Unraveling You (Unraveling You 1)

Composes.

And creates a song.

I can’t speak. Can barely breathe. Lyric’s eyes refuse to leave mine, even though I’m looking everywhere but at her. I wonder if this is the time she’s not going to give up, if she’s going to push me until I shatter into a million pieces.

“I think my grandmother had a bipolar disorder,” she says, facing forward in the seat and scrolling through the song lists again, going back to the original conversation without missing a beat. “Maybe that’s why my mom worries. Perhaps she thinks I’m going to turn out like her.”

Air rushes back to my lungs at the abrupt subject change.

As we reach the last house on the street, I turn into the driveway. “Why would she think that? You’re like the happiest person I know.” I stop at the end of the drive, shove the shifter into park, and slide the keys out of the ignition.

“Maybe I’m a little too happy, though.” She places the iPod on the dock without selecting a song. “Besides, some mental illnesses are hereditary.”

“I know that.”

“I don’t believe it’s fully true, though,” Lyric states, drawing her sunglasses over her eyes. “I think if you don’t want to turn out like your parents, then you won’t. Look at my mom. She’s a pretty stable woman, and I know from bits and pieces of stories I’ve heard that she had a pretty shitty life growing up.”

I swallow the lump in my throat to stop myself from asking.

What happened to her?

Was she broken?

Is she fixed?

Saved from the darkness.

That once grasped her wrists.

“What do you think about when you daze off like that?” she asks curiously. “I’ve always wondered what goes on inside your head.”

If she did know, she’d run.

“Nothing important.” Before she can say anything else, I snatch up my guitar from the backseat and bolt out of the car.

I don’t look back as I rush up the wide driveway, toward the side door of the detached garage. I free a trapped breath when I hear the car door shut. As much as my emotions are terrifying me, and as much as I know I don’t deserve her to, I need her to follow me like my heart needs blood pumping through it.

“Hey, man,” Sage greets as I stride into the shallow space of the garage. He’s perched on a short stool in front of his drums, twirling the drumsticks in his hands. There’s a joint burning from an ashtray on a table near a leather couch, and the air is laced with the pungent stench of weed. He does this a lot in an attempt to hotbox the garage. Says it makes him play better. The problem is, it also makes Nolan and I a little buzzed, and we definitely don’t play better when we are.

“Hey.” I drop the guitar down on the sofa. “Just so you know, Lyric came with me today.”

He purposely drops the drumsticks and stands up. “Dude, so not cool.” He heads for the joint burning in the ashtray.

“She’s cool,” I tell him as he puts the joint out and flips on the ceiling fan. “She won’t give a shit if you’re hotboxing the garage. I might, but she’ll be fine with it.”

A panicked look crosses his face as he douses the air with Lysol. “That’s not what I’m worried about.”

I’m so lost. Sage never gives a shit about anything, even his mom finding out he’s high. “Then what are you worried about?”

He sets the can down on the table. “Don’t you think Lyric’s just kind of, I don’t know, s—” He gets cut off as the door swings open and Lyric strolls into the room.

I start forming every S word I can think of.

Sunny?

Strange?

Sweet?

Sassy?

Sexy?

It better not fucking be the last one.

Lyric’s nose instantly scrunches as she gets a whiff of the air. “Dude, it reeks of pot in here.” She closes the door behind her and spins around to face us, her eyes skimming the room. “Is that what you guys secretly do here?” she asks suspiciously, her gaze dancing back and forth between Sage and me. “Is this whole band thing a ruse to be closet potheads?”

“Nah, Ayden doesn’t do that shit,” Sage tells her, leaning over to gather his drumsticks from off the floor.

“You do, though. I know that,” Lyric remarks as she circles the room, studying all the framed albums on the wall. “Was your dad a musician or something?”

Sage glances at me for some reason then strolls up to her with his hands tucked into his back pockets. “Nah. He just wishes he was. And actually, the albums are my mother’s. She just bought all of them a year ago after my dad cheated on her. They’re all of his favorite albums signed by his favorite bands, and he will never get to see a single one of these, other than the one time my mother brought him over here to rub it in his face.”

“That’s so sick and twisted,” Lyric mumbles as she leans forward to inspect one album in particular. “Aw, Micha Scott. He’s pretty good for being old school.” She casts a sly glance over her shoulder at me.

“Yeah, he’s okay.” Sage playfully bumps his shoulder into hers, filling me with the strangest sensation of jealousy, enough that I want to bump into him a hell of a lot harder, maybe even knock him down. “Hey, any relation?” he jokes.

“He’s actually my dad.”

Sage starts to laugh, but then his eyes widen when he notes the serious expression on Lyric’s face. “You have got to be shitting me.”

She shrugs as she scratches at her arm then rubs her eyes, probably because of the abundance of smoke swirling around the air. “Nope. I’m totally being one hundred percent shitting free serious right now.”

I can’t help but chuckle.

His eyes enlarge even more. “Let me get this straight. Your father is Micha Scott, rock star slash music producer who owns Infinitely Studio, and he’s been your father this entire time.”

Lyric shrugs again, shuffling her feet back and forth across the carpet. “Yep, pretty much.”

Sage shoots a baffled look at me. “Did you know about this?”

Nodding, I sink down on the couch and unlock my guitar case. “I don’t know why you’re freaking out so much, though.”

“Um, because you have a connection,” he says, confounded.

“No, Lyric has a connection.” I sweep my hair out of my face as I position my guitar on my lap. “Not me.”

He shakes his head, still flabbergasted. “You could have said something at least.”

“It wasn’t my something to tell.” I pluck my fingers across the strings, tuning the guitar while tuning Sage out.

He twists around, facing Lyric again. “So can you do anything?”

“Oh, I can do a lot of things,” Lyric replies in her flirty tone that causes my jaw to tick. She plops down on the sofa beside me, slips her hands under her legs, and leans toward me, her hair brushing my cheek. Her eyes are slightly bloodshot and her pupils are unfocused.

I reach back to open the window while Sage drags a stool over to us.

“I mean, can you play anything?” Sage wonders, plopping down on the stool.

“I can play a lot of things,” Lyric replies, resting her head on my shoulder.

Sage flashes me a puzzled glance and I shrug.

I have no clue what she’s doing, other than maybe she’s high. What I do know is that the feel of her is driving me absolutely crazy in the best way possible. Her touching me is nothing new. She’s usually got her fingers laced through mine, but this feels different somehow, as if she’s trying to read me through the connection of our bodies. Maybe it’s all the freaking pot in the air, or maybe it’s because of the kiss. I’d be fine with it—I’m usually good at keeping myself in control—but my breathing has gone erratic and my heart’s lost its Goddamn mind.

“Like what?” Sage asks Lyric, reaching for the lighter on the floor near his feet.

“The violin, guitar, drums. I used to play the piano, but I haven’t practiced in a while.”

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nbsp; “What about singing?”

She hesitates. “Singing is subjective, so I can’t answer that.”

Sage assesses her closely. “So, you’re saying you think you can sing, but you’re unsure of your voice.” He flicks his lighter on and off as he deliberates something. Then he hops to his feet and ambles over to the microphone. Picking it up off the floor, he twists up the volume of the speaker. “Let’s see what you got, Scott.” He tosses the microphone at Lyric.