Page 68 of Resonance
“I wore jeans, yeah. Why?” I wondered if I’d committed some unknown fashion faux pas. But Ryder had been wearing jeans, too, and a button-down shirt to my tee. And Jesus, when had I cared about fashion anyway?
“No,thejeans. I snuck ’em in your suitcase last minute with a note because you left them out, which was the wrong move.”
I frowned. “I didn’t see them. I’ve just been pulling from the top of the pile.”
“Then you should look for them tonight.”
“Okay,” I said, and laughed. It was good hearing his voice. Even a day and a half out, it was apparent how much I’d gotten used to it as a constant attribution to the general ambience. And that I missed it already. It was too far away.
Barrett poked his head into the hallway again, and I nodded at his strained expression before telling Owen, “We’ve gotta go do some interview thing, and then there’s a party a radio station is throwing.” Already, I was craving a pillow over more meet and greets and handshakes.
“That sounds awesome. I hope you have a great time.” There was plenty of warmth and sincerity in Owen’s voice, but it still sounded stiff somehow. I wished I could lay my hand over his neck and feel his strong, rapid pulse beneath my fingertips.
“Don’t stay at the shop too late.”
“I won’t,” Owen promised. “Jezebel would have my ass.”
We got backto the bus well past midnight, Ryder swaying in a buzzed stupor toward the back, while I sought out the suitcase I’d stored in the bunk across from mine.
I dug through my neatly folded shirts and jeans until, in the middle, I discovered a pair with a piece of paper sticking out of the back pocket. Owen had written: “Wear these and the seas will part. People will make offerings of goats, anoint you with oil, and fall at your feet. I.e., these jeans make your ass look awesome. Leaving them behind was a severe oversight on your part that concerns me. Any family history of early onset dementia?”
I could hear his lilting ramble like it was right next to me, and I folded up the note with a smile, then tucked it right back into the pocket.
Chapter 24
Five days later at Grim’s, I moved mindlessly through inventory alongside Ivy. We bickered about a Jessup Polk song that had mysteriously appeared on Spotify a couple of days ago. She thought it was half-assed. I disagreed. Ivy didn’t know the difference between a melody and a harmony, but because we both liked to argue, we’d been hashing out the minutiae for the last half hour.
We could easily carry the debate over the rest of the afternoon, which was honestly way better than listening to her alternately bitch and gush about Zane. He’d stopped by earlier, lingered like a bad smell, and had called me Sprout twice. His stupid frosted tips had been bleached even whiter, and I was willing to bet if I’d taken a lighter to it, the whole thing would’ve gone up like a hay bale in mid-July.
Ru wandered in from the office and rested his arms over the back of a display case. “Lotta salt in here today. Can hear y’all chittering and hissing at each other like a pair of squirrels over an acorn.” He canted his head in Ivy’s direction. “You can go ahead and head out if you want to. Don’t think it’s likely to pick up any more. I’ll clock you out at the hour.”
She hopped up with a grin but couldn’t resist leaning down and poking her head in my bubble of personal space. “Half-assed.” To which I responded with a half-assed swat.
Ru watched her disappear into the shop’s hallway, then regarded me. “I don’t like seeing my Sunbeam all overcast.”
That earned him a tiny smile. “I’m not overcast, I’m doing inventory, which is the weather equivalent of, like, El Niño. I apologize. I’ll eat a burrito for lunch and fan the rainbows that shoot from my ass afterward in your general direction if it’ll make you feel better.”
He chuckled and came around the display, settling on the floor next to me. I handed him one of the inventory sheets.
“Thought we could all get together and watch that pay-per-view webcast they’re doing in a couple weeks at my place. You game?”
I gnawed on my lower lip, then nodded. “Sure.”
We worked beside each other the rest of the afternoon, Ru occasionally rising to change out the music playing through the store’s speakers, me occasionally helping a customer.
I’d finished for the day and was heading back to Dan’s when my phone rang. I fumbled it out of my pocket like greased lighting. I’d been hoping for a text or call from Dan all day. Hoping, but trying not to expect it, though I knew by now Hope and Expectation were the most volatile of BFFs.
But though the number on my screen had a Nashville area code, it wasn’t one I was familiar with.
I answered it warily, anticipating a telemarketer. There was this one who called me at least once a week trying to sell me an extended warranty on my car even though I kept telling her my car would laugh at that. And then probably fall apart in the process.
“Owen?” I didn’t recognize the voice, but they knew my name and boy did it sound sexy.
“This is Owen, yes…” And then it hit me and I had to clap my hand over my mouth to avoid a squee. One did not squee in the presence of Les Graves. I’d only squeed one other time in my life, the first time I ever got to go backstage after an Armageddon Eyes concert. The lead singer had made a face of such concern that I vowed never to repeat it.
The impending squee transmuted itself to a full-body jitter of excitement I had to tamp down because Les could be calling me for any number of reasons. I had the sudden, gut-twisting thought that he could actually be calling to tell me my music was an insult to real songwriters.
I dropped my keys trying to open my car door and gave up, leaning against the side.