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“I could get used to this.” I squeeze her as tight as I can.
“Then get used to this.” Her excited gaze wipes off the mental fog that followed me around all day after practice. “What happened? You’ve got a bruise.” She presses two fingers to my right cheekbone, the one that caught my Venom baby last week.
“I had to save my guitar from a crazy person. Don’t worry about it.” I take her hand and kiss her fingers.
My distraction technique doesn’t work. Laurel frowns. “Are you talking about that guitar I threw at Briar’s party? That was yours?”
“Let’s go inside.”
She doesn’t budge. “Jace!”
“Yes, that was mine. And I’m fine.” Other than my ribs still ache when I turn abruptly.
“Jace.” Laurel’s voice wavers.
“Don’t worry about it. I’m fine, the guitar is fine, and that night’s behind us. Other than all the fun parts. There were many fun parts, don’t you agree?” Holding her hands, I wiggle her into a couple of silly dance moves.
Laurel smiles in a way that tells me that she loves me, but I’m not any less intolerable for it. “Stand up for yourself a little more, will you? Don’t just beI almost broke my face because of you, but it’s okay.”
“Seriously, you’re the best thing that ever happened to me.” When was the last time a girl cared about me enough to be mad like this? Never, that’s when.
Her smile brightens, and my heart skips a beat at the sight of the sweetest, lightest pink blooming on her cheeks. “I mean it,” I add. “You are the best.”
Laurel swipes her hair onto her back, so delightfully embarrassed. “All right. Let’s go inside. We need to finalize a couple of things.”
We end up in their living room. There, the long marble coffee table hosts a laptop and a half-empty bottle of water.
“I have settled on two titles. I need you to pick one of them.” Laurel tugs on my hand, causing me to sit next to her on the couch in front of the coffee table. “If you don’t like either, I have more options I’ll be okay with.”
She points at the laptop screen, and I take a look at what appears to be copyright paperwork.
“You pick whatever you like,” I say. “It’s your song.”
“Jace, come on. We made that baby together.” Her eyes pop at the unintended innuendo, and Laurel drops my hand, acting busy typing. “What’s your legal name?”
“Jacewell Edward Blackmore, but—”
Her focus snaps back to me. “Jacewell Edward Blackmore? Are you of noble roots?” She laughs.
“You’re one to talk, Laurel Genevieve.” There’s a baby boot ornament hanging in her dad’s guitar den. It’s got her full name and birthday engraved on it. That’s how I know it.
She leans her shoulder onto mine. “I missed you all day. I’m glad you could come.”
“I wouldn’t be anywhere else.” It’s Friday night, and I would be training with Juliette, but she’s taking a break from kung fu, so I’m taking a break as well. I’m so dang happy I have something else to do and somewhere else to be.
“Anyway.” I return to our conversation. “Are you working on registering the copyright?”
Laurel moves the laptop closer. “Yes—”
“Don’t add my name to it.”
Laurel sighs. “Jace, don’t be like that.”
“Don’t add my name,” I repeat.
“What am I going to do with the song? I’ll never use it anywhere. It should be all yours, but I know you won’t settle for full ownership, so let’s split the rights and royalties and whatever.”
This madness is never going to end. My band wants the song, Laurel wants me to claim credit, and nobody cares what I think about it.
