Page 100 of Fire
I don’t know how much time passes as I lean against the wall and simply watch him. After a while, I notice that he seems to be practicing the same thing over and over—maybe one of Manic’s songs that he’s not feeling confident enough with. But after what feels like the fifth attempt, suddenly, his right hand sort of freezes up. His fingers curl. He stops, shakes it out, and tries again, only to have the same thing happen once more.
His eyes open, and he stares blankly at the floor. “Fuck,” he hisses softly. He tosses the headphones aside and starts to absentmindedly rub his wrist and fingers. He must be lost in thought because it takes him a whole minute before he notices my bare feet and glances up to meet my gaze. “Hey.” He smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “How are you feeling?”
“Better, I think.”
“Yeah?” His gaze sweeps over me, briefly pausing to check out my bare legs in his oversized tee. “You look better.”
“What’s up with your hand?” I ask, not hesitating to get straight to the point.
“I don’t know.” He’s still rubbing it, and I take a step forward to kneel in front of him so I can take a better look. “It freezes up sometimes. Maybe a bit of tendonitis. That’s pretty common with musicians, isn’t it?”
“It is,” I confirm. “My mom has it.”
“Your mom is a musician?”
I smile up at him, realizing how much we still don’t know about each other. Considering how hard I’m falling for him, this simple fact should scare me, but the only thing I’m feeling is excitement.
I can’t wait to learn everything about this man.
“Yeah, she plays the harp. Pretty damn well too.”
“Wow, that’s badass. Don’t think I’ve ever met a harpist before.”
“Maybe the two of you can jam. Wouldn’t that be something?” I joke, hoping to lighten the mood as I glance at his hand. “Are you experiencing a lot of pain?”
“It’s sore sometimes.”
“But no stabbing or throbbing pain you can pinpoint?” I’ve already taken his hand in mine, checking his flexibility and mobility. It all seems normal, and he doesn’t seem to be in any pain as I manipulate the joint.
“No, not that I’ve noticed. Can I just say it’s really fucking hot when you go into doctor mode? Especially when you’re in nothing but my shirt?”
I try to suppress the grin threatening to break free. “Don’t distract me. And don’t change the subject,” I tell him. “What does it feel like? When it does this?”
He lets out a frustrated sigh, as if he knows he’s not getting out of this conversation. Good, I’m glad he’s resigned to his fate now. He took care of me, and now I’m taking care of him. “Likemy hand just forgets what it’s doing for a second. It’s frustrating, especially when it’s happened on stage. I feel like I could play these songs in my sleep now—that’s how well they’re etched into memory—and yet, I’ll be performing and suddenly, my fingers just stop responding, and I’m standing there hoping no one noticed.”
The expression on his face damn near breaks me. It’s clear he’s been worrying about this for a while. I want to ask how long, but I’m worried asking him too many questions right now will only stress him out even more.
He’s right. It could just be something as simple as tendonitis.
But if it’s not…
“Hey.” I give him an encouraging smile. “Why don’t we do this? When we’re on break in Seattle, we get it checked out. I have a friend from med school up there who’s in orthopedics. I’ll contact him ahead of time, explain the situation…” I can almost see the alarm bells ringing in his head. “And stress the discretion needed,” I add. His shoulders relax a little. “But I think it’s best if we get it looked at. For your peace of mind, at the very least.”
He searches my face as if he’s trying to unravel my every thought. I can see the unease, the worry, the doubt.
“It’s going to be okay.” I lift the bass from his shoulders and gently place it in the case. A moment later, I settle into his lap. He wraps his arms around my waist and buries his head in my chest.
“Promise?”
I swallow, feeling my own unease settle deep in my chest. Against my better judgment, I find myself nodding. “Promise,” I answer.
It’s one promise I hope I never have to break.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
HENDRIX
If there’s one thing to be said about Lance Creed, it’s that the man moves quickly. No grass is growing under his feet, that’s for sure. So it’s completely unsurprising to me when I get a text from him this morning asking to meet before we leave LA today.
