Jesus. He’s like a dog trying to dig up a bone buried six feet underground.
“Would you stop?” I lash out with way more hostility than necessary. “It’s none of your damn business.”
Visibly insulted, he runs a hand through his hair. “Fuck me for asking.”
It’s obvious I offended him, and I feel terrible. He was only trying to ask me about something he saw, and not only did I not answer him, I bit his head off.
I’m about to apologize, but then it dawns on me that there’s also something I’ve been dying to know about him. Perhaps we could trade secrets.
“I’ll tell you what’s in my notebook if you tell me how you knew where I lived.”
Grabbing a pack of cigarettes off the crate, he brings one to his mouth. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him smoking is a surefire way to ruin his amazing voice, but then he says, “I did some landscaping work for your neighbor, Mrs. Palma, last summer and I saw you outside.”
“Oh.”
I’m happy he finally told me, but he’s definitely getting the juicier secret out of this deal.
Here goes nothing. “I kind of…sort of…write songs.”
His expression remains neutral as he lights his cigarette. “You mean like lyrics? Or music?”
“Both.”
He rubs his jaw, dissecting me. “I want to hear them.”
I’d rather swallow nails than sing one of my songs to him, but I’m willing to compromise.
I fish my notebook out of my purse. No way in hell would I ever show him all my songs, but there is one that’s my favorite.
Although it is incredibly personal…and kind of strange.
“Here.” I flip to the page it’s on. “You can read this one.”
I want to kick myself the moment the words leave my mouth.
I’m about to suggest he use the pen I got him, but he takes the notebook from me and closes it.
“I have trouble reading, remember? That includes reading music.”
How is that even possible? “But you play piano.”
I took piano lessons for three years and learning to read music was not only necessary, it was a basic requirement.
He points to his ears. “Because I have these.”
Holy shit. I know musicians who can solely play by ear exist, but it’s usually ones who have been doing it for decades.
Then again, I once heard that some people with learning disabilities are incredibly gifted in other areas.
It’s clear that’s the case with Phoenix.
Every cell he’s made up of lives, breathes, and creates music.
It’s why he was put on this earth.
“Anyway,” he continues, as if what he said was no big deal. “I want the full experience.” He juts his chin at the instruments set up across the room. “I don’t know what you’ll need, but help yourself to whatever you want.”
I shake my head because that’s completely out of the question. “Absolutely not—”
“Come on, Groupie.” He stubs his cigarette out in a nearby ashtray. “You can’t tell me you write songs and not play any for me. That’s like telling a kid you have candy, but you won’t share any with them.”
He has a point, but still. I don’t want to share something so personal.
I don’t want him to laugh at me.
“No.”
Phoenix isn’t giving up, though. “I played for you.”
It’s true. He did. And he was phenomenal.
However, my voice isn’t raspy while simultaneously being smooth and velvety like his.
Mine is scratchy and hoarse. Like my alter ego is a seventy-year-old smoker named Bertha who has a perpetual sore throat.
“Both my voice and song are weird,” I warn him.
“I like weird.” Those ice-blue orbs sharpen on me, sucking all the oxygen out of the room. “And I love your voice.”
I’m rendered speechless, any argument I had vanishing into thin air.
Because Phoenix Walker is looking at me like I’m the talented one in this room.
My legs feel like Jell-O when I stand.
Let’s hope I don’t disappoint him.
CHAPTER 10
PHOENIX
There’s nervous…and then there’s petrified.
Lennon is unquestionably the latter right now.
I’ve never seen this girl so much as break a sweat, so watching her get worked up is strange as hell.
Christ. She looks like she’s going to puke any second.
I’m about to ask if she wants a bucket as she walks behind the keyboard. “I don’t play as well as you do.”