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When I turn around, I find him standing near the door, watching me. Faded jeans hang low and hug his pelvis. I can almost smell the soft leather encasing his upper body. His windswept blonde hair is slicked back, a pair of sunglasses pushed to the top of his head. I know I’m staring but I can’t help it.
“Hey.” The sound of his voice pierces the silence of the studio. He looks like a young Steve McQueen, full of danger and sizzling with potential. His sweet face contradicts his sinful body, and his hands slay not only a guitar, but me.
“Hey.” I distract myself by gathering up my things and stuffing them in my backpack.
Cash walks purposefully towards me and then wraps me in his arms. I press my forehead to his chest and inhale the smell of gasoline and old leather. I sink into him and sigh, releasing the tension that’s been building all day.
“Emotional day?” he whispers into my hair.
If anyone understands what it’s like to write songs without actually writing themselves, it’s Cash. He had a front-row seat to the Jack and Mia show when we were writing for Mogo. I know that wasn’t always easy on him, but he understood, just like he does now.
Peter left a while ago, but I couldn’t seem to leave the studio. There are ghosts in this space and in my head that haunt me, and I can’t seem to exorcise them. Writing in my journal feels as if I am pulling these ghosts from my body and trapping them between the pages… and it’s exhausting.
I shake my head against him. “Writing brings up a lot of shit.”
He lays his hand on my head and smooths my hair, the action soothing.
“Want to talk about it?” His breath causes a few tendrils of my hair to tickle my nose.
I hesitate to tell Cash how I’m feeling because I don’t want to bring up a delicate subject, but the emotional baggage Peter is pouring into his songs hit too close to home. I have found myself thinking about Jack lately and how alone he must be without us, even if he acts like he doesn’t. I know how I felt after the band broke up and what a bad place I was in. Whether he deserves to be alone is debatable, but he is a hard person to truly hate. Even though Cash is angry and hurt, I have to believe he still loves him, just as I do.
“I worry about him.” I pull away from his chest so I can see what’s going on behind his eyes. The stormy grey’s only look back at me with sympathy. We both know what it’s like to love someone with an addiction.
“Peter?” Cash asks, and everything in me is screaming Jack’s name… but I can’t bring myself to say it. With a forced nod, I pull the mask over my face once again and turn away from Cash to finish packing my bag.
“If it gets to be too much, I’m sure Bret would understand if you need to step away.” I can feel Cash’s hands on my shoulders, his fingers pressing into my tight muscles and it feels so damn good.
“I’ll be okay,” I tell him, because I will be. I always am.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Underground Records
“ARE YOU SURE you know what you’re doing?” Cash asks with a skeptical eye as I set up my paints.
“If you don’t like it, you can just paint over it,” I tell him, offended.
Behind the cash register there is a blank wall that is begging to be painted, and I’ve had my heart set on making something beautiful. I have this image in my mind of the ocean, but more abstract. I’ve always loved Monet and how you can look at his painting close up and only see splotches of color, but as you pan outward you start to see the shapes and figures come to life.
Cash is sweeping up the open floor of the showroom after opening boxes and making a mess. The record store is just a small space, but I can see the potential to put out a full drum set, hang some guitars on the walls, and have enough space for record bins.
I open the paints and line them up on the counter. I take one of the canisters with me and place it on the shelf of the ladder. I’ve already rolled out the wall in blue, and now I just have to add all of the details. When I start painting the waves, I feel fingers skim over my ankle and up to my thigh.
I giggle and shake my leg as I look down at Cash. “You’re going to make me mess up.”
He smiles up at me. “I can’t help it. You look too sexy in those overalls.”
I peer down at my oversized jean short overalls and white tank top. My hair is up in a messy bun and there are paint splotches all over my clothes.
“I look like a crazy Pablo Picasso,” I joke.
He presses a kiss to my calf, causing goosebumps to travel up my leg.
“A sexy Pablo Picasso,” he murmurs against my leg.
“Do you want the mural to look horrible?” I shake him off my leg, jokingly.
He puts his hands up in surrender and backs away. I take my paintbrush and dip it in the can, attempting to start on a different section so I step to a lower rung. I feel a hand on my thigh again, this time dangerously close to the edge of my panties.
