Page 5 of Wylder & the Rising Rockstar
After doing a proper amount of fussing and mothering over Logan, her mom left. Something about going to do a favor for Becks. Wylder hadn’t even wanted to ask.
And now…
“This is not what I thought you meant when you said a distraction,” Logan grumbled.
Wylder shot him a wink. “Oh, I know.” She rose up on her knees and scooted toward him, drawing in so close his breath was warm on her face. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”
Logan swallowed heavily and nodded.
Wylder let her lips graze the corner of his mouth, barely a touch but enough to make his breath hitch. She might not know what this was between them, but she knew it was something. “Logan,” she whispered.
“Mmhmm?” Seemed he couldn’t get actual words out.
Her lips curved up, and she tapped his notebook. “Write it out.”
A breath rushed out of him as she sat back. “You’re cruel.”
“And you, my beautiful kissing friend, are sad. When musicians are sad, they need somewhere to put all that pent up emotion that we’re all too chicken sh—scared to let other people see. Our lyrics say the things that we can’t. So, Logan Cook, tell the music what you’re feeling.”
“Right now?” He leveled her with a glare. “Annoyed. I don’t feel like writing.”
“Patience, my dear boy. It will come to you.” She leaned in again, placing the ghost of a kiss on his cheek. Her words whispered against his skin. “I want at least one verse before I kiss you again.”
“Evil, evil woman.”
“I aim to please.” She scooted from the bed and moved to lean against the opposite wall, crossing one ankle over the other. Logan held her gaze for a long moment before reaching for his pencil and writing the first word.
* * *
Writing was a process. That was what all the great songwriters would say. It took time and couldn’t be rushed.
But Wylder wasn’t asking for the next great American masterpiece. She didn’t need a Taylor Swift level “oh no, she didn’t” type of song.
All she’d wanted was for Logan to have an outlet, for him to pour everything he felt about the media storm, the lies, his family into simple words, emptying himself of the doubt, the pain, and the shame.
And yet, two days later and he still only had a single line.
“Come on, Wylds.” Logan’s eyes pleaded with her.
“When I’m not hovering over you, do you even try to deal with any of this?”
He scratched the back of his neck and looked away. That would be a no. Classes started again yesterday, their last few weeks before winter break, and Logan walked like a zombie through the ones he actually attended. He’d skipped English, not wanting to deal with the stares. Their classmates in ConMus class were much cooler about it, treating Logan as if he were no different from them, so he did show up there.
But he wouldn’t meet anyone’s eyes out in public. It was only here in the privacy of their dorms that any hint of a smile flashed across his face. Signs of the boy she knew.
“It’s not working.” He groaned, turning toward her with a smile. “Writing music isn’t nearly the distraction you are.”
“That’s flattering and all, but I’m no one’s distraction, Logan.”
He stepped closer and dropped his voice in the way he very well knew she couldn’t resist. “Then what have you been doing all this time if not distracting me?”
And there it was.
She stepped back, and it took a moment for his own words to register on his face. “Wylder…” He reached for her, but she pulled away.
“It’s fine, Logan. But I’m not backing down on this. You need music right now more than you need me, so bring me lyrics and we’ll see where to go from there. They don’t even have to be good. Write sucky lyrics, the worst lyrics I’ve ever heard. I don’t care. Just make them real to you, let them help you.”
Logan was silent for a long moment before one corner of his mouth curled up. “I don’t write sucky lyrics.”
