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"With a guitar in my lap."
He snaps a photo. "I bet you wish your hands were on something else."
Dammit, I do. I say nothing. I shoot the camera another glare. Then a smile.
He snaps both. "That's the caption. I wish those hands were somewhere else. Or is it too suggestive?"
"No. It's perfect. Did you get it?"
He nods. "Let's do one more."
"I'm not taking my top off."
He smiles, but I can't tell if it's a smirk of superiority or genuine delight. "A kiss. Like you said."
Right. A kiss. Sure. I can fake kiss him again. No. Problem. "Right here, maybe."
"Who's going to take the picture then?"
"Set a timer."
He nods sure and sets the phone on the desk. "Thirty seconds." He angles the phone so it's looking at me, then he moves to the bed.
He drops to his knees, right between my legs.
He's in just the right spot to touch me properly. I can already imagine his sassy reply too. I didn't say where I'd kiss you, baby. Only, in my head, it's not annoying. It's hot as fuck.
It is too hot in here. And then his hand curls around my thigh and I'm on fire. The denim is too thin. I can feel too much of his palm. I can feel the calluses on his fingertips.
What would those feel like on me?
Shit.
"How's this?" He looks up at me.
"Maybe a little too much." For me to handle. And a little too obvious. Like my siblings said. We want to look sincere.
He nods and pushes to his feet. This time, he sits next to me on the bed.
His leg brushes mine. His hand goes to my cheek.
Damon looks me in the eyes as he pulls me into a soft, slow kiss. There's the light hint of his lips. Then something firmer, deeper.
My lips part.
His tongue slides between them.
He kisses me like he means it, like he's going to die if he can't kiss me forever.
Then the camera clicks and he pulls back like it was nothing.
Maybe it was. No. It is. This is pretend. The songwriting is the part that's real.
He moves off the bed to grab his phone. I feel the loss of heat, the shift of weight. I want more. I want him here with me. That's dangerous. Too dangerous.
He checks the photos and asks for my approval. They look great. We look madly in love.
I nod.
He posts.
And then he sets his phone down and it's just us and the music.
All of it is strangely familiar. We were here so many times when we were kids. It started when we were so young that no one thought twice about us in the same bed. Then we got older and something changed for me. I thought it changed for him, but I don't know anymore.
He must have felt that kiss too.
No. I push the thought aside. I focus on the room. The same posters of nineties bands. The same white sheets. The same bookshelf of paperbacks.
And Damon, leaning against his desk, dissolving into that space where there's nothing but him and the music.
He's too attractive here. Way too attractive. Which is why I need to focus on the song. Only the song.
"Do you want to start with the first song? The one with the college rock vibe?" I move off the bed to grab my notebook from my purse.
He returns to his spot next to his guitar. "Perfect."
There are a lot of ways to write a song. Some people start with music, some start with lyrics, some create both at the same time. We're using a variation on the factory style, crafting the parts separately, combining them into a fun pop song.
Unlike the factory model, we're not tossing out three songs a day, pitching them to whichever artist we think fits. Instead, we're going to work to intertwine the two parts of the song to make sure they melt together and fit Bryce and his producer's vision.
"It's your kinda thing," Damon says. "Pop layered onto rock and sadness." He doesn't wait for a response. He starts playing.
A fast-paced intro, straight into a melodic chorus, and a verse with a rock-inspired sound. I don't have the talent he does. I can't imagine the details of the bass and drums. But I can sense the feeling.
It is the perfect hint of rock. Enough to help Bryce stand out in a sea of hip-hop and EDM-inspired pop music. Enough to give him a little edge. So all the girls and boys who adore him see him as a rebel.
Words flit through my head. Possibilities for the chorus. It's a little short for the song that fits the best, but I can make it work.
I pull my notebook from my bag, and I scribble a few words. "Play that again."
"You can sit next to me, Cass. I won't bite. Not unless you ask."
