Page 28 of Ring My Bell

“And I thrive on chaos. Match made in heaven. Or San Francisco, since that’s where we met.”

“So the opposite of.”

“Dork. Come on. Let’s get set up. I made a list of the songs we’ve done on the way here, and a list of the ones I know for the violin, and one for songs I like in my range. What about you?”

I shook myself into movement, striding to the piano and flipping open the lid. “Got paper?”

Between the two of us, we came up with a quick list of ten, narrowing them down to the four easiest that didn’t come off as fifth grade talent show but with more money. A modern pop-ish piece, swing-y piece for me, a folk-pop number for Iggy including a few fiddle runs, and then… “Ring My Bell.”

“Are you sure you want to do this one?” he demanded. “Technically, Raymond—”

“Can eat my entire ass,” I snapped. “I wrote that song. The original version. Any changes made, he did without my permission. I own the rights to it, not him. And this,” I pointed my finger at the notes Iggy made, jabbing at them angrily, “is my version. Not his. This is how it was meant to be heard.” I hesitated, then added, “No offense.”

Iggy’s smile was tight, but he wasn’t angry at me, I don’t think. If I had to guess, he looked sad, maybe a little guilty. “If I’d known about the song’s origins, I never would’ve agreed to sing it like that.”

“Yeah you would’ve. He gave it to you to sing, to make famous. And it almost did.”

“But I didn’t know…” he huffed. “I didn’t know it was like this. This is beautiful, Mathis. I told you before, the first time I heard you play it, but I don’t think you believed me. This song is sexy and fun and classic and—and…” He threw up his hands. “Fucking hell, Mathis. I want to sing it your way. Let’s make that our closer, okay? We’ve got two slots, bless Gerald’s sneaky heart. We can absofuckinglutely blow their tops.”

“Shit,” I sighed, closing my eyes and resting my forehead against the top of the piano. “What if it falls apart? They don’t let us on stage, or no one likes our music, or… Oh my god, what if they do like it? We’re standing on a house of cards here, Iggy. What happens if it works?”

“Then…” He paused, a tiny smile quirking his lips as he stared at some point past me, seeing something only he knew. Smile spreading, he shook his head. “Then it works. Everyone loves an underdog, right?”

“I somehow don’t think that’s how this is going to end up,” I muttered. “Like, at all.”

Iggy rapped his knuckles on the wood, and I winced, sitting back. “C’mon, piano man. Let’s start with the Vanessa Carlton one.”

* * *

“No, I don’t care how well it sounds, I refuse to play Taylor Swift. That’s my line in the sand.”

“Seriously? Taylor is your line in the sand?” Iggy was sprawled on the floor beside the piano, slightly out of breath but looking happy. I was slumped on the bench, my legs stretched out so my toes could poke his thigh as we wound down from our tense, rushed practice.

“Every bar or nightclub I’ve worked in, I’ve been inundated with requests for her music. It went from eh, whatever, not my thing, but sure for a tip to if I hear one more person ask me for another of her songs, I’m going to stab myself in the face with a cocktail skewer.”

He snorted. “I met her once. She seemed nice. Busy, but nice.” Sliding a sly smirk my way, he narrowed his eyes and started singing that damn “Fairy Tale” song the bride-to-be had requested what felt like eons ago now. Had it really only been a few weeks?

“Christ,” I muttered. “I’ve known you for less than a month, and I already tolerate you.”

“You tolerated my back out last night,” he shot back, raising a brow. “That asshole schtick might work for your whole brand,” he laughed when I visibly winced at the word, “but I know better. You’re all… nice. And okay, kind of an asshole but not the kind you like people to think you are. You,” he poked my leg, “need people. You want to be liked. To be wanted.”

“Doesn’t everyone, to some extent?”

“Not sociopaths.”

“Well, I’m not a sociopath, so…”

He rolled up onto his feet with an easy sort of grace, making our age difference feel stark in that moment. But he didn’t give me time to linger on that thought before straddling my lap and catching my chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Listen to me, Mathis. Whatever happens tomorrow, this is us moving forward, okay? Away from Raymond, away from the toxic world he moves in and pulled us into. We’re going to be okay.”

“It’s no we shall fight on the beaches, but—” Whatever I was going to say next got swallowed by his hard, fast kiss. “Hey!”

“Shut up,” he laughed. “Sarcasm isn’t required for every moment you feel vulnerable.”

“But,” I gasped, splaying my hand over my chest, “it’s my brand!”

A minute later, he was still cackling at me when the yellow-haired lady returned to tell us our time in the room was up. We grabbed our phones and notes and his violin and, linking fingers, headed out into the lodge proper.

* * *

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