Page 63 of Composed
“Write them a kick ass album, andmakethem listen to you,” she says. “Maybe they’ll forgive you one day, maybe they won’t. But at least you’ll know you tried.”
Dressed in my favourite wide-legged black jeans and tight black crop top, with sharp black winged liner and midnight-black lips, I’m ready to take on the world. Or face four rock stars and hold my own in a room where I no longer fit in.
Same thing, if you ask me.
Riley slipped out of the hotel room early this morning, leaving me only with a text to say she had plans.
God knows what she’s up to.
She hates London with a passion. I can’t imagine her popping into the palace for a cuppa with the king.
I push down the studio buzzer, steeling my shoulders.
It’s less than thirty seconds when I hear the click.
I shove the door open and step inside.
There was enough dilly-dallying yesterday. Today is about work. No need for small talk, no need to pretend things are okay. All I have to do is listen to the guys, take notes, then go and write that kick ass album Talia told me to.
I have got this.
The door to the lounge swings open.
Cole leans in the frame, an arm above his head holding the wooden beam, legs crossed at the ankles.
He’s wearing black joggers with a fitted long-sleeve shirt, and a baseball cap twisted backwards on his head. A silver hoop glints in his nose, the black and grey ink wrapping his neck my attention when he tips his chin up.
My knees turn to liquid.
I curl my fingers around the doorframe and lock my muscles so I don’t fall to his feet in a puddle.
I clear my throat. “Where is everyone?”
“Not a fucking foggiest,” he says, blowing out a breath as he takes a step back. “They disappeared somewhere between last night and this morning, and not one of the fuckers is answering my texts.”
“Oh.”
Maybe I don’t quite got this, after all.
I can handle the phone calls and the group settings. But being alone with Cole in a small, hidden room is something else entirely.
“You want a drink or anything before we get started?” he asks.
I slip past him, the faint scent of vanilla and cinnamon tickling my nose and stirring a memory that I shove down fast.
There was a time, after we broke up, where I’d sit in my room and sniff the aftershave he always wore like an addict craving a fix. Pathetic of me, I know.
I clamp my mouth shut, and hold my breath as I escape to the other side of the room.
“Tea, please,” I tell him. “If you have it.”
Cole nods and moves toward the small coffee station in the corner of the room without another word.
I tuck myself into the over-sized black leather armchair and unclip my guitar case, following his every move from the corner of my eye.
His shirt stretches across his back, straining against the rippling muscles as he reaches up to grab down two mugs. My fingers still on the last clasp, heart thumping as the shirt slides upwards, revealing an array of black and grey ink etched into the skin of his lower back.
He always wanted to cover his body in ink.
