Bad Lyrics, Good Coffee

She remained frazzled and on edge all day because of that trembling, held-breath moment from the night before. Tyler never said a word to her when she was brave enough to leave her room just before noon.

He simply nodded, and vanished to give her space. There was no sign that he’d ever been in her home, let alone punched a wall.

Had there been someone causing an issue?

Had he heard her and gotten mad?

Oh, God, please no. Kill me dead. Strike me out before I ruin us all, she cried in her mind. Thinking of him learning her late-night secrets made her cheeks flame.

And it was all made worse because he was her solo guard tonight and would haunt her house while she failed to sleep. Some of the guards stationed themselves around the property.

Some wove through the house like church mice, seen but not heard. Their numbers diminished by the hour.

The housekeeper vacuumed the upstairs as she perched on the black piano stool. Leaving her alone with Tyler.

Some others watched over her mother while she carried out some of the trickier aspects of her daughter’s fame. When Tyler had first joined her team, her mom had commented on his overwhelming singular focus.

“He’s…intense. Protective.” She arched a groomed brow, hazel eyes tracking the new guards every breath. “Do you trust him?”

Kenzi glanced over, gaze raking the man whispering to a grinning, grey-haired Stefan, his manager. And her first protector. She nodded as she turned back to her mom.

“I think so. He doesn’t say much. I forget he’s there half the time.”

Lie. Lie. Lie. She was a lying liar, who lied. Even when she couldn’t physically set eyes on him, she knew he hovered nearby.

Her mom didn’t need to know that, though…

The memory liked to appear at random moments. Normally when she was on the verge of screaming at the sky.

Today, it felt like a warning. She’d spent most of her time at her obsidian piano.

Plunking away at the keys as she struggled with wording the bridge she’d been composing for weeks. Failing at it. Tyler hung around like an old chandelier flickering in a storm.

His shadow was there one moment, gone the next. Her grunts and curses, the ripping of paper and tossing of pens rose in volume as the hours passed. She muttered to herself, stomach growling, unaware of her surroundings.

“Fire and desire? Wow. Real subtle, Shakespeare. Next you’ll rhyme ‘moon’ with ‘spoon.’”

She distinctly heard a soft snort, yet nobody was around when she looked. She sighed, pinching her nose between thumb and forefinger, mind empty of ideas.

Empty of brain cells, it seemed. She tried again. And again. A lesson in extreme frustration.

Her label’s demands burrowed into her head as she smashed her palms down on the keys. The disjointed racket it caused wasn’t as cathartic as screaming in their faces would be.

“More vulnerable? Really? I’ll give you vulnerable—here’s a song about my therapist’s billing rate. It goes: four hundred an hour, yet I still fucking glower.”

She did. Her glower at the ivory and ebony keys could’ve frozen planets. No matter what, she kept going until she was ready to beat something bloody. Choosing to take it out on the piano instead.

As she huffed and slammed the lid down, the loud bang ricocheted off the walls as she said, “Love rhymes with ‘shove’ and ‘above’ and ‘glove.’” She shook her head, ignoring the sight of her harried reflection in the polished wood. “Groundbreaking. Call the Grammy’s.”

She clenched her hands into fists and rubbed her eyes. Using her aforementioned therapist’s breathing technique to calm her pounding heart.

Inhale deeply, hold for five seconds, then exhale on five, too. Unlock your jaw.

Her hips ached from sitting on the piano bench too long, her fingertips buzzed with familiar soreness, and her brain felt like mush. It used to come effortlessly.

But for the last two months, she’d struggled to write anything of substance. She could already see the headlines when she failed to produce a record that mattered…

Kenzi Harlowe—Washed Up! Can’t Write a Hit to Save her Life!

Harlowe Bombs…Tour Cancelled. Fans Furious!

Harlowe Dropped by Label!

She groaned and opened her eyes, planning to get up and go drown her troubles in a steaming bubble bath. She blinked a few times to clear her vision, eyelids like sandpaper. Tyler appeared from nowhere.

Kenzi held her breath, mouth dry, trying not to jump out of her skin as he set down an iced coffee on the piano and slid it toward her. Her stupid heart immediately set off at a gallop.

The blood rushed to her ears, the skin around her eyes tightened, throat thickening with hesitation. She didn’t know what to do with herself. His gloved hand brushed her pinky for a brief second before he pulled it back.

Spiced cedarwood and gunmetal clung to the leather. She wondered if his skin smelled the same. If it tasted just as good.

Enough, it was only your pinky. Calm down, she chastised herself, staring at the condensation-speckled plastic cup.

Cinnamon tickled her nose, not just from the coffee. Tyler smelled of it, too.

The sleeve on the drink read: Iced Brown Sugar Oat Milk Shaken Espresso—add a dash of vanilla, extra shot.

Her exact order. The one everyone else got wrong.

Something deep within her chest tightened and loosened at the same time. She didn’t reach for it; her fingers shook too obviously to risk it. She turned to him.

He’d backed away a few steps, hands clasped behind his back as his emotionless indigo eyes stared right through her. She had the queerest impression he might read every dirty thought she’d ever had about him and glanced away.

She couldn’t stop herself from trying to provoke a reaction. Too wound up about failing at the only thing she was capable of, and about him. His presence was inescapable.

“You memorized this just to poison me, didn’t you?”

She caught the infinitesimal tilt of his head, a mere fraction of an inch. His blank facial expression remained free of any tells.

She expected him to ignore her. Perhaps roll his eyes. Instead, he gifted her with more words than he typically spoke in a week.

“Only if ‘love/shove/glove’ counts as a biohazard.”

His deadpan delivery hit her like a kick. She almost fell off the bench.

Caught between the urge to laugh and the impulse to hide behind the curtains. She scoffed, fingers toying with a loose thread on her long sleeve.

“It’s alright for you to judge, Tyler. You have all your short phrases and one word answers prerecorded. No thinking required,” she said, grinning broadly, her false American smile, but his mask twitched.

She took it to mean he wanted to laugh, but it was likely a scowl. What she didn’t see was the way Tyler’s hands flexed behind his back as she crooned his name.

“Perhaps you’re thinking too much. Try the opposite, Ms. Harlowe.”

Everything in her went still, legs crossing and jaw rippling as the honorific resounded in her ringing ears.

Ms. Harlowe.

Why did it ignite the embers low in her stomach—why did he need to stand so close?

Close enough, she could grab him by the tie, yank him down, and see what he would do if she kissed him.

Jesus Christ, she was in trouble. Absolutely fucked.

She still hadn’t touched the coffee. Sure it was a mirage or an incredibly detailed daydream her overtaxed brain had conjured up to lick her terrible lyrical wounds.

“Haha. Funny. You make jokes now? Fantastic. Do I have to pay for that upgrade or is it a bonus feature for one day only?” She said, giving in to the need to tease him, praying he would respond and praying he wouldn’t.

This was new, uncertain ground. She didn’t know what parts were safe to stand on, if the ice underfoot was strong enough to hold all her highest hopes. Her eyes snagged on his coffee gift again.

She felt hot all over as she finally picked it up. The cold plastic sweated against her hand as she sucked a mouthful through the green straw. Almost choking on the creamy, sticky-sweet liquid—perfect, it was perfect—when he did in fact respond.

“No charge. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

Well, that was ominous. As ominous as his instantly turning on his polished heel, and striding toward the control center where he kept an eagle eye on the camera feeds.

His shined boots clicked off the wood floor like a metronome until she heard the heavy surveillance room door snick shut.

Said camera’s red lights twinkled on the living room walls. They winked with devilish eyes, recording her watching him leave.

Hidden amongst the framed photos and dried flower displays. Her handful of homes’ bedrooms and bathrooms were the only exception. Prying eye free, on her orders.

Thank goodness for that, or else TMZ would have had a blast reporting on her nightly escapades nowadays. The fragrance of cinnamon lingered like a taunting ghost or a lover she didn’t have anymore.

She scurried off with her coffee to wash her failed songwriting session down the shower drain.

Her mind fired constantly as the stream of scalding water clogged with vanilla body wash. Did he ever hear her?

And if so, did he stand outside her bedroom? Did his breath hitch too? She hoped she would never learn the answers.

She wouldn’t survive the shame—the skin marooning, blood boiling shame. Then another question came…

How could she ever survive a night alone with him?