Page 7 of Rock Bottom

“Awkward,” I commented. “So, you’re a fan?”

“Hardly,” he huffed. “My boss said I should listen to your music, but it’s not my cup of tea.”

“Really?” I tilted my head to the side, looking over at him. “What do you like?”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it fucking matters,” I said, shifting in my seat. “What’s your favorite genre of music?”

He didn’t answer, apparently preferring silence.

I crossed my arms. “Okay, I’ll guess. You’re too serious for pop, too posh for rap… Are you into classical?”

He shot me a look that said I should shut up and let him drive, but what was he going to do? Turn around and take me back? He was stuck with me, so we might as well find some common ground.

“Okay, not classical then.” I tapped my chin. What else was there? “Europop?”

“I don’t like music,” he said gruffly.

I stared at him, mouth agape. “Everybody likes music.”

“Not me.”

That had to be a lie. I’d never met anyone who didn’t have at least one song they liked. What sort of monster hated music?

“Maybe you just haven’t heard the right band,” I said and reached for the radio again.

Church caught my wrist and held on tight, giving me an even more serious glare. “No music,” he insisted before slowly withdrawing his hand.

“I’m a musician and I have to practice, so you won’t be able to avoid it forever.”

He didn’t answer me, fixing his attention forward. Normally, I would have poked at him a little more, but something told me I shouldn’t. Maybe it was the distant stare, like he was seeing the road without looking at it, or the tone of his voice. I had the strangest urge to put my hand over his and squeeze. Maybe tell him everything was going to be okay, though I had no idea what was wrong.

I crossed my arms and settled into the seat for the long ride, scrolling on my phone. Whatever his problem was, it didn’t matter. In thirty days, we’d go our separate ways and forget all about each other. I just had to make it that long without booze or blow, and only my hand for company.

God, this really was going to be the worst thirty days of my life after all.

The drive was pleasant, which was more than I could say for Dante. It was like he was bloody allergic to peace and quiet. Every time it was quiet for longer than a few minutes, he was chattering away, usually about himself, and his leg bounced at a million miles a minute. I was half-convinced he was part hummingbird, and that he’d die if he sat still.

He was self-absorbed, self-important, and cocky. All unattractive traits in men. His constant flirting was getting to be irritating, especially since I knew he was just doing it to see me squirm.

It was a relief when we finally pulled into the long gravel driveway. At least then I wouldn’t be trapped in a small space with the man and his cologne. I didn’t know which one he was wearing, but it had subtle notes of evergreen, a scent I normally liked. But I didn’t like him, and now that the association had been made, that was forever ruined too.

He climbed out of the car and pushed his sunglasses up his forehead, taking in the lovely two-story log cabin with its green roof, stone chimney, and the surrounding fifty acres of uninterrupted forest. “Goddamn. When Sam said the place was remote, he forgot to mention it was ugly, too.”

I liked the place, but I wasn’t going to start an argument that’d probably end with him writing a song about how wrong I was.

He started toward the front door.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I put a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

“Going inside?”

“Not until I do a sweep of the place to make sure it’s safe.”

He cupped his hands to his cheeks. “Oh no! There might be a terrifying painting inside! Or a menacing rug!”

I realized I was still holding onto his shoulder and let him go. “Or someone who broke in and is waiting to hurt you.”

---