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But he didn’t know that particular look.
She studied him for a beat and that soft smile grew a little. “You’re still relatively new here. But those of us who’ve been around for a while know this studio isn’t ordinary. It has magical powers.”
“Magic, huh?” he asked with a chuckle. “Magic isn’t real, Nik. Pretty sure I’m safe in that department.” He spun back around to see if Shawn was ready yet.
Nikki was a goof. Though he couldn’t really argue with her belief system. After all, she’d made an award-winning album within these walls and André had miraculously gotten his shit together too. To her, that had probably felt a lot like magic.
“It’s okay, Ace,” she said, a not so small edge of smugness in her tone. “You don’t have to believe in magic for it to still knock you on your ass.”
He spun around to say something snarky in return, but she was gone.
“Fuckin’ nut,” he muttered.
Shawn returned to the drum kit and shot him a thumbs up through the window.
And Asa completely forgot about Nikki’s warning.
He made it home in time for dinner that night. It had been a very productive day for both him and Shawn.
Shawn had moved around some music.
And Asa had moved around some internal baggage.
It felt…good. Really good.
He and Zara made linguini together and split a bottle of wine. They ate on the roof terrace, talking about anything and everything as the sun sank low in the sky. They did the dishestogether and she asked if he wanted to open another bottle of wine.
He really did.
Grabbing a new bottle of Riesling from the wine fridge (he’s learned it was Zara’s favorite), he poured them each a glass that would be considered way too full and joined her in the music room. Which was how he’d been referring to where the piano was.
She was still in black leggings and the cropped Bon Jovi tee but she was barefoot. He walked in as she was putting her hair into a sloppy bun on top of her head. She sat crossed legged on an ottoman with an electric guitar in her lap. It was plugged into a small amp he didn’t remember seeing in there before.
“Can I show you something?” she asked as he handed her the glass.
“Absolutely,” he replied, taking a seat at her feet.
She smiled, taking a drink of wine. “You’re so great,” she said. She set the glass aside and adjusted the guitar on her lap. “Now this is still very, very rough so bear with me,” she warned.
And then she proceeded to blow him away.
It wasn’t her typical sound. It was moody and rich, the chords pulled from somewhere deep in her soul. She was finger picking on a Fender Stratocaster (because of course she was) like she’d invented the concept. The sound reverberated through the air and into his soul.
This fucking woman.
The song didn’t have words. But he heard the story in it. The way it rose and fell, the chorus, the bridge. The sound took hold of something in his chest and he wondered if every song she wrote would have this effect on him.
She finished and reached for her glass of wine. “What do you think?” she asked, taking a long drink.
What did he think? How was he supposed to put what he’d just experienced into words that wouldn’t sound trite or cliché?
How was he supposed to tell her that she wasn’t like any musician he had ever known? That she was unlikeanyonehe’d ever known?
She walked around this world with her heart held up in front of her, sharing it with a world that didn’t deserve it. Daring it to be better, do better,feelbetter.
“I know it needs, you know, all the things. But…” She shrugged.
“It’s amazing,” he said softly. She flashed a quick smile. He took a deep breath. “Is this what you’ve been working on?” he asked, hearing the jagged edges in his voice. Because it had hit him that deep.
