Down to My Soul (Soul Series Book 2)(9)

“I can respect that.” Lola’s eyes hold the interest, the fascination Rhyson effortlessly inspires in people. “But isn’t there one thing you could tell us that few people know?”

I draw a shallow breath before speaking.

“Yeah. There is one thing.” I pause for effect, leaning forward like I’m about to share a secret. Anticipation lights their faces, and they lean forward to catch the inside information I’m about to drop. “He loves hummus.”





APPARENTLY A SQUIRREL HAS TAKEN UP residence in my mouth. That thick, furry thing moving around in there can’t be my tongue. In my current state—stretched out under my piano with a bean bag for a pillow, sledgehammer going in my head, and my eyes blearily barely cracked open against the morning light—I can’t come up with a better explanation.

Something pointy nudges between my ribs. What the hell?

“Rhys, get up.” Jimmi, one of my best friends since high school and one of the few people who can get into my house, stands over me, hands on her hips and frown firmly on her face. Her boot connects with my stomach again, and I grab her foot.

“You got one more time to jab me with that knife-shoe thing you’re wearing.” The words scratch in my throat, and I drag myself into a sitting position, bumping my head against the piano.

“Careful,” Jimmi says, wincing on my behalf.

Now she tells me.

“What’s up, Jim?” I rub at the sore spot on my forehead. “Did you . . . wait, if this is about that song, I’m almost done. I promise it’ll be ready by Thursday.”

“And what do you think today is?”

“Tuesday?” I ask cautiously, looking around my music room for clues among the instruments shelved and displayed on the walls.

“Gah! Today is Thursday.” Jimmi cocks one hip, resting her hand there. “And I’ve been calling you to check on your progress with the song.”

She holds up my phone, her expression exasperated.

“This was upstairs on the kitchen counter. Dead.”

“I wondered where that was.” I run a hand through the hair hanging past my ears and around my neck. God, I need a haircut. And a shave. And a shower. A toothbrush wouldn’t hurt.

“Not doing you much good dead.” Jimmi tosses the phone to me.

“My charger’s here somewhere.” I sift through the blanket of music sheets beneath me until I find the small wire. “Here we go.”

I drag myself to my feet and plug the phone into the wall, leaving it to charge on top of the piano.

“What’s all this?” Jimmi bends, picking up several composition sheets, narrowing her eyes over the notes I barely remember chicken scratching out. “You wrote all these?”

Her eyes wander around the room, taking in the composition paper, napkins, and receipts littering every surface, all covered with music I vaguely remember writing over the last two weeks since I got off tour.

“This is some Beautiful Mind shit.” Jimmi holds up a napkin to the light to read the song I scrawled there. “Have you been in here drunk? High?”

“Something like that.” I squeeze a spot at the back of my neck tight from sleeping on the floor. “Great movie, by the way. Some of Russell Crowe’s finest work.”

It only took one stint in rehab for me to understand what an addictive personality I have. My gift comes at a price, near obsession. Unchecked, I’m nothing but a wave of extremes. I barely drink alcohol and I never do drugs, so music is my drug of choice. And I’ve been on a bender ever since I got off tour. Since I came home to this empty house and faced the fact that Kai isn’t coming back any time soon.

If ever.

“Is this symphony orchestra stuff?” Jimmi peels at the edges of the music sheet plastered to the wall, a frown puckering her brows. “It won’t come off.”

“Here, lemme see.” I lean forward to rub at the edges, finally barking out a harsh laugh. “Great. It won’t come off because I wrote it on the wall. Sarita’s gonna kill me.”

“I’m gonna kill you myself unless one of these songs is mine.” Jimmi leans against the piano.

“I got your song, Jim.” I kick a few music sheets out of the way, squinting at the floor to see where the hell her song could be. “It’s here somewhere.”

“Also,” Jimmi says, holding one finger under her nose. “You reek.”

“You’re saying I stink?” I lift my arm to take an investigative sniff. “Hmmm. So that’s where the smell is coming from.”

I take a step in her direction, thrusting a handful of my two-day-old t-shirt into her nose.

“Rhys, stop it!” Jimmi laughs, backing up, stumbling and slipping on the papers under our feet.

“Couldn’t resist.” I grin, feeling less like microwaved shit than when I woke up. Jimmi and I used to play pranks on each other in high school. She was always good for a laugh. I feared that misbegotten one-night stand on the road had ruined our friendship. I’m glad we still have this.

“Gimme ten.” I back out of the room, gesturing to a stack of papers on the piano. “I’m seventy-five percent sure your song is in that pile right there. Look while I take a shower, and then we can head to the studio.”

I’m actually more like forty-five percent sure, but that’ll keep her busy while I scrub the grunge away. I’m looking and feeling pretty nineties Seattle right now. I rush up the steps and to my bedroom, pausing when I cross the threshold.