Chuckling, I pull to a stand and take a seat beside Chase on the couch as Zach remains lost in his bass. “Thoughts on this debate?”
Chase’s eyes dip to my soaked-through tank stuck to my skin before jerking away. “I’ve only seenBreaking Bad.”
“Gasp?” My hands crisscross over my heart. “And here I thought I knew you.”
He peers down at his instrument, effortlessly plucking a series of strings. “Guess I’ll need to change that. Somewhere between daily practices, getting my guitar business off the ground, and sanding down rustic benches.”
“I believe in you.”
A smile ticks. “Sing for me. I’m trying to get this melody worked out.”
The request makes my stomach flip-flop. While performance nerves have scattered for the most part, it still feels strangely vulnerable singing for Chase. Like my heart is a shoddily built dam, a storm away from splitting into pieces.
“Okay,” I breathe, my eyes panning to the half-open garage door.
Chase leans back and spreads his legs wider, the rough denim of his jeans grazing my bare thigh. Ignoring the contact, I clear my throat, better my posture, and start to sing. With every note, Chase follows along, his gaze bouncing between my moving lips and his strings.
His fingers slowly glide across the fretboard, like he’s more focused on the sound coming from me than the guitar.
His knee nudges mine. I feel him watching me, his breathing deepening as mine falters. But I keep singing, because if I stop, I’m afraid I’ll forget how to breathe altogether.
This heat isn’t helping.
I’m trapped in a furnace, body and mind, with no way out.
My voice tapers on the last word. I wring my hands together, short on air, dripping sweat, wanting nothing more than to peel my clothes off and launch myself into the neighbor’s pool.
I brave a glance at Chase as his eyes track a bead of moisture running down the arc of my throat. I feel it there, itchy and distracting, but I leave it, a treacherous side of me addicted to the way he stares at it.
With a drowsy blink, he blows out a breath and looks at me like I’m a long-lost treasure. “Damn,” he says softly.
That one word sends a swarm of buzzing bees racing south. Every piece of me is warm and gooey like a hive of honey.
The enchantment in his tone soothes me.
The look in his eyes scares me.
And then Tag’s voice enters the chat.
“I’m fuckin’ roasting like a burnt-ass turkey under a heat lamp at a deli.” He swipes his discarded T-shirt down his face. “I need a break. Maybe John will let us borrow his pool.”
My brother sets his guitar aside and disappears out of the garage, the door squeaking on its hinges as he lifts it all the way up. Rock and Zach follow. Chase hesitates now that we’re alone, as if he’s contemplating if it’s a blessing or a tragedy in motion.
I lift off the couch. “A late-night dip doesn’t sound so bad. You in?”
He clears his throat, pulls his guitar closer to his chest. “Nah. Gonna keep practicing.”
I nod, even though he’s not looking at me anymore, halfway buried in the strings like they’re some kind of shield.
Outside, the air is churning with humidity. Tag is already across the yard, shouting something to the neighbor, John, who waves us over with a beer in hand like it’s just another Tuesday. By the time I kick off my sandals and sit at the edge of the pool, removing my phone from my waistband and placing it beside me, the guys are diving in.
The water is cool against my legs. Abandoned pairs of jeans are tossed onto lawn chairs, the three men stripped down to boxers, cannonballing and roughhousing like they’re fifteen again.
I slip in slow, letting the water take me piece by piece, until my cotton shorts and tank are soaked through. Laughter spills across the yard, and for a while, I let myself disappear into it.
Until the air shifts.
A shadow flickers in the corner of my eye.
