Текст книги "My Soul to Keep"

Автор книги: Kennedy Ryan

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“All right, hit me with it. What’s your favorite?”

“Number nine on your first album.”

I couldn’t have heard her right. No one says number nine. It’s one of the most personal songs I ever wrote. So personal and so mine that no one ever gets it. The producer at the time called it a self-indulgent choice, but I insisted we include it.

“‘Lost’?” I ask, just to make sure. “‘Lost’ is your favorite song?”

She clears her throat before speaking.

“‘I’ve lost my way. I stumbled into the woods, but can’t see the forest for the trees. How did I get here? Where am I going?’”

The first line of “Lost.”

“Why is that your favorite?”

“I fell asleep to that song for months when I was taking care of my mom. There I was, still living in a tiny Georgia town and working at Glory Bee, my mom’s diner. Making biscuits before sun up, dancing only when I could squeeze it in, and taking care of Mama in her final days. It was overwhelming and it all had to be done, but it was nothing I had ever planned to do. That song was how I felt. I loved it because I was so lost.”

She lowers her head, blinking fast and pursing her lips. I don’t think she means for it to, but her voice falls to a whisper.

“Because sometimes I still am.”

As much as she lights up a room, dancing, laughing from time to time, I’m beginning to see that just beneath the surface of Kai, there is as much shadow as there is shine. I don’t know if it’s because of her mother’s recent death and the long illness that came before, or if it’s more than that, but I connect to it. As someone who had to battle my parents in open court for my freedom and survival, I understand shadow. I could step into it with her, or I could pull her out.

“My favorite line of that song is the last one,” I say.

She lifts her eyes to mine, and we build a smile together.

“‘Now I see the light,’” we quote at the same time.

I roll up my sleeve, baring my forearm to show her the ink there. She traces the line from the song, creating mayhem on my skin under her fingers.

“Believe it or not, that’s my favorite from the album too. No one else has ever . . . well, no one ever says that’s their favorite.”

Her fingers drop away from my arm, and her eyes drop away from my face. I screw up my nerve to say what needs to be said before she walks away from me.

“Look, I don’t do this much, but I feel like we have a connection.”

“A connection?” One of her eyebrows elevates just a bit, but she still doesn’t look up from her lap.

“Yesterday after I played, I opened my eyes and I saw something on your face. I know what it was now.”

She looks up, but she’s already shielding her eyes, and I’m not sure why.

“What did you think you saw?”

“The music moved you.”

“Yes. I’m sure your music moves a lot of people.”

This shouldn’t be hard. I didn’t fabricate this pull between us, but she’s resisting it, rejecting it, and I don’t understand.

“I know we just met, but I’d like to get to know you better. Have dinner with me tomorrow.”

“I can’t tomorrow. I’m working.”

I can be flexible.

“Maybe the next night?”

She shakes her head.

I can be persistent.

“When’s your next night off?”

“I can’t. No.” She pulls in a breath, releasing it as a sigh, but still not looking at me. “I’m . . . I’m saying no.”

“Why?”

She considers me for a moment before answering, her eyes revealing even less than her words.

“Look, Rhyson, you’re not a jerk like I expected you to be.”

“Gee, thanks.”

At least we can both laugh at that.

“So it’s not you, exactly. It’s just . . . I’m not dating. I just can’t get sidetracked right now.”

The easy conversation. The effortless way we made each other laugh. The intimacy of my lyrics comforting her when times were tough. These aren’t things you ignore. So why is she?

“That’s it?”

“If you want to know the truth, no. Maybe it is you. I won’t date you.” She gives me a frank glance, folding her arms across her chest again. “I want to make it on my own. Not have anyone think I succeeded because of who I’m dating.”

“They wouldn’t. It’s obvious you’ve got what it takes.”

“Oh, you can’t be that naïve.” She lets out a husky, cynical laugh. “Besides, maybe I have things to prove to myself. I barely have time to eat, much less date, but outside of San and Grady, I don’t have any real friends.”

“You want to be my friend?”

“Yeah, you can never have too many friends.” Her smile, wide and hopeful, bounces back at me like a refraction of light.

“Actually, I have enough friends,” I say. “I’m attracted to you, Kai. Like really attracted to you.”

Her light fades into a frown.

“I’m not the first girl you’ve been attracted to.”

“No, but you’re the first I’ve wanted to actually get to know in a long time, and—”

“And we can get to know each other. Just . . . not the date. Is that okay?”

I squeeze at the tension tightening the back of my neck and train my eyes on the console between us.

“No. It’s not okay.”

The silence following my words is thick and heavy until her words cut through it.

“I don’t know what to say then, Rhyson.”

“Being my friend is a helluva lot more intimate than a date.” I finally look up, and the frown on my face matches the one on hers. “It’s more intimate than sleeping with me.”

My best friend, Marlon, and the few people who constitute my inner circle earned that closeness. It was hard knowing who to trust once I broke away from my parents. Two albums and several Grammys later, it’s even harder to know. I stopped counting the girls I slept with long ago. That just seems douchey anyway—the counting. But ask me how many friends I have that I can count, and I only need one hand.

“So you’re willing to go on a date with me, even sleep with me,” Kai looks down, twisting her fingers around the strap of her bag, “but becoming my friend is too intimate?”

“That and I think it’s impossible for us to be just friends. I’m very attracted to you.” I reach out and tip her chin up, searching her eyes for the truth, a reason, whatever would make her resist this thing that has been tugging on me like an undertow since our eyes locked across Grady’s studio. “You telling me you don’t feel it too?”

Her eyes stay with me, but she eases her chin away from my fingers and lifts it an inch.

“Thanks for asking, but I’m gonna stick with no.”

I swallow a groan, frustrated as hell that this girl has me on the verge of begging when I’m not the guy who ever even asks.

“Kai, it’s just a date.”

“And I’m just saying no.” She opens the passenger door and steps out into the parking lot. “I need to get inside. Thanks again for the ride.”

She closes the car door and starts off toward the restaurant.

What am I supposed to do now? I put all my cards on the table. Cards I’ve never even held, much less shown a girl, and this is her response? She turns me down hard and offers me the fucking hand of friendship. I watch her slim back, the dark hair, and the tight curve of her ass. All that’s great, but it’s more than physical. That moment when we talked about “Lost” showed me how deeply we could connect if she would only give us a chance.

I jump out of the truck, lean my forearms on the hood, and yell across the parking lot from the driver’s side.

“Hey, Kai.”

I wait for her to face me before finishing my thought.

“Let me know if you change your mind.”

She starts walking backwards, and her smile says that’ll be the day. Her words yield no more ground.

“Let me know if you change yours.”

GRIEF TAUGHT ME TO LIVE NUMB. Death takes more than just the one life. It thieves tiny particles from the ones left behind until you feel only half alive. In some ways, that’s how I’ve lived, how I’ve felt, even since moving here to L.A. San and Grady see it. That’s why they worry.

Last week, I felt something. It started with that music Rhyson played. Each note was a tiny needle shooting adrenaline into my barely beating heart, jolting me awake and heightening my senses. My heart races when I remember every moment, every word we exchanged, every time we looked at one another as long as we could stand it before we’d looked away.

Meeting Rhyson was like being in a darkened room where someone lights a match. He was a flare of light that illuminated everything around me and showed me just how dull my existence had become. Then before my eyes had time to adjust to the light, it was snuffed out again

But that’s okay. I’ll find my way out of this dark room. The stage is my path to the light. It always has been. I’ve always known it. I’ll make my own light. I’ll find my own way.

A bill marked with blood-red past due notice warnings grabs my attention on the corner of my dresser. As soon as I can pay off some of these medical bills, I can actually focus on getting to the stage. I pick up the notice, reading over the dire warnings that I’ve learned to ignore. The hospital is a bloated beast satisfied by small payments as long as they’re consistent. Especially from a dead woman, or at least her daughter left holding the bag.

“That came yesterday,” San says from my bedroom door. “I’m not even the one paying those bills, and I get tired of seeing ‘em.”

A rueful grin shapes one corner of my mouth, but I don’t bother responding. I tighten my ponytail and tug at the cut off T-shirt that is standard issue at The Note. It doesn’t quite reach the waistband of my jeans, exposing a few inches of my midriff.

“Can you still take me to work?” I ask, tucking the red-splattered notice under my jewelry box and turn to face San. “Or should I catch the bus?”

San plops on the edge of my bed, falling back and running his palms over the soft quilt Aunt Ruthie made for me.

“I can take you.” San laces his hands behind his head, grinning with some secret assured to make me grin back. “You may have to grab the bus home if that’s okay.”

“Big date?”

I hope so. San’s date drought has sadly coincided with my arrival. I don’t want him to put his life on hold for me, but I know in many ways he has.

“Something like that, yeah. With Ginny.” He gives me a searching look like he’s not sure how I’ll respond.

“That’s great.” I sit on the bed and lie back beside him until our heads touch. “I like her.”

“She likes you too.” San’s chuckle rumbles against my shoulder. “Once she believed we aren’t sleeping together, and that the idea of screwing you makes me physically ill.”

I grab a pillow and press it over his face. His muffled laugh makes me grin and slide the pillow under my own head as I settle back down on the bed.

“You didn’t have to go that far to convince her.” I tilt my head until I can see his profile. “Physically ill?”

“It took that for her to get the picture.” San flips to the side, propping himself up on one elbow and resting his head in his hand. “She got me an interview with Spotted.”

“That new celebrity video blog thing?”

“Yeah, it’s supposed to be the next TMZ.”

“Like we need another one of those.”

San laughs and rolls his eyes. We have different views of privacy. I believe celebrities actually deserve some.

“Does this mean you’re giving up on singing?” I sit up to search his eyes properly.

We’ve been on the same path since elementary school, even if the last few years I fell several paces behind. The thought that our paths might be forking in different directions scares me a little.

San sits up too, bumping my shoulder with his and leaning his head into mine. He probably already knew this fear before I did. That may be why I’m hearing all of this for the first time.

“I just think I prefer to be on the other side of the camera.” San shrugs. “Well, actually still in front. I’d be an in-studio correspondent, not a car chaser. It’ll still be in the biz, just a different angle. I don’t want it like you do.”

I can’t even deny it. The desire to perform, to entertain, burns so hot inside me I can’t imagine life without the potential to do it. It’s always been that way for me.

“Besides, some people have it, and some people don’t.” San tugs my ponytail. “You, my friend, have gobs of it. People like you and Rhyson got everybody else’s share.”

I stiffen at the name of the man I’ve spent the last week trying to delete from my memory.

“I saw him today at Grady’s.” San’s eyes rest on me, but I don’t look up from the strings I’m pulling on my jeans.

“Really?” My neutral voice.

“Yeah, we go six months at Grady’s without seeing the guy and then run into him twice in a week. I guess they’re close.”

His voice holds a question. The look he levels at me, speculating.

I roll my eyes, debating whether to ignore the bait on that hook or give him the intel he obviously suspects I have.

“I’m telling you this friend to friend,” I say. “Not friend to slimy, Spotted correspondent.”

“I resent that. I can’t believe you’d—”

I cut him off with the look that reminds him I know he traded his goldfish, Hammer, in seventh grade to get elected class president. He is just as ambitious as I am, even if his ambitions are being redirected.

“Okay, okay,” he concedes with a self-aware grin. “Friend to friend.”

“Grady’s Rhyson’s uncle.” We stare at each other with saucer eyes. “Can you believe that? I work for Grady. We take lessons from Grady, and we had no idea his nephew is one of the biggest rock stars in the world.”

“What the ever-living fuck?” San’s mouth hangs open a little before he snaps it shut.

“Apparently, Grady and Rhyson’s father are twin brothers,” I add.

My voice has dropped to a whisper, and I stop myself from looking over my shoulder. This feels wrong. I’m not divulging huge secrets or anything, but I’m pretty sure Rhyson isn’t the forthcoming type. For whatever reason, he was with me. He drove me around when he didn’t have to and told me things he probably shouldn’t tell some random girl he met at his uncle’s house. He had no reason to trust me. I hate to think I’m betraying that trust, even in the smallest way.

“San, just don’t mention this to anyone, okay?”

San frowns and sucks his teeth.

“I’m not working for Spotted yet, Kai, and even if I were, I wouldn’t do that.” San walks over to my dresser and picks up my hairbrush, bringing some order to his pillow-rumpled hair and meeting my eyes in the mirror. “He asked about you today, by the way.”

My heart thump-thumps in my chest, and a small heat wave overtakes my body.

“Did he?” As casual as I can, I bend to tie my left Converse. “What’d he say?”

“Just asked how you were doing.” San turns to face me, wearing my least favorite knowing grin. “Did you expect more after you friend zoned him so hard?”

Why do I tell San my secrets? He only rubs them in at the worst times.

“Let’s go.” I head to the door, shutting down this train of thought with a stern look over my shoulder. “I can’t be late.”

“I think you like him.”

“Whatever.” I’m not going there with him. “So what are you and Ginny up to?”

San presses his lips into a smile before surrendering to my subject change.

“She’s taking me to this party to meet the producers of Spotted. Get me some face time with the powers that be. Basically a cocktail interview. You know half the business in this town takes place at parties.”

“Must be why I’m having such a hard time breaking into the business.”

I drag my feet through our small apartment, grabbing keys and my bag along the way. I really don’t feel like working tonight. For just a second, I consider calling in, but then that red-splattered medical bill pricks my memory. I climb into the front seat and start mentally preparing myself for the long, uneventful night ahead.

THIS NIGHT HAS BEEN ANYTHING BUT uneventful. Bull, the owner, pulled me to the side as soon as I got to work. One of the cooks was late, and he needed me to cover. If I could rewind to my interview for this job, I would never have mentioned my kitchen experience. That kitchen gets so hot and busy. By the time the cook showed up, my perky ponytail was limp, my armpits were soaked, and I had sweated off what little makeup I started the night with.

From there, it only got worse. A volleyball team rushed in, a flock of teenage girls giggling and taking forever to order. A group of truckers rambled in, boisterous and loud, and of course, having trouble keeping their hands to themselves. I swear, if I swat one more paw away from my butt, somebody’s meeting the unfriendly end of my box cutter.

Some nights zoom because things are so busy. Others drag because the place is dead and I’m bored out of my mind. This is some hybrid night, where we’re slammed against the wall busy, but time still seems to be crawling. I glance at the clock over the entrance to the kitchen one more time. I’m sure that big hand has only moved five minutes in the last hour.

Misty, the only waitress I’ve managed to befriend, walks by with a loaded tray balanced on her arm. All the others act like this is still high school. They talk about one another behind each other’s backs. Fight over guys and tattle to Bull every chance they get. I’ll stay out of that fray, thank you very much.

“Crazy night, huh?” Misty asks.

“Yeah, crazy.” I walk toward the kitchen, needing to check on one of my orders, when I remember San won’t be picking me up. I turn back to Misty. “Hey, are you catching the bus after work?”

We’ve walked to the bus stop together more than once. Safety in numbers.

“Nah, Joe’s coming to get me when the shift is over.”

Oh, well. I have my mace in my purse and my box cutter in my pocket. It’ll be fine.

“But we can totally drop you off.” Misty grins, pulling her order pad out of her back pocket. “Your place isn’t far.”

“That would be great.” I wink and blow her an air kiss. “Mwah!”

I bump the swinging door with my rear end and wade into the sticky kitchen heat. Turns out the cook is still having trouble keeping up with orders, so I grab some bacon and start frying. It’s only a BLT. I just checked on my customers, and they were all fine for now. This won’t take long. I’m plating the sandwich when Misty comes through the swinging door.

“Hey, Kai.” A tiny frown draws her strawberry blonde brows together. “There’s an older guy who was asking for you. He’s in your section.”

Maybe Grady? With a quick nod and a muttered, “Thanks,” I grab the plate and head to the dining room. I serve the BLT while it’s hot and check on my other customers. From behind, I see a broad-shouldered, grey-haired man in my section wearing a seen-better-days fedora.

“Hi, I’ll be serving you.” I fumble around at my back pocket, searching for my order pad before looking up. Something about him grabs and holds my attention. Have I met him before? Seen him before?

“Were you asking for me?” I frown and tilt my head to study him closer. “One of the waitresses thought . . .”

My words trail off while my brain catches up to what my eyes are trying to tell me. Those full lips under that salt-and-pepper moustache. The tanned skin pulled taut over sharp and high cheekbones. The long, unlined, sensitive hands resting on the table. Finally, grey eyes snaring mine and waiting for me to figure it out.

“Rhyson?”

He jerks a quick look around the dining room before bringing his eyes back to me.

“Wow. Why’d I even bother with the disguise?” he asks. “Say my name a little louder. I don’t think TMZ heard you.”

My hand flies up to my mouth, half in surprise. Half to catch the giggle bubbling up from my throat. I’m partly laughing because he looks ridiculous now that I know it’s him and not some middle-aged stalker. And partly because—I can barely admit this to myself—he was asking Misty for me. He asked San about me. He’s here for me.

When I’m around Rhyson, all my numb places spark and fizzle. The match has been struck again, and all the dark corners light up just because he’s grinning at me. This guy is such a threat to my focus, my ambitions, my goals. The grin he made on my mouth melts little by little until only a straight line remains.

“I haven’t changed my mind.”

His smile vanishes, and he shifts his eyes to the menu as if he’s actually here to eat.

“Maybe I’ve changed mine.” He looks up at me. “Aren’t you going to tell me the specials?”

“Hey, Kai!” One of the truckers booms from across the room, impatiently waving his empty beer mug. I hate wearing a nametag sometimes.

I look back to Rhyson, whose eyes have narrowed to silver slits on the rude trucker with his pants on fire.

“Specials are on the back,” I tell Rhyson over my shoulder, headed for Mr. Empty. “I’ll take your order in a second.”

That second turns into ten minutes. Between the table of truckers, the team of volleyballers, and the slow cook in the kitchen, it’s the worst night for Rhyson freakin’ Gray to show up at The Note.

I finally bustle over to him, blowing at the hair flopping into my eyes.

“I’m so sorry.” I plop a glass of water with lemon down in front of him, mortified when it splashes onto his hands. “Oh gosh. I’m so sorry.”

I can’t stop apologizing. Mainly because I can’t stop screwing up.

“Kai.” He lays one strong hand over my trembling fingers mopping up the water. “It’s fine.”

I look at him, something I realize I haven’t allowed myself to do very much of since I realized he wasn’t a senior citizen. The intensity of his grey eyes provokes a hot spring in my belly. A rush of fiery liquid that emanates to my fingers, to my toes, to my core.

I jerk my hand back and reach for the order pad.

“What’ll it be then?”

Even with my eyes fixed on the pad and pen poised to take his order, I feel the heat of his stare still trained on me. After a silence that extends a moment too far, he answers.

“Turkey burger and fries.”

I chew at my bottom lip and glance in the direction of the kitchen. Undecided and then decided.

I lean into his space, close enough to smell him, clean and masculine.

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” I whisper, stealing a surreptitious whiff of him. “Get the bison. The turkey burger’s always dry. The bison is still lean and better for you, but the cook keeps it juicy.”

I step back and notice his lips twitching.

“Okay, bison burger it is.”

“And we actually have sweet potato fries. Better for you than the regular ones.”

“Don’t push it.” His eyes crinkle with his wide smile and good humor. “I’ll take my chances with regular fries.”

“Your funeral.” My face is serious, but my tone lightens.

“What time is your shift over?” Rhyson’s question snatches me out of the ease I’d fooled myself into.

“Um . . .” I glance at the clock, which has gone from interminable to warp speed since Rhyson arrived in disguise. “Like in thirty minutes.”

“Can I take you home?”

“Rhyson, I—”

“For the love of God, would you stop calling me that?” He looks over at the table of giggling girls taking selfies. “Or that pack of girls will be over here in about five seconds asking me to sign tits and take pictures.”

He looks so disgruntled. It’s the closest he’s actually looked to a grumpy old man since he arrived, so I can’t help but grin.

“Sorry, sir. I keep forgetting. I’m not used to these covert operations. Let me go put in your order.”

I turn to leave, but he catches my wrist in a firm but gentle grip.

“You didn’t answer my question.” He raises the brows I notice he didn’t bother to salt and pepper. “Can I take you home?”

My eyes fall to his fingers, strong and capable of magic, wrapped around my wrist. Working on my senses like I’m some simple arrangement he could play with his eyes closed. Only his eyes are wide open, watching me with unerring focus. I hope he doesn’t see me swallowing, because it’s perilously close to a gulp. I hope he can’t hear the party my heart is throwing in my chest. I hope the blood in my wrist isn’t Morse coding my frantic pulse to his fingers.

I hope I know what I’m getting into.

“Yeah, you can take me home.”