For the first time since she was a teenager, Raine felt heat rising from her chest. This time, it wasn’t the monster. It was this…fucking asshole who seemed to think he knew everything, making her feel like she was an idiot. She clamped her teeth together so hard they might break, but she wasn’t sure how else to deal with the chaotic emotions swirling through her.
She hadn’t felt this angry since Mal…
“Why don’t we take a break?” Quentin said.
She didn’t need to hear anything else and snatched up her notebook, storming out of the room before she lashed out—or tears flowed from her eyes. Who the hell was he to pick apart her work like that?
In her room, she slammed the door, even though she figured he wouldn’t be able to hear the force she’d thrown into it from where he sat in the studio. And then she threw herself on the bed, setting the notebook on the nightstand, trying to stop the adrenaline from pumping through her veins. Her hands were shaking, so she clenched them into fists to make them stop.
And then she closed her eyes. Who the fuck does that guy think he is? He’s not an expert, not a genius, and he sure as hell doesn’t know me. Not at all.
But, as her breathing slowed, something peeked around the edges of her mind. It was quiet down there and she couldn’t escape her own thoughts and they kept breaking through the surface.
Pushing them aside, she flipped through her notebook again to one of the songs she’d sung to him earlier. She read a few lines again and then crossed out one, because, sure, that was the kind of thing he’d been talking about. She replaced it with another phrase that didn’t seem to work any better and then kept reading. Seconds later, she felt like a tire losing its air as she froze.
Because she knew Quentin was right.
There was no inspiration, no creative spark behind those nine songs. When it had come time to write new music, she’d felt drained and just threw sometimes clever words together, other times simply focusing on emotive phrases that she knew could trigger a reaction in her listeners.
They were not anything new.
They weren’t the real her, not the her of today.
How the fuck had he figured that out? He didn’t know her.
Later, she’d calmed down enough that she thought she could go back to the studio to work. She wasn’t about to apologize and she wasn’t going to admit shit—but she did know she had to get this fucking album done, and it wasn’t going to happen if she was down here sulking.
When she opened her door and got to the stairs, though, she stopped, because she heard music. Unlike the night before, this was live.
Holy shit.
What was he playing?
Tiptoeing up the steps to the hallway landing, she paused, her ears pricking up so she could hear. The sounds of an acoustic guitar accompanied by a piano wafted out of the studio—and then she heard Quentin singing.
* * *
The last time I saw you, your face was gaunt and pale.
I touched your thin hands, your fingers. Cold. Oh, so cold.
I told you I was sorry, all the regrets, but you didn’t hear.
I reminded you of our childhood dreams, old stories told.
I wanted to tell you one last time how much I loved you
But they were lowering you to your final resting place…
* * *
Raine could hardly swallow the lump in her throat. The tune was so haunting…and the words cut through her.
Quentin Russo had seemed at best like a lifeless mannequin and, at worst, like an insufferable prick.
But now she knew the truth.
And, out of respect for his personal pain, she soft-shoed backward, catching her breath when the wood floor creaked. Then she turned, going down the stairs as quietly as possible, gently closing the door to her bedroom.
