Page 23 of Hold Still

His tone takes on a sharp edge. “But what? It can’t bethathard?”

I sigh and place my fork onto my plate. “That’s not what I was going to say at all. Your songs are all so personal. They make me feel your joy, your happiness. Maybe we can take time to do something that makes you happy. Get you out of your head.”

His eyes slant in the way they used to before he stripped me naked. My core tightens. “Anything but that.”

“Aw, now you’re taking all the fun out of it.”

Bells go off in my head. That’s it. He’s not having fun. How can he write about happiness and joy when he doesn’t feel them? His songs told of being free in the sun and sand and surf. In a near whisper, I ask, “Is this the problem? Do you not want to write about upbeat things anymore?”

“Now I think you’re getting too deep there. I’m just having an off time. Sophomore slump and all that. Don’t go psychoanalyzing me.”

He stands and brings his plates to the dishwasher. I know deflection when I see it. After all, I’ve gotten my Master’s in it. Although, he might have his Ph.D.

Joining him by the sink, I enjoy his strong profile, gages in his ears and tattooed, muscular sleeves. A flash of him sweating over me in Rose’s apartment the night she and Cole got back together pops into my head—which I quell. Damn my libido.

Clearing my throat, I ask, “Tomorrow? Are you free to get together tomorrow?”

“What do you have in mind?”

No water here in Vegas, but sun and sand I can do. I offer a beguiling smile. “You’ll see. Are you man enough to trust me?”

He stands and looks down at me. Running a finger down the side of my face, he replies, “We both know exactly how much of a man I am.”

I bite my lip and step back. “So we’re on?”

“If it’ll make you happy, fine, but I can’t promise to be inspired to write again simply because you take me to pet some pretty unicorns or sprinkle wildflower seeds or whatever you have up your sexy little sleeve. And I have to be at the Jade by six, in case my schedule cuts your plans short.” He puts my plate into the dishwasher. “Since I agreed to what you want, now you have to do me a solid.”

Oh, the possibilities. None of which I would take him up on, however. I tilt my head. “What?”

“Come to my concert tonight.”

I swallow. Mom’s day nurse leaves after dinner and I’m responsible for her at nights. Maybe I could slip away? I’d have to tuck her in early and ask Becky to keep an eye out for her. I’ve avoided going to see him perform since his residency started, but now it’s sort of my job. And I did go to all of the other artists’ shows.

“I didn’t ask you to commit to fly to Europe—just come to see me perform tonight.”

It should be fine. I can handle this for one night. “Deal.” I stretch my hand out.

He grasps mine in his, the rough callouses on his fingertips reminding me of his profession.

And the way they used to feel running over my nipples.

ELAINE FINISHES HERshift and hands me a letter before she leaves. I sit with Mom, watching television. An old rerun ofGolden Girlsmakes her laugh. Like it did when she saw the same episode a month ago. I guess losing her memory is a type of blessing—she’ll never see a rerun again.

Idly, I open the envelope. It’s from the battered women’s shelter that I volunteer at, asking for donations. I sigh. While I’d love to give them money, I’m too strapped right now. I grab a pen and circle the option for “time.” My therapist recommended the shelter to me as part of my healing after Matt’s abuse, and I’m glad she did. I enjoy the monthly visits I spend with the women and children there, I only wish I could do more. If I win the national competition, I’ll be able to make a donation, and afford around-the-clock care for mom, and get my own apartment again, and… the list was too long to contemplate. In order to make any of it happen, though, I need to start with Ozzy.

“I’m going out to a concert tonight.” I stand. “Work stuff.”

She nods. “Sounds like fun.”

Yeah, well, something like that. “It should be good.” I spot her knitting needles and yarn on the side table and bring them to her.

“Thanks, honey. I’ll knit you a hat tonight.”

“I’d love it, Mom.” I kiss the top of her head and go to my room to change for the concert. I flip through my clothes. Nothing says “professional”and“cool” to me. My hand stills on a red, high waisted skirt that runs to mid-calf. I pair it with a thin, black see-through blouse. Holding up the pieces in front of my floor-to-ceiling mirror, I decide this is slutty, not sensational. But if I put a black tank under the blouse and knot it at my nonexistent waist, it might do the trick.

I slip into the outfit and turn around to view it from all angles. When I tie the top, I look rounder than before so I button a few buttons and leave it undone. Tomorrow, I’ll start walking on the treadmill that’s been collecting laundry.

Sighing, I find a pair of black booties to finish the ensemble off nicely. I put large hoops through my ears, which sort of remind me of Ozzy’s gages in reverse. After adding a funky bracelet and a red cocktail ring, I’m ready to do my makeup and hair.

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