As Dust Dances (Play On 2)

“The company has.” He’d opened the passenger door to his car for me. “I need to get back to the office. Get in.”

I’d scooted in, feeling uncomfortable about taking the money for this when it hadn’t bothered me that he was feeding and clothing me. “I have money,” I’d muttered as he drove away.

“That you can’t access without alerting everyone of your whereabouts. You ready for that yet?”

No. No, I wasn’t. “I’ll pay you back.”

So, I’d spent two hours the day before trying to decide what I wanted to read on my e-reader, and except for lunch with Autumn, I’d spent the day devouring two books.

Saturday was spent writing with O’Dea again. We mostly tweaked the couple of finished songs I’d written. Like last time, it was a lot more fun than I cared to admit out loud.

“I had lunch with Autumn,” I answered his question.

He stuck my plate and a couple of mugs from the sink into the dishwasher and turned to me. He leaned back against the kitchen counter, his arms crossed over his chest. “Aye, she told me. What else?”

“I’m sorry, um, when did you become my prison warden?”

“It’s only a question.”

“It sounds like an interrogation.”

He cocked his head, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Why don’t you want to tell me what you were up to yesterday?”

I laughed at the ridiculousness of the conversation. “O’Dea, I read two books yesterday. That is the extent of the excitement that was experienced in this apartment.”

“So why evade?”

“I’m not! You’re . . . you really are acting like I’m in prison here.”

“You know you can come and go as you please, but until the idiot who put you in hospital is caught, I do worry about you wandering around on your own. Which is what you did yesterday.”

Confused, I shook my head. “What are you talking about?”

“I bumped into Callum, your neighbor on the second floor, as I was coming up here this morning. He’s a graphic artist for the label.”

“Okay.”

My response made him glower. “You met him yesterday.”

“I did?”

“Skylar . . .”

I met a Callum yesterday? I wracked my brain trying to—“Oh. The guy with the beard?” I’d taken a brief walk down the riverbank for some fresh air in the morning. When I was coming back into the apartment building, a guy with a beard had held the door open for me. I hadn’t thought anything of the encounter because we’d merely smiled at each other and said hello.

“Aye, the guy with the beard.”

I scowled at his annoyed tone. “Why are you acting like I’m hiding something from you?”

“Because you are. I asked you what you did yesterday and you omitted that you spent time with a bloody stranger and told him who you are. For someone who is trying to keep a low profile while we write this album, it surprised me, that’s all.”

“What the hell are you talking about? I took a walk down to the river. I needed fresh air. When I came back, the guy with the beard held the door open for me and we exchanged hellos. End of story. Why are your panties in such a twist, O’Dea?”

“That was it. That was all that was said?”

I wanted to slap that suspicious look off his face. “I’m not exactly in the mood for making new friends, so yeah . . . that was it. And don’t ask me again because I don’t appreciate being treated like a liar.”

After a moment’s contemplation, O’Dea sighed and uncrossed his arms. “Shit. He must have recognized you. I passed him on the way into the building this morning and he asked me when Skylar Finch moved in.”

Panic suffused me. “What?”

O’Dea’s expression softened. “Hey, don’t worry. I warned him not to open his mouth.”

“You trust that he won’t?” I went to reach for a glass of water and my hand shook so badly, I had to wrap it around the glass to stop it. The idea of the paparazzi turning up at the apartment terrified me.

O’Dea’s strong hand covered mine around the glass. His warm fingertips were calloused from playing the guitar. The act itself was surprising enough but the fierceness blazing from his eyes took my breath away. “He won’t tell anyone, Skylar,” he promised. “You’re safe here.”

With my heart racing for an entirely new reason, I couldn’t tear my eyes from his as I nodded. “Okay.”

As if he’d just realized what he’d done, O’Dea let go of my hand around the glass as if it had scalded him and abruptly moved back to his side of the island. That bland mask came down over his face again. “I need to be in the office today, but I’ve cleared my schedule for the next few days so we can work on the album here. We will, however, eventually have to take this to the label to start recording.”

“I know.” I nodded, unable to meet his eyes.

“What . . . will you be okay today?” he asked, sounding unsure.

I snorted. “O’Dea, I’ve been taking care of myself a long time. I’ll be fine for a day, just like I was fine yesterday.”

“Aye, well . . .” He slid an old-fashioned flip phone across the island, drawing my questioning gaze. “It’s only a phone. No internet. I’ve programmed my number and Autumn’s number in it. You need anything, you call.”

I reached for it. The man kept surprising me. “Thanks. You have other artists you’re trying to pull in?” I asked, desperate to remind myself that’s all I was to this man. An artist on his label. That he’d forced my hand with his own cold ambition.

“It’s more complicated than that. I oversee the entire department.”

“Your card says executive, not A&R director.”

His lips pinched together for a moment. “I’m not technically the director. A man named Kenny Smith is the director and has been since the label opened thirty years ago. He’s . . . grown out of touch with the industry.”

“He’s lazy,” I surmised.

“That too.”

Indignant, I said, “So you’re doing his job while he gets the title, the money, and the credit?”

“It’s the oldest story in the book.”

“But surely your uncle must see it?”

Anger tightened his features but he didn’t respond. I could see the muscle in his jaw twitching as he reached for his car keys. “I better get going.”

Disappointed at the way he could shut down on me, I found myself instantly retreating. I flipped open the old cell, pretending to be interested in it.

I felt his gaze. “Last chance to tell me if you need anything before I go.”

I shook my head, not looking at him. “I don’t need anyone.”

The air in the room seemed to physically shift, like his reaction to my Freudian slip caused it to thin. He waited for me to look at him and as much as I wanted to withstand his stare, I was compelled to draw my head up.

His expression was hard and he opened his mouth, as if to say something, but then stopped himself.

Feeling almost light-headed with the tension, I sought to break it. “If you’re worried I might talk to the mailman, don’t be. I’ve got nothing coming in the post.”

O’Dea decided to take offense at my joke. “For the last time, you’re not a prisoner.”

And suddenly not in the mood to pretend this guy was my friend, I curled my upper lip in disdain and referred to how we’d ended up here in the first place. “You sure about that?”

His answer was to march out of the apartment and slam the front door with such force, the impact shuddered the walls.

THE FIRST TIME THE CELL made a noise that day, it was a text from Autumn.

How does Thai food sound tonight? Xo

Worried that she was feeling compelled to babysit me, and not really wanting to spend time with anyone whose big brother was making them spend time with me, I blew her off.

Not hungry. Maybe some other time.

To which she replied:

Well, of course you’re not hungry now. It’s only 2pm. I’ll be over at 7pm. Thai or not to Thai? Xo