Love Letter Duet: The Encore Edition Page 9

  “You ready to go, love?” She pushed my hair from my face. Her hand was cool on my warm skin.

  “Hmm, yeah.”

  “Are you about to be sick?”

  I shook my head before everything began to blend as one.

  The chilly air hit my skin and my eyes peeled open. Weston was helping me walk to the car. His arm was wrapped around my ribs and my head was using his chest as a pillow. I guess I’d had more to drink than I thought.

  “Can you climb in?” I heard him ask.

  “Um-hmm.”

  Releasing his grasp, I climbed into the limo and headed for the back seat behind the nine-shaped couch. My head hit the crisp black leather; I needed to sleep. A warm body sank to the seat next to me. A familiar touch brushed my hair back and made my heart skip a beat. Opening an eye, I peered up at him.

  “I’m leaving a bottle of water here for you. Just shout if you need anything, okay?” He turned to leave, but I extended my heavy hand toward him.

  “Wait.” My hand fell to the cushion. “Stay with me.”

  Finding the strength to push sleep away for a few more seconds, I sat up so Weston could sit next to me. He leaned back and patted his chest for me take. I quietly thanked whoever designed this limo for making the back seat wide enough that we could both lie down. Weston’s hand draped over my shoulder, keeping me on his chest. His fingers danced over my skin and I sighed with contentment. His soft lips pressed on my forehead and my lips pushed up into a smile.

  “I think I might like you, Weston,” I whispered. It was a confession induced by the alcohol.

  “I think I like you, too.” His words made my smile grow.

  “I’m drunk,” I slurred. “I don’t like being drunk.”

  “Shh, we’ll be home soon.” His mouth was in my hair.

  I knew my feelings for Weston were growing at a rapid speed, but I was too inebriated to think about it. Instead, I took my hand that rested on his chest and moved it under his shirt. I wanted the heat of his skin on my palm. I needed to feel his heartbeat. His skin was smooth with a few strands of short hair residing on his pecs.

  I heard him hiss before he moaned, “Yellow gel.”

  13

  EMILIA

  Sunday afternoon I was still in bed. I had woken an hour prior, swearing to never get out of bed, and then I swore to never, ever drink again. Ever. After I used the bathroom and found some toast to settle my stomach, I crawled back into bed.

  I remembered the ride home, and how Weston had walked me to my door and kissed my forehead before he’d left. And if I closed my eyes, I could still taste his lips on mine. I was completely smitten over a guy I’d despised only a few short weeks ago. There was a very thin line between love and hate.

  Love?

  Could I eventually love him?

  Shaking my head, I tucked the covers under my chin. I dozed off for a few minutes, but woke when my cell phone vibrated. My headache vanished when I noticed the light on my phone shone with a missed message.

  My Love: Good morning. Call me when you get this.

  Clearing the hangover and sleepiness from my throat, I hit the call button. It rang twice before he answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi.” I tried to make my voice sound soft but it was still hoarse. I kicked my feet out from under the covers to keep my body from overheating.

  “How do you feel?” He sounded refreshed, his voice pure as silk.

  “Like I’m never drinking again.” Muffled voices sounded in the background. “You can call me later if you’re busy.”

  He mumbled something to the person and then spoke to me. “No, I’m okay. I’m just in the studio.”

  “That sounds like you’re busy.” I didn’t want to hang up, but I didn’t want him to think I was needy. This was why I didn’t do relationships; it came with too many rules, too many worries.

  “I’m never too busy for you.”

  His words filled my body with heat. It reminded me of his mouth … his hands tracing swirls on my skin …

  “Did I lose you?”

  “Hmm.” I hummed to let him know I was still on the phone.

  Weston began to sing along with the music in the background and goosebumps rose on my skin. His goddamn voice. Just raspy enough to be smooth. When the beat stopped, he continued to sing and I closed my eyes, listening to him sing. The song had pain, depth, and was filled with soul.

  He stopped but I needed more. “That’s it? That’s all I get?”

  “I haven’t written the rest of the song.”

  “You write your own songs?” Weston surprised me yet again.

  “Yeah, and I produce my own beats.” I heard him play a couple of keys on the keyboard.

  “You’re very talented.”

  “Thanks.” He laughed and the beat began to play again. “I hope to take the band away from doing covers and start doing our original songs.” He replayed the song.

  “Hmm,” I sighed, falling in love with the bridge.

  “Can I ask you something? Well, two things, actually.”

  I swallowed a ball of nerves. What could Weston want to ask me? “Shoot.” I rested my head on my arm.

  “Do you make it a habit to kiss random men?”

  “What?” My eyebrows flew upward. As I recalled, he was the one who constantly had a girl in his arms.

  “Well, the day I met you, I saw Axel kiss you, then you kissed that guy on New Year’s, and last night it was me. I want to think it was different with me.” His voice was quiet and my breathing became rapid.

  Crap. He had seen Mike kiss me. “It was. And I didn’t kiss them, they kissed me. Axel’s like an older brother to me. He did it to be an ass. And I waited for you at New Year’s, but when you didn’t come back at midnight, I kissed Mike—on the cheek—but he turned his head.”

  “I did come back for my kiss.”

  My heart thundered. “Oh.” I cleared my throat. “I … I didn’t know.”

  “I guess I was a few seconds too late.” His line went silent for a few beats. “I was different?”

  “Can we not make this awkward?”

  “Fair enough.” He chuckled. “What are you doing Thursday night?”

  “Not going to a club. But I might need to work a shift at Sparrows.”

  “Yeah, I think my partying days are done for a while. What do you have planned for Friday?”

  “Work.”

  “Have dinner with me?”

  “Yeah.” I bit my lower lip, trying to contain my smile.

  Leslie was in the kitchen making herself lunch when I walked in. “Someone is oh, so strung,” Leslie joked.

  “No, I’m not,” I lied through my teeth.

  “Please!” Grabbing her camera, she flipped through pictures until she found a specific shot and showed me. It was the picture where Weston was kissing my cheek. We looked really good together. His lips were on my skin and I was laughing with glee.

  “Even now, just looking at the picture makes you all mushy. Not to mention, he threw you this insanely lavish birthday party, invited all your friends, and stayed by your side the entire night.” She rested her camera on the table. “And don’t think I didn’t notice you two were gone for like two hours.”

  “Okay!” I threw my hands up in defeat. “Yes, I like him.”

  “Oh, Emilia, that I knew. You’re falling for him.”

  “I think so.” I stared at the cabinet, thinking of his lips and our recent conversation.

  Leslie grabbed the dishtowel and threw it at me. “Just promise me you’ll be careful with him. We know how he is with girls, and he is a hot musician.”

  I nodded. He had a different girl on his arm every time I saw him. Was I really any different?

  Weston rang the doorbell at seven. It was strange to have a man come to the door, but it reminded me that he wasn’t a typical ass who would beep the horn as he waited for me outside. I think my father would have liked that about him.

  I glanced in the
living room mirror one last time before I opened the door. I didn’t know exactly where we were going for dinner, so I’d dressed in tight fitting jeans, a cute loose fitting sweater and a pair of flats that I’d borrowed from Leslie’s closet.

  I pulled the door back and my breath caught in my throat. He was dressed in Chuck Taylors, fitted black jeans that hugged his waist, and a white T-shirt covered by his leather jacket. His killer smile was present on his face, but his aviators covered his stormy eyes.

  “Hi, beautiful.”

  He tugged on my hand, bringing me close to his body, and pressed a chaste kiss on my lips. The second he pulled away, I missed him. He winked before he tapped his finger on my nose, and I giggled at his charming ways as I followed him down the steps.

  As he drove, he sang songs he had written for different rhythms, and it was my own personal Weston Carter show. I was mesmerized and captivated by his charisma.

  He pulled up next to an abandoned building. The windows were boarded up with plywood, the parking lot was empty, and there was garbage scattered around. “Uh …” I looked at the darkened building. “I don't think they're open for dinner.”

  “I guess it's been a while since I've been here.”

  My stomach growled, and I giggled. “Do you like fish tacos?”

  “Love them.”

  “Okay, make a left up ahead.”

  Weston moved his car out of the parking spot. “Not a great first impression, huh?”

  “It's fine. I'm about to wow you with the best fish tacos. This place is a hidden gem.” I directed him toward the Santa Monica Pier. He parked and we walked a few blocks until I spotted the food truck.

  “Best fish tacos?” He looked at the old steel truck and arched a high brow while twisting his lips.

  “The best. These guys moved down from Seattle. They drive up and down Venice Beach. Max, the cook, told me they are eventually going to open up their own spot, but for now this is it.”

  Weston looked over the menu, but I didn’t ask him what he wanted as I ordered two of my favorite specials. He slipped the cash from his wallet and slid it over the high glass window.

  “Wow, and here I thought I was going to impress you with fine dining. Thirteen bucks paid for our dinner.” He took his white Styrofoam box from my hands.

  “Wait!” I reached up to stop Weston from taking a bite.

  “You told me they're the best, but now I can't eat them?”

  “You'll appreciate it more with the view.” I motioned my head towards the beach.

  Crossing the street, we walked down towards the sand. Though it was a beautiful day in January, the beach was quiet. I kicked off my shoes and dug my feet into the cool sand. It had been a mild Southern California winter, making it perfectly acceptable to be on the beach in January. Weston looked at me like I was insane, but I giggled and continued to walk. I had a spot where I enjoyed sitting. It was close to the pier and practically under the wooden boardwalk.

  When we were close enough to hear the waves crash, I sat on the sand. “Now you can eat.” I popped open the lid to my container.

  He dropped next to me. I watched as he brought the soft taco shell filled with locally caught fish, cole slaw and zesty mayo to his mouth. Biting into it, his eyes closed. “Hmm.” His moan was the most seductive sound I had ever heard.

  “Good?”

  “This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

  We enjoyed our dinner with the waves crashing in the distance and the sun setting on the horizon. When we were done with our food, Weston stood and then sat behind me. His legs opened to hold me in the center of his body. We gazed out into the ocean, watching the water wash over the sand and then flow back out again. It was picture perfect. And the best part was Weston.

  “Tell me about yourself?” he asked.

  “There isn't much to say. You know where I come from, who my friends are, who my parents were.”

  “No.” He coiled his arms around me. “That's the basics. I want to know the real Emilia. What runs through your mind when nobody's listening?”

  I took a few beats to think about the question. “Music and silence.”

  “That's a contradiction.”

  I gazed upward. The sky was painted with pink, orange and red clouds, and the sun masked the horizon. “My head is filled with music all the time. I didn't get my dad's talent in the singing department, but it's in my blood. Everything I hear I turn into a song or a melody, and when I close my eyes, it grows louder.”

  “And the silence?”

  “I use it when something frightens me. When my father passed, I didn't hear any music for a long time. It was as if the world had shut off.” My fingertips moved like an S in the sand. “When I’m content with life, there is music all around me. I love my job because I’m around it, but when something scares me, I choose the silence. I come here.”

  “Are you scared now?”

  I exhaled. “Petrified.”

  “Why?”

  “You make me feel things I’ve never felt before,” I whispered.

  “I know that feeling well.”

  Weston held me in his arms, and the fear, excitement and hesitation washed over me. The sun set on the horizon and the lights came up from the Ferris wheel on the pier. Time passed before us, but we enjoyed each second.

  Weston’s phone rang. Shifting to the side, he pulled it from his back pocket. “Crap. I’m sorry, I have to get this.”

  I moved to let him stand, but he stayed put, his arm still around me. “Hey, man, what’s up? … No, I sent it earlier … Corrupted? Are you sure? … I’ll get it to you as soon as I can, but I’m going to have to cut a new take … Okay.”

  “Is everything okay?” I twisted my neck to look back at him as he shoved his cell back in his pocket.

  Weston’s lips pressed on the tip of my nose. “Nothing major, but I have to lay another track in the studio.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  The last time I had been in a recording studio was with my father. My mother dropped me off with him so she could go for her first chemo treatment, though we didn’t know it at the time. That night my mother was ill—violently ill. She sat us at the kitchen table and explained she had been diagnosed with ovarian cancer. That time in the music studio with my father was the last time I remembered him smiling.

  “Can I come with you?”

  “Sure.” He tightened his arms around my body and shielded me from the cold. His soft lips kissed my hair. “Let’s wait until the sun sets.”

  The drive from Santa Monica to Weston’s seemed to pass quickly. The scent of salt from the ocean lingered on my skin. We’d sat on the beach a few minutes longer, watching the sun set. Weston’s arms shielded me from the dropping temperature before we decided to leave.

  I couldn’t keep my eyes off of him. Never had I truly admired how handsome he was. I had spent the last few months hating him. I knew he was handsome in the sexiest way possible, but sitting in his car, admiring his masculine features as the street lights shone in, I was captivated by him. His jawline was rigid, his cheekbones high on his face, and his hair buzzed short. My hand reached across the wide leather front seat and I ran my fingertips up from his neck to his scalp. The prickles from his hair tickled my skin.

  I didn’t noticed that we’d parked until he peered over at me and the most delectable grin appeared on his face. “This will be quick.”

  I looked out the window and noticed we had stopped at a house. It was a Spanish-style ranch with clay roof tiles. The stucco had been painted taupe to compliment the elegant tiles, and pavers lined the driveway to the detached garage.

  I looked back at Weston. “This is your studio?”

  “That’s my studio.” He pointed to the detached garage. “That’s my house.” He shoved his door open and I followed him. The house seemed big for just him.

  “How many roommates do you have?”

  “None, why? Do you need a place to stay?” He winked a
nd slid a key into the door handle.

  “No, smart ass, it’s just that’s a big house.”

  “It’s my mother's house, and it’s not that big. She moved in with her new husband when they married, so I rent this from her.”

  Weston flicked the lights on in the garage and I felt as though I’d walked into a professional studio. Halfway into the room there was a dark merlot colored wall with a glass window. Behind the glass was the booth where black foam covered the four walls. A microphone and a chair occupied the floor, and against the red wall was one lager computer screen and a soundboard the length of the wall. Near the door where we stood was a black leather couch.

  “This is where the magic happens.” Weston walked inside, pressed random buttons and turned things on.

  “Holy crap. Clearly, this isn’t a hobby.”

  “No,” He pulled the computer chair out for me. “More like a passion. Sit.” He tapped the chair. “I’m going to need your help.”

  I eagerly took the seat; it had been years since I’d witnessed how music was made. And though my father was a successful musician, his studio looked like crap compared to this one. “What do you need me to do?”

  “A buddy of mine is mastering the file and he said the course is off. I’m going to sing the same part over and over, and I need you to press this button before I begin and this one once I’m done.”

  That sounded easy enough. Weston walked into the booth and placed his headphones over his ears. He then guided me to do the same. Retrieving them from the hook where they hung, I settled them over my ears.

  “Can you hear me?” His voice came through the small speakers and bolted through my body. It was as though he was inside my head. “This is easier so my neighbors don't call the cops. I’ll be the only one who can hear the music, and you’ll only hear me. If you need to talk to me, press the MIC button on the right next to the STOP button.”

  I nodded and gave him a thumbs up.