shades of brown and tan, was spaced throughout. Stocked with top-end gear, including her ever-growing collection of guitars, it was definitely one of her happy places. Usually. When the specter of unwritten songs wasn’t following her around.
She hadn’t actually been to the space in months, too afraid to face the physical representation of everything she used to be able to do—sing, jam, perform, write—while in the biggest writing funk of her career. But this morning, she’d woken up with chords running through her head for the first time in ages. Chords and lyrics, too, and so she’d called Jeremy to let him know she’d be spending the day actually working on music. He’d been overjoyed.
He’d also told her that her new shadows had been hired, two freelance bodyguards. The first one on duty would be meeting her at the Sanctuary, and then he and his partner would trade off, keeping tabs on her round the clock. They’d be in her space—the Sanctuary, her house—babysitting her.
She blew out an angry breath and rolled her shoulders, trying to work out some of the tension gathered there. Fine. Whatever. She’d just ignore them and do her thing. They could treat her like a prisoner, but she would try to focus on the music, on trying to find the joy in creating something. Of pulling sounds from her brain and translating them into music with her hands on a guitar or a piano, and her voice. When the writing went well, there was a high that came with it, a creative buzz that only seemed to feed more creativity. But when it wasn’t? Her brain didn’t know what to do with itself.
She put the car in Park and switched off the ignition, gathering up her purse and iPad before making her way toward the solid oak double doors at the front of the Sanctuary. She paused midstep, let out a low whistle, and made a beeline for the car parked on the other side of the small lot. If she wasn’t mistaken, the car drawing her like a bee to a flower was a 1968 Dodge Charger in beautiful condition. Shiny and black, it sat gleaming in the sun, calling to her like a beacon. Unable to resist, she ducked down and peered inside, trying not to drool over the custom leather interior and the upgraded chrome finishes shining in the morning light. The Charger’s interior was pristine, the only disturbance an empty water bottle on the passenger seat. She walked around the car in a slow, appreciative circle. God, would she love to wrap her hands around that steering wheel.
Then she stood up straight when she realized that it must be the bodyguard’s car. It didn’t belong to any of the studio’s staff or musicians, whose cars were parked throughout the lot, and she could see Jeremy’s Bentley SUV parked several spaces away. So unless someone had illegally parked on private property, process of elimination pointed to him. And she had a feeling that whoever drove this car would never risk parking it illegally.
“Huh,” she said out loud, tearing herself away from the car and heading into the studio, a rush of cool, quiet air greeting her, and it hit her just how much she’d missed this place. Maybe avoiding it during her dry spell had been a mistake, because as she pulled the scent of it into her, she was suddenly eager to have a guitar in her hands. She pulled her sunglasses off and dropped them into her purse. Her black boots clicked against the floor as she entered the main rehearsal space, and a tension she’d been carrying for months now began to lift.
“Taylor?” Jeremy poked his head around the corner, a relieved smile turning up the corners of his lips.
“What? You thought I wouldn’t come?” She quirked her mouth up in a teasing smile.
“It crossed my mind, yes. Can’t imagine why.”
Rolling her eyes, she strode forward into the large, open space and dropped her purse on one of the leather couches, peeled off her jacket and tossed it down beside her bag. Reaching over the couch to the guitar rack nestled against its
She hadn’t actually been to the space in months, too afraid to face the physical representation of everything she used to be able to do—sing, jam, perform, write—while in the biggest writing funk of her career. But this morning, she’d woken up with chords running through her head for the first time in ages. Chords and lyrics, too, and so she’d called Jeremy to let him know she’d be spending the day actually working on music. He’d been overjoyed.
He’d also told her that her new shadows had been hired, two freelance bodyguards. The first one on duty would be meeting her at the Sanctuary, and then he and his partner would trade off, keeping tabs on her round the clock. They’d be in her space—the Sanctuary, her house—babysitting her.
She blew out an angry breath and rolled her shoulders, trying to work out some of the tension gathered there. Fine. Whatever. She’d just ignore them and do her thing. They could treat her like a prisoner, but she would try to focus on the music, on trying to find the joy in creating something. Of pulling sounds from her brain and translating them into music with her hands on a guitar or a piano, and her voice. When the writing went well, there was a high that came with it, a creative buzz that only seemed to feed more creativity. But when it wasn’t? Her brain didn’t know what to do with itself.
She put the car in Park and switched off the ignition, gathering up her purse and iPad before making her way toward the solid oak double doors at the front of the Sanctuary. She paused midstep, let out a low whistle, and made a beeline for the car parked on the other side of the small lot. If she wasn’t mistaken, the car drawing her like a bee to a flower was a 1968 Dodge Charger in beautiful condition. Shiny and black, it sat gleaming in the sun, calling to her like a beacon. Unable to resist, she ducked down and peered inside, trying not to drool over the custom leather interior and the upgraded chrome finishes shining in the morning light. The Charger’s interior was pristine, the only disturbance an empty water bottle on the passenger seat. She walked around the car in a slow, appreciative circle. God, would she love to wrap her hands around that steering wheel.
Then she stood up straight when she realized that it must be the bodyguard’s car. It didn’t belong to any of the studio’s staff or musicians, whose cars were parked throughout the lot, and she could see Jeremy’s Bentley SUV parked several spaces away. So unless someone had illegally parked on private property, process of elimination pointed to him. And she had a feeling that whoever drove this car would never risk parking it illegally.
“Huh,” she said out loud, tearing herself away from the car and heading into the studio, a rush of cool, quiet air greeting her, and it hit her just how much she’d missed this place. Maybe avoiding it during her dry spell had been a mistake, because as she pulled the scent of it into her, she was suddenly eager to have a guitar in her hands. She pulled her sunglasses off and dropped them into her purse. Her black boots clicked against the floor as she entered the main rehearsal space, and a tension she’d been carrying for months now began to lift.
“Taylor?” Jeremy poked his head around the corner, a relieved smile turning up the corners of his lips.
“What? You thought I wouldn’t come?” She quirked her mouth up in a teasing smile.
“It crossed my mind, yes. Can’t imagine why.”
Rolling her eyes, she strode forward into the large, open space and dropped her purse on one of the leather couches, peeled off her jacket and tossed it down beside her bag. Reaching over the couch to the guitar rack nestled against its
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