Page 30 of Washed Up
“Are you jealous? It’s fine, Ariel. I’ll happily squiggle my name and claim one of yours, too.”
“Which one are you claiming?” Wynter asks.
I’m still routinely discombobulated by him.
Reid weighs up his options by pulling me into a hug and groping me. “I think the left… No, the right one. Definitely the right one. You want to stamp your mark on the other one, man?”
Wynter lets out a sigh through his slender nose. “Sharpie isn’t how I like to claim my property.”
“Yeah, but man, it’s a little early in the relationship for you to be pissing all over her.”
A) What relationship? And B) “No one is pissing on me, ever.”
“Can I come all over you?” Reid drops his head onto my shoulder, which makes walking next to impossible. He’s too tall, and his head must weigh as much as his body.
I roll my eyes. “Like you haven’t already.”
He catches my earlobe between his teeth. It sends little sparks shooting down through my neck to where his hand is still possessively holding my breast. “Can I come all over you again?”
I consider. Letting him stew for a heartbeat. “Yeah, okay. Take me home to bed you mighty stallion.” He gallops in front of me making horse noises and pats his rear signalling for me to climb astride.
I do a run and a jump, then he piggybacks me all the way to bed.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Iris
Over the next streak of day, the guys work in the studio, and I catalogue the process of them recreating their sound and recording new demo versions of their tracks. The hours are long and often fraught. I spend alternate nights with Reid and Max. Wynter sometimes looks at me with a question burning in his eyes, but he never says anything or makes any sort of move. There’s no reprising of the kiss he gave me in the studio after the first time I heard them play live. Nor does he climb into bed with Reid and me again. I think Reid sleeps with him on the nights he’s not with me.
I continue to avoid thinking too deeply about this arrangement, which is probably a mistake, not to mention foolish, but I’m afraid of what I’ll unearth if I do. Plus, there’s a deadline on all of this, anyway. I don’t want to say goodbye, but I know goodbye is coming, and I refuse to be that girl. The one who expects more than she should of what’s actually there.
I’m a fun distraction, and they’re a fantasy. It’s not real. It’s never going to be more than this. It’s not forever. It doesn’t matter if I wish otherwise.
The fact that their deadline is right around the corner means the tension increases as each day passes. Even Max cracks and throws his drumsticks across the room at one point.
Thursday marks Reid’s turn in the sound booth. I’m idling on the couch reading while Wynter and Max man the sound deck. There’s only so much time a girl can spend listening to her favourite band play the same songs, or bits of songs over again. Only so many photographs of the same thing you can take, too. I don’t pretend to understand the process, only thatwhatever they’re doing is only part of it and sound engineers and producers and mastering apparently come before the final version the public get is done. It’s certainly not as simple as pressing record.
Honestly, I can’t hear the difference between one version and the next most of the time. I think my hearing works differently to theirs.
Besides, this book isdurty. I’m bookmarking the best bits to try out while I have two very willing partners. I’ve grown used to them. I don’t want to leave them behind. I don’t want them to leave me behind.
The hours tick by. It’s rained incessantly all day. I haven’t been outside this room in at least four hours. I need snacks. Chocolate to take away the bitterness in my brain. The breakout area needs a vending machine. I’m going to suggest Reid suggest it to Ric. I’m not going to presume to do so, but snacks would be nice, given there are no handy shops.
“Max, is there any chocolate?”
“Not in here.”
Wynter signals an okay to Reid through the glass, and he puts aside his guitar and joins us in the sound booth, lifting my feet and putting them on his lap after he flops onto the couch.
He smells musky after hours of playing.
“They better be fucking happy with this, or I’m going to rip someone a new arsehole,” he moans. The callouses on his fingertips weren’t as pronounced before. A rough bit of skin scratches my sole as he massages my feet.
“What if we don’t give them anything?”
All three of us gape at Wynter. Reid grinds his teeth, which is a truly horrible sound. Max sighs and scratches his head.
“Really, you’re doubting it all again?”
