Page 49 of The Bloodfeather Promise
I’m impressed by the gadgets, the multicolored lights and sliding levels on the soundboard. The thick plate of glass separating the control booth from the studio floor is at least twenty feet wide and looks incredibly heavy. I wonder how it was even transported down to this lower level, much less erected into place.
After a quick tutorial on how tracks are recorded, Greyson opens a door off to one side of the soundboard and leads me down a few steps onto the studio floor. While I watch, he jumps up on a small stage where a drum kit is set up. Grinning, he raps out a quick fill across the gleaming white drum heads, ending it by softly tapping the cymbals with the tip of a drum stick.
It is strange, seeing him dressed in a pair of pleated khakis and a casual white shirt, rocking out a heavy drum solo. I’m so accustomed to the dark and moody persona he wears so well, the black jeans and black, ripped up t-shirts. He’s wearing expensive flipflops instead of his customary black boots or black Converse. A civilized Greyson is just as handsome and panty-melting as bad boy Greyson. I’m entranced by his playful side, his usual cynicism absent. The moodiness is still there, evident in the punishing piece he’s slipped into. I didn’t even know he could play drums. It’s just another layer I want to unwrap.
The love and excitement for his profession are even more evident when he jumps down from the riser and proudly begins showing off the extensive collection of guitars, both electric and acoustic. His enthusiasm is almost childlike and so charming.
Greyson’s prized instrument is his first guitar he ever received. It’s a rather beat up Fender acoustic, stained dark brown and polished to a high sheen. His parents gave it to him on his eleventh birthday. He named her Cindi.
“Why Cindi?” I ask with a grin, although I already know the answer.
“That’s the name of the first girl I ever kissed.” He winks at me, and my pulse accelerates. I remember all too well how Greyson’s kisses taste and feel. How addictive they are.
I huff out a breathless laugh that sounds incredibly flirty, even to my own ears. “That’s not true. She’s named after your favorite aunt, the one who was always pinching your cheeks and asking what you wanted to be when you grew up. I read it online.”
Greyson’s hazel eyes twinkle with surprising mischievousness. “So, you see it on the internet, it must be true? Sorry to disappoint you, sweetheart, but I’m telling the truth. I was twelve and she was older than me. At least thirteen. Maybe even fourteen. A cradle robber if there ever was one.”
With an amused chuckle, he takes my empty wine glass, setting it on a nearby table with his own. Picking up the guitar, he strums the strings so they sing out in a lilting melody. “This is how it happened. She was teasing me, saying I couldn’t play guitar so why bother toting it all around the beach? The madder I got, the more she kept on until, finally, I said if she wanted me to prove I could play, she’d have to pay for the performance. After talking it over with her little gang of girlfriends, she agreed.”
“How did she pay?”
“With a kiss, of course. Now, I’m nervous, this being my first solo for a live audience, and my mind goes blank. I couldn’t think of a single song except something I’d been practicing for months.”
“Let me guess,” I roll my eyes. “Wonderwall?”
“Hell no! “Big Balls” by AC/DC. It almost sounded recognizable, especially when I sang the words. Every girl there, all six of them, were horrified, except Cindi. Once she quits laughing, she walks up, puts both hands on either side of my face, and lays the biggest, wettest kiss right on my mouth. There may have even been a bit of tongue involved. I’m pretty sure there was. From that point on, my guitar was known as Cindi.”
“Are you making that up?” I burst into laughter. “That sounds made up. Where did the story about your aunt come from?”
Affecting an expression of overwhelming hurt, Greyson’s dark eyebrows lift at my questioning of the events. “Do you think I was crazy enough to tell my parents the real story? Had they known I was using my birthday present to trick girls into kissing me, they would have probably bought a clarinet to take its place. The Aunt Cindi version was far more acceptable and it just stuck.”
He hands the guitar over. It’s beat up, scratched from years spent in his hands. Watching me intently as I examine it, he continues. “My brother Alex was the only one who knew the truth other than those girls. Now, just you and the guys in the band know. So, tell me, Emerson, will you keep my secret? Or must I take drastic measures as a means of guaranteeing your silence?”
I hold Cindi and run my fingers over the strings, imitating Greyson’s actions earlier. She emits a quivering noise that sounds nothing like the sweetness he coaxes from her. I almost wish we were in a real relationship. I would ask Greyson if he would teach me how to play her.
“What would that entail, precisely? These… drastic measures…”
There is a moment of charged silence while my quietly spoken question is considered. Taking Cindi from my hands, Greyson gently sets her on the guitar stand.
Slowly, surely, with undeniable intent, he advances on me. The closer he comes, the farther I back away until I’m against a studio wall. Soon, there’s no more opportunity to retreat.
My breath is coming hard. Fast. I’m trembling with anticipation because I cannot deny what I feel. The promise I made to myself, that silly vow of keeping him at arm’s length, that sliver of hate I’ve nurtured for a year and a half, all evaporates like morning sea mist. It’s a bit of twisted irony, really, how much I want this man to kiss me. How much I need to feel his hands on me. Just an hour ago, I was recalling his words fromthatmorning when he tossed me out of his life.
His eyes bore into mine, and for two beats of my treacherous heart, I catch a glimpse of the Greyson Finch from that wild night in West Hollywood. The intensity of his stare, the way his full lips tighten as if he is holding himself back from snatching me to him. The tight clenching of his hands betrays his thoughts. He’s thinking very hard on following through with his desire. It all ignites me. I’m suddenly a tinder match. I only need Greyson to set me on fire.
“Do not play games with me, Emerson. I’mthisclose to kissing you. Taking what I want until you want it too…”
His muttered growl makes my insides cIench. A wave of lust so magical, so lush and sweet, swamps me until I’m drowning beneath the waves. I can’t swallow. I can’t move. I don’t even think I can blink. I am completely caught up in his seductive web.
“Greyson…”
Did I breathe his name aloud or is it simply my heart whispering to his? As if in slow motion, his hand reaches for me and, suddenly, I’m tired of fighting. Weary of denying whatever this is between us. There is no hope for me. There never was. He touches me and I surrender.
Drifting like a feather into his hands.
