Page 37 of Forbidden Lyrics

“I can’t decide.”

“Hmm.” I purse my lips, scoot a little closer, and lean my back against the side of his bed, ignoring the onslaught of butterflies attacking me from our almost touching knees.

Get a grip, Dove.

“Play it again,” I order him.

So, he does.

Closing my eyes, I get lost in the smooth but sad melody, slowly humming along until a break in the rhythm pushes me to hit a higher string of notes instead of the low ones he’s been messing with.

The playing stops.

I open my eyes and peek over at him to find his heated gaze staring back at me.

“W-what? Bad idea?” I whisper, my cheeks feeling like they’re on fire.

His attention drops to my mouth before dipping to the guitar in his lap. “No. Let’s try it again.”

The familiar chords echo throughout his bedroom, and I close my eyes again, getting lost in the melody he’s created while adding my own harmonic element that I hope adds to the emotion he’s trying to convey.

And it’s beautiful. Or at least, I think it is. Then again, what do I know? I’m a newbie when it comes to this kind of thing. But it doesn’t stop me from singing, and only spurs Gibson’s playing, his low husky voice humming along during the verses until the last note is strummed and vibrates throughout the otherwise silent room.

“What do you think?” I ask.

“I think it’s good.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” He smiles softly. “Now, we need lyrics.”

“That’s your job,” I remind him.

“After hearing your version at SeaBird the other day, I think that’s debatable.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re giving me too much credit.”

“And I think you’ve never gotten enough credit,” he counters. “You’re used to blending in, aren’t you, Dove Walker?”

I shrug one shoulder and tuck my white-blonde hair behind my ear without bothering to answer him because what am I supposed to say to that?

Of course, I’m used to blending in. I’m Dove Walker. I’m the chorus singing, rule-following little sister to the infamous, hell-raising, gorgeous Madelyn Walker. A girl like me doesn’t stand out. I never have, and I never will. It’s simply a fact.

“Why is that?” he wonders aloud. “Are you naturally this shy, or was it pounded into you as a kid? What with the religious zealots and all that.”

Again, I shrug, uncomfortable with all of his attention that’s laser-focused on lil’ ol’ me.

“You should play the song again,” I suggest.

He tilts his head to one side and nods. “Only if you sing for me.”

I’ll agree to anything if he’ll stop looking at me like this. Like I matter. Like he sees me. Like I’ve piqued his curiosity the same way he piqued mine all those weeks ago.

I fidget with the sleeve of my baby blue hoodie that I’d thrown over my head before speeding over here, avoiding his gaze like it’s the plague before I give him a subtle nod. “Okay.”

“What song do you want me to play?” he asks.

“Anything.”

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