Page 49 of On the Beat

“Four stars,” I say, because I really am curious about him. And I need a reminder that what’s real is not in this room. What’s real is my job hanging on the gallows. I play the notes, messing up on one or two of them, though he doesn’t seem to notice. “I like this line better.”

“Ask away.” Ryder spreads open his hands, the guitar strap around his chest sliding off of his shoulder.

“Do you believe in true love?” I blurt out.

The soundproofed walls of the studio do nothing to muffle the beat of my heart as I realize how dead silent the room is when he isn’t talking or singing or playing anything. Ryder plays a few notes on the piano, sinking his fingers into the keys, like the music inside him has to get out yet wants to remain buried. “I don’t know.”

“Never mind. Just forget about it—”

“No.”

“No, you don’t believe, or, no…”

“I believe true love is real and almost impossible to find.”

I wrap a strand of hair around my finger. “If it’s so hard to find, how do you know it’s real?”

His fingers land on the keys with a jarring clink, before playing a scale, something melodic and expected and linear, something my ear follows to its expected conclusion. His answer, however, is anything but predictable. “My parents are in love. What they have—it’s real. Maybe it’ll be harder for me to find it, but I know it’s out there.”

“Why do you think it’s so hard to find?”

Ryder plays another scale, but it ends this time on a dissonant note, the off-key harmony making me cringe. “I already gave you two answers for the price of one.”

I turn away. “Play me something, then, piano man.”

He strums a few melancholy minor chords. “Always and forever / I’d like to believe one of them was true / But coming from you / Nothing ever was.”

I rest an elbow on the piano, right on the small space between where the keys end and the edge of the instrument begins. Every ounce of composure I once possessed seems to have fled my body, and I have to tug at the collar of my shirt to keep cool. “Meh. One star.”

“Meh?” Ryder repeats, moving closer as though he didn’t hear me correctly. One eyebrow rises, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk. A smirk I have the strangest urge to kiss. “What a nuanced musical analysis.”

“You’re not paying me enough to give you a nuanced musical analysis. I’m here to make snap judgments and tell you what your audience is thinking.”

“You’re a very biased sample size.”

“I’m the only one you’ve got, and I think this song is boring. Haven’t you played enough sad songs? Where are the sappy love songs or the party songs or the songs about anything besides a breakup?”

Ryder’s brows knit together, but the smile tugging at his lips suggests that he’s not too concerned with my questions. “You’re calling me a one-hit-wonder.”

“I’m saying your range isn’t all that expansive.” Is it just me, or did his gaze just drop to my mouth?

“What do you recommend?”

“I…” His knee is three inches from mine and I don’t know if I want to shrink that space or keep him away with barbed words and friendly competition, but nothing about this situation feels friendly anymore. I swallow. “Go again. Make it better.”

His fingers slide over the keys, but he doesn’t play anything even as he reaches the higher registers of the piano. Ryder leans toward me, his arm a breath away from touching mine, and something about the gesture must make me lose blood flow to my brain, because I let him. I let his hand rise from the keys to cup my face, his knee knocking against mine, his fingers tilting my chin up to meet his gaze. A silent question sits in his blue eyes:yes or no?

I give the tiniest nod, and when his lips touch mine, I let that happen, too.

No. Not evenlet.

I kiss him back.

And the next thing I know, Ryder Black is kissing me.

Ryder Black.

The man with his mouth against mine, his fingers tangled in my hair, and his body pressing mine flush against the piano keys with a discordant clunk.

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