“Oh, Rafe,” I said. I reached out, and my hand met his bare shoulder. I ignored the electricity that sparked against my fingers when our skin connected. “I am so sorry.”
Rafe had shared this with me while we were on tour. How badly he wanted to produce Rogue Nation’s next album. He hadn’t thought Dion would go for it, but when they got back to LA, they’d talked about it, and Dion’s enthusiasm was such that he’d even coaxed Vince to agree.
Rafe had ideas about changing the direction of the music—just a touch—adding a roots-music base to their hard-edged sound. He shared the inspiration for the album, beautiful old songs by Houston Stackhouse and Joe Willie Wilkins, the crackle of the recordings just as important to the sound as the music they played. It was a bit of a departure, but it fit Rogue. It fit Rafe. It was beautiful.
“He didn’t like the roots departure?” I asked, trying to cajole Rafe out of his silence.
“Vince didn’t even get that far,” he said.
“So that’s why you came home,” I said, masking my disappointment.
So maybe part of me had hoped that he left New York because of Reesie. That he was finally rid of her. I shoved that hope down, far down, and willed it not to return.
His eyes cut to me. “I came home because I wanted to talk to you, Jett.”
“Oh,” I said, once again very conscious of the fact that I was lying in Rafe’s bed nearly naked and Rafe was beside me. Judging from the bare chest in front of me, he was nearly naked too. “About what?”
“Jesus, Jett, about this.” He rolled onto his back, and his eyes were glued to the ceiling. “Vince laid it on me, and all I could think about was coming home and telling you about it.”
“Vince?”
“Dion conferenced him in.”
I grimaced. “What happened?”
“I flipped out, cursed out Vince. Accused him of standing in my way,” he said.
“Shit.” Lashing out at Vince was probably not the right move. Rafe needed Vince on his side.
“Yeah, shit. I know it’s not Vince’s fault.”
“You sure?”
“I know you are no fan of his, Beanpole, but he had my back when no one else did. He treats me like a son.”
“Okay,” I said, backing away from a place I had no right to go anyway.
“It’s Grimm,” he added bitterly. “He was like this with my old man too. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Grimm killed him.”
“It was an overdose,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “Right?”
“No doubt about that,” he said, his voice heavy with hurt. “But I swear to fuck, Grimm as good as shoved that needle in my dad’s arm. Robbed his dreams right out from under him. A man without a dream—”
I gave his arm a light shove. “Rafe, don’t you dare lose your dream because of Gary fucking Grimm. You are way too talented to let that germophobic fuckwad rob you of your dream.”
Rafe’s mouth tipped up. “Did you just call Grimm a fuckwad?”
“What else would you call that cretin?” I asked.
“Not a term I ever expected to hear you say.”
“Well, I said it.”
“Let me hear it again,” he teased.
“Grimm’s a fuckwad.” I drew out the F, which made Rafe laugh out loud. I smiled, happy to see his churlish mood lifting. “Now, if you will get me a robe or something, I’ll leave you to your bed and go crash on the couch.”
“Play with me,” he said. I drew in a sharp breath, unsure of what Rafe was asking. He angled his head toward the wall of windows, where his guitar rested in its stand beside the chaise.
“Rafe, it’s late,” I started.
“Please.” His voice was low, filled with a need that I recognized. The need to find solace in the only place we could. Through our words, our music.
I dipped my head, giving in. “I still need a robe.”
“Do I look like a guy who owns a robe?”
I closed my eyes in frustration. No, he did not.
“I’ll get you a shirt, okay?”
He climbed out of bed, and I kept my eyes on his firm ass, clad only in black boxer briefs, before he disappeared into the closet. He returned with a well-worn flannel.
“Turn around,” I said as he handed it to me.
“Jett,” he started.
“Turn. Around.” My command was firm.
“Fucking hell,” he muttered, but did as I asked. I let the blankets drop and got out of bed. Pulling the shirt around me, I was grateful that it covered my ass. That said, it wasn’t long enough to cover much more than that.
Rafe opened the drapes covering the wall of windows. The lights of Los Angeles were spread out before us. It was breathtaking.
“You want to get your notebook?” he asked, settling on the chaise with a guitar in hand.
“My notebook?” I repeated, my mind blank, taken by the image of a nearly naked Rafe with an acoustic guitar and the lights of Los Angeles as a backdrop. It was like a Rolling Stone photo shoot came to life.
“My lyrics are shit,” he said. “Why write music to shit lyrics when I have the best songwriter in LA sharing my bed?”
“We’re not sharing the bed,” I said, my face heating in embarrassment from both the complement and the suggestion that we were sleeping together. I dropped my gaze to my feet as they carried me into the living room to snatch my notebook and glasses off the coffee table. I snagged my acoustic guitar while I was out there. When I returned, Rafe was plucking out a quiet melody.
“That’s pretty,” I said, hoisting my guitar case onto the bed and opening it.
“Just noodling with it,” he said. “It’s been stuck in my head for three days.”
“Did you play it through at practice?” I asked.
“Nah, I’m not ready to share it with anyone yet.”
I bit my lip. “You’re sharing it with me.”
“Because I’m writing with you,” he said. “Hit me with your notebook.”
I slipped on my glasses, then flipped open the hardbound Moleskine that held my lyrics. “I’ll look—”
He held out a hand. “No, you’ll censor what you give me, and I’ll sit here while you rewrite every damn lyric. Give me the notebook, Jett.”
“Rafe, really,” I said, skimming through the pages, “they’re just scribbles.”
“Perfect. Cause I’m just noodling.”
My sigh was filled with exasperation, but I handed him the notebook. Then I removed my glasses and met his eyes. “Just… you know, nothing’s finished.”
His eyes crinkled from his smile. “Then why do I have a feeling you will rock my world?”
The heat in my cheeks slammed down my body and landed right between my legs. I sat on the very edge of the chaise, crossed my legs tight, and cradled my guitar.
He flipped through my notebook, pausing every so often to make a “mmm” sound, until finally he held it out to me. “This one.”
He plucked out the notes again as my eyes went to the open page. “You picked ‘Derelict’? For that?” I nodded at his fingers, which were strumming the strings.