The look on Creed’s face as he looks me up and down tells me that he at least has an idea of what’s running through my mind right now. That, combined with the fact that I’m now squirming in his lap gives it away. His expression sobers a little when he looks up into the recording booth. I follow his line of sight to find Riley sitting behind his drum set, his head bowed, headphones on, and fingers tapping out a rhythm while he listens to whatever Creed is playing back to him.
“It’s been a rough morning with him,” Creed admits, and my eyes snap to his, seeing the concern lingering there.
“Rough, how?”
“The adaptive equipment is helpful, but I think he’s still getting into his own head.” I look at Riley behind his drum set. His grip is stronger, but I can see from here that there’s still a slight tremor to his hand as he listens to the beat, tapping the stick against the edge of the snare as he maps out the sounds.
Creed sighs, the heavy breath blowing out his nose. He’s usually the optimist between the three of us lately, so to see the sag in his shoulders and the tension lining his features, it has my heart flopping and my stomach sinking low in my gut.
I refocus my attention on Riley. He keeps tapping a button on his headset, and with every press, I notice the time on the soundboard starting over.
“This is what he’s hearing.” Creed carefully fits his headphones over my ears. I wait patiently as Riley hits the button, starting the music over again. These headphones are fucking amazing because immediately, I’m submerged in the incredible sound thatDark Sinshas created. It’s different from their other tracks; this one sounds more ethereal, more delicate, but somehow they’ve worked their magic because it’s heavy, too. Creed’s voice fills my ears, and his words are like pure smoke injected directly into my veins. He has such a beautiful, uniquequality to his voice that not only brings me to my knees, but has me dripping wet for him every time.
The song is beautiful—but it’s missing the drums. The rhythm that makes it sound complete. Whole. Just like Riley himself.
But before the song gets past the bridge, it starts over.
I remove the headphones and hand them back to Creed so he can keep working.
“It’s beautiful, Creed. Truly,” I say softly, wrapping one arm around his neck, “but it’s missing our boy.”
“I know.” He blows out a long breath. “This is how he usually works, though. He’ll listen to the track over and over, playing out different beats in his head until he finds one that he likes, but this time seems to be worse, because I think he’s trying too hard to work around his adaptive equipment.”
“What is it about the equipment that isn’t working for him?”
“I don’t think it’s the equipment this time. I think it’s his own mind. His tremors return when he starts to overthink things,” he explains, gesturing to the trash can, where I see several cylindrical foam pieces piling up. “He says those don’t work because he can’t control how hard he squeezes them when he hits the toms or cymbals. He’s got the shoulder strength to hit, but it makes no difference if he can’t grip the stick the right way. He’s beating himself up over it, and it’s—it’s killing me to see him so fucking defeated.”
I can feel Creed’s eyes on me. “You have that look, Stardust.”
“What look?” I feign innocence, batting my lashes at him.
“One that says you’ve got an idea and nobody gets to know until you’re doing it.”
A slow smile spreads across my face before leaning in to kiss Creed’s soft lips. “Then you’d be right.” I nod towards the door. “Can I go in there?”
“I don’t think there’s a place in this house I’d ever deny you entry to.” He kisses me back. “Just be careful of the cords.”
I give him a mock salute and push off his lap. The door to the recording booth opens quietly, and Riley doesn’t notice my presence until I place my fingers beneath his chin. He startles, his head jerking up and his soulful, dark eyes meeting mine. They flare in surprise, but I notice that they look a little red-rimmed. I can tell it’s from holding back his frustration of not being able to accomplish something—Riley is an emotional person like me, so failure isn’t an option. When it happens, tears are kind of inevitable.
“Snow,what’s up?—”
I lift my oversized tee just enough to flash Riley and stun him silent—because all I’m wearing beneath it are his boxers that I happen to findverycomfortable—before I whip the fabric up over his head, too, and settle myself astride his lap. We’re both trapped within the confines of this cotton and polyester blend, so it forces us even closer together.
To say Riley looks baffled over my actions is an understatement, but we both start laughing when he realizes that we’re stuck, and I’m not going anywhere.
His sweet eyes shine a little brighter, the heaviness receding just a little.
Good, my plan is already working.
“What, uh,” he starts, chuckling as his freckled nose brushes against mine, and he flashes me that fangy smile that I love so much before continuing, “whatcha doin’, Snow?”
“Mmm.” I pull my arms from the sleeves to wind them around his back and under his own shirt to come in contact with this warm skin. I suck in a deep breath and steel my nerves. These men have never given me a reason to be self-conscious or wary of my actions, but the self-doubt remains. “I heard you were having a rough day in here.” I place a kiss to the two faintscars on his cheek. “So I thought I’d try to help you out of your funk.”
He chuckles as his arms band around my waist, and he tips his chin up to meet my eyes once more. “I must admit, this is working quite well so far.”
My hands roam to his back, my nails gently tracing a delicate path along the scars there, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
“Tell me what’s going on,” I hedge softly. I know what the problem is, but I want to hear it from him. Getting Riley to open up is the only way to figure out how to help him. “Tell me how to help you.”
