I groan. “Life? Just leave it at that, okay?”
She sighs. “You know, I’m always underestimating you. You have this habit of surprising me at every turn. You sounded good, Oz. For real. I know music, and I know talent, okay? You can play the guitar like nobody’s business, and you have a good singing voice. And you and I together? We have insane harmony. And that was just us goofing off.”
I don’t argue with her, since it’s pointless. “Why do you need me, again? Your piano skills are sick. You could dominate all on your own.”
She shrugs. “No, they’re not. I’m decent. I’ve just been practicing that song for a while, and I still messed up. I hit, like, three wrong notes. I just…I’ve always wanted to be like Mom and Dad. I love watching them perform together. They have so much fun, and just… I’ve always wanted to be part of a duet. But all the guys I know only want one thing from me. They’d play and practice with me, and when I don’t put out, they ditch me. I’ve tried, okay? I asked Billy Nicholson to play with me last year, and he was all excited. He’s talented, like, for real. But as soon as we were alone in the choir room, he tried to kiss me. And I was like, eeew, because Billy Nichols is a man-whore. He’s f**ked half the girls at the high school. I’m not that girl, and I said so. I told him all I wanted was to play music together, and he just…ditched me. Just like that.” She plucks at a string on the guitar I’m still holding, looking down. “So I tried again with Trey Ulrich. We practiced together for maybe a week, and then he tried to kiss me, too, and the same thing happened. As soon as I made it clear that there’d be no funny business going on, just music, he was all like ‘fuck this, then.’”
“Sounds like you know a bunch of horny douchenozzles, then.”
She laughs. “Yeah, you could say that.” She gave me a quick glance, and then looked away. “So I kind of gave up after that. Until I met you. We’ve been hanging out for a while, and I feel like I can trust you.”
Bad plan, sweetness. I don’t say that, but it runs through my head. Because all this time, she’s been within kissing distance, and I’ve been trying not to stare at her lips, wondering what flavor lip balm she’s wearing, and if her lips are as soft as they look. “You shouldn’t trust me,” I do end up saying. “You shouldn’t trust any straight guy.”
She frowns, confused. “Why not?”
“Because you’re f**king gorgeous, and any guy who spends more than five seconds around you wants you. Guaranteed.”
She doesn’t back away at the implication. “Every guy?”
I nod. “Yep.”
“Even you?”
I laugh. “Most definitely me.” Our eyes meet, and I hate, for her sake, the gleam of interest I see in her gaze.
“But you haven’t tried anything.”
I shake my head. “No, I haven’t. You’re my friend, Kylie. Maybe you’ve noticed that I don’t have a lot of friends in my life, so there’s no way I’m going to screw up the one friend I’ve got in all of Nashville. Plus, you’re not even eighteen.”
She’s thinking hard about that. When she speaks again, it’s slow and hesitant. “What if I want—”
I put two fingers over her lips, which is a temptation unlike anything. “No. You don’t. You don’t know the half of what makes me the way I am.”
“I’d like to learn.”
“No, Kylie. There’s a reason I keep my bullshit to myself, okay? It’s not about keeping secrets, or because I’m ashamed. It’s because someone like you shouldn’t know about the shit I’ve done. My life ain’t pretty, sweetness. I wouldn’t be doing you any favors by dragging you through the mud of my messy-ass life. You’d get dirty, and you’re way too clean, way too gorgeous, and way too innocent for me to be willing to soil you like that. So no. For your own good, no. We’re just friends, and that’s all we’ll ever be.”
She turns on her heel and strides away, shoulders hunched, head down. I’m not sure if she’s hurt by my outright rejection, or just angry. Both, maybe. It’s for the best, though. I stand up, and place the guitar back on the rack.
“Keep it,” she says.
“What?”
“That’s my guitar. Keep it. We’ve got others I can use.” She slips through a door leading deeper into the basement, comes back with a basic hard-sided guitar case, sets it on end near my foot. “Here.”
I back away. “I’m not taking your guitar.”
Her head snaps up, eyes blazing. “Take it, goddammit. It’s just a cheap guitar. It’s what friends do.”
“Why?”
She shrugs, a tiny, defeated gesture. “Like I said, friends give each other gifts. That’s a gift. It’s not charity, because I’m sure that’s gonna be your next excuse.” Her eyes meet mine, and I see hurt, confusion, sadness. “You’re still playing the mic night with me. I signed us up already. So…you need a guitar to practice on.”
“What are we playing?” I lay the case on the floor and put the Yamaha in it, snap it closed.
“If you’re up for it, I’d like to try a couple of songs I wrote.” She’s turned away again, her hand on top of the piano, rubbing idly at the polished wood.
“Sure. I’m game.”
“Cool. I’ll show them to you tomorrow.”
“Why not now?”
“Because I’m about to cry, and I want you to leave.”
Well, how’s that for honesty? I move behind her but don’t touch her. “I don’t want to hurt you, Kylie.”
“You already did.”
I groan. “You really don’t know what you’re asking for, with a guy like me.”
“Shouldn’t I get to be the judge of that?”
“Yeah, maybe. But I’ve got a choice, too,” I say.
“And you choose to reject me.”
My eyes slide closed, and I feel the welling up of pain, guilt, regret. I hate that I’ve put hurt in this girl’s life. I don’t see a way around it, though. Her folks saw my scars, and they knew what they are. There’s no way in hell they’d let their only child date a hood-rat nobody punk like me. And they’d be right.
“Not reject. Protect.”
She spins around, suddenly a lot closer, almost touching, the round tips of her tits a hair’s breadth away from my chest, looking up at me. “I think you’re just scared.”