Page 50 of Forbidden Lyrics

“Maybe I need another one. One who I can connect with through music. One who gets me in a way that no one’s ever really understood. One who knows my secret but doesn’t hold it against me or tries to tap into it for self-gain. That’s what I need right now. Can you be that for me?”

I shake my head, feeling like I’m seconds from unraveling. Like I’m about to burst at the seams. I’m embarrassed. Frustrated. Ashamed. Angry. And so many more emotions that I can’t even think straight. I want to shake him for making me feel this way. All tied up inside. But it isn’t his fault. It’s mine.

I’m a fool.

“Dove––”

“I gotta go, Gibbs.”

His grip is tight on my forearm as he reaches for me and keeps me in place when all I want to do is run and hide.

“Dove…”

I shrug out of his grasp but avoid his gaze. “It’s fine, okay? Yeah, I’ll be your friend. I…I gotta go.”

And I get the hell out of there.

Chapter Fourteen

Dove

“Hello?” I answer, convinced Gibson butt-dialed me. It’s been a week since our little concert at SeaBird, and I’ve been avoiding him ever since. Not because we didn’t end things on a…not entirely terrible note, but now that I know where he stands––and that it isn’t exactly in line with my feelings––I feel weird. I shouldn’t have agreed to be nothing more than friends when I obviously still have feelings for the guy, but I don’t know how to rein them in. And I like Gibbs. I like hanging out with him. I like talking to him. I like singing with him.

I. Like. Him.

And now that I’ve agreed to be just friends, I need to figure out how to stop those feelings from rising to the surface anytime he’s around.

Rock, meet hard place.

“Hey, Dove,” Gibson greets me, though there’s an underlying tightness in his voice that piques my suspicion. “How are you?”

“Fine?” I head to the kitchen and grab a Coke from the fridge. It’s not like I need the caffeine anymore. Seeing Gibson’s name on the caller ID was more than enough to get my adrenaline going. But I’m feeling fidgety and need to do something with my hands if I have any hope of surviving this conversation, so… Hello, Coke.

“And you?” I ask after a few beats of silence.

“I’m good.”

“That’s good.”

He clears his throat. “So, Fender called. He was wondering if you’d be willing to meet at my place for something? We’re having a band meeting, and we wanted to talk.”

“A band meeting?” I lift the tab of my Coke, and it explodes all over the counter before I rush to the sink and let the carbonation fizz over my hand.

Crap.

“Uh, yeah,” he answers, sensing my hesitancy. Or maybe I’m sensing his. Regardless, something is definitely off, and it’s making me feel twitchy.

Setting the aluminum can in the bottom of the sink, I rinse my hand under the faucet and ask, “Why would he want me to be at a band meeting?”

“I’ll, uh, I’ll explain when you get here.”

I grab the towel hanging from the oven door and dry my hands before sopping up the spilled soda on the counter, not even caring that it’ll be a sticky mess that Future Dove will have to deal with tomorrow. There are too many questions running through my mind. I don’t know what he expects me to say after how we left things the other day.

Going to his house doesn’t exactly sound like my type of picnic right now, but declining his invitation will probably wind up keeping me up tonight.

Stupid rock and hard place. Stupid feelings and emotions. Stupid hot guys and their stupid voices. And stupid invitations. It’s all so…stupid.

“Dove? You still there?”

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