Page 51 of Songbird
Rosie’s eyes never leave me unless it’s to scribble something on the notepad at her side. When that happens, I throw her knowing smiles and affectionate winks. She’s thinking about sex. She’s thinking about the song we wrote. I wonder if her moans and dirty talk have imposed themselves on the notes and lyrics we wrote together, creating a song nobody will ever know but us, and if it’s on repeat in her mind the way it is in mine.
I might be onto something, because she rests her head on the back of the sofa and replies to my smiles with looks so soft they could be caresses. There’s a peacefulness about her that wasn’t there before. An energy of acceptance or surrender, like everything is right in her world and there’s nothing left to fight. That’s what I’m focused on. Not the mind-blanking rage of knowing that jackass ever got to touch her—and when he did, he didn’t do it right.
Her asshole ex better hope we never cross paths again because the list of reasons I have to knock that fucker on his ass gets longer every day. It makes no sense to be jealous of a man Rosie was with before she ever knew me, but I hate that guy for fucking up the privilege of being Rosie’s guy. She put her body, her spirit, and her soul in his hands, and he desecrated them.
Rosie honored me with that holy trinity today. Making music with her. Sinking into her. Understanding her. She stripped me down and made me hers, and I’ll never be the same.
“Food’s ready,” I say, and when she gives me a lazy smile, like she’s still recovering from what we did on the porch swing, I collect our bowls and cozy up beside her on the couch. She shares a light blanket we really don’t need, throwing it across my knees, then accepts her macaroni and cheese and hums with delight.
“Pasta ai quattro formaggi,” she says, scooping up a forkful and blowing over the hot sauce to cool it.
I’m temporarily distracted by the tight O of her mouth, picturing her plump pink lips wrapped around my cock, but finally manage to say, “It’s mac and cheese with toasted breadcrumbs on top.”
She volleys back one of the winks I’ve been throwing her way. “I know, but my version sounds better.”
Fuck, I love her like this. At ease in her own skin.
“So.” I swallow a mouthful of pasta that’s too hot because I don’t have the patience to wait until it cools. “Today was…”
“Magical?”
Rosie turns her body to mine and snuggles closer, and when Dakota notices the lovefest happening without her, she launches herself onto Rosie’s other side and cuddles against her hip.
I kiss Rosie’s forehead. “It was,” I agree. “How soon until we can do it again?”
A pretty blush warms her cheeks as she turns her glittering baby blues on me. “You’re thinking about next time already?”
I chuckle and bury my nose in her curls. They’re tighter and fluffier than the style she wears for the cameras, and in my opinion, much prettier. “Ah, Songbird. You’ve got no idea.”
She seems to like my answer because she burrows in against my side. I’m not liking even the hint of space between us, so I wedge my bowl between my thighs, wrap my arm around her, and tuck her in close.
I down another forkful of pasta and think about our afternoon. Not the sex—or not only the sex because the bounce of Rosie’s tits isn’t a picture I’ll ever get out of my head—but what led to it. Writing and playing and singing. I’ve never created music with another person before, and I’m curious if it’s like that for everyone. The way we fed off each other, finished each other’s lyrics, read each other’s minds. Is that what making art is like? Because I could do what we did today for the rest of my life.
Rosie squints up at me like she knows what I’m thinking. “You want to talk to me about something,” she guesses.
“Yeah,” I admit, deciding not to askis it always like that for you?I’m not prepared to hear her say that what the two of us shared is something she’s experienced with a dozen other musicians. Instead, I go for something with lower stakes. “Isn’t the music enough?”
Her brow creases, and she drops her head to one side. “What do you mean?”
I set my half-eaten dinner on the coffee table, out of reach of Dakota’s quivering snout, so I can circle Rosie with both arms.
“I suppose what I’m trying to say is there are things about your world I don’t understand. When your calling in life is your music, how can you stand all the shit that goes with it, like people centering you in their lives and wanting things from you that you shouldn’t have to give? How do you live with people looking at you all the time? How do you prioritize the important stuff? When you’re so freaking good at the art, why isn’t the music enough?”
“Well…” Rosie gazes up at the vaulted ceiling beams like the answers are hidden in their shadows. “I think if I had to choose, the music would be enough. I mean, even if all the other things went away, I couldn’tnotbe a songwriter. It’s who I am.”
There’s a pause, and I prompt her with a gentle “but?”
She drops her head onto my shoulder. “But what would that look like? Yes, fame comes with drawbacks, and money makes things complicated, but they allow me to do things that other artists can’t. For instance, I don’t need to divide my time or my focus. I don’t need to spend my days waiting tables and my nights writing songs. Musicismy job, and I’m lucky to do what I love for a living. How many other people can say as much?”
I frown to myself and brush my thumb along her flannel-clad shoulder. “That makes sense.”
“And money isn’t necessarily evil. It makes it possible for me to help people.” She pokes at her dinner, stirring the cooling macaroni around the base of the bowl, then sets it on the table beside mine. “I give away a lot of it. I want to set up my own foundation one day, but the plans aren’t there yet.”
Pride and admiration and a fuck-ton of respect almost drown me, and I tip up her chin so I can kiss her full on the mouth. “You’re something special, do you know that?”
Rosie darts in for another kiss, a smile on her mouth when she does it, and for the first time I can see an upside to her situation. It’d be awesome to have the power to change the world. It might even make a complicated life worthwhile.
“Those sorts of things turn fame into a trade-off I’m willing to make.” She wriggles closer against me, and Dakota follows, resting her heavy head in Rosie’s lap. “I know lots of talented songwriters and producers who make plenty of money, but nobody would recognize them if they walked down the street.”
