Page 78 of Composed
I nod to Dean before heading to the door.
No amount of drinking is going to chase Hendrix from my mind today. It’s fucking futile.
I like to think at thirty-one I’ve got a pretty good hold of my emotions. But a single look at her, a single whisper of the word friend from her lips, and I’m just that same twenty-one-year-old boy she walked away from.
The studio is unlocked when I reach it.
My pulse jumps as the door swings open at my touch. The only ones who have access to this space are the same guys I left partying in that nightclub and Tommy.
I white-knuckle my phone and ease the door open.
Soft guitar music greets me.
I frown. Since Saint was racking up a line when I slipped out the club, pretty sure he couldn’t have beaten me back home.
I keep my footsteps light, following the sound to the live room.
I peek through the cracked door and freeze.
Hendrix sits crossed-legged on the floor. Her face is bare of makeup, her hair thrown up in a messy half-updo, two crossed pencils holding it in place. Pale skin glitters under the light, the flush in her freckled cheeks peeking through the strands of hair trickling down her face.
Gone are her jeans and crop top, replaced by an oversized black hoodie and leggings. Fluffy socks complete the ensemble.
She swipes her tongue over her lower lip and tugs her piercing between her teeth as she plucks a haunting melody.
I should announce my presence.
I don’t.
Rooted to the spot, my pulse flutters, and all I can do is watch her.
The song she's playing isn’t one I know. It’s different from anything I’ve ever known her write. I brush my thumb over my wrist as the melody curls around me and tugs at my heart.
There’s something evanescent about it. It feels like a fleeting moment, a blip in the universe. Something not meant for me, and yet I can’t look away.
I’ve always found Hendrix to be the most beautiful human in the world. But Hendrix with an acoustic guitar in her hand, eyes dipping closed as leans into the music spilling from her fingertips is nothing short ofexquisite.
I have no idea what story she’s trying to tell with her song, but I feel the ache with every chord she strums, my chest cracking under the weight of it.
My breath halts when she stops, the final note nothing but a whisper in the room. She doesn’t move an inch as she blows out a long, laboured breath.
I nudge the door open with my hip, lean against the frame, and fold my arms across my chest.
She looks up, eyes sparkling as she takes me in.
I spy the studio keys sitting beside her.
Mysparekeys.
I don’t need to ask her who handed them over. Saint borrowed them earlier, claiming to have misplaced his.
I exhale, my gaze steadying on. “What are you doing here, Rixie?”
She places the guitar flat on her lap, her fingers dancing over the contours of the body as she looks at me, away, then back at me again.
A flicker of a smile on her lips, gold glittering in her eyes, she fingers her hair, and tucks a strand behind her ear, and says, “Keeping a promise.”
Chapter twenty-five
