Page 43 of Raise Me Up

I hold his intense gaze as long as I can before dropping my head. “I'm just fucking with you. We both know I’m not here to stay.”

Thankfully, the bells above the door jingle before Liam can poke more at my wounds.

The last artist on his schedule is a talented female folk singer by the name of Nora Woods. I don’t mention that I have a few of her songs on my daily playlist. Just like I don’t admit how much fun I have working with her, strumming out heartfelt chords and harmonizing with her vocals.

Nora’s been battling writer’s block. The fact that Liam was willing to give her studio time to work through her mental barriers further proves he’s got a bleeding heart in that big, sexy chest.

In the gaps between recordings, I feel his eyes on me. I can almost hear him taunting me.See, I can play games, too.

And I fell right into his trap.

I allowed him to lure me here and ease me back into playing when I told myself I was done. I’d even shipped my guitars to my dad in Phoenix, unable to stomach the idea of touching them after my swift kick in the ass from Lithos.

But it’s nice to perform without the pressure or expectations that come with fans and bandmates. Here, I’m able to create something wholly new. Something outside the realm of gallops and tremolo picking and power chords.

There’s no disconnect between my brain and my right hand, either.

Nora claps her hands together. “That voice! Handsome, you’ve got some soul in you!”

Grinning, I lift my head to Liam standing behind the recording window. He gives a nod of approval.

“I aim to please,” I reply.

By the time Nora makes her exit, I’m still buzzing with energy. I continue lazily plucking at the strings of Liam’s guitar, no purpose behind what I’m doing. I’m driven solely by the need to let this living, breathing thing out of me.

I’ve always had a deep-rooted love for writing music, but for the last couple of years it’s felt more like a chore. More like I’m writing for listeners than I am for myself.

Liam strides in and sinks a hand into my hair.

“Time to leave?” I ask, digging my phone out of my pocket to check the time. “Damn. How is it midnight already?”

“Are you ready to leave, Beau?”

It feels like a weighted question.

Swallowing, I shake my head. “No.”

His hand falls away from me as he gives me another little satisfied nod. “Then keep playing. Spare bedroom’s yours for as long as you need it.”

He drops a set of keys on a nearby table, and then he’s gone.

Who is this man? Is the real Liam tied up somewhere in a closet?

Maybe I should hang around a few more days.

Maybe I should ask for Stasi's number, too.

thirteen

Stasi

“What’s got your head up in the clouds?”

Blinking out of a daze, I refocus my attention on my patient.

Iris Grikowski is a seventy-three-year-old woman on her third week of inpatient therapy after a series of strokes. She’s an avid bunko player, a grandmother twelve times over, and a hardcore football fan, which is how we bonded on day one of her recovery here.

Although she’s more of a college football fan, I don’t take away any cool points since one of her grandkids is a tight end for the Wisconsin Badgers.