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The “music” complements the singers, but the show's true star can’t be denied.
River’s voice is so on par with John Fogarty’s husky tone that I get goosebumps.
I’m not the only one in awe. Nicole cheers and claps like a groupie when River ends his performance by falling to his knees, fanning out his arms, then flopping his head back so the rain can hide the tears he’ll never admit are wetting his cheeks.
Our mother always sang this song when she got so drunk she thought the roof with loose shingles on a two-story bungalow was a good place for a six- and three-year-old to dance.
Once he’s confident the rain conceals his tears, River forces me to remember not all our childhood memories are bad. He pulls Nicole and me into the middle of the noisy group before handing the “microphone” to me.
My first few lines are as rickety as the roof we used to stomp on, but I push my nerves aside when Nicole leans in to sing the chorus into the pretend microphone with me. Her voice doesn’t have John’s husky, mannish twang, but it stops several of the crew in their tracks.
They stare at her in admiration like I did on the rooftop almost a week ago, aware they’re amongst one of the greats and fucking stoked to be a part of it as much as I am.
22
NICOLE
My eyes sling to my bedroom door when a tap sounds through it. When it remains closed, my visitor waiting for permission to enter instead of storming in like he owns the place, excitement trickles through my veins.
Knox usually enters without waiting. So that can only mean one thing—my guest isn’t my manager.
“Just a minute.”
Like a fool who didn’t spend the last two hours rocking out to rain-inspired songs on a cool fall afternoon, I fluff out my hair that’s drying and check my face in the mirror before granting my visitor permission to enter.
“Come in.”
The excited patter keeping my heart rate high jumps astronomically when Laken’s head pops into my room a second before his body. I can’t exactly pinpoint what changed between us the past twenty-four hours, but it has caused a drastic uptick in the tension our exchanges are never without. He’s no longer looking at me like he loathes me, and my trust that he’s a good guy is almost as high on the scale as the fun day we’ve had.
I can’t remember the last time I had a day off. It was long before I met Knox.
“Hey...” I angle my head to hide my smile when his tone sounds as elevated as my pulse. “I thought I should bring this back.” He wiggles the hairdryer he’s clutching. “It was a close call, but we might have saved the remote.”
“Phew.” Dramatically, I drag my hand across my forehead. “They charge thirty dollars for a nip of scotch, so I’d hate to see the replacement cost of a remote control.”
My teasing smile slips when Laken mutters, “Lucky you went for the cheap stuff.”
With the tension too playful for panic, I say, “So that’s why I could smell your aftershave.” While I continue to scrunch the ends of my hair, I plop onto the end of my bed. “I couldn’t work out how it had gotten on my pillow.” A smidge of shyness dips my tone. “I thought it was from you hiding my songbook under it.”
My hope returns more potent than ever. “It slipped out when I tugged up the blanket.” Like he needs to blame my nakedness on something, he adds, “The AC was cool.”
“And I went to bed only wearing a pair of panties and a bra.” I grimace. “Did I strip, or did you have to…” I make a gesture with my hand that I hope spells everything out since embarrassment is clutching my throat.
“That was all you. I kept my hands to myself.” The disappointment in his tone during his last sentence saves my ego from a beating. “Both last night and the night we met.” I know he's telling the truth before he even speaks the words I’m dying to hear. “I didn’t take your songbook, Nicole. I didn’t touch it.” As he scrubs at his neck, a cuss word leaves his mouth. “That’s a lie. I touched it to write you a note.” His next set of words that crack out of his mouth like a whip proves he knows the sentimental value of my songbook will forever outrank its salability. “A note I wrote in the pencil I searched the rooftop room for so my addition could be erased.” He licks his lips to loosen them up for his confession. “But I swear on River’s life that I didn’t remove it from the bedside table I placed it on when you straddled my lap.”
Catching pneumonia is no longer an issue with how hot his comment makes me. I’m burning up and struggling to sit still. And we won’t mention the look he gifts me when I pledge, “I believe you.” My shoulders sink as air whizzes from my nose. “It just sucks we don’t know where it went because that song could have been a goldmine.” I pull my songbook from its hidey-hole and plop it onto the bed. “Apollo said it was probably the only decent thing in there.” I nudge my head at my songbook. “The rest are worthless.”
Laken couldn’t look more shocked if I had told him we were related. “Is he a fucking idiot?” He doesn’t give me a chance to reply. “He must be because there areseveralhits in that one teeny-tiny little book.”
“Will you show me which ones you think have potential?” My question leaves my mouth before I can comprehend that I’m taking the word of a man I only met a week ago over a producer who’s been in the industry for decades.
After jerking up his chin, Laken places the hairdryer onto the bedside table before filling its void with my beloved songbook. Only days ago, I would have ripped it from his grasp. Now, it seems as if it couldn’t be in safer hands.
“This one is good, but there’s something off with the lyrics. They feel moodier and more morose than the newer ones.”
When I peer down at the song he’s referencing, I gulp. “I wrote that when I was angry.”
It was the first lot of lyrics I penned after believing he had violated the last gift my sister had given me. “What about this one?”
