Blake lets out a sigh, but he doesn’t sound so angry anymore.
He just sounds warm, that sigh a sweet breath of thoughtful contemplation. “How honest you want me to be with you?”
I let out a shaky laugh. Oh, shit snacks.
How did he pull all of that out of me with just a few probing questions?
How long have I been bottling it up without even realizing it?
“Hit me,” I say. “Whatever you want to say, Blake.”
“Your dad’s never gonna be dead as long as he lives in you,” Blake says, every word a rolling and hypnotic rhythm, this soothing heat like being wrapped up in his arms. “As long as you remember him. But I don’t think he’d want you to live your life chasing his memory. He’d want you to live for yourself, not for him. So if you wanna stop running, darlin’, you gotta decide what you want to run to, instead of what you want to run away from.”
Woof, that’s a lot to take in.
Even if I like easing others’ pain, even if I thought it was something that mattered to me, and it does…it’s not enough.
Not enough to live like who I am to other people, and never stop to think of who I want to be.
“I like singing. Music,” I say, blurting it out before I can stop myself. “It was just never the kind of thing that, you know, anyone believed I could do. I was never going to be some big pop star, no Milah Holly or anything, but I like writing my own songs and singing them. And…and I think if I ever slowed down, it might be for that. If I could make my life about music, I’d have no reason to run.”
“Good start, lady,” Blake says.
And God, I hope he realizes it’s me. Hope he recognizes my voice.
Because I’m living for the warm approval in every word.
The way he makes it sound like it’s not so crazy at all, and maybe it’s an attainable dream.
But, man, this is heavy.
Me, the flower child flitting around on the wind, never getting too deep, never clinging too hard.
I’m getting way too attached, and it’s scaring me.
“Maybe,” I deflect with a laugh, “I could sing a few end bumpers for your show? That jingle you’re using now stopped being cool in the seventies.”
That gets a deep chuckle, while the older man, Mario, lets out a grouchy, “Hey! We gotta go with royalty-free stuff here.”
I grin against the phone, cradling it close to me. “How about just free? I won’t charge you a bit. Just give me a chance.”
“You really wanna come play songbird for us?” Blake asks. “Dunno if I can trust you around this much equipment. You might just set something on fire. Seems to follow you around, Rabe.”
Oh, holy hell. The way he says it makes my mind substitute the word Broccoli. And I’m not even mad.
He knows.
So I laugh, covering my face with one hand. “Hey, neither of those incidents were my fault.”
“Says the woman driving a van that outlived its service miles twenty years ago. That thing’s older than you are.”
“Yeah, but…age isn’t really that big of a thing, is it? Just like you told the comic book kid.”
He doesn’t answer for a minute, and I worry I’ve misstepped. Overstepped. Over-somethinged.
I don’t know why I care so much what this man thinks.
But then he says slowly, “Nah. Age really ain’t that big a deal, sometimes. Long as everybody’s cool with each other.”
“That’s not a bad milestone,” I say. “And you know the rest…as long as they like talking to each other.”
Like I enjoy talking to you.
I’ve closed my eyes. I don’t want anything to take me away from his voice. It’s almost a flipping physical sensation.
Like curling up against the flank of a powerful lion who won’t eat your face. A tame, righteous one who’ll only lash out at pricks who deserve a nice lashing.
It’s amazing how his voice envelopes me, but with that rich thickness of a lion’s velvety fur.
Just listening to him makes me feel safe.
And a few other things.
Sometimes, there’s a certain way his voice catches. A certain rough edge that just makes my breath hitch in my throat and turns my entire body a little too buttery.
“Can’t say I’m minding certain conversations much,” he says, husky and slow. I shiver, pressing my thighs together.
I don’t think he even realizes he’s seducing me with small talk.
“You want to talk a little longer?” I ask slowly, unable to keep the breathy edge from my voice. “Maybe off air.”
“Hey,” the older man interrupts.
Dammit.
I don’t know his name, but I could kill him right now.
“This isn’t a phone sex line,” Mario says with a stressed laugh. “Tone it down, Blake. Every night we always get at least one hopeful. Mr. Silver Tongue, getting all the girls.”