A laugh huffs from her perfect lips as she sits and begins to strum. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, I guess.”
I’ll miss her sassiness when we have to say goodbye. Her thick lashes fan over her cheeks as she watches her fingers pick and strum.
I sit. “You know, the last time I was here you called me a stalker.”
“And last night I called you a perv. What about it?”
“Do you call all your boyfriends names?”
She looks up at me, her fingers stilling, her dark brow arching. “They’re terms of endearment.”
“They didn’t feel that way.”
“I’d apologize for hurting your ego, but I feel like that’s impossible.” She leans back unapologetically and begins strumming again.
“Lena Lukowski, you drive me crazy, you know that?”
She sucks in a deep breath, her bottom lip pulling into her mouth as she charges on into the song. Her voice softens. “Are you going to keep jabbering or are you going to let me sing?”
“By all means, sing.”
And so she does.
Her voice is even more beautiful than I remember it being the first time we were here—the night she accused me of stalking her—and it far outweighs the unnecessary autotune that’s applied to her vocals on all of her tracks. It’s raw and real, soft with an edge. It’s very Lena. If this is the kind of stuff her team has been suppressing, they’re doing everyone a disservice.
The tune is different from her typical, not as poppy, and much better off without the bass they’ve been throwing onher songs lately. It’s new—never been heard—and she chose to sing it for me. My heart ramps up, contrasting with the slow consistency of her beat. The passion in each strum of her guitar thrums through me, like a whisper to my soul. Her lips press together as she hums the final notes, her blue eyes locking with mine. Heat flares up my neck, and I have to remind myself to breathe. When she finishes, there’s no “jabbering” left in me. I’m speechless.
“Well?” she prompts.
I clear my throat, giving the words a moment to materialize. “I’m not sure what kind ofexpertiseyou’re looking for here.”
“Was it good, Decker?”
“What do you mean ‘was it good?’” I smirk, handing her a remark specifically catered to her brand of brashness. “I never thought I’d see the day that Lena Lux came to anyone—let alone me—for validation.”
“I don’t need validation.” Her jaw clamps tighter with each syllable. “Was it good or not?”
I can’t keep the frown from finding my face. “Of course it was good. Better than good.”
She rolls her eyes. “You got your Vital Reign deal, no need to butter me up now. Be honest.”
“I am being honest.”
She’s seething. Maybe my comment was too far, but I thought she’d find it playful or at least be able to handle it. After all, I’ve been slapped in the face with her words so many times I’ve lost count.
She stares at the strings of her guitar. “I don’t need validation.”
And then it hits me. Validation. How stupid have I been not to realize it or how deep my words would cut? Everything she’s done thus far has been to appease her team, her ex, or her fans. She’s always seeking approval from someone. And I can’t blameher, sometimes it feels like the only option to keep a career afloat, but I hate that she feels like it’s her only way to survive.
My hand finds her knee, her eyes locking in on it before slowly traveling up my arm to my face. In her gaze, I can finally see the insecurity I never realized she held. No smart-mouthed retort comes barreling from her lips to cover it up this time. Instead, they quiver until she breaks. Tears fill her eyes as she fights to hold them back.
“Come here,” I say quietly. To my surprise, she doesn’t refuse.
The guitar slips from her lap as she gently glides it onto the floor and rests it against the arm of the chair. Within seconds, she’s in my arms, burying her face in my chest. Her cries are silent, but I can feel warm dampness seeping into the cotton of my shirt.
“It’s just been a long day.” Her excuse is muffled as she presses into my sternum. “I’ve been here too long.”
“Did someone tell you that song wasn’t good, Lena?”
