Unraveling You
Page 36
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
I start forming every S word I can think of.
Sunny?
Strange?
Sweet?
Sassy?
Sexy?
It better not fucking be the last one.
Lyric’s nose instantly scrunches as she gets a whiff of the air. “Dude, it reeks of pot in here.” She closes the door behind her and spins around to face us, her eyes skimming the room. “Is that what you guys secretly do here?” she asks suspiciously, her gaze dancing back and forth between Sage and me. “Is this whole band thing a ruse to be closet potheads?”
“Nah, Ayden doesn’t do that shit,” Sage tells her, leaning over to gather his drumsticks from off the floor.
“You do, though. I know that,” Lyric remarks as she circles the room, studying all the framed albums on the wall. “Was your dad a musician or something?”
Sage glances at me for some reason then strolls up to her with his hands tucked into his back pockets. “Nah. He just wishes he was. And actually, the albums are my mother’s. She just bought all of them a year ago after my dad cheated on her. They’re all of his favorite albums signed by his favorite bands, and he will never get to see a single one of these, other than the one time my mother brought him over here to rub it in his face.”
“That’s so sick and twisted,” Lyric mumbles as she leans forward to inspect one album in particular. “Aw, Micha Scott. He’s pretty good for being old school.” She casts a sly glance over her shoulder at me.
“Yeah, he’s okay.” Sage playfully bumps his shoulder into hers, filling me with the strangest sensation of jealousy, enough that I want to bump into him a hell of a lot harder, maybe even knock him down. “Hey, any relation?” he jokes.
“He’s actually my dad.”
Sage starts to laugh, but then his eyes widen when he notes the serious expression on Lyric’s face. “You have got to be shitting me.”
She shrugs as she scratches at her arm then rubs her eyes, probably because of the abundance of smoke swirling around the air. “Nope. I’m totally being one hundred percent shitting free serious right now.”
I can’t help but chuckle.
His eyes enlarge even more. “Let me get this straight. Your father is Micha Scott, rock star slash music producer who owns Infinitely Studio, and he’s been your father this entire time.”
Lyric shrugs again, shuffling her feet back and forth across the carpet. “Yep, pretty much.”
Sage shoots a baffled look at me. “Did you know about this?”
Nodding, I sink down on the couch and unlock my guitar case. “I don’t know why you’re freaking out so much, though.”
“Um, because you have a connection,” he says, confounded.
“No, Lyric has a connection.” I sweep my hair out of my face as I position my guitar on my lap. “Not me.”
He shakes his head, still flabbergasted. “You could have said something at least.”
“It wasn’t my something to tell.” I pluck my fingers across the strings, tuning the guitar while tuning Sage out.
He twists around, facing Lyric again. “So can you do anything?”
“Oh, I can do a lot of things,” Lyric replies in her flirty tone that causes my jaw to tick. She plops down on the sofa beside me, slips her hands under her legs, and leans toward me, her hair brushing my cheek. Her eyes are slightly bloodshot and her pupils are unfocused.
I reach back to open the window while Sage drags a stool over to us.
“I mean, can you play anything?” Sage wonders, plopping down on the stool.
“I can play a lot of things,” Lyric replies, resting her head on my shoulder.
Sage flashes me a puzzled glance and I shrug.
I have no clue what she’s doing, other than maybe she’s high. What I do know is that the feel of her is driving me absolutely crazy in the best way possible. Her touching me is nothing new. She’s usually got her fingers laced through mine, but this feels different somehow, as if she’s trying to read me through the connection of our bodies. Maybe it’s all the freaking pot in the air, or maybe it’s because of the kiss. I’d be fine with it—I’m usually good at keeping myself in control—but my breathing has gone erratic and my heart’s lost its Goddamn mind.
“Like what?” Sage asks Lyric, reaching for the lighter on the floor near his feet.
“The violin, guitar, drums. I used to play the piano, but I haven’t practiced in a while.”
“What about singing?”
She hesitates. “Singing is subjective, so I can’t answer that.”
Sage assesses her closely. “So, you’re saying you think you can sing, but you’re unsure of your voice.” He flicks his lighter on and off as he deliberates something. Then he hops to his feet and ambles over to the microphone. Picking it up off the floor, he twists up the volume of the speaker. “Let’s see what you got, Scott.” He tosses the microphone at Lyric.
As she catches it, her face drains of color. “Um, I’m not going to sing for you.” She chucks the microphone at him. Instead of catching it, Sage skitters out of the way and it ends up crashing against the symbols.
All three of us stare at it as it threatens to topple over.
He rips his focus off the vibrating metal. “Why not?”
Lyric glances at me for help, but I have no idea what to say to her. I’ve never heard her sing. Hell, she barely lets me hear her play the guitar and she rocks at that. But I know she does it all, sings, plays, writes lyrics.
Sunny?
Strange?
Sweet?
Sassy?
Sexy?
It better not fucking be the last one.
Lyric’s nose instantly scrunches as she gets a whiff of the air. “Dude, it reeks of pot in here.” She closes the door behind her and spins around to face us, her eyes skimming the room. “Is that what you guys secretly do here?” she asks suspiciously, her gaze dancing back and forth between Sage and me. “Is this whole band thing a ruse to be closet potheads?”
“Nah, Ayden doesn’t do that shit,” Sage tells her, leaning over to gather his drumsticks from off the floor.
“You do, though. I know that,” Lyric remarks as she circles the room, studying all the framed albums on the wall. “Was your dad a musician or something?”
Sage glances at me for some reason then strolls up to her with his hands tucked into his back pockets. “Nah. He just wishes he was. And actually, the albums are my mother’s. She just bought all of them a year ago after my dad cheated on her. They’re all of his favorite albums signed by his favorite bands, and he will never get to see a single one of these, other than the one time my mother brought him over here to rub it in his face.”
“That’s so sick and twisted,” Lyric mumbles as she leans forward to inspect one album in particular. “Aw, Micha Scott. He’s pretty good for being old school.” She casts a sly glance over her shoulder at me.
“Yeah, he’s okay.” Sage playfully bumps his shoulder into hers, filling me with the strangest sensation of jealousy, enough that I want to bump into him a hell of a lot harder, maybe even knock him down. “Hey, any relation?” he jokes.
“He’s actually my dad.”
Sage starts to laugh, but then his eyes widen when he notes the serious expression on Lyric’s face. “You have got to be shitting me.”
She shrugs as she scratches at her arm then rubs her eyes, probably because of the abundance of smoke swirling around the air. “Nope. I’m totally being one hundred percent shitting free serious right now.”
I can’t help but chuckle.
His eyes enlarge even more. “Let me get this straight. Your father is Micha Scott, rock star slash music producer who owns Infinitely Studio, and he’s been your father this entire time.”
Lyric shrugs again, shuffling her feet back and forth across the carpet. “Yep, pretty much.”
Sage shoots a baffled look at me. “Did you know about this?”
Nodding, I sink down on the couch and unlock my guitar case. “I don’t know why you’re freaking out so much, though.”
“Um, because you have a connection,” he says, confounded.
“No, Lyric has a connection.” I sweep my hair out of my face as I position my guitar on my lap. “Not me.”
He shakes his head, still flabbergasted. “You could have said something at least.”
“It wasn’t my something to tell.” I pluck my fingers across the strings, tuning the guitar while tuning Sage out.
He twists around, facing Lyric again. “So can you do anything?”
“Oh, I can do a lot of things,” Lyric replies in her flirty tone that causes my jaw to tick. She plops down on the sofa beside me, slips her hands under her legs, and leans toward me, her hair brushing my cheek. Her eyes are slightly bloodshot and her pupils are unfocused.
I reach back to open the window while Sage drags a stool over to us.
“I mean, can you play anything?” Sage wonders, plopping down on the stool.
“I can play a lot of things,” Lyric replies, resting her head on my shoulder.
Sage flashes me a puzzled glance and I shrug.
I have no clue what she’s doing, other than maybe she’s high. What I do know is that the feel of her is driving me absolutely crazy in the best way possible. Her touching me is nothing new. She’s usually got her fingers laced through mine, but this feels different somehow, as if she’s trying to read me through the connection of our bodies. Maybe it’s all the freaking pot in the air, or maybe it’s because of the kiss. I’d be fine with it—I’m usually good at keeping myself in control—but my breathing has gone erratic and my heart’s lost its Goddamn mind.
“Like what?” Sage asks Lyric, reaching for the lighter on the floor near his feet.
“The violin, guitar, drums. I used to play the piano, but I haven’t practiced in a while.”
“What about singing?”
She hesitates. “Singing is subjective, so I can’t answer that.”
Sage assesses her closely. “So, you’re saying you think you can sing, but you’re unsure of your voice.” He flicks his lighter on and off as he deliberates something. Then he hops to his feet and ambles over to the microphone. Picking it up off the floor, he twists up the volume of the speaker. “Let’s see what you got, Scott.” He tosses the microphone at Lyric.
As she catches it, her face drains of color. “Um, I’m not going to sing for you.” She chucks the microphone at him. Instead of catching it, Sage skitters out of the way and it ends up crashing against the symbols.
All three of us stare at it as it threatens to topple over.
He rips his focus off the vibrating metal. “Why not?”
Lyric glances at me for help, but I have no idea what to say to her. I’ve never heard her sing. Hell, she barely lets me hear her play the guitar and she rocks at that. But I know she does it all, sings, plays, writes lyrics.
