Page 44 of The Bloodfeather Promise
It’s a topic of amusement for the band. My taste in music has always been eclectic and wide-ranging, jumping from Frank Sinatra to Highly Suspect within the same playlist. I think Emerson appreciates the diversity. She smiles while the song plays, relaxing until her head drops back against my shoulder. A healthy distance still exists between our lower bodies, but eventually, I’ll erase that, too.
With twilight comes a stronger sea breeze and, even though it’s mid-June, the air is cool. Seeing Emerson shiver, I’m unsure if it’s because of the wind or me. Regardless, I decide we should move inside.
“Let’s go in. I owe you a tour, and we can grab another bottle of wine.”
She casts a surprised glance over her shoulder. “We finished the other?”
“Yeah, but never fear. This house has an impressive wine cellar.”
I pick up the framed photograph while Emerson grabs both floral arrangements. Cradling them in her arms, she enters the house and sets the Lalique vase down on the huge glass and iron coffee table. The other arrangement, she takes into the kitchen and places on the wrap-around breakfast bar.
I place the photograph on the coffee table next to the vase then change the music playlist. The built-in speakers throughout the house were added during the remodel, with several zones making it possible to hear music in nearly every room. The only exclusions are my studio and the wine cellar.
“All right. Where to first?” Emerson asks from behind me as the first song comes on. She grins. “Nice. Classic Kings of Leon. One of my favorite songs by them, too.”
“We’ve got good taste, don’t we?”
There must be something in my expression alerting her to my intentions. I fully intend on making out with her on the huge leather sofa. She abruptly detours to the other side of the room where a box of albums I purchased at RPM sits on an end table. Thumbing through them, she quickly selects one. Eyebrows, shaped like perfectly feathered dark wings, lift in question as she shows me the White Stripe album. “Well, music, like art, is completely subjective. What is amazing to one person, is not so special to the next.”
“Do you mean to tell me you don’t like the Stripes?” I laugh as her nose wrinkles. Joining her, my hands rest on my hips as an illustration of how much her statement exasperates me.
“About as much as I adore Rush. You know, Noah worships them. Although, I’ve repeatedly explained that Rush is simply code for old, pitiful wizard band.”
It only takes a few seconds to locate said old, pitiful wizard band’s album stashed in the box. Withdrawing the highly collectible record just enough so she gets a peek at it, I give her my trademark smirk of a smile.
She claps a hand over her mouth, smothering a giggle.
“Oh, youarea lost cause, aren’t you?” Her eyes twinkle like rare topaz.
I recall her words when we were out on the terrace. When she said I was lost. Emerson’s right. I truly am a lost cause because she has woven a spell around me, and I have no plan of escaping her magic any time soon. Now that I’ve found her, I won’t let her go until I’m good and ready. She just doesn’t realize it yet.
We spend the next few minutes thumbing through records, with a handful being granted her approval. I cleaned Noah’s store out pretty good of his most valuable albums, an eclectic mix of old and new.
“Who taught you about music?” I see she’s biting her bottom lip. “Most people our age have no idea who Rush is. They’re all caught up in that techno bullshit that makes me want to grind my teeth to dust.”
“My grandparents, mostly. Although my mom made sure I grew up hearing eighties and nineties rock. You know, bands like Van Halen and Cheap Trick. Grandpop was more about the classics. He lived in California for a while before coming to Sea Cove. He knew a lot of people in the music industry. Even worked as a producer for a while.” Emerson smiles with the memory. “Oh, the stories he could tell you about what it was like back then. He and my grandma were always going to these parties, up in the hills, at the beach. They hung out with The Mamas and the Papas, Bob Dylan. The Beach Boys. Naturally, I absorbed the music they listened to over the years.”
“I have to ask… what did he think of Seven Seconds?”
With a sideways glance, she considers me for a long moment, contemplating what she will say.
“Come on. You won’t crush my feelings.” I respect criticism, I just rarely hear it outside the bubble the band lives in.
“I’m concerned more about your ego,” she responds tartly.
“Don’t worry about that. There’s more than enough to spread over the wound I know you’re about to inflict.”
Emerson selects a Rolling Stones album, examining the back cover as she says, “He commented once that although the band was extremely talented, you were too careless with your reputations.”
I grin. “The industry hasn’t changed that much since the sixties and early seventies when your grandfather partied with the Beach Boys. A reputation can get you a record deal. Shoot you up the charts. A reputation can be vital. The worse, the better.”
A strangled sound escapes her. She conceals it, clearing her throat and examining the cover art of that Stones album as if the answer on achieving world peace is contained in it.
Taking her elbow, I rotate her so we face each other. That serene expression masking her true thoughts does not fool me. Not one bit. “You don’t think so? Plenty of examples I can give you. Mötley Crue. Guns N Roses. Nirvana. The Doors, if you want to go back that far.”
Emerson blinks, thick dark lashes sweeping down the moment I touch her. The album is still in her hands. It rises to her chest. A pathetic excuse for a shield if I ever saw one.
“Your examples all involve bands where one member is well known for outrageous conduct and poor judgment. That one person drags the others down.”
