Page 30 of Puck Love

“I make younervous?”

“I’ve never had a woman stay in my house who didn’t want to sleep with me. I know that sounds cocky, but I’m being honest. I don’t have female friends. I don’t have women in my life. It’s new for me, but I like having youhere.”

“I like being here. And any time you want to escape all this, you can come to Nashville. I’ll take you honky-tonking.”

He laughs. “No thanks. I don’t docountry.”

“Really?” I shoot him an incredulous look. “So that wasn’t my concert you and your brotherattended?”

“Okay, fine. I do country when Emmett forces me to, but I’d do anything forhim.”

“He’s really lucky to haveyou.”

“I’m lucky to have him,” he says tightly, and if I’m not mistaken, he sounds a littlepissed.

“I just meant, I wish I had a brother to look out for me.” I shrug. “Maybe then I wouldn’t run away from packed concert halls. It might be nice to have someone to keep megrounded.”

“Well, I’d offer to be your big brother, too, but I’ve had some very incestuous thoughts about you since you arrived. It’s probably best to avoid a sibling love-fest and just say I’ll be here for you whenever you needgrounding.”

“I’d like that,” I say, and I can feel myself blushing. Thankfully, I’m closer to the fire than he is, so I have a little bit of anexcuse.

“So, you gonna play me something,country?”

“That depends. Are you going to complain that it’scountry?”

“No.”

“Alright then,” I say, putting a little more twang into my accent. I pluck a pick from the case and rest the guitar’s weight in my lap before sliding my fingers over what are clearly new strings. I strum it, and it takes a little bit of fussing over the tuning pegs before it sounds just right. “You didn’t manage to get a capo by any chance, didyou?”

“What’sthat?”

“It’s a little squeezy thing that clamps onto the neck of the guitar and shortens the length of thestrings.”

He appears to be confused. “A squeezything?”

“It raises the key,” I explain. “God, it’s so hard to talk to you sportytypes.”

Van laughs. “We’re called athletes. That’s like calling you just someone whosings.”

“Okay, pointtaken.”

“Besides, don’t musicians speak their own languageanyway?”

“Yes, we do. Much like hockey players. Now, shut up; I’m trying tosing.”

He makes the international sign for zipping his lips, and I laugh and pluck out the first few bars of Fiona Apple’s “Criminal.” When I sing the line about being a bad, bad girl, Van’s brows shoot skyward, and a grin lights up his face. I close my eyes, losing myself to the lyrics and melody. I sing, and for a few minutes I forget why I felt so trapped. I forget everything but the music, and it’sglorious.

I owe this man a lot—for saving my life, for taking me in, and for helping me to feel human again. For making me feel like something more than just a robot who’s been molded by the industry and the greedy hands of fat-cat label heads. I owe Van Ross everything. I’ve come to the realization that I might give him anything he asks in return, and right now, that terrifies me more than the thought of going back to my reallife.