My Soul To Keep (Soul Series Book 1) (19 page)

Her hair is dark, but burnished with streaks of copper like Rhyson’s. She passes her eyes over me so sharply I feel like a razor sliced across my face. Her eyes are beautiful, stormy grey, like Rhyson’s. I glance between the two of them a few times. They could be . . .

“Kai, this is my sister, Bristol.” He tugs on his sister’s hair. “Bris, this is my . . . my friend, Kai.”

I bite my lip until it hurts holding back the big, goofy smile that threatens to take over my whole face. His
sister
! Of course. His family is the one thing Rhyson hasn’t talked much about, except to say he doesn’t talk much about them.

“Nice to meet you.” I smile at Bristol, but she doesn’t smile back. What is it with the women in his life? So far, Jimmi and Bristol have been rude for no reason.

“So you’re one of Uncle Grady’s students?” she asks instead.

“Yeah.” I nod and wipe at my neck. I didn’t realize what a sweat I worked up dancing. Rhyson slides his glass of water across to me, not watching while I take a grateful sip.

“Interesting. Yeah, nice to meet you.” Bristol slides her eyes from me to Dub, her smile growing wider, her eyes flirting. “And you, too. Dub, was it?”

He smiles and takes the seat beside me, not biting what she’s baiting.

“And this is Marlon.” Rhyson gestures to Grip. “Marlon, Kai Pearson.”

“Heard a lot about you,” Marlon says, a polite smile on his face. “You guys did it out there. That was fire.”

“Thanks.” I offer a small smile. That flip has switched again. The one that emboldens me onstage or the dance floor, but leaves me shy with strangers. “Rhyson’s told me some about you, too.”

“Don’t believe half of what that dude says. He makes shit up.” Marlon laughs when Rhyson rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “He didn’t tell me you could dance like
that
.”

“Wasn’t Kai amazing?” Dub smiles and sips his water. “I just asked her to be in the video I’m working on.”

“That’s great.” Jimmi passes a sly glance between Rhyson and me. “I knew you two should meet.”

She and Rhyson share a look for a few moments before Rhyson drops his eyes to the table, jaw tight again.

“So you ready for Chicago, Rhys?” Bristol peers at her brother over the rim of her martini glass.

“Guess so.” Rhyson toys with the wide, leather strap of his watch. “Can I get through Thanksgiving before we start talking about Chicago? That trip’s not until after Christmas.”

“Did you guys see him on Fallon last week?” Bristol wears a proud grin.

“Yeah.” Grip takes a chug of his beer. “I was surprised you did ‘Lost.’ You’ve never done it before.”

“That was brilliant, actually,” Bristol concedes. “Downloads for that song went bananas after the show.”

Rhyson and I lock eyes, smiling over our secret. Not only did he play “Lost” on Fallon, but he also tugged on his ear, his private greeting to me. I must have watched that performance a dozen times on DVR. The moment loosens something that’s been tight between us ever since I returned from the dance floor.

“Not a big deal,” Rhyson says.

“As the person who moved heaven and Middle Earth to book it, I think it’s a huge deal,” Bristol says with a frown.

“I’ve done Fallon before.” Rhyson takes his glass back and sips.

“Still a big deal,” Grip says. “I haven’t done Fallon yet.”

“If you’d let me manage you,” Bristol smiles at Rhyson’s best friend, “You’d get Fallon.”

“If you’d go out with me, I’d let you manage me.”

Bristol rolls her eyes and flicks her dark hair over one shoulder.

“I don’t mix business and pleasure. Although, I’m not sure there’d be any pleasure.”

“Guys, I have food coming.” Rhyson grimaces like he feels sick to his stomach. “Please stop talking.”

Bristol’s lips twitch, and Grip laughs aloud. Jimmi joins in. Eventually, Rhyson loosens his mouth into a smile, and I realize these are the friends he told me about. He said friends are more intimate than lovers in some ways. I see that now. He has a bond with them. He’s relaxed with them. I’m glad for him.

Food arrives, and everyone sorts out their meals.

“I ordered you the veggie nachos,” Rhyson leans toward me and says quietly. “There weren’t many healthy options.”

“It’s fine. Thanks.” We share a quick smile before digging into our plates.

“Will you see Petra when we’re in Chicago?” Bristol asks, her voice loud and deliberate. I get the impression she’s returning to the subject for my benefit.

“Yeah. We talked the other day.”

“Petra Andreyev?” Jimmi asks with a frown. “Did she immigrate?”

“Yeah.” Rhyson pushes his plate away nearly untouched. “Couple of years ago. She lives in New York now, but she’s guesting for a few weeks with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra and invited us to come see her while we’re there.”

Dub’s phone rings and he walks off to talk. Rhyson scoots his chair closer to me.

“You did look amazing out there.” His voice drops until the others at the table would have to strain to hear. “I didn’t even know you could dance like that.”

My cheeks heat and I dip my head until my hair covers my face.

“Can you believe Dub wants me to be in a video?”

“Yeah. I can believe it.” Rhyson’s voice goes gravelly, and he leans back, folding his hands over the tight muscles of his stomach. He hasn’t really eaten anything. I lean forward until I’m right at his ear, even if everyone else thinks it’s rude.

“Why don’t you ever eat in public?’

He stills and turns his head until only a few steamy centimeters separate our lips. It’s my first time being in public with him. Really in public, and he is much more guarded than I’m used to. The eyes that usually speak all the things he’s thinking are opaque, giving away nothing. I don’t look away. Honesty has become a habit between us, and if I wait, Rhyson will remember that.

He takes a quick sweep of our surroundings. Grip is dragging a laughing Bristol to her feet and toward the dance floor. Rhyson rolls his eyes when Grip turns to give him a thumbs-up and a silly grin. Dub is a few feet away, still on the phone. Jimmi has wandered off to talk with some of her other party guests. In a crowded room, we’re suddenly alone again. Just us at the table. Two peas that should never have ended up in the same pod. There should be nothing about us that mixes or draws us together, and yet, the veil hiding his secrets, dissembling his thoughts, floats away. And all that’s left is the truth and the connection always burning bright between us.

“I was attending state dinners by the time I was ten years old.” Rhyson looks at me from under his thick eyebrows. “Ten, Pep.”

“Got it.” I smile and push the wayward hair back from his forehead. “Ten. And what?”

“I could never get it right.” He catches my hand before I can pull away, toying with my fingers on the table when he speaks. “Always using the wrong fork. Talking with my mouth full.”

His mischievous smile invites me to smile back.

“Farting at the table.”

“Farting at state dinners.” I laugh and wrinkle my nose. “I bet you were a terror.”

“I really wasn’t.” His smile fades. “I was actually pretty well-behaved, but it wasn’t ever good enough for my mother. I infuriated her by, well, by being a kid.”

“But you were ten. Who cared if you used the fork wrong or burped or whatever?”

“I was a ten-year-old kid making thousands of dollars every night playing for my supper, so to speak.” Cynicism hardens the curve of Rhyson’s mouth. “My mother finally said if you can’t get it right, don’t eat.”

And I thought Bristol was a piece of work.

“But surely you . . . you ate, right?”

“I’d eat when we got back to the hotel or back home. I guess it became a habit not eating until later.” He sets my fingers aside and runs an agitated hand through his hair. “You think I’m crazy, huh? I promise I’m not. I just . . . some habits are hard to break.”

I hate that his own mother did that to him. Everything I hear about her and Rhyson’s father makes me want to peel back their scalps for hurting such a unique, gifted little boy. For hardening him into a cynical man who has had all of one girlfriend his whole life and settles for meaningless sex instead of meaningful relationships.

I pick up a loaded nacho and suspend it in front of Rhyson’s mouth.

“Eat.”

He looks at me for a moment and shakes his head, an uneasy laugh escaping his lips.

“Don’t be silly.”

“Don’t be stubborn.” I press the chip against his mouth. “Eat.”

Not letting my stare go, he opens his mouth and takes the nacho. I watch every bite, ready for the next one. I pick up one of the French fries in the basket in front of him and offer it to him. He eats one and then another until he’s almost done. When he’s down to just a few fries, I grab one and throw it in his face. Surprise drops his mouth into an “o” for just a few seconds, but he recovers quickly and throws a fry back at me. We volley the last of his fries at each other, laughing at how silly we’re being.

“You’re ridiculous.” Rhyson gathers fries off the table and I pick up a few from the floor. He places his hand over mine, making sure I look into his eyes. “Thank you.”

“For what? A food skirmish? I can’t even call it a fight.” I laugh, but there’s suddenly not enough room in my chest for my heart because it’s swelling with some emotion that shall remain nameless.

“For noticing. For caring about me. For making me eat. It’s not even hard.” Rhyson looks away, dropping his eyes to the table. “I guess I was wrong. Maybe I did need another friend.”

“That’s what friends are for, huh?”

I need to change the subject, because this one, where I get to see the damage his parents did to him, makes me sad. Makes me angry. Makes me want to spoon him all night. And who knows where that would lead?

“How come you never told me you had a sister?”

Rhyson considers Grip and Bristol on the dance floor, his mouth loosening into a grin. “I keep her away from my friends as long as possible.”

“Are you older? Younger?”

“Technically, I’m older, but only by about two minutes. We’re twins. Like my dad and Grady. Twins run rampant in our family. We weren’t really that close until the last few years.”

“Why not?”

“She isn’t musical at all.” Rhyson chuckles. “I mean, at all. Believe me, my parents tried. If they could have wrung a few coins out of her, they would have.”

He pops a French fry into his mouth and points to the now-empty basket.

“See what I did there?”

“Yes, I’m very proud that you ate all your food.”

“It’s not that I never eat when I’m out. Just . . . I don’t usually want to.”

“’Well, now you do. You were saying?”

“Well, Bris resented me. Felt like my parents poured everything into me, which they did as soon as they realized how well I could play. Everything revolved around me. Around piano, and lessons, and then tours and concerts and promotions and recordings and television appearances.”

It sounds glamorous, but he was so young. Seeing Rhyson that day in the dune buggy, laughing and free, I bet at ten years old, on some level, he would have preferred that.

“Then when I emancipated, she called me ungrateful.” Rhyson shakes his head, a wry tilt to his mouth. “I wouldn’t trade my gift for anything, but I never asked for that life. She couldn’t understand how much it suffocated me.”

“What pushed you to emancipate?”

We’ve never really talked about this, and I’m not sure why in the middle of a birthday party in a bowling alley, I choose now, but I won’t let this window close before getting a look inside.

“Like, after all those years, what was the straw that kind of broke the camel’s back, Rhys?”

A frown darkens his face. He won’t look at me.

“Rhyson?”

“I heard you. Yeah.” He keeps his eyes on the long, sensitive fingers in his lap. “Um, it was actually Grady.”

“What’d Grady do?”

“He found out I was addicted to Xanax, and that I’d been on it since I was eleven.” Rhyson lifts his long eyelashes, and his eyes probe mine. Searching for—I don’t know—judgment?

“How . . . what? How is that even possible?”

Rhyson chuckles, a raspy, scornful sound.

“My mother gave me hers to help with anxiety before performances until later on when I got older and got my own prescription. I got hooked early and was pretty messed up by the time I was sixteen. Grady saw me at Christmas and confronted my parents about it.” He looks at me, eyes crystalline with emotion. “They wanted to hold off on rehab until after my European tour.”

Rhyson relaxes his face so deliberately I know he’s hiding the hurt.

“And that was the beginning of the end for me and my parents. I told Grady I wanted out, and he helped me emancipate. When things got really nasty during the hearings, he threatened to expose what my mother had done so they would stop fighting it. I haven’t seen them outside of a courtroom in years.”

“And Bristol stayed with your parents in New York, obviously.”

“Yeah, I moved here and started at the School for the Arts. She stayed back East. We had very little communication from the time I was sixteen until she left home and went to Columbia.”

“Who reached out first?”

“She did actually.” Rhyson gives a quick shake of his head and a half smile. “Told me she was getting her entertainment business degree so she could manage me.”

“But weren’t you teaching vocal lessons for Grady then? You weren’t even performing, were you?”

“Right. I was writing and producing for other artists by then, but she assured me that I’d be back.” Rhyson watches his sister dance with Grip. Affection softens his face, I assume for them both. “She was right, and when I told her a few years ago I wanted back in the business as an artist, she was ready.”

A frown darkens Rhyson’s face and he shifts in his seat.

“My parents weren’t too happy about it, but Bristol’s got too much backbone to care much what they think. We’ve been rebuilding our relationship ever since. She’s started rebuilding with Grady too, something my parents still won’t do. They won’t forgive him for helping me leave.”

“Why didn’t he just become your guardian? Why emancipate?”