“Home,” Michael Bublé.
Wait, what?
I checked my phone, but it wasn’t coming from there.
Where was the music coming from?
Granted, I’d slammed almost half a bottle of champagne in less than ten minutes, but should I be hallucinating music?
Oh. It was coming from outside. Next question: how? Or rather, why?
Shit, the tub. I ignored the mystery for a moment longer and shut off the water, because it was in danger of overflowing, even despite the overflow preventer.
Back to the front door, bottle in hand. I was just tipsy enough to be aware and not give a shit that I was bare-ass naked as I opened my front door, standing in full view, framed by the storm door. Hair loose and wild and kinked from being a braid all day, no makeup, naked, champagne bottle in one hand.
I must have been quite a sight.
For Titus.
He was parked in my driveway, tailgate facing the door, front end facing the street. Tailgate down, sitting cross-legged on it. He had his favorite acoustic—a famous guitar, that one; it was his first guitar, a Yamaha he’d bought used at fourteen years old, and it had been old then. It was scratched and battered, covered in bumper stickers, and did not have a strap.
One leg hanging off the tailgate, foot kicking in time as he picked the melody. Wearing faded blue jeans cut off below the knee with fraying white threads, unlaced black combat boots, wearing a plain black ribbed tank top, and that stupid fucking beanie. Aviators. The rings on his fingers, tattooed and pierced and rocking a now-unkempt beard. Beautiful. Rugged and imperfectly perfect.
He wiped his sunglasses off his face with his fretboard hand and tossed them aside without missing a beat. Began singing the lyrics in that rough, dark, beautiful voice. His eyes never left me. He barely blinked as he sang the song to me. I leaned against my doorway and sipped, my own gaze never leaving him.
When he finished the song, the last note still hanging in the air, I nudged open the storm door with my foot. “Maybe you ought to finish the serenade in here,” I said.
He clutched the instrument by the neck and hopped off the tailgate, pausing to reach back with his free hand and grab something. He kept it behind his back, hidden from view as he approached the front door—I backed away, toward the bathroom, as he entered, staying out of reach as he prowled for me.
Into the bathroom, where I stopped my retreat from Titus as the back of my knees reached the tub. My heart hammered for some unknown reason, as he stalked and swaggered toward me.
Bought his free hand around, and held out a single perfect red rose. Didn’t say a word.
I took the rose. Pressed the silky petals to my nose, inhaled its scent.
I couldn’t contain myself any longer—I threw myself into his arms, the champagne sloshing in the bottle. He dipped at the knees and I heard the humming thunk of wood and strings hitting the marble floor, and then he had me, held me aloft, my thighs clenching around his waist, one arm around his neck.
I gazed down at him. “Hi.”
“Missed the shit out of you, Laurel,” he murmured.
I kissed him, by way of answer. When our lips finally parted, both of us were breathless. I brought the bottle between us and touched it to his lips, tilted. He took a sip, then pulled away.
“Rather be drunk on you,” he growled.
“Well, if you don’t help me with this, I’ll be drunk on champagne and you.”
“Fine by me.” He kissed me, and then slowly lowered me into the water.
I hissed at the heat, holding on to him as I descended under the bubbly surface. “Gonna get in with me?” I asked. “Room for two.”
He grinned. “I was gonna serenade you some more.”
“How about a Titus Bright song? I’ve always liked his music.”
He grinned. “Have you really?”
I nodded, dead serious. “Absolutely. I’ve been a secret fan for years.”
He blinked. “Wait, you’re serious?”
I giggled, sipped. “Yup. I saw you in concert, Bright Bones I mean. One of the last shows of your last tour.”
“I wouldn’t have pegged you as a heavy metal fan.”
“Don’t you know by now that nothing about me is what you’d expect?” I shrugged, grinning at him over the rim of the bottle, my voice disappearing into the glass. “I have as many layers as Shrek.”
He cackled, and hopped up onto my vanity, guitar propped on his thighs. “Here’s a little song I’m actually still working on. I started it last week. I was on the last leg of the pop-up tour, going from Billings to Butte, in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere in the middle of the fuckin’ night, couldn’t fuckin’ sleep for shit.”
I slid lower in the water, letting the bottle dangle over the side; I realized I’d had enough, now that Titus was here, so I leaned out and set the bottle on the floor. “Is that fuckin’ right?”
“Sure fuckin’ is.” He started a melody, low chords in a slow, melancholy progression. “Laying awake in that big-ass bed in my trailer, all alone, staring at the ceiling. And I was thinkin’…”
He seamlessly transitioned into song:
“There’s this girl,
Don’t really know her,
But I think I’m in love.
Montana’s got mountains,
Plains of Texas, sun and heat
Nebraska’s got corn
Maybe it’s wheat,
New Orleans, New York, New Jersey,
Philly and Fargo in winter and fall,
I’ve been to ’em all,
Seen everything everywhere a time or two.
But there’s this girl,
Sorta just met her,
Don’t really know her,
But I think I’m in love.
She’s got these eyes so bright
They’re not really blue
Unless the sun hits ’em right
Not really gray
Unless she looks at me a certain way.
Hair like the sun,
Shines like gold loose or up in a bun.
She makes my heart sing,
Gives it a song,
Sends my soul on a wing
Makes right what was wrong.
You see
There’s this girl.
Sorta just met,
Don’t really know her,
But none of that matters,
Because I think I’m in love.”
The last notes quavered, his voice and the guitar fading, echoing in the beautiful acoustics of the bathroom.
“Still a work in progress,” he muttered. “Some of the lines are dumb as shit, like real first-grader rhymes. But lyrics were always Tommy’s strong suit, not mine.”
I couldn’t answer, because I had my hand over my mouth, eyes shimmering. “Titus,” I whispered. “You mean that?”
“Yeah, I usually did the music, and Tommy—”
“No, you big dumbass. The song.” I tried to gather myself, but didn’t really succeed. “What you said.”
He laughed, raked fingers through his beard. “Oh, right.” He slid off the counter, set the guitar down, and knelt beside the tub. “Yeah, Laurel. I meant it.”
I swallowed hard. “How do you know?”
“Spent my whole life on the road. Started touring full time at sixteen.” A hard sigh. “Never looked back, you know? Home has been tour busses and hotels, my whole life.” He cupped my jaw in a rough hand. “How do I know I love you? Because now when I think home, I think of you.”