Page 4 of Staying in Clua

CHAPTER THREE

Hair still wet from my post-yoga dip in the sea, I pull on an old Dukes T-shirt and some denim cut-offs over my black bikini, then grab my iPad from the dresser. When Flynn had mentioned the whole learning to be still and chill and meditate, I didn’t think he would actually send me to a deserted beach bungalow on the back side of nowhere. Just me, myself, and whoever I heard banging about in the conjoining bungalow last night.

I set up the iPad on the table on my porch, then pick up my guitar and settle it onto my lap as it rings.

Muffled shouting and a door slamming are all I can hear while the video comes into focus.

“Morning, Nina.”

“Stan? You there?” The camera wobbles then spins. “Shit. Sorry. Dropped you.”

Motion sickness can be brought on by poor camera skills too, it seems. Who knew? I drop my head back against the back of the wicker sofa and take a deep breath. “All good, Nina. You ready?”

“Yup. Sorted.”

Without lifting my head, I glance down at the screen. She must have her cell balanced on the floor, angled to fit her whole body in. She’s not inside her apartment. It looks like she’s outside in the hallway.

I straighten and adjust my guitar. “You good?”

She crosses her legs and then leans forward towards the screen, her hair falling over her face. “Yeah. Mom and her boyfriend are arguing again. It’s quieter out here.”

On queue, something thuds off the peeling, used-to-be-white front door she’s sitting beside. I shove down the unfamiliar need to protect the girl. She doesn’t deserve the shit her life seems to throw at her. All the more reason to get her this scholarship. “You thought about what songs you’re doing?”

She scrapes her teeth over her pouty lower lip like she’s embarrassed, or nervous, or scared even? “Was thinking Ain’t No Sunshine.”

“Bill Withers?” I nod, impressed. I was half expecting her to pick something from some obscure new wannabe pop star with floppy hair and too-white teeth.

“I heard it one time in the bar mom hangs out at.” She shrugs like what she’s just told me isn’t heartbreaking in itself. “Liked it.”

“Show me what you got, sweet.” I watch her lift her guitar onto her crossed legs, two spots of pink staining her cheeks.

Her bottom lip disappears between her teeth again and she strums the strings before her voice curls around the opening line.

I close my eyes and listen, my thumb tapping the beat on the top of my own guitar. She’s good. Smooth and soulful, and not at all what you’d expect from a girl with black-rimmed eyes, ripped skinnies and grubby Converse knock-offs. But, she fluffs a change in key and my eyes pop open. Good, but could be better. “Watch your pitch there.”

She stops playing and leans into the camera again, then holds her finger to her ear and repeats the big line of the song. Perfect.

“Great. Sounds just like the original. Now make it your own.” I strum the opening then sing the words she just sang back to her, slightly tweaking the notes to fit my voice. “It’s easy to copy someone’s style. Takes talent to make a song your own. Talent I know you’ve got.”

“Right. Okay. I’ll work on it for tomorrow.” She scratches her chin and screws up her face. “I wanted to try out another song too ... while I’ve got you here ... you know ... if you’ve got time.”

My cheeks puff out as I look over the deserted beach. “Got nothing but time, pretty. Shoot.”

“If you hate the idea, tell me.”

I nod at her to go. It’s not like her to be this bothered about what I think. Makes sense, though, I guess. This audition is her ticket to a better life.

She shoots me another nervous glance then sucks in a breath and begins. “How’s it my fault you don’t see me when I’m there?” Her dainty fingers pick at the strings note by note, her gaze laser-focused on what she’s doing. “How’s it my fault when you act like you don’t care?”

I blink hard and turn up the volume on the call. That’s ... my song. It’s not just my fingers that freeze this time. Twice in two days? Really? Really? I’ve successfully managed to avoid this song for years.

“You chose this life, but you also chose me. When things get twisted where the hell you gonna be?”

She doesn’t look up again until she’s finished belting out her very own, way-better-than-the-original version, and I don’t remember to breathe until she does.

Her eyes go round at whatever she reads on my face.

My head shakes before I can get my brain to slide back into gear. I open my mouth to say something, anything to normalize the situation. “Looks like someone’s been Googling...” I clear my throat and force the residual sting of betrayal and all-round bad feelings that come with those vocals back beneath the trap door they live under.

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