It’s clear that’s the case with Phoenix.
Every cell he’s made up of lives, breathes, and creates music.
It’s why he was put on this earth.
“Anyway,” he continues, as if what he said was no big deal. “I want the full experience.” He juts his chin at the instruments set up across the room. “I don’t know what you’ll need, but help yourself to whatever you want.”
I shake my head because that’s completely out of the question. “Absolutely not—”
“Come on, Groupie.” He stubs his cigarette out in a nearby ashtray. “You can’t tell me you write songs and not play any for me. That’s like telling a kid you have candy, but you won’t share any with them.”
He has a point, but still. I don’t want to share something so personal.
I don’t want him to laugh at me.
“No.”
Phoenix isn’t giving up, though. “I played for you.”
It’s true. He did. And he was phenomenal.
However, my voice isn’t raspy while simultaneously being smooth and velvety like his.
Mine is scratchy and hoarse. Like my alter ego is a seventy-year-old smoker named Bertha who has a perpetual sore throat.
“Both my voice and song are weird,” I warn him.
“I like weird.” Those ice-blue orbs sharpen on me, sucking all the oxygen out of the room. “And I love your voice.”
I’m rendered speechless, any argument I had vanishing into thin air.
Because Phoenix Walker is looking at me like I’m the talented one in this room.
My legs feel like Jell-O when I stand.
Let’s hope I don’t disappoint him.
CHAPTER 10
PHOENIX
There’s nervous…and then there’s petrified.
Lennon is unquestionably the latter right now.
I’ve never seen this girl so much as break a sweat, so watching her get worked up is strange as hell.
Christ. She looks like she’s going to puke any second.
I’m about to ask if she wants a bucket as she walks behind the keyboard. “I don’t play as well as you do.”
I don’t give a shit how well she can play. I just want to hear her sing again.
Given I’m over a foot taller than her, the mic is positioned above her head. “Lower the mic.”
The look she gives me makes it clear she doesn’t want to.
Tough shit. I want to hear every sound that comes out of her mouth.
“Promise you won’t laugh,” she says as she adjusts it. “Actually, promise you won’t say anything.”
I’m a dick, but not when it comes to music. I know firsthand that it takes a lot of balls to bare your soul in front of others.
“I won’t laugh.”
Not unless she’s about to start playing clown music.
Her gaze rests on the keyboard as her fingers begin to move, filling the garage with a dark melodic sound that has a bite of edge to it.
I shift to the edge of the couch, because already she’s got my full attention.
And then she starts to sing.
I’m tough as a nail
Sharp as a blade
But I’m still lying here...
In the mess you made.
Jagged and broken
Dull and washed out.
Everywhere I turn...
I breathe you in and bleed you out.
Because I’m supposed to be the cutter...
But you’re the one who cut me.
Fuck the memories I’ll never have.
Fuck the pain of your knife.
Fuck these feelings you left me with...
Fuck this thing they call life.
I don’t move a muscle as the song comes to an end. I can’t.
Because Lennon Michael just made me hard without even touching me.
Her low, sultry voice wrapped around my dick and tugged.
And don’t even get me started on the lyrics. They’re painful and real…
They’re the purest form of art.
That combined with the slow edgy melody that built up into a hypnotic crescendo with every verse until it reached inside your chest and pulled out your beating heart…
Fuck. The girl has a gift.
Averting her gaze, she ambles back over to the futon.
Like she didn’t just do something that left me breathless and wanting more.
“Lennon.”
I know she didn’t want me to say anything, but I have to.
If only so she’ll transfer even half the belief she has in me onto herself.
I turn to face her. “That was…”
Words don’t do it justice.
“I’m…you…”
Shit. I’m the one tripping over my words now.
I clear my throat. “You wrote that? By yourself?”
I won’t judge her if she had help from her dad. It makes what I just witnessed no less incredible.
“Yeah.” Her face pinches. “Why?”
My knee bumps hers as I move closer. “It was per—”
“What up, fucker?” Storm interjects.
His gaze lands on Lennon as he walks into the garage. “Hey, Groupie.”
My eyes snap to his as irritation snakes up my spine.
I have the sudden urge to walk over there and launch my fist into my best friend’s face.
Lennon’s my friend. Not his.
Unbothered by him calling her my nickname, Lennon smiles. “Hey.”
Lighting up a joint, Storm regards me again. “We have to practice.”
Lennon’s face lights up. “Can I stay and watch?”
“Yeah,” I say at the same time Storm does.
Standing, she tugs her bottom lip between her teeth. “Um…sorry, but can I use your bathroom first?”
Storm gestures to the door he just came through. “Second door on the right. Grams is cooking dinner though, which means she won’t let you pass by until you try some of her sauce. Consider yourself warned.”
After Lennon leaves, his gaze ping-pongs between me and the door. “What’s the deal with you two?”
I want to tell him to put down the joint because it’s killing his brain cells.
“She’s tutoring me,” I remind him.
He takes a long pull off his joint before clipping it. “Didn’t look like she was tutoring you when I walked in.” His expression turns curious. “And last I checked, you don’t bring chicks to practice.”
Because it’s too much of a fucking distraction. The only time I did bring a girl to one, I ended up cutting it short so we could go fuck in my car.
I don’t have that problem with Lennon.
But unlike those girls who can’t even name their top five favorite rock bands—or tell me the difference between alternative rock and heavy metal—Lennon can name fifty off the top of her head and cite their B-side songs.
She also seems to genuinely enjoy listening to us play, which is an added bonus.
“I—”
“Bro, it’s fine.” He walks over to his drum set. “I’m cool with it.”
I don’t give a shit that he’s cool with it. I don’t need his approval.