Page 31 of Play the Last Track
I sigh and watch her ass sway as she gives me her back.
“I’ll do my best, Murphy.” I’m lying. Obviously. Like hell I will.
She rounds the corner, and I listen for her muffled footsteps heading up the stairs moments later. I take the pasta out of the microwave and sit at the counter silently as I shovel in bites.
If I think about the events in Italy, I can’t pick where things went wrong. Everything seemed fine until it wasn’t, and Katie slammed a door in my face. Looking back on it, I should’ve pushed a little harder, asked more questions. I thought she just needed a moment because it was likely the first time she fucked anyone after her breakup. So I gave her space.
In hindsight, I wish I had smothered the fuck out of her until she’d told me what I did wrong.
Nothing has changed. I want her. Having her here, in my house, only cements that. A fake relationship was a fucking terrible idea until it was Katie that was the one I would be in the relationship with.
I sigh, putting my empty bowl in the dishwasher and wiping down the benches before heading upstairs. Katie’s door is open and she’s sitting on the edge of her bed, scrolling through something on the TV with the remote. Slowing my steps, I peek inside the room.
To my surprise, she hasn’t changed the décor all that much. The clean white bedspread is rumpled, and the green decorative pillows I picked because I thought they would add color to the room are scattered across the floor.
I feel a smile curl on my lips as I realize Katie’s messy.
Her things are all over the place. Clothes spill out of the closet, and there are at least three different pairs of jeans on the floor in front of her mirror. A pair of shoes that I recognize as the ones she wears to work are just outside the door and would stop it from closing if she tried. I can’t help myself, so I bend down and place them neatly just inside the door. When I glance up, she’s staring at me, eyebrow raised in a question.
I just shrug and look around the room again. My gaze snags on a guitar sitting in its stand in the corner. I nod toward it.
“Do you play?” I ask.
“Sometimes.” Something new crosses her face. Something between excitement and disappointment. She doesn’t elaborate, but she looks over at the guitar with longing.
“You’ll have to play something for me sometime.” It takes everything in me not to beg her to pick up the guitar right now. I wonder if she can sing. I wonder what her voice will sound like. Fuck, I wish I could hear it.
“Mm. No, I don’t think so.” She shakes her head and stands, coming to stand in front of me with a hand on the open door.
“I’m hurt. Why not?”
“I only play for my friends.” Her phone is in her hand, face up and brightly lit, as she points it at me. “And we aren’t friends.”
Her tone is light and joking. She’s teasing me. I chuckle, leaning forward. “We can change that. Anytime you like.”
Her mouth curls into a playful smile, and that same anticipation from earlier this evening crawls up my throat. Come on, Katie. Laugh. Play. Be bright with me again.
Before she can say anything further, the phone in her hand buzzes. Katie goes still as we both look down at the name on the screen.
Grant.
I open my mouth, about to ask her why the hell her ex-boyfriend is calling her, but with a flick of her wrist, the door shuts in my face.
What the actual fuck?
Chapter Nine
Katie
Novemberisallpumpkinspice lattes and orange leaves. It’s a picture-perfect month for fall. The orange, the reds and browns. It makes you feel warm and cozy even though winter is right around the corner. The weather is cool, but we still have blue sky days. When I was in college, I used to sit in the middle of the quad, my shoes off and my guitar in my hand. I would play for an hour or so before heading to my next class. Students would make requests, and I would let my voice carry over the small crowd that gathered, off in the wind.
Back then, music, whether it was in public while playing in the quad or in private while I sang gently to myself on my bed and strummed along with my guitar, was my release. My hobby. It was something I loved, for myself and to share.
Now, it’s my secret. My safe space.
I stare at the guitar in the corner of the room. It’s the same one from college, but it’s not one that I use anymore. My other is at the bar, tucked away in my office, along with all my other equipment. I haven’t played the one on display in years.
Grant didn’t think I was any good, and he wasn’t shy about saying it aloud. To be fair, I am self-taught. A few extra classes in college, and I know enough, but I haven’t studied music. He thought I was wasting my time when I sat in front of a YouTubevideo and tried to teach myself about keys, reading music, or a new instrument. Whenever I hummed along with a song, he’d tell me to be quiet orjust listen to the artist sing it.
