“Let’s go inside.”
“No sex,” he said, desperation in his eyes.
I almost laughed. “No sex. Clothes stay on. Promise. But I do want to show you something.”
“Are we going to try this?” he asked, not letting go of my hand.
“I want to.”
His face relaxed into a real smile. “Me too.”
“Okay then. Let’s try this.”
I opened the car door and waited for Dylan by the front bumper. He took my hand, weaving our fingers together, and led me inside. The front door stuck, but he shouldered it open. He wouldn’t let go of my hand, even after we stood in the living room and stared at each other.
“Well?” he asked.
“We need to go downstairs.” I pulled him with me as I walked backward to the basement. Dylan smiled and waggled his eyebrows. I laughed before turning around and pulling him down the steps. His grip tightened on mine. Once we were by his guitars, I faced him again. “I’m gonna need my hand for this.”
Dylan pulled me close and kissed me quickly. Then he let go.
I turned back around and picked up his three-quarters guitar. Dylan kept a small stool nearby. I pulled it over to the couch and sat down. Dylan settled on the couch. I couldn’t look at him as I began strumming. But I couldn’t sing with my throat constricted, so I lifted my head and closed my eyes. I began to sing:
A cold June day
A storm outside.
The world brews with life
Lightning cuts the sky
Thunder echoes inside
As he dies.
Daddy always said
Life isn’t meant to be
A permanent thing
To miss out on.
Daddy always said
Don’t forget to fly
Don’t forget to love.
But most of all
Don’t forget to live.
I finished on a G chord and opened my eyes. Dylan stared back at me. His expression was blank, and my heart fell into my toes. I stood and placed his guitar where it belonged. My throat locked up on me. I wanted to go back and ask him what he thought, but I didn’t want to either based on his expression. He hated it. I knew it as well as I knew my own name.
“Cam?” Dylan said.
“Yeah?” I didn’t turn around. I couldn’t.
“That was good,” he said, his voice was strained. “Really good.”
“No, it wasn’t.” I inhaled and spun on my heel. He leaned forward on his elbows with his hands clasped in front of him. “Don’t patronize me.”
“What?” Dylan leaped to his feet. “I’m not. It was good.”
“Why don’t I believe you then? I poured my heart into it.” I paced toward a new drumset that hadn’t been here the last time I was. “And it was the first time I’ve ever tried to write a song. You could—”
“The first time?” Dylan closed the distance between us and put his hands on my shoulder. “That was the first time you’ve ever written or attempted to write a song?”
I stared at his black Chucks and nodded.
“Then that was incredible.” He lifted my chin with his fingers. “And had a little plagiarism, but still incredible.”
“Plagiarism?” I ran through the words and couldn’t think of any song with those lyrics.
“The melody is the same as ‘Hard Moon,’” he said raising his eyebrows.
I heard it instantly. I’d written one of Hank Walker’s biggest hits with new words. I put my head on his shoulder. “I didn’t even realize.”
“I know.” He pulled me into a hug. “You’ve also been singing that song so much it’s just a natural thing now. You probably sing it in your sleep.”
“And in the shower.”
Dylan laughed and pushed me back. “Look at me.”
I did, feeling the heat rising under my skin. My face must’ve looked like a plump tomato.
“We’ll work on it. Together.”
“So you’re my songwriting partner now?” I tried to grin, but my embarrassment wouldn’t let me.
“More like your songwriting teacher,” he said. “Mom wrote most of Hank’s biggest hits. She taught me everything she knows. I can teach you. Look at it like part of our other sessions.”
This time I did grin. “When do we start?”
“After this,” he said, leaning in and kissing me until my toes curled.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Dylan and I spent every minute together. We fixed the song with a new melody, but it still wasn’t right. The video he had upload slowly gained traction and the comments were positive for the most part. It was exhilarating that people were finally hearing me sing. Me not backup singer me. I should’ve started a YouTube channel years ago.
We arrived at the theater for the sound check the next day. Dylan kept his distance to a degree. It hurt, but I knew what he was doing. He was protecting himself as much as he was protecting me. Hank already thought we were sleeping together. Image if we flaunted it.
Dylan parked in his usual spot and squeezed my hand. “You sure you’re okay with keeping us quiet?”
“If that’s what you need, then yes,” I said without a doubt.
“You’re too good for me,” he said before opening his door and climbing out.
I didn’t move. The words slapped me hard. I wasn’t too good for him. If anything, he was too good for me. I pushed the thoughts down. Focusing on the show was the priority. And getting through the evening without touching him. That was going to be hard enough.
The theater buzzed with excitement, more so than opening night.
Dylan stopped one of the grips as he ran past. “What’s going on?”
“Some music reviewer from out west is coming. Hank’s freaking out and making us check everything on stage.” The grip glanced down at me. “Watch your back. He’s on a rampage.”
I nodded. Having been the target of Hank’s rampages before, I was
