to make any sense now.”
I laugh. “You can write me more songs. I expect them to be full of love and explosions. ‘Explosions of Love and C4.’ Good title.”
“Of course, Rambo … my motherfucking badass.”
“Never going to live that down, am I? You call me a badass all the time.”
“It’s one thing for others to say it. It’s totally not badass to self-proclaim it.”
I lean in and bring my lips to his. “You’re free to mock me whenever you want, Pop Star. I wouldn’t love you any other way.”
“Same goes for you … Badass.”
Hmm, I have to wonder if that nickname is better or worse than Rambo.
We’ve been back in LA a week, and I’ve barely seen Harley.
He’s no closer to coming to an exit agreement with the label, and he has no real plans for if he wins that battle. Or if he loses.
He’s been keeping busy doing God knows what—writing new songs, I think—but I’ve basically only seen him when we’ve gone to bed each night.
In our bed.
That was the first thing we did when we got home. We moved my minimal belongings into his room and turned my bedroom into an office for me.
Which is why, when he appears by parking his ass on my desk with a wide smile on his face, I’m suspicious.
“What did you do?” I lean back in my seat and pretend to be exasperated.
“No. Nuh-uh. You can’t go into this already hating the idea before I get to tell you the brilliantness of what it is.”
“And now I’m scared.”
“Come on, Badass. I swear it’s a good idea.”
“A good idea that I will like or hate?”
Harley hesitates. Averts his gaze. Flattens his lips.
“Right. That answers that question,” I say. I’m totally gonna hate it.
“You might hate it, but once you get over yourself, you’re going to love me for it. Or hate me. I haven’t decided.”
“I already love you, so is it worth risking that?”
Harley nods enthusiastically. “Absolutely.” He takes my hand. “Come with me.”
I’m totally confused until he leads me to a room he hardly uses. No, wait, I’m still confused.
The room is usually set up like a library with built-in bookshelves along the wall and comfy couches. Which have been pushed outside onto the patio leading to the backyard.
“An empty room? Uh, thank you?”
“I thought … well, I’ve been thinking … and planning. And doing all the research on how much it’ll cost … Okay, well, if we want to get technical, Jamie’s been doing most of the work. She’s trying to get in your good graces because she’s terrified you want to fire her.”
I kinda do, but I keep telling myself she couldn’t have known her iPhone fix-it guy was a psychopath.
“You want to turn this room into a studio or something?” I ask.
“No. I want to turn this into your father’s room.”
I blink at him. Then blink again.
“Hear me out. I want to do this for you. I want to hire two full-time nurses to trade off shifts with him. You’ll get to see him daily unless we’re on tour. But maybe we could arrange for you to fly back every other week or something. I don’t know all the details yet, but I was thinking”—he goes to the middle of the room—“we could put the bed here. All the medical equipment should fit, and if he was propped up a little, he’d have a great view of the pool—”
“Harley, I can’t … I can’t accept this. I want to. Fuck, I really want to, but … you do know what kind of undertaking this is, don’t you?”
Harley takes calculated steps toward me. “I knew this is how you’d react which is the only reason I didn’t go ahead and already organize it behind your back. But, you said it yourself, we’re a team now. You and I are in this, and I want to do this for you and your dad. Because I love you more than anything, and I want to give you everything you give me.”
“What’s that?”
“The kind of love I deserve. With all my shit, my baggage, and a career that tries to hold me back, you break through the fog of it all and give me hope. And you always give me a sense of normal. You make me feel loved. Please let me in. Please let me do this for you.”
Tears prick my eyes. I’m not a crier. I didn’t cry when my mom died. I never cried after Dad’s stroke. But watching