Facing the Music (Rosewood 1)

“How much do I have to pay to make sure an Ivy Hudson song doesn’t play in this bar ever again?”

Emmett’s brow knit together in thought. “Ivy Hudson? Holy crap!” he exclaimed. “You mean the woman that came in with Pepper is the one singing that song?”

Blake glanced back over at the two women playing darts. “That would be her.”

Emmett leaned onto the bar. “I didn’t get the connection earlier. So what’s the deal? Did she write this song about you?”

“Yes.” If only that stupid reporter hadn’t revealed that the song was about him, he could’ve licked his wounds privately. Ivy never confirmed or denied it publicly, but it didn’t matter. She let the press torture him for hurting her.

Emmett shook his head and tried not to laugh. “What the hell did you do to her, man?”

“It’s not what I did to her,” Blake admitted. “It was what she caught me doing to a cheerleader in college.”

Emmett’s eyes got wide. “Ahh . . . So, you want a beer?” he asked, artfully changing the subject.

“Yeah, thanks.”

Emmett slid a full mug across the counter and Blake grabbed it. Ignoring his brother and both his exes, he took an empty seat at a table with a couple of the guys he went to school with.

“Hey, Jesse,” he said. “Curt.”

His friends welcomed him, all three trying very hard to ignore the obnoxious song playing in the background and discuss today’s Auburn football game. It wasn’t working.

“Size matters . . .” the recorded Ivy belted out. “I said it didn’t, I didn’t mean it. I told you everything was fine, but size does matter.”

By now, a couple of folks in the bar had taken to singing along with the chorus. Great.

“I’ve had just about enough of that,” Blake finally said. Pushing back from his seat, he crossed the bar to the jukebox and without hesitation unplugged it from the wall. Grant had paid Emmett to keep the song in the jukebox, but nothing said the jukebox had to

be operational.

The song instantly silenced, the machine going dark. A few people in the bar applauded; a few others ribbed him for not having a sense of humor. Ivy stood quietly, turning away from him to throw her darts when their eyes met.

“That’s more like it,” he said. Blake glanced up at Lydia. She looked temporarily defeated, but that wouldn’t stop her scheming for long. She was a smart girl. It was a shame she used her powers for evil. “Got any more quarters left, Lydia?”

“No,” she admitted.

“Good. Stay out of this.” He turned and started back to his table. He was halfway there when he heard someone shout from near the pinball machine.

“Ivy? Are you just going to let him interrupt your song like that?”

Blake stopped in time to see Ivy stiffen. She was never good with confrontation; she preferred to leave her cutting words for her songs. But when she was backed into a corner, she was like a small dog—quick to bite. He watched as she took a deep breath, and then turned to face the crowd with the sweet smile that had charmed America while spewing her vitriol.

“No,” she said. “It’s fine. This is just one jukebox in one bar. That album went quadruple platinum, and ‘Size Matters’ is the second-longest-running number one single in iTunes history. Blake can’t unplug every iPod in America. And even if he could,” she added, looking him in the eye, “the damage is done.”

A few people chuckled. Blake wasn’t one of them. She was right. The damage was done, and so were they. Any flicker of attraction between them was just biology conspiring against him. He supposed it was time to put the last nail in the coffin and move on.

“I wish I could,” he retorted. “I would consider it a public service—protecting the general population from bitter, autotuned, subpar pop music.”

“First,” she said, taking a few steps toward him. Her spine was ramrod straight and defiant, pressing her breasts against her silky top and giving him unhelpful flashbacks to today’s earlier encounter. “My music is not autotuned. I am not a belly-baring teenage pop princess. I play my own instruments. I perform live. I write my own music. And if that music is bitter, you’ve got no one to blame but yourself.”

“Blame?” Blake laughed. “I think I should get a cut of those four million sales. Before I broke your heart, your songs were nothing but the sad refrains of coffeehouse open mic nights.”

Ivy’s mouth fell open, her response stolen from her lips.

It was a low blow and he knew it. Ivy had struggled with her music for months. He knew how hard she’d worked and how her professors just hadn’t seen the emotion and spark that made her songs special.

Grant sidled up. “That’s probably not the best idea,” he noted. “Never piss off a woman with a dart in her hand unless you fancy an eye patch.”