Listen to Me (Fusion 1)

But I don’t deserve it.

Because Christina is missing a leg.

Because of me.

“I loved the song you wrote for Nash that just released last week.”

I manage a grin. “Thanks.”

“Why did you do it?” she asks unexpectedly.

“What?”

“Open-mic night.”

I rub my hand over my lips and sigh. “I just . . . God, I miss it, C.”

Her eyes soften. “I know.”

“So, I sang and I got it out of my system. Case closed.” A complete lie, but I won’t admit that to her.

“Working this afternoon?” she asks.

“Yeah, Max and I will be in the studio this afternoon, finishing a couple of songs for Daughtry.”

She nods thoughtfully. “Must really suck to be you, with your own production company, and fancy studio at your house, and famous people flying in to work with you and all of that.”

“Yes, it sucks to be me,” I reply dryly.

“You’re writing, and producing, still making a difference in the music world, just not performing.” She tilts her head to the side and runs her pink-tipped finger over her bottom lip, in thought.

“You already know this.”

“Excuse me?”

We both turn to the pretty blonde standing beside our table, wringing her hands nervously.

“Hi,” I reply with a smile.

“Aren’t you Jake Knox?” she asks and I immediately switch gears. My smile is cocky, and I lean back in the chair, assuming the role.

“I sure am. What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“M-Michelle,” she replies with a slight stutter, and her cheeks blush. More than five years out of the limelight and this still happens at least once a week. “I’d heard a rumor that you lived in Portland now.”

I raise an eyebrow and glance at Christina, who’s hiding her smile behind her coffee mug.

“I live in the area,” I reply. “What can I do for you?”

“Oh! I’m sorry. Could I maybe just get a selfie with you?” She pulls her phone out of her pocket and smiles shyly.

“Sure.” I stand, wrap my arm around her shoulders, and take her phone from her, aiming it high. I paste my signature smirk on my face and take the picture.

“Wow, thanks. I love your music. Are you going to put a new album out soon?”

Now Christina frowns and glances down at her empty plate.

“Thank you. No, the band broke up. I’m more behind the scenes now.”

“Aww, that’s a shame,” Michelle says with a frown. “Thanks for the photo.”

“You’re welcome.”

Michelle leaves, happily staring at her phone, and I return to my seat.

“That wasn’t too painful,” I say and take another bite of bacon.

“It is a shame,” Chris says.

“Don’t start, C.” I toss the bacon on my plate and push it away.

“All I’m saying is—”

“The same thing you’ve been saying for years. I don’t want to live a public life anymore. It just fucks things up.”

“You don’t have to live a public life to play music.” She shakes her head, cutting me off when I would speak. “Just listen. Kevin took me to a new restaurant the other night. It’s awesome.” She leans in, her brown eyes shining with excitement. “It’s sexy.”

“The restaurant is sexy?”

“Yes, and it’s amazing. So, these women have opened this place in downtown Portland called Seduction. There are aphrodisiacs on the menu, sexy music and atmosphere, amazing wine cellar. Did you know that asparagus is an aphrodisiac?”

“I had no idea.”

“Me either! Until we went there. It’s so great for couples, and it looks like it’s making quite a name for itself.”

“What the fuck does it have to do with me?” I ask mildly and sip more coffee.

“There was a sign in the window advertising for a weekend musician.”

I stare at her, blinking.

“So?”

“So you should go apply!”

She slaps her hand on the table and leans back with a satisfied smile, proud of herself.

“Fuck no.”

“Why not?”

“Jake Knox doesn’t perform anymore.”

“Jake Keller could.”

I tilt my head, suddenly intrigued.

“You don’t have to go in there and be a rock star, you know. You could just go in with your guitar and play music. You don’t have to do the old Hard Knox stuff, unless you want to try some acoustic arrangements. You could just do covers, if that’s what you wanted. Or new stuff you’re writing.”

Suddenly the yearning in my gut is so intense I can barely breathe. I love producing and writing music. Hell, I spent a month up in Seattle last fall cowriting and producing with Leo Nash, an old friend of mine, for his band’s new album. It’s fulfilling.

But fuck me, how I miss performing. And it’s really not about the screaming women, the lights, the louder-than-fuck music.

It’s just the music itself. Performing and watching the crowd sing along.

There’s just nothing like it. And the other night, when I sat on that stage and sang, it was like visiting an old friend.

But I gave it up on a rainy night five years ago when Christina was almost killed and lost her leg, all because of me.

I shake my head and clench my jaw. “No.”

“God, you’re so fucking stubborn,” she growls and clenches her tiny fist. “I don’t expect you to never perform again because of something stupid that happened long ago.”