He splayed his fingers out over the varnished door. "And here I am. I see a lot of the kooky shit out there and it always makes for an interesting conversation, if nothing else."
Her hand tightened on the glass a moment, "Can't say anyone's ever tried to kill me” she paused her lips twisting into a near grin, “even accidently before though, that would be a new thing for me.'
He nodded to the water. "I'd give you something more," his grin widened, "robust, but I don't know where your bar is." He looked over his shoulder, "or If you even have adult bevvy's here."
That's what she needed, something to ease the coils of tensed knots in her belly. "Above the fridge. Close enough to the ice id say."
Richie stood, flipping open the cupboard. High end bourbon, vodka and Jamison's stared back at him, leaving a dry taste in his mouth. Not sure if he would be able to stop himself from dipping into the Jamison's, he grabbed the Grey Goose. He had lost his taste for vodka, so it was safest. A sturdy, stack of lead crystal tumblers were handily next to it.
He turned back to her, splashing a generous two fingers into the glass. "Ice?"
She jerked her gaze to the man and pulled herself back into the moment. She had to quit replaying that four minutes of time, it wasn't helping her any. "Just a couple."
She watched as he deftly clinked in a couple of pieces of ice and walked back to the table noting he only had one glass.. "Not a drinker?"
He curled his fingers around his OJ, remembering the burn of a screwdriver, and also its sour taste, the morning after he'd had seven of them. "I don't drink anymore." He lifted his juice. "It's not good for my skin," he said with a wink.
There was a story behind that, she was sure, and it had a lot to do with his music now. "Right.."
She took a sip of the drink and felt the heat seep into her chilled bones. She continued to sip as she contemplated the next thing to say, then nodded to herself as she centered her gaze on his face. "Plays into the name of the album doesn’t it?"
He tapped his finger against the glass, watching her body ease back against her chair. The wild blue of her shirt stretched against her chest, tapering into the slim black of what was left of her suit. The pinched look was gone from her face and he was loathe to swipe it away with his usual answer.
"I hurt a lot of people when I used to drink. I still sometimes have to fight against it, and I lose sometimes," he confessed. "But it's okay to see everything clearly again. Even if some of it sucks." He hooked his hand over the back of his chair, resting the glass against his stomach. "I'm always looking for redemption in all of its forms."
"Not something ya have to look for, its just there. Big question is forgiving the self long after others have forgiven." She stopped suddenly, knowing she was talking more of herself than she'd meant too. "I have to admit," She took a big swallow of her drink, more for nerves than anything. "You're not exactly what I thought at first."
Fighting the frown that simple phrase brought out in him, he filed away the forgiveness angle for another night. "What were you expecting?"
She tried to fight the rising blush and lost partly. "Admittedly after years doing what I do, I've met the motliest array of idiots, weirdo's and flakes that didn't know one end of an instrument from the other, each note or word choreographed for them. Only thing genuine about them was their lack of, I dunno, soul?"
She leaned forward as she watched him intently, "But you're not like that, It's deep beneath your skin, you are music or its you; I haven’t decided yet."
He pressed his lips together as he tried to figure out just what that meant, when the woman had clearly held herself so separate from his music for the last handful of days she'd worked with him. "Music is part of me, I don't think I could live without it even if Bon Jovi broke up tomorrow. It's everything I am..." he trailed off, her golden eyes searching his. "It's my legacy both to my name and the family I have and hope to have someday."
"The legacy is more than just the words or the tones, it’s in the feelings it inspires. If you touch someone, if they see it having worth, whether it makes money or not; that’s the legacy." She lifted the drink to her lips and sipped. He'd gotten it right in part, she knew that, and she knew its why she'd stopped painting, no one had seen the worth in what she did.
Richie's fingers couldn't stop the trip across the table. Even when she stilled under his hand, he curled them around her free hand. "Money's nice, but when I do my solo work, it is what it is." The tension had returned in her at his touch, so he pulled back. "No matter how it sells. I need to say something, I take the time. I've come to a point in my life where I have that luxury and I'll take it." He circled his glass with both hands. "But I'd be just as happy bumming around in no name bars if that was the only way I could play."
He had a feeling there was more to that statement, but the night was already heavy with confession and he saw her starting to shut down on him.
She watched him pull back and closed her eyes. She could almost feel his race to the door. With her drink burning in her tummy she watched him, knowing somehow words were past speaking, yet in this singular instance not wanting to be left alone with thought and memory.
"I can see that ya know, the bumming around just to play. Seems you somehow."
He smiled. "Well, if you want to see me in my element, you'll have to come down to the Lion's Den, Thursday. I'm doing a round robin thing with a bunch of musicians." He looked down at the table, away from her gold eyes that were far too soft right now. The adrenaline had bumped into pretty potent vodka and she was two fingers of Grey Goose away from tumbling into that frilly bed of hers. And if he didn't get out of there, he'd try to figure out a way to follow her.
She blushed then, her cheeks heating, "I've seen you, didn't exactly mean too, but it was illuminating."
He laughed, tipping his head back. "You did?"
She nodded, "Little restaurant close to the studio, I stopped to have dinner and low and behold you came out and played. Guess it was the first time I actually saw YOU and not my first impression of you. You were relaxed and laughing, not so snarly."
"I don't snarl," at her raised brow, he frowned. "Much," he qualified.
"Wanna tell that to someone whose not spent the last week or so hearing it constantly?" She grinned, her brow lifting slightly, "wrong note, big snarl."
He downed the rest of the glass and stood, going to her sink. "Personally, I didn't think you cared one way or another. You barely speak, while we're in the studio."
"I'm at work, it’s my job to be that way." Her words were soft as she shifted the glass back and forth, her gaze intent on the slowly melting cubes of ice.
He looked over his shoulder, unsure of his steps as she watched the ice melt in her glass. "Your job sucks."
"Not when I get it right." She glanced up, and stilled, "this time it’s important to get it right."
"It's just as important to feel the music as to observe, Lex." He moved closer to her. "How on earth will you find me, if you sit behind the glass and your glasses with that cool stare?"
She wrinkled her nose then shrugged, "I do feel it, I just don't know how to put things in words. Words aren't my thing."
He crouched before her again, the lemon with a hint of heat unfurled from her hair as she turned to him. All that pale gold falling over her shoulders made him itch to touch. "I don't need words, but you did a pretty good job of explaining them tonight." He tapped the frosty bottle on the table. "Something tells me you don't need this to let them come out."
A half grin coasted onto her lips as she inhaled and caught his scent, it was like a heady mixture of patchouli, or maybe sandlewood, she always got those two confused. "Just a good listener."
Well, that was good enough for now. And it should be more than enough. She was just supposed to observe him, no matter that he wanted more from her. More reaction, more--He stood. No way, no need to go there. He couldn't afford more. He didn't have more to give.
This wasn't the type of woman to slide into a bed and forget. This definitely wasn't the kind of woman that he could lose himself in for a few hours and go back to work. This kind of woman became work, became more. He shrugged into his leather jacket. "Well, good listener...will you be there tomorrow?"
She nodded, words sticking in her throat. She didn't know why, but the words ‘don't go’ were clawing their way into her throat and she knew, if she opened her mouth they'd pour out. She didn't know why him, or why now, other than the near death thing had taken her all off base, but in this one instant, she wanted him to do more than pour a drink and leave, but she had to stay quiet, had to let him go, so she could stare at walls all night until time to again go back to work.
He leaned down, impulse fought with good sense as he brushed a kiss along her cheek. He looked into her wary eyes, watching the gold deepen to amber. "Are you sure you'll be all right?"
The truth was there, hovering on her lips, the need to say no, its too much, but she didn't know how to be anything other than what she was, The barest quiver, had her words whispering into the room. "Gotta be, right?"
She stood, following him to the door. Part of him wanted to stay. The chaise in the corner could fit him for a few hours. His eyes drifted to the king size bed, then back to her face. If he stayed, he'd end up in that bed. He felt the wavering need for that life-affirming touch. Even if he wanted to lose himself there, in what could be amazing, he knew it was wrong. Knew that she'd hate him.
He stopped at the door, watching her wary eyes as they looked at anything but him. Her long, lean arms holding herself so close. He tugged her in, wrapping her arms around his neck as he pulled her stiff body into his. "I'm sorry you had to experience that today, sorry you had go through it.”
For the briefest moment she lost herself in the easy hug, her forehead resting against his shoulder. "Don't mention it. Guess a little excitement never killed anyone."
He snorted at her black humor. He pulled away, her pale hair felt like corn silk as it slid around his fingers. He resisted the urge to close his eyes. "I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"
She nodded, a strange sense of sadness and disappointment sliding through her. "Ok, I'll be there."
He slipped out the door and down the stairs at a near run. He knew if he didn't get out of there, he simply wouldn't leave. He'd have her tucked into him and hating him when she realized she'd leaned on him. He already knew his little artist. More than he wanted to know.
She shut the door, her back thudding against the hard wood, as she let a single tear fall. Damn she didn't want to be alone; there was too much space, too many thoughts falling into each other. Alone fuckin' sucked. Taking a deep breath she pushed off the door and prepared for a long night of everything but sleep.
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