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“Sure,” Remy said. “And I want to add a snap to the hook—I’ll show you when we’re there.”
Vivi nodded. “Alright, let’s do this. Ready?”
“Ready,” Remy said, eyes on hers. He pressed a button. “We’re recording.”
Vivi began to play the guitar section, mouthing the words. She didn’t ask for a metronome track, and she didn’t need one—she kept in perfect time as she played, closing her eyes and rocking slightly when her pick hit the strings hard, dredging up the emotion the song wanted. Remy didn’t touch the track just yet; he looped the music back through to Vivi’s headphones so she could record the vocal track next.
“That wasn’t great,” she said when she’d finished. “Let me do it again. I want it to be…bigger. More meaningful.”
So she did—and again, and again, and then bits and pieces of the chorus. Remy listened carefully, trying to think of the music rather than the girl singing it. Truthfully, he rarely got to actually watch Vivi while she sang. He always saw her back, or the lights, or the production. She smiled when she sang, batted her eyes, acted out the lyrics a little—though the moment the song or lick stopped, she would shake her head and fiddle with the guitar, nag at herself for some imperfection or another.
“That wasn’t it either. Why I can’t get it right?” she snapped at herself—a tone Remy recognized, as he knew exactly what it was to fight for perfection in the studio.
“How about I record the percussion and play with the file a little, and we can come back to vocals later?” he suggested over the intercom. “Or we can lay down another song, if you need a break from this one?”
“What other song?” she asked, frowning.
“You brought your notebook—I meant, if you want to get a good guitar recording of anything you’re playing off, it might shake this one loose in your head. I can just run the board for you,” Remy said, waving to the control room.
“Oh,” Vivi said, looking a little astounded. “No—nothing in there is ready to be…no, I don’t think so.”
“Okay…” Remy said, hesitantly. “Really? I’m not saying you have to work on them withme, I was just offering—”
Vivi cut him off apologetically. “No, that’s not it—I just don’t think they’re ready. They’re not songs I’m ready to share with anyone, just yet.”
Remy did his best not to feel hurt by this—after all, it was her music, and he didn’t have a right to it just because he’d kissed her. He couldn’t help but wonder what the songs were about that was more of a secret than the things she’d already told him about Tuesday, about her family, about what it was to be Vivi Swan. What the songs were about that was more sacred than “Maybe It’s Me” in its current incarnation.
Remy shrugged off the curiosity as best he could and left the sound booth. He came around the corner into the studio, just as Vivi went to lift her guitar over her head. The action caused her sweater to lift the smallest bit, revealing a stomach smoothed by no doubt hours upon hours of private Pilates instruction. Remy noticed, however, not the arc of muscles beneath her skin but a tiny hint of ink at her hip.
“You have a tattoo,” Remy said automatically. Vivi jumped then tugged at her sweater, turning away from Remy as if doing so would erase the memory of what he’d just seen. “Too late for that,” Remy said, lifting his eyebrows. “What is it?”
“You weren’t supposed to see that,” she said with nervous laughter.
“Clearly,” Remy said, stifling a laugh as he crossed the room. He was struck by the need to approach her cautiously, like she might sprint away—perhaps because they were in a studio rather than a garden shrouded in moonlight. It made every action he took feel intentional rather than dreamlike. Still, he drew closer, closer, till they were a foot or so away from each other.
“Ugh,” she said and sighed as she dropped her hands to her sides. It was such a broken gesture that it softened Remy; he reached out a hand for her waist, sliding it over her hip, an inch or so above where the tattoo was hidden under fabric. Vivi closed her eyes a little and smiled then stepped closer to him.
“It’s not even a good tattoo,” she continued to argue, but her voice was melted.
The room was so quiet that Remy was almost certain he could hear her heart beating, or perhaps his—either way, it was picking up speed. Vivi shook her head, like she was surrendering, then lifted her arms up and looped them around Remy’s neck, her weight pulling his mouth to hers.
Remy didn’t care about the tattoo anymore, or the songs, or whatever other secrets she was keeping.
By now, the third time, Remy knew how to kiss her, knew how to lean in so she’d arch her back and smile against his skin. He knew where to find the wisps of hair at her neck and how chill bumps rose on her neck if he ran his lips along the place where her jaw met her ear. Vivi licked at his lower lip, so quick Remy almost doubted it’d happened, but then it happened a second time, and then again, until he dared to press his tongue against hers. She made a contented noise that swam down his throat and wrapped around his lungs.
“I wanted to do this right away, you know. But you went and locked yourself in the control room,” Vivi whispered.
“Studio time is expensive,” Remy said, and Vivi rolled her eyes then kissed him again, pressing against him hard enough that, were he braver, he’d lift her from the ground entirely. It was by accident that he saw the tattoo again—clearly this time. It was a treble clef, a simple design that had blurred a bit around the edges. He’d seen enough tattoos to know this one had been there for a while. Not ages and ages, but certainly five or six years.
“You saw it!” Vivi said accusingly, pulling away. She’d opened her eyes and seen where he was looking.
“I didn’t mean to!” Remy said. “It’s not a big deal.”
Vivi sighed, but she was smiling a little, an embarrassed sort of expression. “It’s stupid. Every girl in Nashville has one.”
“That’s not true. Some of them have eighth notes,” Remy said and danced his fingers across her hand. Vivi scowled at him then pulled her top and pants away from each other so Remy could see the tattoo again. She tucked her chin so she could see it too, shaking her head at herself.
“I got it with a friend,” she said. “Right after I signed my first deal. It was to celebrate—her brother did them. On his dining room table. It was super hygienic, I’m sure.”
