“If I said I didn’t disagree, would that make me repulsive in your eyes?”
I shake my head. “You could never be repulsive to me. Never.” A flash of pain flickers in his eyes. “What?”
“Nothing.” He forces a smile, trailing his finger over the ink on my arm. “Do they mean anything in particular?” he asks, pointing to the images painted on my skin.
“They are ancient Chinese graphical depictions meaning strength, wisdom, and courage.”
“And the script on your thigh?”
My eyes pop wide. “When did you notice that?”
“You were wearing those minuscule shorts the day I dropped by your apartment, and I saw the ink.”
I think he saw a lot more than that, but I’m not encouraging the direction this conversation appears to be going in. “They’re song lyrics.”
“Yours?” he asks, and I nod. He sits up, his face all excited. “Can I see?”
“I’ll show you sometime,” I say, standing. “But it’s late, and I’d like to get an early start with work in the morning.” I offer him my hand and help him to his feet.
“Nice deflection,” he says without a trace of sarcasm. “But I’m curious about one thing.” We start walking back toward the house. “How did you end up studying journalism when you had your heart set on songwriting?”
I knew he was going to ask me this at some point, and I’ve promised him honesty, but this will only add to the considerable guilt he carries around with him, so I’m deliberately vague on purpose, hoping he’ll drop it. “I was accepted into the program at USC, but I transferred to the journalism course majoring in music my first week on campus.”
He frowns. “Why? You’re so fucking talented, and I know it’s what you wanted to do.”
I look over at his beautiful face, hating what I have to say next. “Songwriting had become something we did together, and I couldn’t disassociate it from you.”
He stops walking, hurt flashing across his face. “You switched courses because of me?”
I nod, kicking at the sand under my foot. “I didn’t write any songs for years. I couldn’t. I had the worst case of writer’s block.”
He scrubs a hand over his chin, starting to walk again. “Man, I really fucked everything up, didn’t I?”
“We’re not doing this, remember?”
He shoves his hands in his pockets, looking deeply unhappy.
“I started writing again two years ago, and lately, I’ve been thinking about doing something about it. I love my job, but maybe I could sell some songs on the side.” I shrug, feeling a little foolish telling one of the US’s best songwriters my silly little plans.
“I’d love to see some of your stuff,” he says, finally picking his head up. “No one knows this yet, because we’ve gone to great lengths to keep it a secret, but the band is setting up our own label. We’re out of contract next year, and we want to have full control over our careers. None of us are getting any younger, and we’re fed up spending so much time on the road, so we came up with the idea, and Rod has helped us set it up. We’ve signed a couple of upcoming bands, and we’ll be signing more. We’re definitely going to need songwriters, so maybe there’s a way you could work with our label in the future?”
“Are you serious?” I slam to a halt, my heart doing somersaults in my chest.
“As a heart attack,” he quips, and I slap his arm.
“Don’t joke about shit like that.”
He snakes his arm around my shoulder when I shiver, and I siphon some of his body warmth as we keep walking, nearing the entry path to his house. “You’re talented, Zeta, and I hate to see talent go to waste.” He grins at me, and my knees turn to Jell-O as I get ensnared in his hypnotic gaze. “I think this opportunity just got a whole lot more interesting for both of us.”
26
Ryder
“Man, that’s hot,” Gar says, coming up alongside me as I watch Zeta, through the window, practicing her yoga moves down on the beach. “Bet all that flexibility makes for some interesting times in the bedroom.” He smirks.
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Get the fuck out.” His brows climb to his hairline. “You’re still not doing the funky monkey with her?”
