I sat on the edge of the bed with my guitar resting on my knee. Kit had demanded I kept my arm in the sling, muttering something about tearing my stitches out. I complied, having lost any type of energy I had to argue with him.
Even after our conversation where we had laid everything out there, as soon as he was gone I started second guessing myself and my decisions. Like every normal person, when I’m alone I started over-thinking things, going over possible but ridiculous scenarios in my head. This only made me angry and frustrated, and a little bit crazy too. Usually, I would pick up my guitar and play. I could do it for hours, just play and let the music take me to somewhere else. But that seemed to prove harder with a bullet hole in my shoulder.
I tried to maneuver my bad arm over the top of my guitar, trying to find a way to situate it so I could strum. My shoulder burned, but the need to play overwhelmed anything else and my fingers itched to pluck the strings. Finally finding a place that felt even slightly comfortable, I found the frets with my other hand and moved my fingers to a chord.
Avicii’s ‘Wake Me Up’ wasn’t too complicated, so I started with that.
Strumming down the strings I felt a sharp sting in my shoulder, I ignored it and continued to play slowly. I only made it through eight or so bars before the pain became unbearable and tears began to trickle from my eyes.
“Stupid! So stupid!” I gripped the neck of the guitar and threw it across the room. It hit Kit’s desk with a loud bang and crashed to the floor, papers and other crap scattering around. I squeezed my eyes tightly together, willing the tears to stop unsuccessfully as I slid to the floor.
Music had been my outlet for as long as I could remember. When I was happy, I played. When I was angry, I played. When I was sad, or frustrated, or completely and utterly over the world, I fucking played. My guitar and music had gotten me through break-ups and break-downs and now, well now, I didn’t even have that.
I let out a frustrated growl and held my head in my hand. I don’t know how long I sat like that, but soon the door swung open. I didn’t even bother to look up and see who it was. I knew it was him. He didn’t say anything as he shut the door quietly behind him and walked over to his now messed up desk and picked up my guitar off the floor.
I cradled my arm close to my body. It was obvious how much of an idiot I’d been, trying to play with a bullet wound in my shoulder, as it was now throbbing in protest of my stupidity.
“It’s still in one piece,” he said.
I snorted. “I don’t care, it’s not like I can play the damn thing.”
“That what this temper tantrum is about?”
I looked up sharply, finally taking a look at him. He was shirtless, his cut slipped on over his naked torso and his white T-shirt tucked into the side of his pants. The sight of him made my body tingle, his well-defined abs glistening with sweat and stained with a few smudges of dirt. He had mentioned something this morning about going to help the boys in the scrap yard down the road, another business they partly owned. A small trail of dark hair led from his belly button down and disappeared under his low hanging jeans. I wanted to trace it with my fingers, knowing I would find a prize at the end. I shook my head, trying to snap out of my lust-filled mind.
“You wouldn’t understand,” I said sternly, standing up and proceeding to pick up the few papers and knick-knacks from the floor, which had flown off the desk during said temper tantrum.
“Maybe if you’d talk to me for a fucking minute instead of sitting here sulking all damn day then I could try to understand,” he shot back.
I hit him with narrowed eyes. “Fine, you want to know? I am here. Away from my friends, away from the people I know. On my own, with a fucking useless arm that only serves to remind me that I got shot. And I got shot because some men were trying to kidnap me.” I took a deep breath, attempting to calm myself. “Music is mylife, Kit. You may not get that, but without it, I don’t know how else to get through this shit.”
“Get on the bed,” he ordered.
I rolled my eyes. “Sex? Really? That’s your solution?”
He glared but moved and sat down on the edge of the bed, my guitar still in his hand. He scooted back a little, leaving a small space between his legs. “Sit your fucking ass down right here, before I spank it, bullet wound or not.”
I stared at him for a moment, feeling defiance burn in my veins like I’d never had before.
“Harmony!”
I jumped, his sharp tone leaving no room for anything, especially not the word no. I stomped over and dropped into the small space between his outstretched legs. The heat of his naked chest burned against my thin singlet top, sending warmth spreading throughout my body, especially between my legs.
Kit swung the guitar up, settling it on my knee and moving my good arm back to the frets where they were before.
“What are you doing?” I said quietly, confused by his actions.
“We are going to play the fucking guitar. If that’s all it takes to get you out of this mood, I’ll give it a damn go.” He reached around me, his arm cautious to avoid putting pressure on my shoulder and his other arm wrapped around my waist, holding my body tightly against his. “You’re on chords, tell me when to strum or whatever it’s called.”
I sat in silence for a minute, not believing that he was actually doing this.I was stunned.
“Okay, it’s a 1-2-3-4 beat. That’s all you need to do.”
“Okay.” He sat his chin on my good shoulder, peeking over so he could semi-see what he was doing. His hot breath tickled my neck and his body cocooned me causing my heart to flutter.
I called out the count and he strummed with me. My body slowly relaxed against him, and I even found a smile began to form.
“Okay, I’ve got it. I want to hear you sing now,” his voice was soft and soothing in my ear. I didn’t take another second to question his request.