Open Road Summer(52)

“All right,” Matt says over the cheers. “This next one is brand-new. World premiere. You Alabamians are the first people to hear this song, other than my bus driver and the band. It’s called ‘Give.’ ”

The song is up-tempo, with a sort of sultry, bluesy feel that’s new for Matt. At least, I’ve never heard any of his music take this direction. I listen as he starts to sing.

Girl, you’re as hot as your temper,

And you won’t let me through.

But I think you would be good for me.

I know I’d be good for you.

Oh, but then that night at the lake,

You said we’d be a mistake.

But you’re wrong there, honey.

I’m a chance you wanna take.

Heat floods over my cheeks, hotter than the summer sun on my face. It was bad enough when Dee brought it up. Now I feel like I’m naked in front of the entire class—only it’s not a class. It’s an auditorium of thousands. Sure, they don’t know the song’s about me, but they know a piece of my life now. A piece that should be mine.

Do you want me to beg you?

Do you want me to say please?

Then this song is the rest of my pride, girl.

This song is me down on my knees.

Just give in, give in to me, girl.

I’ll give you everything I’ve got.

I won’t give up, give up on you, girl,

Till you’re giving me a shot.

Dee leans over, whispering, “Are we going to act like this one’s not about you?”

“Shut up,” I hiss, but I can feel her smiling beside me.

So go on, pretend you can fight it,

Walk away like I’m not in your head.

Brush me off like I never cross your mind

At night as you lay down in bed.

I cross my arms, shifting uncomfortably in my heels. He had to do it. He had to put me in a song. It feels so cheap, like every girl who’d gone before me and gotten her own song as a parting gift. Matt keeps singing while I fume. Really? Really? This is the new song he said I’d like? There’s too much steam coming out of my ears for me to even hear the final verse. By the time I snap back into reality, he’s repeating the chorus again, singing a sort of ad-libbed fade-out.

Till you’re giving me a shot.

C’mon, girl, give me a shot,

One shot.

I’ll give you everything I’ve got. . . .

The crowd loves it, clapping and hooting in approval, and he thanks them as the band starts playing his final song.

“Well,” Dee says tentatively. “That was . . . something.”

I make a snorting noise—a bull about to charge.

“I’ve gotta go get set for my entrance.” She nudges my arm. Her expression looks confused—hesitant—like she can’t read me. “See you after?”

“Yeah, yeah,” I say, waving her off. I’m too preoccupied with my anger to remember to wish her good luck. Instead, I stand completely still, seething as he finishes his last song. Matt exits to the other side of the stage while the crowd erupts in cheers.

Here I’ve held myself back, so careful this whole summer. I made a decision to keep my distance to protect both of us, and I’ve actually made good on that decision. But he insists on stamping across the line I drew between us. My restraint was for his own good, and for mine, and for Dee’s. I listened to his whole song, but now? Now Matt Finch is going to listen to a tirade from me—for being presumptuous, for being pushy and careless.

My wedge heels echo against the floor as I storm toward Matt’s dressing room, guns blazing. A security guard near his door glances between my VIP pass and the angry look on my face, and he doesn’t bother to stop me. I’d like to see him try.

Without knocking, I twist the door handle and push it open. Matt is standing near the couch, frozen in surprise at me barging in. His hands are still on his shirt, halfway through unbuttoning it. Using my once broken arm, I slam the door behind me.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” I demand, settling myself into a fighter’s stance.

“Whoa,” Matt says, holding his hands up in innocence. “Okay. I sense I’ve done something wrong.”

“Don’t try to be cute.”

“Reagan. Seriously. What did I do?” He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, and he steps forward, placing his hand gently on my arm.

“You think you can just use me as songwriting material?” I pull my arm from his grasp.

His face is caught between surprise and confusion. “What? No.”

“You’ll stand onstage and undermine your ‘relationship’ with Dee, and for what? Because you get some small thrill from hitting on me?”

“Reagan,” he says, his voice serious. “C’mon. That’s not why I did it.”

“Then why?

He gives me an exaggerated shrug. “I have no idea! I feel something; I put it in a song. It’s what I do, but there’s no agenda.”

I can’t believe that he doesn’t realize how messed up it is to drag our—our whatever this is—into a public forum, in front of a crowd.

“God,” he mutters. “Most girls love it when I write them a song.”

“Well, I’m not most girls,” I snap at him.