Loving Dallas(22)

My first instinct is to reach for my phone. Not just because that’s what I do every morning when I first wake up, but because I’m slightly concerned I might have to call for help.

The décor in the room isn’t familiar and just as I contemplate turning to see who’s playing music in the barely lit corner, my night comes back to me like a freight train barreling at full speed.

Dallas.

The concert.

The diner.

The slap heard ’round the world.

Okay, maybe just ’round the parking lot at Rosa’s Diner, but still.

And holy blueberries on oatmeal pancakes, the sex.

My muscles are sore and relaxed all at once. My entire body feels like it barely survived a Thai massage. Every tension-filled muscle knot has been steamrolled from existence. Naked between expensive hotel sheets I feel sexy and aroused and . . . alone.

I twist to the side as much as my aching body will allow and see Dallas sitting at the table. He’s writing furiously while most of his magnificently nude body is blocked by his guitar.

Hello.

All of my synapses begin firing away at once, demanding I somehow lure him back to bed. Immediately.

Conflicted emotions swirl into a dangerous storm inside me.

This was a mistake.

This was the hottest night of my life.

I’m going to regret this for the rest of my life.

God, he looks good over there, all bare muscles and music notes.

I want to hear what he’s working on.

I shouldn’t interrupt him.

Tormented by tumultuously conflicting urges, I rake a hand through my wild hair—hoping it doesn’t look as messy as it feels—and sit up.

I don’t want to screw with his process, especially since he mentioned he hadn’t been writing. But day-um. Why does he have to look so scrumptious? It’s like having someone deliver a decadent slice of double chocolate cake drizzled in hot fudge right to your door and telling you all you can do is look at it.

I strain to hear him, but I can’t make out the tune or the words he’s muttering as he writes.

He’s writing.

He said he hasn’t written in a while.

Could our night together have inspired a song?

Stop making this into more than it is.

Right. Got it. But just in case it was the sex that got his musical mojo flowing, don’t I owe it to him, to all people with the ability to hear, to do whatever it takes to make sure he doesn’t get blocked again?

That settles it.

If I’m going to regret tonight eventually anyway, I’m going to regret it as much as I possibly can.





13 | Dallas

RIGHT AFTER THE MOST AMAZING SEX OF MY LIFE, ROBYN FELL asleep and rolled over onto her side facing away from me. I don’t know how long I stared at the smooth curves of her body, her spine, her hip, her shoulder, before growing impossibly hard again. She was resting so peacefully I’d decided not to wake her for round two, but there was too much going on in my head to fall asleep myself.

I’m three verses and a chorus into the most promising song I’ve written in nearly a year when I hear her stirring in the bed.

Something profoundly f*cked-up is happening here and now, and I’ve decided to ignore it while I still can. But I suspect that after tonight, the inevitable truth will come out whether I want it to or not.

Robyn is more than an old friend, more than an old flame.

She’s the one who blows me away and brings me back down only to turn me inside out and send me into a free fall all over again.

She’s my muse.

I can’t give her what she deserves—the full-time boyfriend, the promise of a picture-perfect life—not without giving up my dreams. While I once contemplated this back when she ended things between us, I’ve seen what kind of man I become without music and it isn’t pretty.

When my sister went to college in Houston and the band took a breather, I worked in construction for a while—did some roofing with a local contractor. The work was mind-numbing and backbreaking. Night after night I was too tired or too sore to play my guitar. My hands ached and stung with the wrong kinds of callouses. I told myself I’d play a few gigs on my own, but I didn’t. I lost the music. I lost myself.

Basically it f*cking sucked.

But now the fact that living my dream without Robyn in it would be just as pathetic is staring me in the face and I don’t know how to avoid it.

“You’re writing,” she says softly, barely even loud enough for me to hear.

I scrawl the last lyric, knowing I’ll add one more verse later, after I’ve been inside her again, before I look up.

“Yeah. Couldn’t sleep.”

She’s standing at the edge of the bed with the white sheet wrapped around her and it’s like a goddess fell from the heavens and landed in my hotel room.

“Can I hear it?”

“It’s not ready yet. Soon, though. Are you traveling with us to Kansas City tomorrow?”

It’s my roundabout way of asking her when I’ll see her again. Call me a coward, but asking her outright feels like crossing a line I shouldn’t. Even after everything that happened tonight.

“Nope,” she says with a shrug. “I have to attend an event in Los Angeles. So you’re free of me for a few days. I’ll be working both shows weekend after next in the Carolinas, though. And New Orleans and Nashville.”