Page 29 of Pierce Me

“Happy new year to you too,” I tell him.

Skye chuckles good-naturedly and I want to punch him. He lifts his hands in the air as if he can read my mind. Which he can, usually.

“I’m here to help, Zay,” he tells me.

No one calls me ‘Zay’ except mom and James. Skye heard my mom call me that and he’s been using it on and off ever since just to piss me off.

“Great,” I cross my hands over my chest. My stomach is getting concave again—when was the last time I ate? I should probably get out of these PJs sometime this week. Or the next. “Help then.”

“I’m about to hire a poet for you. To help you write.”

My hands fall to my sides.

“Excuse me?”

Skye closes his eyes tight, knowing what’s coming. “You need help, man. I got you help.”

“Who… who is he?”

“She.”

“She?”

“I don’t know, I’m still talking to people. She’ll be the best of the best, ok? You have my word for it.”

“Oh well, as long as she is the best of the best,” I say sarcastically and flop onto a couch, face first. This can’t be happening. “Listen, Skye,” my voice is muffled inside the cushions but I don’t have the energy to lift my face out of them, “I write my songs myself, ok? Take a walk.”

“You haven’t written any songs in two years, my boy,” Skye says. His voice is calm but firm. I hate him for that voice, but that voice is the only reason I’ve gotten anything done these past four years.

“I wroteFireworksin May,” I retort.

“Apart fromFireworks,” he deadpans, unperturbed.

“I’m in theprocessof writing another!” I pillow-scream.

“I can see that,” he says. “No, wait, I can smell that. From a block away.”

I jump up and my head spins. I flop back down, except I miss the sofa and end up on the floor on my ass. Skye saunters over and sits down on the floor next to me, folding his long, muscled body easily.

“Listen, man,” he says, “you need help. I bring you help. It’s that simple.”

“I write my songs alone,” I repeat. “Alone.”

“Hey, no protest here. If you can write your new album alone, have at it.” He reaches out a tanned arm in front of me. “We can pay the poet off, and she’ll leave. But if you need her, she’ll be there.”

“Is that… Is your decision final?”

I know Skye. He might act cool and playful, but his word is law. If he says we’ll do one thing, then it’s going to happen, come hell or high water.

“I’m about to ask her to start working with you after the Grammys.”

My blood runs cold. The Grammys are in a month—and I’m performing. We start rehearsals next week.

“No.” It comes out as a gasp. “Give me some more time, please.”

“Isaiah, man, don’t sound like you’re begging me. I’m on your side here.”

“I am begging you.” I throw my head back and close my eyes. “Give me until May.”

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