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“Yeah. I sing, and I play bass.”
My heart was literally racing. This girl was straight out of my dreams. “I play bass,” I said. It was true. I could also play guitar, piano, and drums, but I didn’t want to sound like I was bragging.
“Well, if you’re lucky, Finn,” Juliet said, “maybe I’ll let you play in my fucking band.”
I had written songs about love. I had sung love songs written by other people. My biggest, worldwide smash hit was about love. But that moment was the first time I had any idea what I had been singing about. That you could look at a person and think, How can I get more of this person? Even the smallest dose? What do I have to do?
My blood was rushing through my veins, hot and urgent, right here in this kitchen. I felt awake, alive. I could feel the tiles under my feet and the air against my skin. It was much better than coke.
“What’s your band called?” I managed to ask.
“The Muffins.” She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. On any other girl, that hair would look awful. On Juliet, it looked like goddess hair. “If you really can play bass, we should jam sometime.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know any of your songs, and you don’t know mine.”
“So we find something we both know. It can’t be that hard.”
I wanted to. More than anything, I wanted to sit down with Juliet and The Muffins and play something, anything. I didn’t care that she didn’t like my music and that I probably wouldn’t like hers.
“I can’t jam with you,” I said, the words hurting my chest. I leave for L.A. in—” I looked at the clock over the stove. “I leave in seven hours.”
“You just got here,” Juliet said. “This is your house. Stay a while and chill out. Get some sleep. Change your flight.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Jesus, Finn,” she said. “Doesn’t everyone here work for you? Tell them what to do, and then do whatever the fuck you want.”
“It’s complicated,” I argued.
“Is it?” She shrugged. “It doesn’t seem complicated to me.”
“I’m going to the Grammys.” I nearly shouted it, amazed that I had to explain to anyone why that was a big deal.
Juliet shrugged. “So go to the Grammys, then come back and jam. Tell everyone to fuck off. Have a little fun for once.”
“I have fun,” I argued.
“Do you? It doesn’t seem like it to me.”
She was twisting everything, making me mad, making me crazy. I wanted to kiss her, but I was sure that if I tried it, she’d push me away. From the party downstairs, Radiohead’s “Creep” started playing. It didn’t make me feel any less lonely.
“What are you doing here?” I asked her in frustration. “If you think I’m such an idiot, why are you partying in my house?”
“I told you to kick me out,” she shot back. “You should have done it when you had the chance.”
I scrubbed a hand over my face. “Why are you in the kitchen? Why aren’t you with your sister and Alistair?”
Juliet shrugged. “My boyfriend came up here a while ago. He said he was bringing back snacks.”
I dropped my hand. It took a second. Her boyfriend? She had a boyfriend?
And then I realized. The guy in the room down the hall—the guy making out with the topless girl—that was her boyfriend.
I felt my face go slack with shock.
Juliet might be drunk, but she was very perceptive. Or maybe she had reason to be suspicious. She narrowed her eyes at me. “What?”
Tell her. Don’t tell her.
