Page 110 of These Wicked Hearts

“It’s superstition. I always listen to Abba before games, but lately I’ve been listening to your voice. I mean, not your—I mean your music.”

He nods slowly. “Abba, huh?” I catch his smirk. “Is Atlas a dancing queen?”

My arms tighten around his waist. “It’s um, I listen to it to remind me of my mother. She loved Abba. It just makes me feel like she’s with me, I guess. She never got to experience this version of me.”

He looks up. “Did she pass away?”

My lungs seize up, but I don’t want to keep this in. The feelings I have about my mother are so twisted and confusing. I hate her and love her. I never want to talk to her ever again, but I miss her more than anything.

And I want to tell him about it. Not everything right now, but maybe a little.

“No um, she’s in prison. For life.” I swallow. “I haven’t seen her since I was a kid.” The guilt is killing me, but I just can’t. There’s too much pain and resentment in me to handle that. “I miss her a lot, though. I wonder sometimes how she’s doing.”

“Would you⁠—”

I drop a kiss onto his mouth to quiet his question.

He pulls back, glaring. “Don’t distract me.”

I press a kiss to the back of his head. “I’d never do that.”

“You distract me all the time,” Gage admits.

“That’s because I’m incredibly distracting.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And sexy. Sexily distracting.”

He smiles, shaking his head. “You’re insufferable.”

“Insufferably sexy?”

He shakes his head, adjusting the guitar before plucking the strings. The room feels warm, the smell of his shampoo floating in the space between us. I listen quietly with my arms around his waist, and the soft melody of his lyrics calms my heart. There’s this song of Riot Heart’s called “Twisted Intentions,” about a man who tries so hard to do the right thing, but the world around him breaks him down and turns him into a villain. It’s a sad song, but the way he sings it, it feels like hope. I’ve noticed that a lot about their music. Even the sad songs are filled with hope.

My thumb soothes his stomach with him warm in my lap. “That sounds nice.”

He looks back at me with a soft smile. “For a while now, this has all felt like work. I don’t want to complain, because I’m incredibly privileged to do what I do, but sometimes I wish it was just me and my guitar again. No pressure, no fans’ expectations, no management telling me what to do. Just me and my guitar.” He shakes his head. “I was so poor back then, but so free.”

The gentle hum of the chords floats between us while I let his words sink in. My arm tightens around his waist on instinct. It’s there to ask him about his childhood. I know he was in foster care, but he hasn’t given me anything more.

“Do you like writing music?”

“I actually enjoy it more than singing.”

“Really?”

He nods. “Sometimes writing feels like the world disappears for a while. It’s like this calm that settles over me. Writing down how I feel. I just write and then later I’ll try and put it together. It’s therapy and healing and—” He shakes his head. “It’s just the best feeling in the world. When I write, I feel the most like me I can ever feel.”

“Would you write a song about me?”

“What?” He laughs, looking up at me.

“You know. A song about how ridiculous I am. How annoying I am.”

He shakes his head with a soft smile. “For the record, your ridiculousness is my favorite thing about you.” He looks up at me, and the room suddenly feels way too small. “You say the most insane things so casually.”

“I am a simple man.”