“There’s our answer.” She looks back to the ceiling.
“You look healthier even if you do feel burnt out,” I tell her.
She twists her head toward me. “Healthier?”
“Not as skinny.”
She pushes to sit. “How much attention do you pay to my body?” she asks in a low voice.
“That was just a comment. Don’t get so defensive!”
“I’m not. I’m just saying, don’t make me worry that you’re perving on me.” She adjusts her top, pulling up further towards her neck.
“Jesus, okay, I’m saying you look better after all the shit from a few weeks ago.”
She pulls a sour face. “Again, don’t.”
When we disagree, there’s a weird thing that happens, a clashing of wills as we stare at each other waiting to see who’ll back down or get the last word in. I’ve given up trying. Apparently satisfied she’s reprimanded me enough with her stern look, Ruby shifts her gaze to the open door behind where I’m standing.
“Oh! Your guitar!” Ruby points at the acoustic leaning against the end of the bed. “Is that a classic Martin?”
Thank fuck for that. I thought we were going down the route to things that shouldn’t be said.
“Yeah.”
“Wow, I bet that’s a rare if you own it.” How many people could identify a guitar from a distance?
“OM-18,” I say with a small smile. I have a collection; this one isn’t exactly my most expensive, but I love the sound. I may not be in the band, but my music comes with me.
“Serious? Can I try?” She looks at the acoustic with an amusing awe.
“Sure.”
Ruby heads to where the guitar rests against the wall in the bedroom. Picking it up as if this is a precious heirloom, she perches on the edge of the king-sized bed and hauls the strap across her shoulder, then balances the guitar on her lap. “You got a pick?”
I toss her one from my pocket. I’ve never been in a room with a chick who’s more impressed and excited by the sight of my guitar than being with me. But she’s no ordinary girl. This is Ruby, the mind-blowing woman with her amazing voice, talent, and a body that dances into my dreams on a too frequent basis. The twinge in my chest grows, as she strums the opening chords of a Ruby Riot track, “Shellshock”. I could push the hair from where it falls across Ruby’s face, brush her skin with my fingers, kiss her.Crap, Jem.
“Who writes your lyrics?” I ask and cross to sit next to her on the other edge of the king-sized bed.
“Me and Jax, mostly him.” Her focus remains on the guitar but she stops playing. “Huh. I don’t often play acoustic. One day I’ll buy a really rare Gibson. I bet you have a crap load of guitars. I know that’s what I’m spending my money on if I get cashed up.”
“One or two, and I’m sure one day you’ll have a collection of your own.” I smile and lie back on the bed, tucking my hands behind my head. “Play me a song, Ruby Tuesday.”
“Why did you call me that?”
“It’s who you are, isn’t it? Play me something.” Ruby taps the edge of the guitar. “Go on. Then I’ll play something for you.”
She purses her lips. “Okay, but only because I want to play this awesome guitar.”
I smile to myself when I hear the opening chords to “Rising”—typical of Ruby to do this when I told the band never to play my songs again. Only this time the sound reaches inside my heart. The memory of the day I wrote the song, of Phoenix being as new as Ruby Riot joins the images.
“Rising”, the first real song we wrote. I knew at that moment we’d be big and I’d sacrifice anything to get there. I didn’t realise the sacrifices came later.
Aware Ruby stopped playing, I sit up. “Don’t stop.”
“Your breathing’s funny, are you okay?” She removes the strap from her shoulder.
“Just rewinding in my head. You’re making me feel old. I wrote that song eight years ago.”