My Soul To Keep (Soul Series Book 1) (12 page)

“It’s fine.” I squirm in wobbler seat number three. “How’d you know I needed a ride?”

He chews and clears his throat for one word.

“San.”

“He was at Grady’s?” I run through what I remember of San’s schedule, and don’t remember a session with Grady. Matter of fact, now that he’ll be working as a
Spotted
correspondent, I think he’s abandoning voice lessons altogether.

“No, I called him to see if you might need a ride tonight since I wasn’t sure you’d tell me if you did.”

I can’t find words to respond, so I don’t. I can only imagine how full Rhyson’s life must be. For me to be on his mind . . . for him to ask San about my schedule . . . for him to come get me from work . . .

“That was sweet.” I focus on the circles I’m tracing on the wooden table with my fingertip. “Thanks.”

Over the last week of radio silence, my curiosity about him has fed on itself, and a dozen questions line up in my mind. Not all the things I could Google to find out, but the things only he can tell me. I don’t want to go all Barbara Walters on him. This should be a conversation, not an interview. He said he wanted to get to know me, and I want to get to know him, not through what everyone else has said, but from him.

“Can I ask you something?” I brave a glance at him, and he leans back, linking his fingers over his flat stomach.

“Shoot.”

“How does it feel to be . . .” I stop the word that almost came out. It feels like a fangirl word. Or like I’m writing a piece for
Vanity Fair
instead of chilling with a friend in my apartment.

“How does it feel to be what? Just ask, Pep.”

“A genius.”

His laugher startles and embarrasses me. Total fangirl. I knew it.

“I can’t believe that’s your real question.” His smile fades a little, but vestiges of it linger in his eyes. “I’m not, you know. A genius, I mean.”’

“You were playing Mozart at three years old, Rhyson. I’m pretty sure most toddlers aren’t doing that.”

“Well, I can’t do that body roll thing you did in your class. Or any of those moves.”

“That’s different.”

“Exactly. It’s just different. It’s my thing. Something comes naturally to everyone. Music’s mine.” The look he gives me is careful and searching. “For example, I have synesthesia. I didn’t ask for that, or do anything to make it happen. I know some people think it’s a load of crap, and it
is
rare, but it’s real.”

“Isn’t that the thing where you see colors when you hear music?”

“Well, that’s how it manifests for me, yeah,” he laughs. “They used to call synesthetes insane, but I think the kind of hyperfocus required of great art calls for some madness. You have to be a little crazy to be as obsessed, as consumed by music as I’ve always been.”

I think of the long hours I’ve devoted to dancing, singing, and performing, chasing that high; needing to create and add something beautiful to a grimy world. With Mama gone, it feels like all I have left—the thing that keeps me pushing forward. The reason I can’t stop.

“I get that,” I say softly. “I was always shy as a little girl, but as soon as I hit the stage, Mama said it was like another person took over. Like an alter ego stepped in, always ready to perform.”

“Exactly, and you didn’t ask for that. It’s just there. That drive, that need. That’s how it is for me. It’s just there. Some folks pick up languages—Italian, Russian, French—like it’s nothing.” He shrugs. “I pick up instruments.”

“And how many instruments do you speak?”

He squeezes one eye shut and pulls his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Like eight, I think. Piano is the only one that felt like I knew it before I learned it. The others I had to learn, but they were much easier for me than for most, I guess. And I had to work hard at piano, too. I just had this head start.”

“Is there an instrument you’ve wanted to try, but haven’t yet?”

Okay. I’m Barbara Walters, but I can’t help it.

“You’ll laugh.” He’s already laughing a little at himself. He moves across the apartment to sit on the living room floor, back propped against the couch. “The harmonica.”

“The harmonica?” I couldn’t have heard him right. “You’ve never played?”

“Just never tried. I mean, I could pick one up and start, I’m sure, but I never have.”

“Wow. That’s funny. A classically trained pianist who plays eight instruments and yet longs to learn the harmonica.”

“I did not say ‘
longs
.’” He levels a mock-stern look at me. “Just said I’ve never played it. I think things come easier for me once I have the general mechanics because I have a phonographic memory.”

“So you’d be horrible in an argument because you’d remember
everything
I said.”

“It’s not like that. It doesn’t translate to everything, but to music and a few other useless things. For instance, I’m slightly encyclopedic with movie quotes.”

“Now I got you there.” I blow on my nails like I’m all that. “I don’t even have a fancy phonographic memory, but I’m pretty sure I could out-movie quote you.”

He looks at me with great pity.

“Uh, I doubt that, Pep.”

I’ve never backed down from a challenge

“‘Just when I thought I was out,’” I say, stretching my arms in front of me and then bringing them back toward my chest. “‘They pull me back in.’”

“Don’t insult me, Pep. That’s from
The Godfather
.”

“I’m gonna need you to be more specific, Mr. Pornographic Memory.”

He lowers and shakes his head, a silent chuckle moving his shoulders.

“That’s
phono
graphic, you little shit. And it’s
The Godfather,
part three.” He gives me what probably passes as his “game on” face with lesser movie quoters. “‘Shake and bake.’”

“Now who’s being insulting?
Talladega Nights
. ‘Motorboat.’”

“
Wedding Crashers
. ‘You can’t get me, thunder, ‘cause you’re just God’s farts.’”

“I can’t believe you even . . . come harder, Gray. That’s
Ted.
‘I could see your toner through those jeans.’”

“
Pitch Perfect.”

Whoa. Unexpected. Didn’t think he would know that one. I’ll dig deeper into my girlie movie bin.

“‘So you bend and snap.’”

Rhys frowns, eyes fixed on the ceiling as he trolls around in that clever brain of his for whatever phonographic file this quote should be retrieved from. I can already see it. Triumph builds from my feet up, and the smile pops out on my face.

“Before you start your celebration—premature celebration, I might add,” Rhys says. “Give me a chance to . . .”

He finally side-eyes me and slumps his shoulders.

“I got nothing. What movie was that?”

“
Legally Blonde
.”

Rhyson’s outrage drops his mouth wide open.

“You have
got
to be kidding me! Even a phonographic memory can’t prepare you for movies you’ve never seen, and I wouldn’t be caught dead watching
Legally Blonde
.”

I’m up on my feet, doing the running man around the apartment. It then devolves into Hammer time. I’m fully aware I’m making a total dork of myself, but I can’t contain it. This is the best I’ve felt in . . . forever. If muscles have memory, my heart has forgotten this feeling. I’d forgotten how to have this much fun.

“Next time, we’ll put money on it.” I slide down to the floor beside him, resting my back against the couch and stretching my legs out beside his. Either I’m really short, or he’s really tall, or a little of both.

“I don’t want to take your money.” Rhyson grins and gives me a gentle shoulder nudge.

“Well, if round one is anything to go by, I’ll be the one winning.” I remember the past due notices under my jewelry box, and the thought deflates my good humor. My smile slowly leaks off my face. “And believe me, I’d take your money.”

“Why do you work so much, Pep?”

Rhyson’s voice, deep and soft, drifts over my skin, coaxing up goose bumps. Great. Every part of me is exhausted and wants to shut down, but my arms manage to produce goose bumps.

“I know you’ve never had to worry about it, but some of us have bills to pay,” I say. “Some of us have to figure out how to survive.”

I regret the waspish words as soon as they leave my mouth and contaminate the air. He doesn’t respond, but turns his head to look at me, all the laughter dissolving into the disappointment I see in his eyes. We’ve been lowering our guards all night, and I just threw mine all the way back up.

“I’m sorry.” I pass a hand over my tired eyes, wishing I could take the words back.

“It’s okay.” He focuses his attention on fibers of his jeans, giving me space to get this out.

“It’s not. I . . . I don’t talk about this much.”

“So it’s not as simple as bills to pay?” he asks, studying me closely.

“It is, but it’s not just utilities and rent.” I give him a weary smile. “A lot more, but I can handle it.”

“What is it?”

Just thinking of the black cloud of debt constantly hovering over my life wraps a steel band around my chest.

“My mom’s medical bills.”

“Are children responsible for their parents’ debt?

“Well, typically debtors would just take it out of the parent’s estate.” I laugh, but it’s a little sour. “Mama didn’t have much of an estate. Just Glory Bee, the diner she and my Aunt Ruthie built from the ground up. I’m not standing by and watching Aunt Ruthie lose everything too. We made special arrangements with the hospital collection agency. Aunt Ruthie and I are paying off the debt together.”

“They let you do that?”

“Oh, it took some convincing.” I heave a sigh, remembering that fight. “But we finally brought them around to our way of thinking.”

“You’re a stubborn little thing, aren’t you?” He smiles and slides his leg over to bump mine.

I grimace, sliding my leg away and clasping my arm around my knee.

“So I’ve been told.”

“I kinda like it.”

“Ha! Yeah, it’s real cute,” I say with a grin. “Until you want something I won’t give you.”

He delivers a teasing sideways glance.

“I already want something you won’t give me.”

I would move if those beautiful grey eyes would let me go, weren’t pulling me in and holding me.

San walks in, saving me from becoming a slutty puddle at Rhyson’s feet.

“Hey, guys.” He offers us a weary smile and drops his saddlebag down by the door. “Am I busting in on something?”

Rhyson gives me one last grin before standing and extending his hand to pull me to my feet. I come up faster than I anticipated and slam into his chest. It feels good. Him towering over me. Me pressed to his broad, warm chest. I don’t step back right away. When I look up, his eyes aren’t teasing me anymore. There’s a tinder between us, waiting for just a spark to ignite to full-blown flame. The connection is always there, latent or alive, but right now, so close with our bodies touching, it burns through our clothing and heats my skin.

San fake coughs, bringing me back to my senses. I take several steps back, running my palms up and down my thighs and shoving them into my pockets.

“I was just leaving.” Rhyson looks around, frowning. “If I could find my phone. You see it, Pep?”

“Pep?” San asks.

“It’s a nickname.” I glare at him and look around for the phone. “And no, you cannot call me that.”

I grab my phone from the coffee table and find Rhyson’s number. He peers down at the screen.

“Is that how you saved me in your phone?” His incredulous laugh drags a smile to my face.

“I didn’t want to put your real name in case someone picked up my phone or . . . I don’t know.”

“So you saved me as R. Geritol?”

“Well, every time I see you, it’s as an old man.”

“Nice.” He shakes his head. “Call it.”

“It’s ringing.”

“Lost,” number nine from Rhyson’s first album, starts playing.

Rhyson and I grin at each other.

“Is that my ring tone?” I ask.

“Apparently so.” He looks around a little for where the sound is coming from before pulling it out from under a couch cushion. “Got it. I should get going.”

I glance at my phone. Wow. It’s two in the morning. Time sure flies when I’m with Rhyson. I walk with him to the door, conscious of San’s eyes on us even though he’s drinking his almond milk straight from the carton in the kitchen.

“I’ll call you tomorrow.” Rhyson pulls the door open and turns to face me.

“I’ve heard that before.” The words are out before I think.

“Did it bother you when I didn’t call for a week?” Rhyson’s lips bend a little like they’re really close to smiling.

“Of course not.”

“Still, friends stay in touch, right?” He tugs the ponytail resting on my shoulder.

We’ve done so well, besides the occasional spark and goose bump. I had to go and open my trap.

“I know you’re busy,” I say, finding it hard to breathe this close.

He backs up, facing me as he eases off the little stoop of our apartment and turns toward his car parked in a space a few feet away.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says.

I close the door and lean against it. It’s holding me up because the combination of that last smile, his full lips, the beautiful grey eyes almost hidden by the dark hair kissing his forehead, made my knees weak.

“That was just sad.” San plops onto the couch, taking another gulp of his milk.

“Don’t start, San.” I cross into the kitchen, finding a bowl to put away in the dishwasher and a few bits of trash to toss. Anything to keep me out of the conversation San wants to force on me.

“Watching you guys trying to be friends is like watching porn with no penetration. Really hot, but no climax.”

“You’re disgusting.” I head toward my bedroom, not bothering to respond further.

“At least if I had a hot rock star wanting to screw me, I’d know what to do with him.”

“You’re welcome to try, but I don’t think Rhyson rolls that way.”

I close my bedroom door, hoping that’s the end of it. Of course, the door flies open immediately.

“He’d roll your way.” He grins at me, his handsome face and knowing grin working my nerves. “Pep.”