Page 47 of Polly

“I like Bex, as a friend anyway, but I don’t want to sing with her. Won’t work. I want to sing a duet with you.”

Polly sucked in a breath. “What? Really?”

“Yep. Let’s write a song and sing it together. Flynn and Polly. Flolly.” He chuckled. “Not Late Nyght Smoke and Lovely Oblivion.”

“Yeah, I’d love that. Let’s do it.’

Flynn smiled. “Okay.”

Polly yawned. “I’m sorry, Flynn. It’s like 3:00 am here and I’m worn out.”

“That’s okay. Get some sleep then. We can talk tomorrow.” Flynn wanted to keep her on the phone, but his lady needed her rest.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Sweet dreams.”

“Sweet dreams.”

* * *

Three weeks later

Amie slid onto the cushion beside Flynn on the bus’s leather couch. She pressed against his side and put her hand on his guitar frets.

“What about this key?” she asked.

He shifted uncomfortably for a moment, then strummed the acoustic guitar. A solid chord rang out, higher than they normally played.

“I don’t know if Will can match that pitch,” he said.

“Let’s try it. We can always lower it down an octave if we need to.”

She let go of the fret but stayed close to Flynn.

“Can you scoot over? I’m a little squished,” Flynn said. Having Amie that close made him uncomfortable. She’d been trying to hit on him, and he didn’t like it.

“Oh sure, honey.”

She scooted away, but only about half an inch.

He cleared his throat with annoyance. “A little more.” Scoot. “A little more.” Scoot. This time, she was a respectable distance away. “Thank you.”

“Oh, sure. I think we have a good start. Two songs written already and knocking this third one out soon.”

Flynn nodded. “I am curious what the label thinks. Our songs don’t usually sound like this. This is more pop rock than we’ve ever done,” he said, strumming the guitar.

“This could catapult you guys into ultimate stardom. Your music is so dark right now, maybe stepping a foot into pop will be a catalyst.”

Flynn shook his head. The band was doing fine and the pop angle was a waste of time. Their fans wouldn’t want it. He didn’t know that the band wanted new fans who did. He’d told the label that.

“It’s nice how optimistic you are,” he said. “But I doubt it. We aren’t ‘peppy.’ The fans will not like this.”

Will came forward from the bunk area and plopped down beside Amie on the couch. He grabbed a controller and turned on the TV.

“Excuse me, Will,” Amie said. “Would you mind keeping the sound low? We’re working on a song.”

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