Page 31 of A Love Song for Dreamers

I followed up with an email telling him I’d thought he sent them as a joke and I was stilllaughing.

Fifteen minutes later, there was an email from marketing noting I hadn’t posted anything on social since a picture Beck took in LA and I’moverdue.

I go out to the front room to ask Shay about the schedule, and she pulls her headphones off herears.

“What’re you listening to?” Iask.

“Local artists. There’s a lot of talent here. One of my favorites is actually playing tonight at Valor. And,” she goes on, both brows rising up her face, “they have two for one drinks. I can text you thedetails.”

“Thanks.” I’m not planning on going to a local gig and the appeal of two for one drinks has long stopped being a motivator, but I can’t shoot down herenthusiasm.

She punches my number into her phone, but I’m already looking up as the kid comes back in the front door, smelling like smoke and brushing past me to thestudio.

I follow him in. “Let’s try the track again. And clean it up thistime.”

“You wanna show me what you had in mind with your fucked-up hand?” the kiddrawls.

I narrow my gaze. “Give me theguitar.”

He does, and I hook it around myneck.

I’m going to regret this for the next two days, but I don’t evencare.

I play the passage like I’m on stage at MSG with no one to cover my ass—including the pinchharmonics.

My hand is on fire, and not in a good way. It hurts like hell. If I had to play an entire set like this, the muscles would give out and I’d have cramps fordays.

Thank God I don’t. Only enough to shut this dumb kidup.

It won’t always be like this,I remindmyself.

When I’m done, he’ssilent.

I shove the guitar in his face. “I can play it with my fucked-up hand, so you can play it with your fucked-up attitude.Again.”

By the time we have something passable, it’s after dark, and I’m beyond ready to get away from thisasshole.

For a moment, I debate calling one of the guys I toured with or the friends I met on the road. They’d remind me what it’s like to be around people who take their careersseriously.

On the way to my car, I almost run over the kid, who’s leaning into the hedge that runs along the iron fence separating thepool.

My gaze fixes on Jax’s patio, and I take in what he’s staring at—a womanswimming.

Naked.

The visual hits me like a knockout punch—not because it’s any woman, but because it’s one inparticular.

“Keep walking.” I bite out the words, and he jumps, eyes widening as if he’s listening for the first timetoday.

“Chill, man. She’s swimming naked. Clearly she wants someone tolook.”

“Let me guess. You don’t have agirlfriend.”

He shrugs. “Like to keep my optionsopen.”

He heads for his car, where I should be going too, but I reverse directions and go back into the studio, using my swipe key to go out the sidedoor.

Because I should tell her she might be spotted. Not for any otherreason.

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