Page 36 of Broken Instrument

“What did he talk to you about anyway?” Fen asks.

“I already told you. He wanted to know how you’re doing.”

Another groan escapes him. “Of course, he did.”

“Wanna tell me why?”

“It’s complicated,” he repeats, the same amused smirk etched into his features.

“Again, kind of figured that part out,” I tease. “But I get it. I won’t pry, but I will say this.”

He stops and looks at me, his curiosity tainting the air around us until it feels almost electric.

“Go on,” he encourages.

“I think you were made to be on a stage. It was the first time I’d seen you smile in… Well, let’s just say it was a rare treat. You looked alive up there.” I can still picture him on the stage with his guitar in his lap. The glaring lights bouncing off his handsome features. The way his forehead would wrinkle when he’d pluck out a complicated set of notes. The way he’d close his eyes and lose himself in the lyrics. It was beautiful. Absolutely breathtaking. I swallow thickly and clarify, “Well, maybe you weren’t smiling in the beginning, but it’s like you weren’t numb anymore. You allowed yourself to feel up there. The good, the bad, and the ugly. I think that’s important.”

He stays quiet as if letting my assessment settle over him. He hooks his thumbs into his front pockets and mutters, “Being numb is safe.”

“True. But without pain or sadness, there’s no exhilaration or happiness. And isn’t that what we’re all searching for?”

His mouth tugs up at the side, amused. “Maybe. So what you’re saying is, feeling––even if it’s the shitty stuff––is still better than being numb?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. And your lyrics? Your voice? They made me feel. And I think it’s a gift worth sharing. I think I’ve been numb. I’ve been avoiding my writing. My niece. My brother and his situation. Everything. It’s a coping mechanism. Something protecting us from breaking. But I think”––I blink slowly, surprised by my own findings––“it’s okay for us to be broken sometimes. As long as we have someone to help put us back together.”

I don’t know why I do it. Why I give into the pull I’ve felt since the moment I first met Fender. Why I do something so freaking stupid and reckless. But I can’t help myself. I want to feel. And after my little declaration, it’s clear he makes me feel more than I’ve ever felt in my entire life.

My breathing is shallow as I rise onto my tiptoes and brush my lips against his. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t hold me. Doesn’t pull me closer. Hell, he barely moves a muscle as I press my hands to his chest to balance myself, gliding my tongue along the seam of his lips. It’s soft. Gentle. Hesitant because, let’s be honest, the guy’s a gorgeous rock god who’s most definitely out of my league, and I just made a move on him.

I’m making a move on Fender Hayes.

What the hell am I doing?

And like a rubber band, he snaps.

The heat of his palms is scalding as he grabs my hips, pulling me against his hot erection and sliding his hands to my ass, squeezing hard enough to leave bruises through my dark jeans.

I love it.

Holy shit, I love it.

The demand in his touch. The heat from his groin against my stomach. The way his teeth dig into my lower lip as he sucks it into his mouth. I love it all. I open my mouth wide, and he dives inside, practically swallowing me whole, and a groan claws its way up his throat. Tortured. Guttural. And so freaking sexy, I can feel it vibrating against my core.

Until he pulls away.

Resting his forehead against mine, his eyes squeezed shut, he growls, “Stop.”

My breathing is staggered. “W-what’s wrong?”

“This is a mistake.”

My heart plummets into my stomach as I pry my eyelids open. “W-what did you say?”

Pushing himself away from me and leaving a couple feet of distance between us, he lets out a slow, deep breath and repeats, “This is a mistake.”

“Kissing me?” I choke out.

His Adam’s apple bobs up and down in his throat as he swallows thickly. “Yeah. All of it.”

---