Down to My Soul (Soul Series Book 2) (6 page)

“She’s moved on, you know.” Jimmi takes my spot on the piano bench.

“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” I slip the harmonica into my back pocket and start walking toward the door. “If you want that studio time, come on.”

“I take it you haven’t been on Kai’s Instagram lately, huh?” Jimmi asks from her spot behind my favorite piano.

“Did I
look
like I’ve been on Instagram?” I turn back to face her. “Kai doesn’t even have it.”

“Tell that to the quarter million people following her.”

“A quarter million . . . a quarter
million
followers?” I frown and freeze in my tracks. “In two months?”

“The world’s a big place with a lot of people. Doesn’t take long.” Jimmi rolls her eyes. “And I’m sure most of them are following her hoping she’ll post about you. Hoping she’ll post something about that disaster of a relationship you guys had.”

She unplugs my phone and walks it over to me.

“Check for yourself.”

“I don’t even have it on my phone.” I shake my head. “And I really don’t care what social media has to say about Kai and me.”

“Oh, so you don’t care that Dub is all over Kai’s Instagram?” Jimmi pulls out her phone, pressing a few keys and pulling up the app. “I guess you don’t want to see?”

I hate myself for this weakness I can’t hide from Jimmi. I hold my hand out for her phone, bracing my inner idiot not to flip about what I’m about to see.

Shit. It’s not working. That metronome of fury ticks in my head. Blood pounds in my ears and sweat sprouts out all over my freshly-showered body.

Dub and Kai at some carnival. A cream-colored beanie stark against her dark hair, tilted eyes bright and a red-tinted smile on her face.

Dub and Kai at a 7-Eleven drinking Slurpees with their crew of dancers, hamming it up and making faces.

A video of Dub and Kai at rehearsals, his hands at her waist, adjusting her execution of a move.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I can’t fake nonchalance. Rage pebbles under my skin, buckling my straight face. Jimmi watches me too closely not to see, but I can’t look away from this screen. I can’t give the phone back to her. This is the closest I’ve come to Kai in two months, and she’s with this motherfucker in every post.

“Like I said, moved on.” Jimmi takes her phone from my clenched hand, pushing her fingers up into my hair. “So there’s nothing holding us back, Rhys.”

I step back, jerking away from her touch.

“This not happening,” I gesture between her and me, “has nothing to do with Kai.”

Jimmi gives me a look that calls BS.

“I mean, yeah. There’s Kai.” I sit down on the bench, preferring to look at the phone flipping back and forth in my hands to looking at Jimmi. “But even if she weren’t in the picture, what happened between you and me was a mistake. I knew that the morning after. Hell, I knew it before it happened. But me plus Ketel One equals bad decisions.”

“It hurts that what was so special to me was a mistake to you.” Jimmi blinks at tears. “It wasn’t the first time I’d thought about it. I’ve been crushing on you since high school, Rhys.”

I blow out a weary breath.

“Jimmi, you’re great.” I look her straight in the eye. She deserves my frankness. “You know that. You know I think that, but I’m not the one for you.”

“And she’s the one for you?” Jimmi turns her phone to me, the screen still splattered with tiles of Kai and Dub. “Maybe she missed that memo.”

I clamp my lips over an expletive. I know Kai. She wouldn’t do that to me. Even with things the way they are between us, I refuse to believe someone else has been inside of her. I refuse to believe someone else has her heart. But I also know she’s oblivious sometimes when it comes to guys. What they want and how they go about getting it.

Before I can respond to Jimmi’s provocation, Bristol walks in. She flicks a look between Jimmi and me, and a frown dents her forehead.

“Hey, guys.” She sits on the couch and crosses her long legs. “You working on the song?”

“Don’t you have a life of your own to tend to?” I cross over to flop beside her on the couch, tugging at the dark hair she has pulled into a sleek ponytail. “Or do you basically just obsess over every detail of mine?”

“It’s what you pay me the big bucks for, brother.” She grins at Jimmi. “And now I can obsess over Jimmi’s, too.”

“For real?” I stretch my eyebrows up, glad to have something to talk to Jimmi about other than her misplaced and ill-fated desire for me. “You crossing over to the dark side, Jim?”

Jimmi smiles, but it barely takes.

“On my way to world domination. Got things in the works for her already,” Bristol says, a quick grin spreading over her face. “Speaking of which, did you look at those offers I sent over, Rhys? Those artists who want to work with you?”

“Dammit.” I snap my fingers. “I keep forgetting to give a fuck.”

“Rhys.” Bristol laughs and shakes her head. “One of them could be the next big thing.”

“I’d rather have a great thing than a big thing. I want to be
interested
. Give me something interesting.”

“Do the Boston Pops interest you?”

Hmmmm . . . She knows they do.

“Whatchya got?” I give her the satisfaction of asking.

“The Boston Pops called.”

“Let me guess.” My interest starts waning. “They want me and Petra to bring our dancing bear act to Boston.”

“Actually they just want you. As a guest pianist next season.” She pauses for effect, one brow lifted to provoke me. “Think you still got it, brother?”

Something flickers inside of me that has lain dormant for a long time. I glance at the symphony orchestra piece I sketched onto the wall. That might be fun. That might interest me.

“Let me think about it.”

“Of course. I told them you’d need some time to consider.” Bristol pulls the hair hanging around my ears and scrapes at the scruff on my jaw. “Btdubs, you look like Grizzly Adams.”

“You should have smelled him.” Jimmi offers her first natural smile since Showergate.

“That’s what you get for sniffing under my piano.” I laugh a little, hoping the air will keep loosening between us.

“True that.” Jimmi leans back and watches me for a minute before giving me a short nod. “It won’t happen again.”

I guess that’s the closest she’ll come to conceding the point for now. Hopefully she won’t be naked and groping me in my shower any time soon.

“So what’s the deal with you guys?” Bristol asks, predictably nosy. “You both have wet hair, and the vibe was all weird when I came in. So are my two megastar clients fighting, fucking, or both?”

Jimmi and I exchange a quick look. Bristol is mulish. She won’t let up until we give her something.

“Just a difference of opinion,” I say with a shrug.

“About?” Bristol persists.

See? Mule.

“If you must know.” A speck of defiance returns to Jimmi’s eyes. “I was trying to convince Rhys that Kai has moved on.”

“But you don’t believe it?” Bristol shifts enough to see my face clearly.

“No, I don’t.” I shake my head. “Definitely not with Dub.”

“Well, she said as much yesterday when she and Luke were on
Morning Hype
.”

Calm the hell down, Gray.

“Kai said she and Dub are together?” My voice somehow sounds strong, but it feels like little more than a breeze in my throat.

Bristol just stares at me for a few elongated seconds like a beast toying with its food before taking the first bite.

“Don’t lose a lung. She said the opposite, actually.” Bristol’s eyes never leave my face. “She said she and Dub are just friends. Who knows the truth?”

I do. She’s not with that dude. She can’t be. It would break me in half to see her with someone else, especially knowing I’m the one who pushed her there.

“They asked her about you, too.” Bristol says.

We’re not your typical twins, all telepathically connected and shit, but Bristol knows me well enough to figure I’m not sure I want to hear Kai’s response. I nod for her to go ahead and tell it.

“They asked if she’d spoken to you, and she said no.” Bristol laughs a little, something as close as she’ll come to admiration on her face. “They pressed her for more intel, but she didn’t budge. When they asked for a big secret of yours, she told them you like hummus.”

I can’t help but chuckle. God, I miss my girl. I’d eat a bowlful of her hummus that tastes like butt if I could see her. Maybe she lied to the radio host and she is seeing Dub. I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. If she is seeing him, that shit ends as soon as she gets home. She’ll forgive me and we’ll go back to normal. We have to. That’s the only option.

“You should listen to the whole thing online. Fascinating interview. She held her own.” Bristol’s smug smile gives me pause. “She also directed Qwest to reach out to me about working with Grip.”

“But you’re not Marlon’s manager.” I lift one brow. “I wasn’t under the piano that long. You’re not repping him yet, are you?”

“Ah, the operative word being ‘yet.’” Bristol leans back and links her hands behind her head. “He loves Qwest. If I bring her to the table, maybe he’ll reconsider.”

It’s not gonna happen, but I just nod. The only thing Marlon wants from Bristol is a date, and it’s the one thing she won’t give him. So . . . impasse. I’ll let them work it out. I’m trying to salvage my own relationship. I can’t be bothered with theirs.

“So you guys are cool?” Bristol bounces a look from me to Jimmi, her sharp eyes not missing a thing.

“Cool as three Fonzies,” I say.

Both girls give me blank faces.

“Come on.” I look between them. “You know. Cool like three little Fonzies.”

“Saying it again doesn’t make it less obscure,” Bristol says. “We still have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“
Pulp Fiction
.” I check both their expressions for some recognition. Nada. “It’s near the end. They’re in the diner during the stick up, and the girlfriend comes out of the bathroom and pulls a gun. Samuel Jackson says we’re gonna be cool like three little Fonzies.”

“I’ve never actually watched
Pulp Fiction
all the way through,” Jimmi admits.

“You’ve never . . .” I re-order my world to accommodate having friends who haven’t seen
Pulp Fiction
. “Never?”

“Never, Tarantino.” Bristol stands. “Come on. You both need to get to the studio.”

I let the girls walk up the steps ahead of me, slowing until I’m standing still, holding my newly charged phone. There’s dozens of missed calls and text messages from everyone except the one person I’d give anything to hear from. Supposedly the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Even knowing this, I do what I’ve done almost every day for the last fifty-seven days. Send a text to Kai that will probably get deleted or ignored, but I have to try. To keep trying until she’s back in that bed, warming my sheets again.

Me: “That’s when you know you’ve found somebody really special. When you can just shut the fuck up for a minute and comfortably share silence.”

I send the movie quote and stare at the screen, but it remains stubbornly

mute. No beeping alert. No trail of bubbles telling me she’s responding. I hold the phone for a few more seconds, fooling myself that we’re sharing one of those silences between people who are special to each other, instead of the frigid wall of nothingness she’s used to freeze me out for the last two months. It doesn’t really matter. Even if she deletes every message, she’ll know I never stop trying. This is just a pause, a comma, but our relationship runs on.

I’m digging around in my pocket for the keys to the Cayenne when the phone beeps. I know it’s probably just weird timing. Probably Marlon texting me a picture of him riding his new Segway or some shit, but my heart still grinds to a halt in my chest at the possibility . . .

Pepper: “Pulp Fiction.” Come harder, Gray.

Fuck me sideways. It’s Kai.

Is there a guidebook for this conversation? I’ve proven that I’m really good at screwing things up badly. I medaled in it. After two months of text messages, voice mails, and mistletoe, I have no idea why it’s Quentin Tarrantino that convinced her to finally respond. The phone rests in my hand like a bomb with a convolution of rainbow wires. Blue? Yellow? Red? Which wire to cut? What do I say? I should probably not come on too strong. Shouldn’t ask her about Dub, even though the pictures on that Instagram account splatter in my head like brains blown onto the wall. I for sure shouldn’t demand that she come home to me as soon as she steps off that damn tour bus. Just play it cool like this isn’t twisting my stomach into roller coaster loops.

Do something, Gray. Say something, you pussy.

Me: I want to hear your voice. Call me.

Dammit, did that sound like an order? That’d be the last thing I’m in a position to give after I went all Captain Control Freak with her career. That was the wrong thing to say, obviously, since I stand at the door for a full minute holding a quiet phone.

“You coming, or what?” Bristol yells from behind the wheel of her Audi convertible in the circular driveway. “Jimmi’s already on her way.”

May as well lose myself in music again. It’s the only thing that’s gotten me through the last two months. I may not know what day it is, but I know I made it through one more day without her. Music is all I have right now. It’s not all I want, but it’s all I have. I lock up, climbing into the truck as Bristol pulls away.

Disappointment cements into the resolve I somehow find every day to send another message, knowing I’ll get the same response.

Nothing.

I’m adjusting my mirror ready to pull out of the driveway, when I’ll be damned if the phone doesn’t ring.