A Love Song for Liars (Rivals #1) - Piper Lawson Page 0,30

onto the seat across from him, shifting forward to trace a finger across the body of his instrument. The wood is cheap to begin with, and it’s banged up.

“Yeah, well, they don't exactly grow on trees.”

I blink up at him. “They do. They're wood.”

“Smart-ass.” The slow smile that stretches across his gorgeous face is one more reminder something has changed since yesterday when he turned me down.

He’s cautiously open. Carefully receptive.

“First guitar I ever played was my dad’s,” he goes on. “Did I tell you that?”

I shake my head, trying not to look as if I’m living for what he says next.

He starts to play, fingers moving over the strings like it’s a dance he’s done a thousand times. “He wanted to make a career of it. He had a band, used to play local gigs outside of work, odd jobs mostly. He had trouble holding one down, but he did land a gig cleaning at Wicked for a few months. Hell, he even met your dad once when I was too young to remember.”

I’m not listening to his playing anymore, I’m too focused on his words. “Wow. Does Dad remember him?”

His thoughtful expression turns flat. “I wouldn’t be here if he didn’t.”

I start to press, but Tyler stops playing, cutting off the sound before rapping his knuckles lightly on the body of his guitar.

“So, here’s the thing,” he begins. “If you’re gonna stand on that stage, you need to know you’re enough. Don’t worry about what you’re making them feel—think about what you’re creating. What happens after you make it is none of your business. What happens before that is your only job.

“You can hide nerves when you’re playing an instrument with your hands. When it’s your breath, that doesn’t work.” He runs a hand through his hair, making his biceps jump under the T-shirt. “How much do you know about resonance? Reverb? Timbre?”

I shift forward to the edge of the seat, our knees nearly brushing. Frustration seeps into my voice. “Nothing you couldn’t learn on the internet. My dad won’t teach me.”

“I’ll teach you.”

Gratitude has my entire body tingling. I exhale heavily, realizing I haven’t really played with him, in front of him, in a couple years. We were kids then. Now, the stakes feel higher.

“Thank you. We could start with ‘Part of Your World’?”

He’s shaking his head before I finish. “Nothing from the musical. Something else.”

“Okay.” I mentally scroll through the possibilities. “Let’s do something in six-eight.”

“You have a time signature preference?” He grins, and my stomach flips.

“Yes. Six is perfect. It’s like… a Möbius strip. A twisted loop.” I connect my thumbs and pointer fingers, then twist one hand upside down so my thumbs touch my pointer fingers instead. “No end and no beginning but order and momentum. ‘Nothing Else Matters’ by Metallica. The Beatles’ ‘Oh! Darling’. Enough Queen tracks to fill an album.”

He shakes his head, and I think he’s about to make fun of me, but all he says is, “The lady wants six.”

Then he kicks off Queen’s “Somebody to Love,” and my heart lifts.

This is already more fun than rehearsal.

We practice until my throat’s worn out. Tyler accompanies me on guitar, watching, giving notes.

I have so much to learn. This guy is not only the most talented person I’ve ever met—he’s an encyclopedia. We’ve talked music before but not technique, strategy, physicality. My mind races trying to keep up with everything he tells me.

I haven’t felt so alive in ages. Even the best rehearsal has never felt as good as this. Maybe because I have to deal with the glares and the snide comments and the sabotage.

Here, it’s just people who love music. It’s the biggest high there is. More than acing a test or winning an award.

“Better,” he says when we wrap up. ”Now you need to do that at rehearsal.”

I look down at him from where I’m standing, leaning a hip against the wall of the bus. “Carly’s going to be there fucking with my head. It’s like something’s crawling up my spine and I can’t get away from it.”

Tyler turns something over in his mind. “Sing it one more time.”

I start, and he rises, moving to stand behind me.

Close behind me.

He touches the waistband of my jeans, and I jolt. His fingers brush the bare skin of my lower back, and I hiccup. “What are you doing?”

“Keep going.”

The words come out rough as his finger traces a slow path up my spine.

I focus on my breath, my tone, the shape