Roots and sky, p.13
Roots and Sky, page 13
I glance over at Al, and he gives me a thumbs-up.
I would offer to let him stay the night—with Kinley’s permission, of course—but I know Al. He prefers being on the road and really likes driving at night. He won’t stop until he hits Kansas, and I wouldn’t put it past the crazy bastard to try to make it to Topeka.
Kinley’s voice rings out from the house, distracting me.
“Why are there five guitars in my foyer?”
I snort and make my way up the steps. She’s standing by the five cases, unable to hide her amusement.
“Well, you’ve got Old Faithful, then I figured you wouldn’t mind playing my Martin acoustic…unless you want to keep renting someone else’s guitar.”
She huffs out a disagreeable sound. “Like I’d bypass the opportunity to play a Martin.”
“Cool, cool. Then there’s my Strat, my Les Paul, and I went ahead and had Al pull my Fender bass. Figured I could teach you a simple bass line in case it’s helpful.”
With one brow cocked all the way up, she walks to the case marked Fender, opens it, attaches the strap, pulls it against her body, and plays the bass line to “Higher Ground.”
I blink at her and consider hitting my knee again.
I’m going to marry this girl.
I roll my eyes at my dramatic inner dialogue but grab the back of her neck and pull her in for an even dirtier, deeper kiss. Al clears his throat, and I pull away, wanting to drag her to bed and not let her out until she has to run an IV.
Holy fuck.
“That was so fucking sexy. I might actually be pregnant,” I whisper in her ear. “I can tell you’re as turned on as I am.”
“I hate you so much right now,” she whispers back.
“No, you don’t.”
She scrunches her nose before shoving the bass at me and stalking off to the kitchen.
“Seriously. You need to marry that girl,” Al says in that rumbly way of his.
“You might be right, Al. You might be right.”
I hold the last note a little longer this time and add some reverb. This second song might be a bigger hit than the first. I don’t want to jinx it, but I’ve had this feeling three other times, and I’ve been right each time. It’s amazing when something comes together so naturally.
I just have to figure out how I can bottle the magic of this place—or, more reasonably, find out how to keep coming back here. I mean, it’s not like there aren’t a ton of flights from Denver to Nashville. Hell, I’m technically homeless.
As my thoughts get away from me, footsteps from behind grab my attention. I turn to find Kinley, still in her scrubs, leaning against the doorframe. Her hair is in a loose, messy knot at the nape of her neck, her mascara’s a little smeared, and she’s aiming a proud smile right at me.
I could bask in her brand of sunshine forever.
Setting the guitar on its stand, I walk over to her, pulling her into my arms.
“Hey,” I whisper in her hair.
We haven’t seen much of each other this past week, and I miss her, even though I sleep next to her each night. I know she’d never take money from me outright, but I can see the toll her job is taking on her, and I’m rushing to get these songs ready so she has options.
I think she’s been trying to hide how burnt out and ambivalent she is, but I see it. Hell, if this whole health scare taught me anything, it’s that I’m the queen of burnout, and you can only ignore that shit for so long before your health takes a hit. I find I want Kinley healthy and happy for the foreseeable future.
She melts into my hold, smelling of her apple shampoo, a drugstore musk that smells like heaven on her, and hanitizer.
By the way, she says hanitizer instead of hand sanitizer, and every time she does, I want to declare my everlasting love and devotion to her.
God, she’s everything.
“You’ve been working so hard, baby.”
“Mm. I like it when you call me baby,” she murmurs. “Thankfully, I’ve got the weekend off.”
“Good. Maybe you can play a little with me tomorrow?” I ask, hoping not to sound too needy. Something about playing around on the instruments with her reminds me how much fun creating can actually be.
“But only if you want to,” I tack on, knowing I’d never want her to see it as an obligation or a chore.
“Sounds amazing,” she hums, tired but happy.
“In the meantime, I have a sandwich waiting for you, and maybe I can help you take a shower?” I ask, kissing her forehead.
She comes alive at the mention of food and gives me grabby hands. I step into the kitchen to get the sandwich and refill her water. We make our way down the hallway, Kinley taking bites with one hand while removing clothes with the other.
She’s naked except for her socks by the time we reach our room, and she’s folding her crusts into the napkin. I’ll have to remember that for next time. No crust. Palming her round ass, I direct her toward the bed, where she leans against the frame to take off her socks. I go into the bathroom, get the hot water started, and then disrobe.
After she washes her face, I take over. Her long, shiny chocolate locks feel amazing in my fingers, and I shampoo and condition the strands with care. Knowing she’s fading fast, I quickly wash her body, and if I linger for a second or two on some of my favorite spots, I can’t imagine anyone would blame me. We towel each other off, finish our nighttime routines, and then meet in bed.
Even though we’re naked, tonight isn’t about sex. It’s about connection, and I sigh as she scoots into my hold. I place my hand on her chest, and she covers it with her hand. She’s asleep within seconds, but somehow, I feel like I’m the one who’s dreaming.
I don’t know how I’ll make this work, but I’m never letting her go.
Chapter 14
Kinley
This thing with Mac and me has only intensified with her in my house and bed. She’s not much of a talker when it comes to matters of the heart, but I can tell from the way she looks at me, holds me, takes care of me, respects my opinions…even if she’s not totally where I’m at, she’s getting there.
God, how that scares me. Even if this isn’t all some construction of an altered mind, you don’t get to her level of fame without making the hard choices. I don’t know how I come out in a battle of her career versus me. I try not to think about it in those terms, but that’s where my brain keeps going.
Another thing we haven’t really talked about is how much she’s been doing. She’s started getting up at the crack of dawn with me while I’m getting ready for work, already setting up for the day in what we’re calling Studio West—RIP, sitting room. She’s very fulfilled, I can tell, and genuinely loving what she’s doing. It’s so goddamned special to see. But when I get home from a long day, she’s still going at it.
The whole thing worries me and makes me take an even closer look at my own level of burnout. It’d be pretty easy to lie to myself, but in my braver moments, I admit this career is taking more than it’s giving. I’m still too afraid to ask what that means, but something has to change.
Thing is, I don’t think Mac feels the same way about her level of overwork and stress. I suspect she’s been doing this as a matter of course, even though it’s far too much with her—and she would absolutely scoff at this designation—fragile health.
I’m afraid to say anything, so I call her tour doc. I don’t want her to feel like I’m going behind her back, but I need some insight. Dr. K’s horrified when I tell her how long Mac’s days have been.
“She is supposed to be on rest. Actual rest.”
“This is my fault. I encouraged the singing and the guitar playing because they went well with her physical therapy sessions, but now she’s overdoing it.”
“No, Kinley. This is all her. She’s falling back into her old pattern, not learning a damn thing. If Mac’s not on the road, she’s in the studio, dogged, almost like she’s afraid she’s going to lose it all and be right back where she started.”
“Does she not realize who she is? Not just like who she is as an artist, but who she is to other people?”
“That is a very good question. I bet she’d have a very interesting answer for you.”
“What should I do?”
“My dear, this one might be beyond you. She probably needs somebody who’s known her a bit longer to intervene. Give me another day or two, and I’ll give you a call.”
Now, twenty-four hours later, I’m an anxious ball of nerves, scared about what I may have set into motion. If I’m being honest—like the kind of honest that scoops out the marrow of your bones and leaves you feeling hollow—I’m terrified she’ll see how much I’ve interfered and leave.
I like to think of myself as a confident, modern woman, but I’ve been reduced to a needy little girl by this scarred, imperfect, powerhouse human being.
This morning, however, feels perfect, and I again doubt my sanity. Mac and I are in the music room, picking out the chords on another song she’s started, and it’s so…idyllic. Perfect, really.
I impressed her the other day with my little bass-line show but then had to admit it’s the only bass line I’ve ever learned. Worse, it’s the result of my shamefully massive crush on Anthony Kiedis. Mac cracks up for a good ten minutes after I admit to the subterfuge.
Wheezing, she asks, “You do know it was Flea who played the bass, right?”
“Duh. This delusion may have included imagining we were playing together, and he and I harmonized perfectly, okay?”
Once she stops laughing, she shows me a few basics. I manage to quickly pick up what she’s laying down, and I discover that I kinda like the laid-back feel of the bass line.
I’m practicing the chords on her new song when there’s a knock at the door. Worried Freddy and Mason—who we’ve barely heard from since they took over the cabin—might be having a problem, I set aside the bass and hop up, walking quickly to the door.
I vaguely recognize the man standing on my front porch, but I can’t say that I know him. He’s definitely not local. If I had to describe him, I’d say he’s right at the intersection of gay and Nashville. His face is preternaturally smooth, his brows are perfectly waxed, he’s got far too nice a tan for the middle of winter, his cowboy boots are a gorgeous iridescent black leather, his jeans look like they’ve been made especially for him, and his lamb’s wool jacket is a little too clean.
“Gene!” Mac shouts, gleefully pushing me aside.
Oh…shit. That’s why he looks familiar. It’s Gene Humbolt, CEO of Out There Records. Mac’s record label.
I curse Dr. K in my head as I take his jacket from him, noting that even his basic waffle-weave Henley looks expensive.
Mac brings her boss in for a massive hug. “So glad to see you!”
Gene pulls back and gives Mac a once-over.
“Look at you! Good coloring, you’ve kept your weight up, and you’re out of the boot.”
“I’m only walking with the cane because Kinley insists I have it on hand, just in case.”
“That Kinley, she’s good people,” Gene says, aiming his sparkling eyes in my direction.
Yeah, let’s see if Mac agrees with that by the end of this conversation.
“So, what brings you out?”
“I’m checking in on you. I’ve been so busy finalizing Kole Berber’s contract that I haven’t been able to come back and check on you. I heard you’re making music again and wanted to see it for myself.”
Mac gets this shrewd look on her face—because she’s not an idiot—and she looks at me, lifting her chin. “Yeah? Who told you that?”
“I have my sources. I’m also being told you’re putting in long sessions, which seems unreasonable given everything, don’t you think?”
Mac glares at me, and I raise my hands, trying to look innocent, probably failing miserably.
Turning back to Gene, she asks, “Did you really come out here to tell me I’m working too hard?”
He grins. “Yep.”
“I’m an adult. I know my limits.”
“Sure, but here’s the thing,” he says, shifting subtly out of friend mode and into boss mode. “When you’re a record executive—that’d be me—for a major music star—that’d be you—and that major music star dies from overwork? It looks bad, reputation-wise, you understand. So stop giving Kinley death glares and know this is a purely selfish call.”
Mac thins her lips but nods and leads Gene into our makeshift studio. I bring in an extra chair, and we sit in a circle. Mac grabs Old Faithful, and I recognize it as a defensive move. I think Gene clocks it as well because he picks up her Martin, strumming a familiar tune.
“So, talk me through this new song of yours,” he says, adjusting the tuning pegs.
Mac looks at me accusatorially, then gestures at her boss. “We could be making love right now, but now I’m going to hafta sit here and take a scolding.”
“Yes, darling,” I say dryly, not buying it for one second. “Gene looks like he’s ready to rip you a new one.”
Gene snorts. “I like her.”
“Besides,” I continue, grabbing the Fender while ignoring Mac’s disgruntledness, “I would like to continue making love to you for the foreseeable future, which becomes infinitely more difficult when you are dead. So, if Gene can get you to back off just a little, then—and this is purely selfish—he can read you the riot act if he wants to.”
Turning to Gene, I lift my chin. “That D string is a little flat. And you might’ve overshot the A by a hair.”
Gene stares at Mac, who sighs, put-upon. “Kinley’s got perfect pitch.”
Gene lets out a rough laugh, shaking his head.
“What?”
He and I exchange a look, and he refocuses on the guitar, making the adjustments.
“Nothing, Mac. I’m just happy I came for a visit. Now, show me these songs you’ve been working on.”
I reach for the music stand behind me and set it in front of him, pointing out the rhythm guitar section on “Roots and Sky.” He leans in, reading the notes intently as he ghosts a few strings, getting the feel of it.
“Uh-huh. Yep. I see it.”
“You have no idea how happy that makes me,” Mac deadpans.
Neither of us rises to the bait, so she lets out another very dramatic, put-upon sigh, then counts the beat.
Comfortable with the song, she and I play and harmonize. Gene isn’t a slouch, and after a couple of sloppy chords, he picks up the rhythm. We’d been adding his part in electronically, but having the live guitar adds a warmth I didn’t know was missing.
After the last chord rings out, Gene sets the guitar on its stand and goes quiet for a moment. Mac and I exchange a nervous glance. Just because it sounds good to me doesn’t mean the money guy will agree.
“Hot damn, Mac. This song is going to hang out at the top of the chart for weeks. And that bridge? I can see a thousand gay kids making TikToks on that sound alone.”
“TikTok? Really?” she says, her face sour.
“Yes. Really. Don’t discount it just because you don’t understand it,” he says, unimpressed by her pouting. “It’s the same with your recovery. Just because you don’t think you need to take it easy doesn’t mean you’re right.”
“I’m taking it seriously, Gene. Look how far I’ve come. It’s not like I’m working twelve hours straight. Sometimes I go into town. Sometimes I take a nap. Sometimes I go on a hike. I’m doing really, really well.”
I wrinkle my brow, sending Mac a look.
“What?” she asks, dead set on her disgruntled attitude.
“Where are you hiking and with whom?” I ask, knowing I’m not going to like the answer.
She shifts her jaw to the side, rubbing the back of her head. “Er, around here. In the foothills.”
“How are you getting to the foothills?”
“Uhhh…your ATV?”
Gene takes over for me, which is good because I’m about to lose it.
“I’m sorry, can you clarify for me that you’ve been driving—which, correct me if I’m wrong, you’re not cleared to do—and hiking in the foothills…by yourself?”
“Yes?”
“Mm. And do you have so much as an Apple watch or Find My Phone turned on?”
“I don’t like being tracked.”
Gene starts to go in, but I cut him off, ticked to high heaven.
“Is it because when either the stroke or the bears get you, you want a picked-over bloated corpse for us to find, or…”
Mac drops her hands to her sides and her head back. “Oh. My. Goooodddd. Y’all are a bunch of mother hens. I am fine. I have been fine for weeks. My speech is clear, my voice is nearly back to a hundred percent, my guitar playing, while not perfect, is pretty damn good on the slower songs, and things are improving.”
Gene squares up. “Mackenzie Loveless Nash, if you don’t take your recovery seriously, and I mean right this instant, I will pull you from every upcoming project for the next two years.”
“You can’t do that! I’m on a roll! I feel fantastic, better than I have in years, and it’s because of the music and the fresh air, and—when she’s not being an absolute pain in my ass—this goddamn shrew right here!”
My mouth drops open. “Are you fucking pointing at me?”
“Yes! You’ve changed my goddamned life, but you aren’t my mother!”
“I’m not trying to be your mother, you asshole! I’m trying to love you, even though I know you’re going to leave me here. The least you could fucking do is not get yourself killed with this lunacy in the short time you have left!”
She loosens her jaw, ready to fire off one of her classic retorts, then stops.
“Wait. You love me?”
I ball my hands into fists and shake them at her. “Yes, you fucking lesbian. What gave it away, oh sapphic genius? The fact I moved the boys to the cabin so I could spend more time with you? The fact that I let you take over my sitting room with an entire studio’s worth of equipment?” I shout, gesturing at the room around us. “The fact I learned your songs? The fact I’ve enjoyed making music with you more than anything I’ve ever done in my life?”
