Blurring the Lines

Blurring the Lines

by Mia Josephs

Dedication:

To Heather Ryann Hubb for being awesome

(and for working for shoes)

ONE

Christian Meyer froze at the bottom of his basement steps, the moment a woman’s voice hit his ears. He leaned against a rusty orange wall as he listened, not ready to show his face even in the sound booth of his small Malibu home. Not yet. After two months of rehab, and four months of writer’s block, this songwriting friend of Max’s was supposed to save him.

He rested his back against the wall as her song continued. Her voice was full and throaty but feminine. He grinned as he thought about what she’d look like. Short, two hundred and some pounds with grey teeth from smoking and probably in some old rock n’ roll tank that no longer fit her figure. Or maybe she’d be all business in a way that didn’t suit her voice at all. Either way, lyricists were notoriously weird.

He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the words.

“
...anticipation of the first kiss…sometimes you hit, sometimes you miss…
” The riff lowered into a different key. “...
and life
…
continues on
…”

It was the kind of
raw sound he wanted after leaving the band. He knew it could kill his career, but he had enough money. He wanted to get back to his roots. To the words. The lyrics. The feel of a big-bodied guitar under his arm instead of the thin strength of electric. Besides, he was leaving on tour with Lita James. Having her on his side—one of the hottest women in rock--was the perfect way to kick off his new sound.  Lita was about to attempt a similar version of the unplugged sound he wanted. Though, her shift in genre was more likely to last only one album, and his was a shift in career.

As a college junior, the gig as lead guitarist in Kincaid had been a dream opportunity. Thirteen years and who knows how many drug experimentations and addictions later, he needed something new. Though, finding his new groove hadn’t proven as easy as he hoped.

Knowing he was shit at meeting new people sober, he wondered how much more time he could kill in the hallway. His blond hair fell over his face as his gaze shifted from the wall to the floor and his worn shoes. “Beach bum shoes” as his dad would have said.

Max jogged out of the sound booth and stopped when he saw Chris against the wall.

“Holy shit, Chris. How long you been here?” He scratched his head of dark, curly hair.

Chris waved Max off. “Just a few minutes. I’m coming in now.”

Max licked his lips and shifted his weight. Chris’ manager had never been able to stand still.

Max’s phone buzzed, and then again.

“You gonna get that?” Chris asked, really just wanting to buy more time before whatever lecture Max had planned.

Jerking his phone from his
over-pressed pocket, Max gave Chris a frown. And then frowned further when he checked his phone.

“What emergency now?” Chris asked.

“Jaxen Pritt again.” Max sighed.

Chris scoffed. “
If you went back to him, he’d probably make you more money than I will.”

Max shook his head. “He can’t pay me enough to work with him again.” And then Max smiled. “But he’s probably the only person I’d say that about.”

Chris had learned not to pry into Max’s attitude toward certain musicians because Max had a ready opinion on almost everyone, and it wasn’t easily changed.

“I’m assuming you have some kind of warning for me or something? Before I start to work with this mystery songwriter?” Chris asked. Max generally had a list of warnings for Chris in new situations. Not just because Chris was terrible at them,
but also because Max was that good.

“So.” Max rubbed his chin. “Corinne is a long time friend of mine. Hands off. Absolutely.”

Chris held up his hands, imagining the graying, strange woman. “Not a problem.”

“And
,”--Max pointed at him with a look of seriousness Chris wasn’t sure he’d ever seen before-- “don’t bring up her family.”

“We’re here for music,” Chris said as he pushed around Max and into the sound booth
ready for the awkward initial meeting to be over with. “It’s fine.”

The
woman on the other side of the shaded glass stopped him, stunned, in the sound booth.

Her small frame was almost swallowed whole by his acoustic Guild guitar. Nearly black hair spiraled around her round face and fell over narrow, but muscular shoulders. Her skin was a rich coffee-caramel—gorgeous and soft. A simple white tank, jeans that looked worn from wear rather than from a label, and bare feet. Simple. Perfect. Incredible. Possibly edible.

Max was so close he nearly touched Chris’ back. “I said hands off, Chris. I meant it.”

Chris leaned forward as if to step into the studio but stopped again, feeling almost as if his tongue was swelling in nerves. He didn’t get nervous in front of pretty girls. At least not since he could remember.

This was different. This woman was supposed to maybe save his career. And the best part was that she didn’t want her name on anything. Never did. It’s why Max had selected her in the first place. It felt like cheating, but at that moment Chris was desperate enough that he didn’t care. Loads of artists did it. Hell, most people didn’t read who
wrote the lyrics anyway. Just musicians. He thought.

Christian took another deep breath in and stepped into the studio. The music immediately stopped.

Rich brown eyes were on him in a second, and the woman who had appeared small only moments before now seemed to fill the room.

“I’m Corinne,” she said. “Do you prefer Mr. Meyer or Christian?”

So much business and strength from someone so small. He stood still, almost unsure of what he should say. “I’m...um…Chris is fine.”

“This is sort of a different deal for me.” Her gaze was unwavering. “I don’t usually come in person.”

He stared and willed his brain to read her expression but came up empty-handed. “Max said.”

“Do you want to listen as we go through the songs, or would you like to just listen to what we lay down later when you have time?”

He wasn’t sure. How
did
he want to do this? Chris opened his mouth to speak, but had no words. He had to get over this insecure feeling. He was thirty-three. He’d been all over the world playing to sold-out arenas. Some small woman sitting behind his guitar shouldn’t leave him feeling like an incompetent asshole.

“I was told that we’d be writing together. That you’d come down with copies of the songs you’d written and that we’d be collaborating, or did I get that mixed up?” he asked.

Corinne blinked a few times before glancing over Chris’ shoulder toward Max, who stood back in the doorway.

“Max?” she asked, her face only then showing the slightest hint of vulnerability.

He shrugged. “We did talk about you two writing together.”

“Listen.” Chris sighed. “I already feel completely humiliated by this situation. Can we not make it worse?”

Corinne’s eyes were on him then and they seemed to soften as she looked him over again.

Silence dragged around the room until Chris thought he’d dissolve.

“I’m sorry,” she said finally. “I can’t imagine not being able to write.”

“Me either.” Chris tried to laugh but his voice wobbled as the gravity of his new sober life and the shittiness that had come with it so far hit him again. He had to remind himself often that it was worth it. Sometimes he believed it. Only his stubbornness kept him on track. He refused to let his addictions win.

She shifted on her stool and let the guitar slide back onto its stand. Narrow waist, perfect chest...oh, hell, this was going to be hard.

“Why don’t we start over?
” She took a practiced breath in. “I’m on edge. I don’t like…being away from home.”

“And I’m still getting used to not being high,” Chris attempted to tease as he shoved his hands in his pockets.

A corner of her mouth pulled up and she tilted her head toward the back of the room. “Why don’t we make use of your very large leather couch and go through the music I brought down. If something strikes you, let me know and I can play my version of it for you, or if you’d like, we can just look over lyrics.”

For the first time since catching sight of her, or maybe since he realized he couldn’t write, Chris let his shoulders fall a little and walked to his couch thinking maybe this woman would be a way out of the
writer’s blocked hell he’d been living in.

Corinne knew she shouldn’t be star struck. Hot rock stars had been her downfall at eighteen and were most of the reason she never thought she’d be anywhere near LA again. But there she was, in the room with the exact kind of broken man who had used her before, and she was staring at his ass. Not the best way to keep her distance, remain professional, and get back home with hopefully enough money to last her a while.

He sat in the corner of the couch with his legs crossed, leaving his shoes on the floor. There was something totally disarming about a man in bare feet. Chris jerked his head to the side, more of a twitch than a n
eed to get his stick straight hair off his face. His blond was in chunked, professionally done layers, which nearly came to his very nice shoulders. Shoulders she was very determined not to notice.

The room also wasn’t what she’d expected—all warm brown walls, soft leather furniture—it felt more like a living room than a recording studio.

He rested his elbows on his knees, just like when he admitted he was humiliated; she saw that tinge of vulnerability that gave her a glimpse of what he might have looked like as a little boy. She shook her head as she sat down and Chris pulled the coffee table closer.

She was not going to make any mistakes on this trip—despite how little faith her mother seemed to have in her ability to stay on track for a weekend.
She clutched the large book under her arm.

“
That’s quite a collection.” He pointed to the binder she held.

Corinne
let the book fall onto the table with a thunk. She really had meant to put all the songs on her iPad, but life got in the way...like usual. “Yeah. Sorry. The red tabs are songs I’ve already sold and the ones in the very front are very new and very unedited.” A twinge of panic touched her chest as she thought about how it would feel to let someone see those before she had a chance to check for overused words or completely clichéd rhymes, or…

“Totally fine.” He reached out and for a moment, Corinne almost
grabbed the binder from the table and held it to her chest. She glanced up to where she could just make out Max’s shape behind the tinted glass. If she hadn’t owed him her life, she’d have never agreed to this.

Corinne sat
slowly, unable to take her eyes off the book that felt as if it held half her soul.

“I get it,” Chris said as he touched the top. “You don’t know me. You don’t trust me. And I know what it’s like to have people read your writing.”

His words slid through her and she felt more exposed than she’d felt in a long time. Writing commercial stuff was one thing. She turned over the lyrics from her home in Washington and they put it to music in whatever sound booth they had and it was done. Having Chris understand the deep place lyrics sometimes came from, and then reading those lyrics while she was in the same room, left her exposed in a way she hadn’t anticipated.

“You shrunk,” he said quietly as he leaned back.

“I’m sorry what?” Corinne cocked her head to the side, sort of wishing she’d have made some effort to be presentable. She was just so adamant that she was going to do this on
her
terms. She hadn’t wanted to dress up for someone's opinion she was supposed to care nothing about--even if she'd spent hours reading the words he'd written.

“Shit. Sorry.” Chris shook his head. “It’s that you seemed to fill the whole room when I first got here. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

The compliment filled her in a way that left her warm. Way too dangerous. “Fine. It’s fine.”

His brows rose up a little and a smile played on the edges of his perfectly smooth lips. “I’m going to open your binder now. You okay?”

His slight tease lightened the mood between them, and she was shocked that with his intuition, he hadn’t been able to write.

“I’m okay.” She swallowed hard. “Okay.”

She held her breath, which felt silly. She’d come all the way here for this very purpose, and now she was tightened in anxiety over the process she’d agreed to.

His pale blue eyes rested on her for a moment longer and he shoved a chunk of blond hair behind his ear, which held several more
piercings than her own. The bottom of a tattoo showed under his sleeve, and she thought she saw more peeking from under the back of his white T-shirt. Very close to the ass she’d just been watching. She closed her eyes for a moment and willed herself not to see them. She’d always loved a man who wasn’t afraid to put ink on his skin.

“Thank you for being willing to do this. It just seems easier to cut past all the bullshit and get right to it. Yes?” he asked.

“Definitely yes.” She sat, crossed her legs, and helped him tug the coffee table until it touched the couch.