Sighing, I drop to the same side of the bed, a few feet away. I’m not ready to cuddle, but I can offer an olive branch until he gives me a reason to go back for my broom. The corner of his mouth ticks up at my concession, even though he doesn’t outright acknowledge it.
“Favorite Night Shifts Black song?” he asks, never looking away from the guitar. I stare at him in shock. I don’t know if it’s the fact that he remembered that part of the conversation or that he’s confident enough to think he can play anything from their repertoire, but I can’t deny the sudden return of those annoying butterflies. Yes, Eli with the messy hair and the cute smile and the toned body looks downright edible right now with that sexy grin and a guitar in his arms.
“‘Metamorphosis,’” I say, just to be contrary and re-establish equilibrium in the universe. It’s one of their lesser known songs from two albums ago, but hey. I’m being gracious enough to play along instead of stabbing him or smacking him with a broom, right?
“Interesting choice,” he mutters to himself, and it’s my turn to be thrown off guard when he launches into the intro without further hesitation. How in the world does he know that song? I wouldn’t be able to sing the lyrics without the original track behind me, let alone play it. But he plows through without missing a beat—literally. I hate how the heat in the room suddenly cranks for me as well. The longer I watch his effortless performance, the more I feel the cramped space around us. It’s like he’s played that instrument his entire life. And although his voice is no Luke Craven, he could probably pull off frontman chops for a smaller band. To say I’m curious when he finishes would be an understatement. Intrigued. Riveted. Slightly obsessed.
“‘Greetings from the Inside.’ Play that next,” I blurt out as soon as he strums the final chord of the outro. His gaze snaps over at my outburst, and heat spreads up my neck and into my cheeks again. But I don’t take it back as his amused stare rests on me. After that performance, the artist in me has to hear what he does with NSB’s biggest hit.
“If I play it, will you swear not to stab me?” he teases, his eyes dancing with mischief.
I swallow the effect of that sexy look with that guitar and that voice and that body and gah! You are not developing a crush on a homeless burglar—no matter how cute and talented he is. I shift a few inches away on the mattress as if that will somehow stop this ridiculous attraction.
“How about you play it?” he says, handing me the guitar. My eyes bulge as I stare at him, then my gaze drops to the instrument in his hands.
“I… I can’t.”
He continues to hold the guitar in my direction, but I don’t take it.
“You can’t?”
I shake my head.
“You have, like, three things down here—one of which is a guitar, so that tells me you probably can.”
I swallow. Wow, it really is getting incredibly hot in this room. My tank suddenly feels sticky and tight. I slipped on a bra and shorts while he was in the bathroom, but somehow I feel more naked now than I did when he first drew me out of bed in my underwear.
“Um…” I shake my head, panic starting to mount. I could watch him play all day. But play for him? Never. Not just him. No one. I don’t play in front of people period. In fact, lately I don’t do anything but hide. “I have to go to the bathroom. Be right back,” I add, catching the trace of concern on his face before I rush to the bathroom.
Eli
I return the guitar to my lap once she’s gone, surprised by her retreat, and yes, also disturbed. As much as she seems to dislike me, she’s at least a good distraction from the fact that I’m trapped in a dungeon. The truth is, I am claustrophobic. Very claustrophobic, and as much as I brushed it off a second ago, the flicker of panic in my gut is a short fuse away from exploding into a full-on meltdown. Ever since my older brother locked me in a closet for a day when we were kids, I’ve never done well in enclosed spaces. Hell, I even leave the curtain of my bunk open a few inches to give me breathing room. This situation? Pretty much my worst nightmare. Worse than weird wall spiders. Worse than creepy, glowing ghost eyes.
I fight to push that reality away as I focus on the cheap-ass guitar in my hands. It’s some brand I’ve never heard of. Is it a brand? Whatever. It’s wood and strings and not tightening stone walls of terror. I strum through a few chord progressions, including a new song we’ve been working on during this east coast tour. I had an idea for a sick bass line on the bridge and pick my way through that on the acoustic. Like most serious musicians, I play more than the instrument I’m known for, though I’m not nearly as skilled on the others as the bass guitar. Casey caught me messing around with his kit once, and even through his ribbing I could tell he was more than a little impressed. Drums and bass have a special connection, so it’s not too surprising I can hold my own on a drum set.
Singing, though, that was new for me. I never sing. When you’ve spent your career in the shadow of Luke Craven, I guess that’s understandable. But, I dunno. My fingers were playing, that exasperating, adorable girl was watching, eyes all huge and shit, and yeah. The words just started coming out. Was it good? I don’t know, but when she immediately begged for more, something ignited inside me. No one ever notices the bass player. Not whining, it’s just a reality any backline musician accepts from day one. You want to play bass or keys? No one will know you exist. You will live your life in the stage shadows, anchoring the spotlight players, making the music explode, but you’ll never get the glory for your underrated role. The camera won’t be in your face. The radio hosts and reporters won’t be clamoring for an interview. So yeah, for the three minutes I was suddenly center stage for this Marina girl, maybe it felt good. Special, even. Maybe for a brief moment I didn’t feel like I wanted to throw up after finding out I was trapped in this tomb.
As the silent seconds tick on, however, her absence is getting loud. Without an audience, the chords are ringing hollow in my ears. The walls are closing in again. My heart rate picks up as I breathe through long inhales and exhales, trying to return myself to the peace I felt a moment ago while the music was swelling around me. Where is that girl? I preferred the threat of getting stabbed to this cavernous solitude.
I clap my palm on the strings to mute them and listen for some sign of her. Water runs from inside the bathroom, but not enough for the tub or shower. A sink, I guess. Must be brushing her teeth or washing her hands. I tilt my head toward the sound as if somehow I’ll be able to gauge how far into the process she is. The walls are getting thicker. Closer.
I shut my eyes, forcing my fingers to start moving on the strings again. If I can’t see the old stone barriers, maybe they’ll go away. Maybe… Shit. They’re still there. I can feel them. I pull in a deep breath but it’s not what I needed. No, I’m breathing too many breaths, that’s the problem. My body is fighting the extra oxygen. Sending it in and out in short gasps now. My limbs are tingling and the guitar drops from my hands. Numb fingers shove into my hair, pulling hard against the fear.
You’re okay. They’re going to find you. You could probably break down the door if you had to. Maybe. It was a heavy door. You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay…