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“I’m calling victory on that.” Aspen leaned forward and spoke into the stationary mic as Callan slumped in his chair. He’d been singing and tinkering with the notes and the words for about an hour. “What do you think, Cal?”
“Yeah. Good session.” His voice was gravelly, like it was strained or crowded with emotion.
I stopped staring at the tablet I’d pulled out so I could put some finishing touches on the album cover. Watching him record stirred something more in me than just my heart. My brain pulsed with the need to artistically capture Callan’s essence. I was aware that James and Aspen had mainly focused on their work, but knew they’d been sending curious glances toward the tablet. But I wasn’t ready to share anything just yet, so I kept the screen angled away from them.
Callan rested his palms on his knees and the muscles in his back strained the cotton of his shirt as he breathed deeply, in then out. And again. He pushed to his feet without turning around. Aspen tugged off her headphones and set them on a stand to her right. She pressed a button with her left hand and all the lights on the board went dark.
James dragged his headphones down around his neck, then reached for a clipboard that dangled from a hook between him and Aspen. He clicked the mechanical pencil he held a couple times until the lead protruded just enough. With a gaze that shifted between the clipboard and the sound board, he jotted notes on the diagram on the paper.
Not knowing what to do at this point, I rested my hands in my lap. Callan still hadn’t turned around. But he’d dug into his pocket and pulled out his cellphone. His fingers sped over the letters, with more urgency than they’d danced over the piano’s keyboard.
“Aw, damn,” Aspen breathed.
She nudged James’ forearm and his head snapped up. A frown pulled his brows together and his lips down.
“What? What’d I miss?” I asked.
“Uh…nothing.” James’ reply was gruff.
I was distracted by the notification of an incoming text on my watch. Ignoring it, as I had for the six other alerts that had come in since Callan started recording, I looked toward Aspen with my brow lifted. We’d been sitting in a tight line for over an hour, and I thought we were well enough acquainted that she should be honest with me.
Guess she disagreed. “Catie, why don’t you, uh…step into the booth and give Callan a bottle of water. James, maybe you can get lunch ready.” Aspen issued orders like a general, all the while her concerned gaze remained on Callan’s back.
Puzzled by the sudden shift in tension in the room, I rose from my seat and picked up a plastic bottle of water, but my step faltered as Callan shoved the phone back into his pocket, then wrapped his hand around his neck. His shoulders slumped and his head dipped low between his shoulders. Even from my location on the other side of the thick glass, I noted the whitening of his knuckles as he dug into his neck.
I swung my gaze to Aspen and James. “Is he okay?”
“He will be.” James tapped my shoulder as he passed behind me on his way to the studio door.
Aspen busied herself with tidying up the board. “Just another part of the ritual.” She didn’t—wouldn’t—look at me.
Shaking my head, I reached for the booth’s door and yanked it open. Quietly, not wanting to startle him, I approached Callan. Stepping up behind him, I set the bottle on a coaster, then lifted my hands to his shoulders and started to massage.
With a quiet groan, he leaned back into me. “That’s so good, Catie-belle.”
I rested my cheek on his shoulder blade. “That was so beautiful. Thanks for letting me watch.” I kept my voice soft, but the way he relaxed, I knew he’d heard me.
He dropped back onto the stool, making it easier for me to continue working my fingers into the knots of muscle. “Since I wrote the song for you, I’m glad you were here for the recording.” He rolled his shoulders under my touch.
I dropped my hands to his spine and started scratching lightly. Up and down, over his shoulder blades and along his toned lats. He moaned softly as I moved my hands in silence.
He released a massive sigh, rounded his back, and swiped one hand under his eyes. He sniffed, keeping his head bowed.
Something came over me, a need to offer comfort for something I didn’t understand. I refused to stop to think about what I was doing, I simply leaned over his back and wound my arms around his upper chest. Then put my face right at the spot where his shirt collar met his neck, and I kissed him.
Callan laid both palms over my forearms and held me in place, sharing the quiet moment. He tipped his head away, exposing more of his flesh and I pressed my lips on him again, this time, touching my tongue to the salty skin. He smelled so damn good. Like sage and woodsmoke.
While I lingered there, he moved one hand on my head and threaded his fingers into my hair.
The speaker on the wall squawked. “Uh… Hey. James has lunch ready. Come on up when you, uh…finish up.” I swear Aspen was chuckling. “Catie, thanks for bringing those cookies. I’m going to eat dessert first.”
Cheeks heated, I started to straighten, but Callan squeezed my arm. There was a smile in his voice when he said, “You know they say life is short, eat dessert first.”
“Hell, Cal,” came her reply, “I need to eat them first because otherwise Sweet Tooth James will gobble them all down. Better hurry before he makes them vanish.”
The light in the control room went out, leaving just the booth’s dimmed overhead light and the glow of the piano lamp to create a cozy intimacy.
Still holding my arms in place around his shoulders, Callan swiveled his chair, dropping a hand to my hip. He nudged me onto his lap and enveloped me in a hug.
