Page 72 of A Ballad of Betrayal and Beauty

He’s quiet for a moment before he turns, his eyes obscured by his hair. “How am I supposed to prove I wrote those songs, Joel?” he whispers.

I take a deep breath. “We’ll figure it out. You wrote some of them before you left home. Maybe you just have to bite the bullet and go back there. Go through your old stuff for anything you might have written down.”

“I didn’t . . . I mean, I did, but?—”

A spark of hope flickers in my chest. Could Key have the songs written in a journal back home? “But what?”

“They’re gone, Joel.”

“Gone? What do you mean?”

He sits up and rubs at his jaw.

“I only ever wrote them down once, and I-I just always kept them up here, you know?” he says, pointing to his head. “And the paper copies? Trust me, they’re probably nothing but ash now.”

“Surely your parents wouldn’t?—”

“Joel!” His hands fly up into the air. “Can you just . . .” He covers his face. “Just get out.”

“Key—”

“I said, get out!” he yells.

He lies back down and turns onto his side. I frown. I guess that’s the only thing I can manage for the night. My hands flex and tighten into fists. That article will come out tomorrow and people all over San Francisco will think Key is a thief. It makes me sick.

“I’ll be here, when you’re ready,” I say. “Whatever happens, I’m not going anywhere.”

He turns his head to face the opposite wall and, with a sinking feeling, I leave the room.

CHAPTER18

Sleep Like a Baby Tonight

DUSTY

“Cherry, thank god,” Monique says as I head back to my desk from the breakroom.

My brow furrows and I look around. “What?”

“There’s a man on line three for you. Said he wouldn’t pay for anyone else,” she says.

A sharp pull tugs at my navel. For a fleeting moment I think maybe it’s Joel. That he just wants to talk to me or maybe that he’s regretting ending our date with just a kiss. But then another thought hits me like a train. Is it . . .him?

“Bastard is taking up an entire line. So hurry up and deal with him, please.”

She stalks away, and I’m left bewildered and holding my steaming mug of coffee. I glance at my desk, where the light flashes on and off, on and off. Somewhere on the surface, I panic. Things went amazing today with Joel. When he kissed me it was electric. Then he left me horny and with no time to take care of it myself, so I wound up at work with an outlet that led to me describing certain scenarios I’d like to be involved in with him and no relief. But if Baby is on the line, I don’t trust myself enough not to do something stupid . . .

I sit at my desk, sip my coffee, and pick up line three.

“Hello, this is Cherry speaking.”

“Fuck, sweetheart, I thought you’d never pick up the phone.”

I grip the desk. “I’m so sorry, Baby.”

“I’ve missed you,” he says.

There’s something in the way he says it. Something that breaks along the edge of the words. Is he sad? I glance at the clock.

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