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Her songbook topples out during the blanket’s rolls and flops open at newly penned lyrics.
I want to kiss thesadness
arrogance from your face,
make you my biggest mistake,..
but I’m not sure how much
more I can take,
since you always look at me
as ifwe might break
you’re attending my wake…
The wetness of the crossed-out words announces this verse was recently written, much less its positioning in the songbook. It is toward the back, the last of the used pages.
Stunned by how plump the book has become over the past five days, I flick through the new creations.
Nicole’s songbook was flat as a tack only days ago. Now it is brimming with lyrics, musical compositions, and cover design ideas stuffed into the spiral edge.
Each song is constructed with a similar premise—forbidden love. It is a risqué subject that will sell like hotcakes when composed with the right music.
“This is what you should be working on, Nicole.” I raise my eyes to her, the pride on my face unmissable. “This is what your audience wants to hear. It’s what theydeserve.” I find the first song I spotted before spinning her songbook to face her. “There’s nothing needed to produce this. The hard work is already done. You just need to lay the tracks in a studio. And this…”
I flick back and forth between the pages, seeking the song she wrote the night we met. It is a long and tedious search that comes up empty-handed at the same time I notice slithered remains of torn pages in the spirals of the binder. It’s gone, and so is the note I wrote.
“You ripped them out?”
Why would she do that? The note is understandable. I kept things rather basic. But the song was about fresh and exciting love and the butterflies you experience when you know you’ve stumbled onto something great. It was a love ballad through and through, but her best work to date. She’s potentially thrown away millions of dollars and even more fans.
Her words are more upset now than slurred. “It was like that when I found it.” She sinks her head onto her pillow, the weight on her shoulders too much to bear. “Well, I didn’t find it. The maid who cleaned your room did.”
“My room?” I check, certain I heard her wrong.
Through quivering lips, she replies, “I didn’t realize anything was amiss until a loose page slipped out when I was preparing to leave the jet.” She yawns before the alcohol drooping her eyelids shifts her words to whispers. “I was so mad at you that I let Knox off the hook too easily. I want to do this on my own. I deserve formyvoice to be heard.”
“Then do that. Fight for this”—I wiggle her songbook in the air—“with that.” I tap it against her slow-rising chest, right where her heart is. “Don’t give them any choice but to listen.”
While clutching her songbook close to her heart, Nicole nods before asking, “Will you help me?”
“Knox—”
For how intoxicated she is, her words come out strong. “Doesn’t get a say on who is a part of my team.” Her blinks slow as her head sinks more deeply on her pillow. “I want you to be a part of this. I want you to be a part of me.” As her words filter into her drunk head, her eyes pop open, glassy and shocked. “A part of us…” When she’s still not convinced she has her statement right, she twists her lips and then tries again. “A part of—”
“How about we discuss it more when your veins aren’t primed with whiskey?”
Needing to leave before I want to pretend the tension burning between us has nothing to do with her intoxication, I brush back the stray strands on her forehead, press my lips to where they lay, then head for the door.
Partway there, Nicole whispers, “Thank you, Laken.”
It is the simplest of praises but the most impactful for me.
I can’t recall the last time someone thanked me, and I’ve done far more for certain people than get them into bed safely after a night of drinking.
When I struggle to find a fitting reply, I spin to face Nicole to issue a response without words. I realize my internal fight was pointless when I spot her in the middle of her bed. She’s out cold, and her pillow isn’t the only thing about to be soaked with drool.
