Page 109 of For Wrath and Redemption
I scoff. “When will be the right time, exactly? When thejobis finished? Because I’ll still be his son, Claire, and he’ll still be the CEO of Innovation Media. None of this is going to change."
“I know.” She sighs and tilts her head to the ceiling. “I know.”
She’s stressed. It’s evident in every muscle in her body. This is weighing heavily on both of us, but I hate seeing her upset, and I know what stress does to me. I’m learning what it does to her, too.
My anger calms. My insecurities quiet enough that I can ignore them. I close the distance between us and pull her into a hug. Claire wraps her arms around my waist, and I feel the rest of the tension leave my body. My mind is a mess. My heart is overwhelmed. But as long as she’s in my arms, I can relax.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper into her hair. “Let’s order room service, and then we can get started on your to-do list, okay? We’ll table this conversation for later.”
“Thank you.” She lifts onto her tiptoes and kisses me. “Thank you.”
Later. We’ll worry about it later. Fine. I’ve got plenty of other things to worry about right now, anyway. So, we order breakfast, and I try like hell not to make it obvious that I’m tracking her every move. Her every bite. I pay attention to every chew and swallow. It takes everything in me not to encourage her to eat more when she says she’s finished.
She disappears into the bedroom, and I stay in the main room. I barely breathe as I wait for her to head into the bathroom. Every sense is trained on her. My thumb is picked raw. I listen and listen.
Finally, when she doesn’t come out of the bedroom, I stand andfollow her in. I find her messing with the ring light, and I let out a slow, relieved breath.
“So, what’s it going to be today?”
I sit on the side of the bed and glance around the room. She’s got the black silk sheet spread out already and my guitar and amp in the corner. Her sexy little social media setup.
“Ray LaMontagne,” I tell her, and she hums.
“Folk rock. I like it.”
“Well, emphasis on the rock.” My lips curl into a small smile.
“I’d expect nothing else. Alright, you ready?”
“Ready when you are, Trouble.”
“Okay...Let me just...Yep. Go.”
I launch into the song the same way I’ve been doing all the others. Opening chords, then moving into a solo instrumental version where it sounds like my guitar is “singing” the vocals. I add my own flourishes, but I stay true to the vocals. It makes it easier for my followers to identify the song.
I want to laugh at myself.
Myfollowers.
It still sounds asinine, but Claire was right. The social media move is paying off. Even the paps have been affected. Lately, they shout out questions about my various volunteering events instead of my impending rehab visit. Claire is brilliant, and I can’t deny that anymore.
I think about it, about her, the whole time I play. About the influence she’s had on my life. The way she holds my emotions in her fucking hand. She consumes my thoughts, and I’m grateful for it. She’s a lot better than the trouble that usually invades my head.
As the song fills the room, I hope like hell she recognizes it. Because just like all the others, it’s for her. This one isn’t subtle, though. “Trouble” by Ray LaMontagne is so obvious, I might as well have the lyrics tattooed on my forehead. I wish I could see her face, but that fucking ring light makes it impossible.
When the last notes fade, we sit in silence. She doesn’t turn off the ring light, and I don’t speak. I turn off my amp, put my guitar back on the stand, and wait. I wait until the anticipation gnaws at my insides. I pick at my thumb until it bleeds, so I fold it into my fist. Then I break.
“You’re killing me over here.”
Silence.
“Claire.”
“Yeah?”
“What did you think?”
“It was great. They’re always great. You’re a talented musician.”
