Rising (Blue Phoenix, #4)(54)

I shrug. “Your house.”

He scrolls through a list on his laptop. “Must be some classics we both like.”

After more debate, we settle on a random mix of ‘90s indie rock. Back to Ruby and Jem whose strong wills won’t bend, choosing a band we agree on isn’t happening anytime soon. “Sounds awesome on your system,” I say.

“One thing I’ll always have the best of.”

I twirl noodles around my fork, and side-glance him. “What colour is this song?”

Jem closes his eyes. “Red.”

“Really? No, blue.”

“No way, there’s black in here too.” He opens an eye.

“What colour is “Rising”?” I ask him.

“Orange.”

“I always saw red. I guess you get to dictate the colour if it’s your song.”

“No, it’s just what colour it looks. There’s a lot of G in and that’s red.”

“No, G is green.”

Jem pouts but his eyes show his amusement before he looks away and silently eats his meal, abruptly stopping the conversation. “I’ve never met anyone like you,” he says eventually.

“A lot of people say that to me.”

“Same. For the first time I feel comfortable around someone.”

“You’re comfortable around the band, surely?”

“Yeah, early days and as a kid we were all similar but never the same. Dylan’s closest to me, understands the power of music like I do, but we lost each other.”

“You lost yourself.”

He frowns. “I guess. Dylan stopped the drugs, I didn’t.”

“If you were an addict, you wouldn’t meet anyone you felt yourself around because you weren’t yourself.”

Jem sets his box on the table. “Have you known any addicts? Sometimes I get the impression you have.”

“Some friends at school got into that shit. My brother steered me clear. I smoked weed a few times, but it wiped me out and interfered with the music too much. That’s why I can’t understand why you went that way.”

“There’s a lot we don’t understand about each other.” He tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ear.

A lot we don’t want to share.

Again, conversation killed. Although Jem’s different around me than a few days ago, loosened and a sense of humour poking through; he’s still never far from the world of his memories. Jem finishes his meal and heads out of the room, leaving me and my disappointment behind. His habit of walking away without saying anything irritates me; does Jem realise what he’s doing?

“Will you play for me again?” Jem’s returned, holding the guitar I played in his hotel room.

“Why?”

“I like it.” He looks at me as if I’m asking a stupid question.

If my playing means he stays in the room with me, forges us further, I will. “Sure, but you can play for me too.”

Jem grins. “Cool by me.”

Cross-legged on the floor, I take the pick he offers and strum a few notes, fine-tuning the strings. Playing the opening bars of “Stairway to Heaven,” I grin at him as he rolls his eyes at the cliché.

“Don’t worry, I won’t play that.”

I play the Ruby Riot track, “Beneath the Stars,” lost in the world of colour. The rainbows of music illuminate the shadows of my mind, dragging me away from darkness and stars, until I forget where I am. I always do. Playing alone or performing, I’m on a different plane, body as tuned into the music as my mind. When I finish, I jerk back to reality and focus on the world again.

The expression on Jem’s face tears the breath from my body. I’ve glimpsed the intense look before, on the days it sneaked through before he’d look away again. This time his eyes remain on mine. This is how people look at you when you mean something to them; he told me the truth in the garden earlier.

“Why did I ever think you were like her?”

I don’t want Jem to elaborate, but I know who he means. I set the guitar down; I don’t want to go back to old conversations. I make to stand and Jem sits forward.

“Don’t go,” he says. “Spend time with me before we go and hide in our dens.”

I rub my forehead. “You’re a confusing man, Jem Jones.”

“Nah, I’m quite simple really.’

“That, I don’t believe.”

Jem shifts and takes the guitar. “Sit with me. Play again.” I frown, unsure exactly what he wants. “Here. Lean against me.” He indicates the space in front of him.

This man who doesn’t like to be touched is asking me to sit close? I hesitate; aware the intimacy of placing myself there is another step across our borders. I’m torn. I’ve craved nothing more than being held by Jem for weeks, but I’m vulnerable and hurting.

“I want to be close to you, Ruby Tuesday. I’m over the URST bullshit, I want you in my life, and that involves touching you.” The abrupt words wipe out any doubt. He wants the same as I do; the same thing we’ve avoided for months. Not just a physical intimacy, but allowing in an emotional intimacy, too.

“Okay,” I say quietly.

I move so Jem can put his legs on either side of me, my back against his chest as he rests against the armchair. He passes me the guitar. How will I play when all I’m aware of is being encompassed by Jem? He exudes calm and warmth, the thump of his heart against my back and his face close to my neck. His breath sets goose bumps along my skin, intensifying the situation. Is this how we can be close? If Jem can hold me, but I can’t him. If I can’t see his eyes.