Page 435 of Not Over You

“Keep an eye on her for me, yeah?” he says, turning to look at me. “I should be back by next Tuesday if not sooner if Derek can find a replacement. Then we can do brotherly stuff that makes you sick until I leave.”

I grin when he throws an arm around my neck and rubs his knuckles on my head, royally screwing up my bun. But I let him, because he’s doing his best—I owe him the same.

His car pulls up a few seconds later to take him to the airport. I wave him off then head inside and up the stairs.

When I knock on Charlie’s door, she doesn’t answer, so I slowly turn the handle. I shove the door open, letting it creak its way in. She’s zipping her suitcase when she tosses a look over her shoulder.

“What the hell are you doing?” I ask.

Charlie lets out a huff of a laugh, missing the humor. “Finding somewhere else to crash, obviously.”

“No, not obviously.” I all but slap the strap out of her hand, and she looks up at me with a cute little look of shock on her face. With a sigh, I set my hands on her shoulders. “You’re staying here. Because I’m not the guy who lets a chick go wandering the streets.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “I do have money, you know. And friends in Philly. I’m not some stray that needs to be taken care of.”

I nod, giving her a half-smile as my thumb brushes over the neckline of her shirt. “One of them is standing right here. With a spare room and every intention of making you stay.”

A crease appears in her brow when she looks up at me, like I’ve just given her something and she doesn’t know how to react. It sends me back a step before I forget the timeline we’re in.

“It’s what Archer wants,” I add, tossing her bag on the floor by the bed. “He might be an annoying superhero neither of us are the happiest with at the moment, but you’re important to him.”

Charlie presses her lips together and forces a smile at me. “Yeah, fine. But act like I’m not here. Live your life.”

As if a paid actor, my phone buzzes loudly in my pocket. “Like I have a choice,” I joke, pulling it out.

“Thank you, Benji,” she says quietly, the crease back.

It has me fisting my hand before I pull some stupid shit like trying to smooth it out like I’ve done before for her. Instead, I just nod and back out of the room, bringing the phone up to my ear.

I hear her step behind me, the door creak again, but it never latches. Somehow the thought of her leaving it open a little makes me smile as I answer the call.

The smile fades quickly though.

“Jonesy, I got it. I fucking got it.”

I sigh and turn the corner into my room, next to Charlie’s and send my door flying shut. “And what the fuck is it you’ve got, Brana?”

The eighteen-year-old who could give Charlie Puth a run for his money as far as music knowledge goes starts humming in perfect pitch a hook. And it’s fucking brilliant.

“That’s great, man. Really. But have you slept yet?”

“Fuck no,” he spits back at me. “I need to finish this. Wait until you hear the lyrics.”

Before he can start singing, I clear my throat. “Brana, you need to sleep. You have a show tonight, and the last time you didn’t sleep,” I pause, choosing my words, “it didn’t go well.”

Understatement. It was a complete dumpster fire. He showed up late—after popping a fuck ton of Adderall—took too many shots because the crowd “annoyed” him, and then ran off stage to vomit in the trashcan I held for him between songs.

“It went perfectly. Just like every single thing I do,” he spits back, his voice telling me he’s already lost interest in the conversation.

I grind my teeth together, biting back every word I’ve wanted to say to him for the past few months. If he weren’t a musical genius, I’d have cut him simply for being an asshat. But the kid turns it on for the fans, seen as a smiling teenager, ready to take on the world rather than the spoiled fuck who needs to fall flat on his face so he knows what it’s like to crawl his way back up.

Considering it’s only eight-thirty in the morning, I decide I’m not dealing with it. So, instead, I force a goddamn smile into my voice.

“Sleep, Brana. I’ll send a car for you tonight, and you can hit me with those incredible lyrics. Maybe we’ll get you some studio time this week to record.”

“Yeah, maybe…” He sounds far away, either exhausted or distracted by the notes in his head.

“Sleep,” I say again. “Then we rock this shit tonight.”

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