Mended (Connections, #3)(39)

The next afternoon, the bus is hauling ass to Jersey and I’m spending a rare moment alone in the galley. I’m in my cubby playing around with a song on my guitar when I feel her stare on me. When I glance up, she looks younger again. She has no makeup on, she’s wearing a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, and her hair is pulled back. She’s gorgeous.

“I thought I heard you. What are you playing?” she asks.

“Actually I’m working on something for you.”

She laughs. “Oh yeah. Since when do you write songs?”

I chuckle. “I don’t, but I have this idea that I’ve been wanting to run by you.”

“Okay, I’m intrigued. What is it?”

I pat the spot next to me on my bed, and her eyes grow cautious. “I’m not going to attack you, Ivy. I just want to show you something.”

She crosses the space and sits next to me, then looks around. “I’ve never seen where you live,” she jokes.

Grinning at her, I say, “Well, it’s not home. That’s for sure.”

“Movies, music videos, a picture of your family—it’s enough to see you’re still the same guy.”

“Same guy I was in high school? I think I’d have to disagree with that.”

“Well, I think you are.”

I bow my head and look at the strings on the guitar. One thing I know for certain is that I’m not, but it’s nice that she thinks I am.

“Garrett told me you just started playing the guitar again on this tour. Why did you stop? You loved it, and you were so good at it.”

“Ivy, there is so much you don’t know.”

She turns to face me, propping a knee up as she twists sideways. “You mean about your father’s death.”

My throat tightens with emotion. “No, I mean about his suicide.” The words come out harsher than I mean them to.

She nods. “I know, but I wish I did.”

We stare at each other, communicating without talking. We’ve been walking this line between friends and not, between friends and lovers, between I don’t know what since this tour started. She knows she’s digging deep and I’m not sure I’m ready to uncover the things I’ve buried.

She rests her hand on my leg. “Xander, you can tell me anything. You can talk to me.”

I wait a beat before answering. My pulse is racing, but I’m not sure if it’s from our contact or the conversation. “Let’s talk about you and what I’ve been working on.”

She pulls her hand to her lap and smiles automatically. It’s a cross between forced and genuine—one I’ve never seen before. “Okay. Spill it,” she says, her tone neutral.

I’m not sure if she’s relieved or offended. I take a breath to steady my voice. “I want to make a video. Take a song like ‘Last Time’ and maybe add percussion, strings, and then I want you to chant over them.”

Her eyes go wide and a huge, genuine smile crosses her face. “You want me to be the girl being sung about in the song, don’t you?”

I nod.

“That’s brilliant,” she responds. Full of enthusiasm, she takes my guitar. “Here, let me show you. Something like this, right?”

She plays a few chords and I get caught up in her movements—the way her fingers dance over the strings, the ease with which she moves her body to the rhythm. This is the real Ivy—the one not putting on a show. The girl who loves music like I do. The reason I fell in love with her to begin with.

She points her finger at me. “You missed your cue.”

I laugh. “You want me to sing the song?”

“Yes. Just take the lead and I’ll interject,” she directs me and starts playing again, tapping her foot.

I have to stop myself from watching her, from thinking this is what we could have been doing together for years. I sing the first verse, but I’m not a singer, so I’d say I talked the first line.

We can’t keep doing this going back and forth thing that we do.

You get mad at me and then slam the door.

I apologize and you open it back up.

But, baby, we keep doing it, and this time it’s the last time.

Ivy bobs her head and closes her eyes, letting the words just flow out.

I know we’re so dysfunctional that it can’t be any good.

Sometimes love just isn’t enough.

But for us it should be, because two wrongs can only make a right.

So, baby, let’s keep this and make every time the first time.

She stops and opens her eyes. My thoughts are racing. The words she can create off the cuff blow me away. And her talent—the way she blends sadness, tenderness, and passion, making them feel like one emotion with just a change in her tone, is why she is the singer that she is. I’m so lost in my awe of her I don’t even notice that she’s set the guitar down until her hands are on my face and her lips are on mine. With a sharp intake of breath I feel their softness, their familiarity. She tastes like peppermint and smells like heaven. My head spins with raw need—a need to devour her, consume her, own her, and make her mine, this time forever. I pull her onto my lap, my hands cupping her ass, placing her right where I need her. I want to touch all of her at once. My fingers slide under her shirt and dig into her flesh, then around to feel her perfect nipples. She wraps her legs around me and my cock throbs so much it hurts. All I can think about is stripping off her clothes, being inside her, and f*cking her for days.