As Dust Dances (Play On 2)

I smirked. Apparently, there was no getting rid of her.

To Thai. Thx.

She’d sent me a smiley face and something else that only came up as a question mark on my cell. I guessed it didn’t have the software update for the new emojis.

The cell went off a few hours later; this time it was ringing and the caller ID said “Killian.”

I thought about not answering it, but that was childish and honestly, the thought of continuing this little game of who can piss the other off more exhausted me.

“O’Dea,” I answered.

He seemed to hesitate a moment before he said, “I just got off the phone with the police. They still haven’t found the boys. Or your guitar.”

Disappointment flooded me as I suddenly realized I might never get my beloved Taylor back. My throat closed tight at the thought.

“Skylar?”

I cleared it, trying to push the sob that was closing it back down. “Yeah, I heard you.”

He was so quiet I thought maybe he’d hung up. I was about to do the same when he said, “They’re sending a sketch artist over to the flat.”

I felt somewhat relieved that the police weren’t giving up. “Okay. When?”

“The artist will be there in an hour. Her name is Shelley.”

The fact that they were sending someone over so soon made me even more hopeful that they might catch the little pricks. “Got it.”

“Call if—”

“I need anything,” I finished wryly. “I know.”

“Right.” He hung up without saying goodbye.

“Ass,” I mumbled, throwing the cell across the floor out of reach.

It was hard to get back into my book anticipating the arrival of the sketch artist. And Shelley, a petite brunette with big round blue eyes, turned up at my door not too long later. I didn’t know what I was expecting from a police sketch artist but it wasn’t Shelley. Her hair was cut pixie short and she had piercings all along the cuff of her right ear. Her lip was pierced and her entire right arm was covered in colorful tattoos.

Despite having the appearance of an extrovert, Shelley seemed shy, almost nervous, and I wondered if she recognized me. The entire time I described the boys to her, I worried about her telling someone she’d sketched for Skylar Finch. As soon as she left, I called O’Dea.

“What’s wrong?” he answered, sounding concerned.

For a moment, it threw me. “Is that how you always answer your phone?”

I could practically feel him shifting in agitation. “Skylar?”

“Shelley . . . I think she recognized me. What if—”

“Part of her job is strict confidentiality. She won’t—she can’t—say a word.”

“Okay. You’re sure?”

“Do you think you’ll ever be ready for the world to find you?”

Nope.

“I need time. You promised me that at least.”

“And it’s a promise I intend to keep.” He hung up.

“Ugh!” I shook the cell, desperate to throw it across the room again. The guy really needed to learn to civilly finish a conversation.

* * *

THE GENTLE ACOUSTIC FILLED THE apartment and I closed my eyes against the sight of O’Dea expertly playing his Taylor. He distracted me from the music.

And the music was good.

When he finished, I opened my eyes, unable to help the surprise in my voice. “It’s really good.”

He shot me a smug look. “Ever the shock.”

“Well . . . it is shocking,” I admitted from my seat on the floor. I was leaning against the chair while O’Dea took his usual spot on the couch.

We were on week three of working on the album. It had been a little tense between us at first but as the songwriting wore on, everything else melted away, including our exasperation with one another. We worked late and O’Dea cooked while I sung lyrics to him that he yayed or nayed.

It felt like we existed on some lonely part of the planet where there was only music and creativity. I couldn’t describe it, but as the days passed, as I poured my heart out into the music, I felt something ease from my chest. At night when he left, I felt a melancholy I didn’t want to explore.

Together we’d pieced the songs together but most of the melodies came from me and O’Dea tweaked here and there.

This was the first time he’d said outright, “No, none of that works, let’s try this.”

And his was better. A lot better. I couldn’t even hide how impressed I was, even though it would inflate his already bloated ego.

“You want to try it with the lyrics?”

I picked up my notes. “Go for it.”

He played the intro chords and then I jumped in.

“There’s a girl on the corner,

Selling love for a meal.

Every kind of love,

Except the kind that’s real.

“There’s a boy watching over,

With a gun to his head.

Forced by the needle that

Pulls the trigger instead.

“You say

You’re found and can see.

Does that include the Lost forgotten

By you and me?”

He stopped playing. “Well?”

“I already told you it works. I’m not rubbing your ego any more than that.”

Something sparked in his gaze, something almost flirtatious, but he looked down at the sheet music, hiding it from me. Still, a little smirk played around his mouth.

I couldn’t help but grin. He wanted to say something dirty in response to that. I’d bet my Taylor on it if I had it. Something I was learning about O’Dea as we worked together: he actually did have a sense of humor.

“You know you want to say it.”

He flicked me a wicked look and I ignored the flutter in my belly. “Can we be professional, please?”

“I’m not the one who took something dirty out of what I said.”

“I didn’t.” He shot me a deadpan look.

“O’Dea, I know you’re very good at the intimidating, no one is allowed to know what I’m thinking gig you have going on, but I hate to burst your bubble—I’m learning your tells.”

“You learn what I allow to you learn,” he said arrogantly.

“And I’m learning a lot. Someone must trust me,” I teased.

Looking exasperated, he gestured to the notebook in my hand. “You have lyrics to finish.”

“This is all I’ve got.” I slumped back against the legs of the chair behind me. “I told you . . . sometimes it comes, sometimes it doesn’t.”

Putting the Taylor down, O’Dea reached for my notebook. Instead of ripping the lyrics out like I always did, I handed him the entire notebook. Our eyes locked as he took it and my breath caught.

O’Dea lowered his thick eyelashes, masking his expression from me as he read the lyrics. “Is this about people you met on the streets?”

“Yeah. Mandy and Ham. When I met them, Mandy told me their entire life story. How her mom’s boyfriend sexually abused her, her mom knew, blamed her, hit her, until Mandy ran away from home at sixteen. She had to prostitute herself to survive and got so low about it that she was ready to commit suicide. But Ham, a heroin addict, befriended her, offered her his protection.” I felt so much sadness in my chest for her, it was almost too much to bear upon my own grief. “She doesn’t love him but she cares about him so it’s better than what she was doing. But it’s still a form of prostitution. Even sadder . . . Ham doesn’t see it that way. He just loves her.”

“Fuck,” O’Dea muttered, handing the notebook back to me. “How could anyone let that happen to their family?”

“Her mother’s a bitch, that’s why.”

“I can think of a stronger word.”

Grim, I nodded.

“Mandy took the only option she felt left open to her. Maybe she doesn’t see it the way you see it.”

“Oh, she does,” I said, bitter about it. “She’s well aware. And you know what’s worse? I was kind of angry at her that she couldn’t survive on her own. Because I thought that’s what I was doing. I thought I was so smart.” I shook my head in disgust. “I was a naive child.”