Love Song Page 4

  “How’d you know?” I asked while pulling off a few rectangles of paper towel. Rafe didn’t have napkins. He cocked his head like he didn’t understand my question. “That I love Italian food.”

  “I pay attention,” he said before he disappeared into his music studio. He returned with a set of tea lights and matches. Placing them on the bar, he struck a match and lit the candles. Then he fiddled with the light switch on the wall. The lights in the apartment dimmed, the candles casting a warm glow on the space.

  I pulled the containers out of the bag and opened them. Roasted cauliflower with pine nuts, beet salad, rigatoni with wild mushrooms, baked eggplant with burrata.

  “It’s all vegetarian,” I said, looking up from the food.

  “You don’t eat meat,” he said, turning on his Bose speaker.

  “But you do.” Low music came through the speakers that surrounded the apartment. Etta James. Stunning.

  He shrugged. “I could clean up my diet a little.”

  “I eat a lot of junk,” I admitted, eyes darting to the open bag of chips discarded by my computer.

  He laughed, which looked magnificent in the candlelight. “Yeah, I’ve seen that too. You never met a vegan donut you didn’t like.”

  Heat traveled up to my face as I recalled once eating seven donuts in one sitting. Rafe had dared me, and I did it. The severe stomachache that had followed didn’t dampen my enthusiasm for the deep-fried dough.

  I plated the food as he came back to the breakfast bar, woke up my laptop screen, and looked at my web browser.

  I reached over the counter and snapped it closed. “What are you doing?”

  “You’re looking for a job?” he asked. He picked up the laptop.

  “Of course I’m looking for a job,” I barked. “Put that down.”

  “Just moving it over here,” he said, walking around the couch to put it on the coffee table. “Don’t get all defensive.”

  “I’m not defensive.”

  He gave me a pointed look in response. “You apply for anything?”

  I dropped the full plates onto the bar and made my way out of the kitchen and onto my stool as Rafe settled onto his. “I’m not qualified for anything,” I admitted miserably. I picked up my fork and moved the food around my plate, my appetite suddenly diminished.

  “Hard to believe,” he said, tucking into his food.

  “Come on, Rafe, I have no experience.”

  “You know how to write,” he said.

  “Songs,” I pointed out.

  “Yeah, but you can write emails and shit,” he said. He pointed his fork at my plate. “You going to eat or what? It’s good.”

  I picked at the cauliflower. “Every place wants experience. I have none.” I put a floret in my mouth, and damn but it was good. No wonder Rafe didn’t care about the meal being meatless. The food was that delicious.

  “What about a restaurant job?” he asked.

  “Same,” I said. His eyebrow went up. “Come on, in this area? I don’t have a car, so I have to stick with West Hollywood,” I reminded him. “Restaurants around here do not fuck around.” There were too many high-profile customers to take a chance on a newbie.

  “Fiorella mentioned she was looking for hosting help,” Rafe said.

  “Fiorella?” I asked.

  “She owns Parma,” he said. “Not much to the job, I don’t think. You can be friendly, right?” I gave him a sour look. “Maybe it’s not the job for you.”

  “Fuck you, I’m friendly,” I snapped at him. He outright laughed at me. “Well, I can be. Especially if I’m getting paid.”

  “I’ll make a call after we eat, get you an in,” he said. “Vince eats there almost daily since… you know.” One shoulder hiked up, and I just nodded. He meant since Pamela kicked Vince out of his own mansion. “Fiorella will hook you up.”

  “Yeah?” I asked, relief surging through me and my appetite returning. “That’d be amazing, really. I don’t how to thank you.”

  His eyes moved down to my mouth. I bit my lower lip as Etta’s husky voice filled the silence between us. Rafe reached over to me, his knuckles brushing my cheek, then he stretched his arm around to cup the back of my neck with his hand. “Just looking out for you, babe.”

  I leaned toward him, relaxing into his touch. “You’re being super nice.” It was my turn to stare at his lips, which were slightly open. Kind of pouty. The urge to kiss him nearly overwhelmed me. Must be the wine.

  He squeezed my neck. “It’s nothing.” He released me and stood up, downing his glass of wine. “Right. Gotta split.”

  “Wait, where are you—” I clamped my mouth shut. It was none of my business.

  “Finish your dinner,” he said. “I’m catching a red-eye to New York.”

  My head snapped up from my plate. “You’re what?”

  “Red-eye. New York,” he said before he disappeared into his bedroom.

  My fork clacked against my plate when I dropped it. He was going to New York? Tonight? For what? And why did I even care?

  It was probably just my nerves. My life had turned topsy-turvy. I wanted someone familiar around to help me feel normal.

  “So, uh, what’s in New York?” I called out to him, trying to sound casual but a bit of disappointment coming through.

  “Need to deal with some shit,” he called back.

  I’ll just bet he did. I picked up my wine and sipped. Then I went for it.

  “Is the shit you have to deal with named Reesie?” Silence met that question. “Rafe?”

  He came out of the bedroom, overnight bag hanging in his hand. “She’s having a tough time adjusting.”

  I leaned against the back of the stool. “I’ll bet.”

  “It’s not like that, Beanpole.”

  “Come on, Rafe. She splits LA, dumps you for some B-level movie producer, and you’re flying three thousand miles because she’s homesick?”

  More silence. But this time his eyes locked on mine. I tried not to squirm under his hard gaze.

  “I think you’re making a mistake is all,” I said, caving in to my discomfort and dropping my eyes.

  “I’m not the one making a mistake. Trust me.”

  “Right. Look, it’s none of my business. Sorry.”

  I didn’t bother reminding him that he’d called me when the paparazzi swarm got to be too much. We’d shared a bottle of wine on Venice Beach, and we’d talked about anything and everything while the Pacific Ocean crashed along the shore.

  I’d always thought Rafe was a cad, but that night I learned that Reesie was an idiot to let him go.

  That was the night I learned that he wanted to make a move behind the scenes—scouting new artists, producing albums. I learned that Vince and Grimm made vague promises but never carried them through. I learned that Reesie had begged him to take her to Grimm, but when he hadn’t made the deal fast enough, she opted for New York.

  See? Idiot.

  I cleared my throat. “No, wait, sorry not sorry. She did you wrong, Rafe. Why are you jumping on a plane when she snaps her fingers?”

  His rich brown eyes went stormy. “First, she did not snap her fingers. And second, I am not jumping on shit. You don’t know the situation.”

  “So tell me.”

  “Not your business, is it?” he asked.

  I scowled at my wine, because he was right. “Whatever. Just trying to be a friend.”

  His expression softened. “You can be a friend by taking my bed while I’m away, yeah?”

  “Sure. Thanks,” I said to his back as he headed toward the door.

  He turned. “Look, I’ll hit up Fiorella and text you the deets once I talk to her. Okay?”

  “Sure, thanks.”

  “Hey, you okay?”

  “Yeah, just… weird being here. That’s all.”

  “Once you crash in my bed, you’ll be so comfortable you’ll forget to freak.” He winked and opened the door. “Later, kid.”

  Kid? Did he just call me kid?
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  “Have a pleasant flight, I guess,” I muttered to the closed door.

  6

  Rafe’s bed was so comfortable that I didn’t feel a thing until a sturdy arm reached around me and yanked me into a hard body.

  “What the fuck are you wearing?” Rafe growled, his fingers gliding over the soft silk of my slip.

  I scrambled away at the feel of something hardening against my ass. Bolting upright, I twisted to switch on the bedside lamp.

  Okay, so for all of Rafe’s talk about my baggy jeans and T-shirts, I had a weakness for girlie jammies. I liked the feeling of soft silk and lace on my body. Some were even a little risqué, but in a refined, luxurious way, I swear. Tonight I wore my La Perla Maison slip. The body-skimming cut gave my normally pencil-straight figure a feminine silhouette. Even my small breasts looked good against the hand-embroidered silver-blue lace that edged my chest. The underwear was also a deep blue, but it was made of the same soft lace that decorated the slip. It wasn’t a thong, but it was Brazilian cut, so it showed off a bit of cheek.

  It was elegant. It was sexy. It made me feel pretty.

  But no one—not even my sisters—ever saw me in my pretty undies. They were for me and me alone.

  And now Rafe was running his guitar-string-calloused fingers against that exposed bit of my ass while I lay on my side to turn on the light.

  “Rafe,” I snapped, sitting up and dragging the blankets back on top of me. I pressed them against my chest. “What are you doing here?”

  “It’s my bed,” he said.

  “You’re in New York,” I reminded him acidly.

  “I was in New York. Now I’m not,” he said.

  “You were gone for”—I reached over to the bedside table and looked at my phone—“barely twenty-four hours. Who even does that?”

  “People with private planes, Beanpole.”

  “You don’t have a private plane.”

  “Grimm does.”

  “And he just let you use it to go to New York to see Reesie?”

  “New York was business,” he said.

  “Right,” I muttered. More like Reesie was getting the business. I pulled the blankets up higher.

  “I don’t want to talk about work,” he said. Agitation had slipped over his face for a moment. He replaced it with a mischievous smile. “Let’s talk about the nightie you’re wearing,” he said, pulling back the blankets.

  I yanked them back over me. “Let’s not.”

  “What’s up with this? You only wore sweats on tour,” he said.

  “We were on a tour bus with a gaggle of people, including you and Dion and Devlin,” I hissed. “What do you think I would wear?”

  “It looks good on you,” he said.

  “Get out,” I said.

  “My bed, babe,” he said, stretching out beside me.

  While his body relaxed, mine coiled tighter. “You are unbelievable.”

  “You wanna hear my news?”

  “No,” I said.

  He told me anyway. “Well, first I got ahold of Fiorella. She said you should hit Parma somewhere between ten and eleven tomorrow morning. Said she’d sort you out.”

  “Oh,” I said, biting my lip.

  “You need a ride?” he asked.

  “I’ll walk.”

  “Are you crazy? That’s, like, two miles.”

  “I can manage.”

  “Okay, but don’t show up sweaty,” he said. “Fiorella won’t like that.”

  “Why are you here again?”

  “We’re getting to that,” he said. “Had a conference call with Dion and Nik. We worked through some shit with the album.”

  I leaned cautiously against the pillows, my curiosity besting my discomfort at being in bed with Rafe in my skimpy pajamas. “What shit?”

  “Grimm shit,” he said. He didn’t look happy.

  “What sort of Grimm shit?” I asked, my chest squeezing in panic. “Is Nik in over her head?”

  “Nik’s fine, babe. Dion won’t let her be anything but fine.” He inhaled deeply and stared at the ceiling. “I was supposed to produce this one.”

  Pushing aside my anger, I rolled onto my side so I could face him. “You’re producing the album? That’s amazing. It’s what you wanted.” His expression remained blank. “Right?”

  “I’d worked it all out with Vince. He’d be in the room, offer suggestions, but this was supposed to be me. My vision. Dion was behind it. Nik too.” His profile became tense.

  “Shit, Rafe. What happened?”

  “Fucking Grimm, that’s what happened.” He rolled onto his side to face me too, the pain and frustration in his eyes laid bare. “Grimm squelched the whole fucking thing.”

  “Oh, Rafe,” I said. I reached out, and my hand met his bare shoulder. I ignored the electricity that sparked against my fingers when our skin connected. “I am so sorry.”

  Rafe had shared this with me while we were on tour. How badly he wanted to produce Rogue Nation’s next album. He hadn’t thought Dion would go for it, but when they got back to LA, they’d talked about it, and Dion’s enthusiasm was such that he’d even coaxed Vince to agree.

  Rafe had ideas about changing the direction of the music—just a touch—adding a roots-music base to their hard-edged sound. He shared the inspiration for the album, beautiful old songs by Houston Stackhouse and Joe Willie Wilkins, the crackle of the recordings just as important to the sound as the music they played. It was a bit of a departure, but it fit Rogue. It fit Rafe. It was beautiful.

  “He didn’t like the roots departure?” I asked, trying to cajole Rafe out of his silence.

  “Vince didn’t even get that far,” he said.

  “So that’s why you came home,” I said, masking my disappointment.

  So maybe part of me had hoped that he left New York because of Reesie. That he was finally rid of her. I shoved that hope down, far down, and willed it not to return.

  His eyes cut to me. “I came home because I wanted to talk to you, Jett.”

  “Oh,” I said, once again very conscious of the fact that I was lying in Rafe’s bed nearly naked and Rafe was beside me. Judging from the bare chest in front of me, he was nearly naked too. “About what?”

  “Jesus, Jett, about this.” He rolled onto his back, and his eyes were glued to the ceiling. “Vince laid it on me, and all I could think about was coming home and telling you about it.”

  “Vince?”

  “Dion conferenced him in.”

  I grimaced. “What happened?”

  “I flipped out, cursed out Vince. Accused him of standing in my way,” he said.

  “Shit.” Lashing out at Vince was probably not the right move. Rafe needed Vince on his side.

  “Yeah, shit. I know it’s not Vince’s fault.”

  “You sure?”

  “I know you are no fan of his, Beanpole, but he had my back when no one else did. He treats me like a son.”

  “Okay,” I said, backing away from a place I had no right to go anyway.

  “It’s Grimm,” he added bitterly. “He was like this with my old man too. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Grimm killed him.”

  “It was an overdose,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “Right?”

  “No doubt about that,” he said, his voice heavy with hurt. “But I swear to fuck, Grimm as good as shoved that needle in my dad’s arm. Robbed his dreams right out from under him. A man without a dream—”

  I gave his arm a light shove. “Rafe, don’t you dare lose your dream because of Gary fucking Grimm. You are way too talented to let that germophobic fuckwad rob you of your dream.”

  Rafe’s mouth tipped up. “Did you just call Grimm a fuckwad?”

  “What else would you call that cretin?” I asked.

  “Not a term I ever expected to hear you say.”

  “Well, I said it.”

  “Let me hear it again,” he teased.

  “Grimm’s a fuckwad.” I drew out the F, which made Rafe laugh out loud. I s
miled, happy to see his churlish mood lifting. “Now, if you will get me a robe or something, I’ll leave you to your bed and go crash on the couch.”

  “Play with me,” he said. I drew in a sharp breath, unsure of what Rafe was asking. He angled his head toward the wall of windows, where his guitar rested in its stand beside the chaise.

  “Rafe, it’s late,” I started.

  “Please.” His voice was low, filled with a need that I recognized. The need to find solace in the only place we could. Through our words, our music.

  I dipped my head, giving in. “I still need a robe.”

  “Do I look like a guy who owns a robe?”

  I closed my eyes in frustration. No, he did not.

  “I’ll get you a shirt, okay?”

  He climbed out of bed, and I kept my eyes on his firm ass, clad only in black boxer briefs, before he disappeared into the closet. He returned with a well-worn flannel.

  “Turn around,” I said as he handed it to me.

  “Jett,” he started.

  “Turn. Around.” My command was firm.

  “Fucking hell,” he muttered, but did as I asked. I let the blankets drop and got out of bed. Pulling the shirt around me, I was grateful that it covered my ass. That said, it wasn’t long enough to cover much more than that.

  Rafe opened the drapes covering the wall of windows. The lights of Los Angeles were spread out before us. It was breathtaking.

  “You want to get your notebook?” he asked, settling on the chaise with a guitar in hand.

  “My notebook?” I repeated, my mind blank, taken by the image of a nearly naked Rafe with an acoustic guitar and the lights of Los Angeles as a backdrop. It was like a Rolling Stone photo shoot came to life.

  “My lyrics are shit,” he said. “Why write music to shit lyrics when I have the best songwriter in LA sharing my bed?”

  “We’re not sharing the bed,” I said, my face heating in embarrassment from both the complement and the suggestion that we were sleeping together. I dropped my gaze to my feet as they carried me into the living room to snatch my notebook and glasses off the coffee table. I snagged my acoustic guitar while I was out there. When I returned, Rafe was plucking out a quiet melody.