my attention to the low-slung leather belt at his waist, making my throat go dry.
I quickly forced myself to look away.
“We aren’t getting any closer to finding our groove, are we?” he asked, sounding frustrated.
I shook my head. “Nope.”
“This is the definition of madness, you know? Trying the same thing over and over, expecting different results.”
“Fine, then you make a suggestion.”
Wyatt stopped walking, his piercing green eyes raking over me, a wave a heat flushing me from head to toe. “You could sing the bloody song for me, so I know what you want.”
“I told you. I’m not a singer.”
“Neither am I!” Wyatt shouted.
I recoiled at his outburst.
Seeing my frustration, Wyatt changed his approach. He blew out a breath and crouched in front of me, his hands landing on my knees, shooting sparks straight through me. I swallowed hard and forced myself not to concentrate on the tingle of electricity spreading up my thighs.
“Look,” Wyatt purred. “I know you’re trying. I’m just frustrated because your music is brilliant. The world deserves to hear it.”
The earnestness in his eyes made my cheeks flush. At this rate another compliment would make me burst into flames. “Thanks,” I managed.
“You’re welcome.” Amusement sparked in those dangerous eyes of his again. “Will you not sing it to me, just once so I can do it justice?”
My throat closed up as his green eyes continued to transfix me. All I could hear was the pounding of my pulse as his fingers gripped my knees.
“Just once,” he begged again, his voice soft and hypnotic. “I won’t let you down.”
I didn’t acknowledge making the decision, but before I knew it, my head was nodding in agreement.
Wyatt’s eyes lit up. He eagerly released my knees and pulled his chair closer, sitting down to face me.
I swallowed hard and strummed the first chord, but self-consciousness speared me. I held my palm against my strings to quiet them.
“Why’d you stop?” Wyatt asked.
“I can’t do it with you staring at me.”
He gave me a thoughtful look, then leaned forward and pulled off my glasses.
“Hey! I need those to see.”
“Maybe, but not to play.”
“Are you an optometrist now?”
He snorted a laugh. “No, just observant. You close your eyes when you play. This way you won’t be tempted to open them and watch me watching you.”
“Yes, but I’ll still know you’re there,” I huffed.
“Fine.” He stood up and walked over to the light switch, flipping it off. Darkness bathed us and it took a moment for me to make out his silhouette in the shadows. “Pretend it’s just you,” he said, moving to take a seat on the piano bench behind me.
I wrinkled my nose, hating that he was being so logical. But he was right. This was helping. I took a deep breath and channeled my inner strength.
Music had always been my safety net. I could count on it. It didn’t judge or ridicule. It created, it comforted, it calmed me. And like this, with the lights off, and blurry vision, I could imagine I was anywhere.
I pictured my bedroom, pretending this was just another night, strumming out another song by myself. Before I knew it, the words flowed from me as effortlessly as they always did when I was alone.
“I don't fit in.
Don’t know where to begin.
Can’t stop wondering,
what’s it all about?
I feel the music calling.
But how can I leap,
when I’m already falling?
I’m stronger than you think.
I am bent, not broken.
I am bent.
Bent.
Bent.
Not broken.
Can't break my heart.
Won’t let you in.
This is just the beginning.
Bending, swaying, torn open.
I am bent, not broken.
I am bent.
Bent.
Bent.
Not broken.
Running from your secrets.
Your face, your mouth, your lies.
Don’t speak the words.
Don’t let me in.
I know your lips only drip sin.
I don't fit in.
Don’t know where to begin.
Only that the music’s calling.
Thank you for this fear,
this fear of falling.
This is just the beginning.
Bending, swaying, torn open.
I am bent, not broken.”
I let the last note fade in a soft decrescendo. When the room fell silent, I sat there for a moment, my blood still singing long after my voice was absorbed into the blackness. The rise and fall of my chest kept the rhythm of the music while my entire body continued to hum with euphoria.
This was what I loved about composing—creating something from nothing. Just me and my guitar, bleeding out words until I was empty enough to be filled back up by the music. It was like harnessing magic. And it was completely and absolutely the only thing I wanted to do for the rest of my life.