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Clearly, Z’s stressed about my presence here. No one has accused me of being considerate. Hell, I’ve always been able to do what I please without much consequence. Not that I’ve ever done anything bad.
“Um, just over a month. I tend to roam otherwise,” he says, ruffling the hair over his forehead.
I nod, hoping to appear nonchalant when I just want this tightness between my lungs to go away. More than that, I don’t want to see him embarrassed.
Turning to his desk, I leap at the opportunity to sweep up both guitars.Music is safe. We don’t even need to talk.
I bring them over to the couch, holding out his acoustic guitar while I keep his black Stratocaster, more in line with what I’m used to playing on stage.
Z’s clenched muscles visibly uncoil. He wanders over and rests his guitar on his lap. With his timid gaze on me, I take the lead and begin to play. My pulse quickens as he matches my chords effortlessly. Our musical union is everything I believed it would be. A dream I don’t want to wake from.
I break away from the melody we’ve created, letting my fingers dance across the fret in show. It’s an energetic riff, powered by my determination to take on the weight of his wounded spirit and lift it up and up. I want to hang it from the stars where it belongs. He sang about wings the other night, and I want to show him what it’s like to soar.
Peeking up at him, I can’t contain my toothy smile. There’s a spark in his pale eyes. Oh yeah, he’s feeling this chemistry, too. I’ve played with hundreds of musicians over the years. Heard plenty more during our climb to fame.
None hold a candle to Z’s ability to draw out emotion. He pours everything into his performance. His fingers move fluidly, plucking and sliding and bending. The little sway of his head and the way his eyelids grow heavy have me in a trance.
You’re beautiful,the words play on my lips. I clench my jaw tight to keep them locked away.
We fall back into sync, and then Z’s the one to take me for a journey, drawing me into a slow, swampy, chugging tune with roots in old country.
My laugh is breathy. “See? We could be so good together.”
He flushes, head dipping to hide his features. The moment hits me all at once, like a camera zooming into a set. Us alone in his house. How close we’ve positioned ourselves on the couch. His knee pressed against mine. My heart beating out of rhythm as if I just finished a two-hour performance.
Rising first, I drift into the small room where I found his instruments. As I prop his Stratocaster against the wall, I take in the unorganized chaos. Strewn, wrinkled paper, bits of eraser and pencil shavings. There are divots carved down to the particle board in his desk by what looks like fingernails.
My stomach churns as Z sneaks by me to gather up the papers before I can decipher the scribbled writings. “Those aren’t… finished,” he says, pain embedded in his words.
Leaning back against the wall, I tuck my hands in my pockets to keep from touching anything else. Mostly him. I turn my solemn gaze to him. “I’m sure they’re all perfect.”
His wide eyes meet mine. Languidly, he takes in my features, lingering on my mouth as his throat bobs.Definitely interest there.
But the flicker of panic on his face warns me against crossing that line. I shove down the urge to take him into my arms and comfort him. I’m willing to take this slow. Take our time figuring out whatever the fuck is happening between us, because I don’t think I’ve ever felt this consumed by anyone before.
He blows out a soft breath before slipping out of the room, breaking the charged tension between us. Suddenly, I’m overwhelmed by the sense that I’m encroaching on his solitude.
Bones leaden with disappointment, I head for the front door. “I’ll leave you to get ready for your show. You have my number. Call or text if you decide you’re interested in working together or want to go out and get another tea while I’m still in town.”
Granting myself one more glance back at him, I catch him tugging on the ends of his sweater sleeves. He nods, and it takes every fiber of my will to leave him alone.
Why do I have the sinking feeling I’m never going to see him again?
Six
Z
I’mmorethanalittle distracted on stage.
Not just because of the whirlwind of an afternoon I just experienced—I haven’t processed any of that beyond scouring the internet to make sure pictures from the cafe where Hail Koval held my hand didn’t make headlines.
That’s the last thing he needs in the prime of his fame. To be outed publicly, regardless of where his romantic preferences actually lie. Worse, to be spotted engaging with someone like me. There would be another attempt to uncover who I am. What makes me tick. Why I vanished. What horrible things I did.
It would ruin Hail’s reputation in an instant.
In addition to these nightmarish thoughts, I’m horrified by the size of the crowd in Selma’s bar tonight. My eyes cut to her in the middle of a song, right as she tosses her head back with wild laughter at something her customers have told her.
Is this a result of Atonement’s visit a few nights ago? Did it get leaked that they’d been lurking around the underground bar scene? Has Selma figured me out and used the knowledge to her advantage to increase her business?
