to get this song finished. I have a headache and Peter looks like he needs a drink.
Peter sighs and runs his palm over his face. He slouches on the couch as if he’s defeated. His straight brown hair covers his ears, but I can see the faint metal of an earring hidden underneath. His Converse look as though he’s worn them every day for the last decade, the ends of the laces broken off.
It looks like he’s already lived a whole life, but he can’t be much older than me. In fact, the only thing about him that looks old is his blue eyes, the color somehow muted. Most musicians live a non-conformist life already, but sometimes, looking at Peter is like looking in a mirror. He has lost something that he cannot get back.
That missing piece is what makes us good musicians.
“I heard you,” Peter says, crossing his arms over his chest as I study him. “That day in the studio when me and the band busted in on you.” How could I forget that? “I heard you,” he emphasizes, as if what he’s saying is somehow significant.
I soften my expression, remembering the song I was working on when Peter and his band raided my studio.
“I didn’t know who it was but I needed to see, ya know? Then when I opened the door and it was you, well…” he pauses.
