Chapter 6

"Son of a bitch," Richie snarled. He'd been working all through the night. The song had dug deep like a tick and the stupid thing wasn't going anywhere until he finished it. He could hear the song in his head, but just as soon as he started to pick out the cords it went flat and elusive. He'd sent Was home and caught an hour on the couch, but they were back at it.

He flexed his fingers. They ached something fierce, but he wanted this fucker out of his head dammit. "Play it back!" he called out. When the song filled the recording room he winced. "Fucking piece of goddamn piss poor--" He broke off as her face filled the window. "Fucking great," he muttered and paced away his anger.

Great, it was time to be studied. He still wasn’t sure he liked how intently she watched him. Those gold eyes of hers saw too much, yet she never spoke about what she saw. He couldn’t get a reading off her, and he was good at reading women dammit. Well I used to be.

She nodded her greeting before noticing the tightness of his lips. She'd wondered how long it would take before it came out, the pissy nothing was right with the world look. For a moment or two she'd actually thought he might be immune to the trappings of that particular emotion. Guess she was wrong about that. You been wrong about a lot of things about him and you know it.

He wasn't getting his way about something and it showed plainly on his face, from the tight lips to the wrinkle of his brow. She tilted her head then turned and moved towards what had become her spot the last few days and quickly set up. Today should be interesting; she gave him one hour to finally blow the gasket he was holding onto so tightly.

Ignoring her as he'd done the last two days he motioned for Was to turn up the volume. Maybe louder he'd find the wrong note. Next turn was headphones as he followed along trying to recreate the song again. Sometimes that pulled the pieces out so he could pick them apart. He heard the offending strain of notes and scrubbed his hands in his hair.

Striding out into the control booth he snatched a pair of headphones off the wall. Turning around, he came to a stop. He'd peeled his contacts off somewhere around four in the morning so he hadn't gotten much more than a blurry image of her when she'd walked in. Now...he swallowed. The anger simmered to a boil. His sleepless night was topped off with a grey princess. Her lemony white hair was strangled back into some sort of complicated braid. Fat icy grey lapels disguised her top half as usual, but the pants hugged her from hip to thigh. Christ, he needed to get laid if this chick was starting to get to him.

She was a goddamn suit. Instead of the flash of color that he'd come to associate with her glasses and shirts, it was a mottled grey that promised something vibrant that he'd been denied. Like he needed anything else today. Wide rimmed glasses framed her eyes leaving the single bit of color to be her eyes.

Eyes that said back off in their hard crystal gold. His grip tightened on the padded head strap. He nodded at her. "Lex," he said by way of greeting and headed back into the studio before he said something stupid like...why the fuck aren't you wearing a color? She'd think he was freakin' nuts.

She glanced up curiously into distant unfocused eyes and wondered for a minute or two if he'd been drinking. His eyes were bloodshot, his gaze not nearly as focused as usual. "Need something Mr. Sambora?"

He stopped at the door jamb. "Yeah, call me Richie. Anything but mister today, all right?"

She leaned back, studying him intently. "I don't call clients by a first name, it’s unprofessional."

His fingers tensed on the doorway then eased. "Yeah, whatever," he said and kept on moving. Hard ass wouldn't even call him Richie after days in his company. "Keep me at a distance much longer, sweetheart, and you'll be here every goddamn day before you get what you want." He looked over his shoulder. "Or maybe that's what you want?"

Her brow lifted slowly as she shook her head. Well add rude to the mixture, kinda disappointing really, he'd seemed the nice type too. "I have no idea what you mean." Sure you don’t Alex. She turned back to her laptop and typed for a moment, letting the thoughts wash through her. Why the hell was he so growly? It had all sounded ok, almost, although in her mind the words weren’t fitting the music like they usually did.

Wrestling down the rude remarks that were picking away at him, he sat down and blocked her out with music. He was operating on less than ideal sleep. Even when he was recording and stretched himself to exhaustion sometimes he rarely got all the way down to an hour's sleep so early in the recording process. He lifted his glasses and guitar, reading the page he'd scrawled all over a thousand and one times last night. How many times was he going to rearrange the melody and the bridge? He motioned for Donnie to feed him the song.

"Maybe we should move onto an--"

"Just play it," Richie interrupted. If he could move on he would have. Was usually knew that. He mimicked the notes as they blasted his eardrums. His eyes opened as her golden eyes watched him. Always watching and always apart from the song. Sidelines and reserved, that was the ice princess. Just once he'd like to see a reaction out of her. He knocked off the thousand dollar headphones and watched her this time. The song there...blooming and changing as her eyes left the laptop and locked on his. His mouth opened a little, his tongue wetting his dry lips as her breath shuddered out.

Tipping his head back, he felt the kick of power as the song finally spoke to him. "Fuckin' A," he growled. "Tell me you got that, Don?"

The tinny mic filled the room. "You better fucking believe it."

She forced herself to breathe again and tried to turn back to the laptop. He'd been struggling with the music that was all. The emotion of the music wasn’t fitting the words she'd heard all morning. Those lyrics had spoken of hope and belief in the future, but the music wasn't fitting that, as a matter of fact the music seemed too urgent too desperate somehow.

She'd glanced up for just a moment, and his eyes had met hers, she'd felt the music change in that moment, felt it swell, and shivered. Hell it had taken her breath and she knew it. Well at least he'd finally gotten it right, at least at that part, maybe his attitude would improve. Tearing her eyes away from the studio view she went back to her computer, her fingers flying as she made note after note.

"Donny, I'm taking a break." He stood, scraping his fingers through his hair. His producer nodded and wandered away. He scribbled a few notes in the margins and headed into the anteroom. The familiar click and clack of her nails over the keys had him leaning in. He never could figure out what she was typing about all the time, but she was either clicking a mouse or those keys every time he looked over at her. "Tell me what you heard," he said without preamble. He'd finally noticed a change in her. A connection to something other than her lab rat demeanor. He wasn't something to study dammit. It was music. It was emotional.

Her fingers stilled as she looked up. "A song." That's all it was right? Just a song on his album. He didn’t need to ask her what she heard, he'd just played it.

Incredulous, he just stared at her. She went back to her keyboard as if he'd asked her how the damn weather was. "You know, I hope to God you're not really as cold as you come off, Mz. Walker." He stalked out of the room.

She fought to keep it in, she had to remain cool and business like, but dammit he kept walking off. "You should know what I heard Mr. Sambora. You played it."

He stopped. "You're a fucking artist and you didn't feel a damn thing?" He turned around, stepping into her space. "I saw it in your eyes. I saw a reaction for one split second. You were there with me in the moment."

Her brow quirked, "I never said I didn't ...." she frowned a moment, her finger lifting to push her frames back up on her nose, and scrambled for something to say that wouldn’t show exactly how deeply the songs affected her. "You asked me what I heard not what I felt."

The scent of her messed with his head and he stepped back. "Now you're just being obtuse. Jesus, work with me here, Lex." He paced through the viewing room where she'd set up shop for the third day in a row. "I want to help you find the heart of my songs, but how I can do that if you just sit there and give nothing back?" He nudged her laptop. "I need to get out of here. I'm going to get some air, see if I can write somewhere else." He grabbed his notebook. "Either come with me or don't. Your choice."

She closed the laptop and stuffed it in her tote before standing. She tilted her head and in some odd way understood he needed something, she wasn’t sure what, to help him figure out what he needed in that song. Against her better judgment she felt herself nodding. Fresh air would be nice. "I'm ready if you are."