Free Hard As Rock by Olivia Thorne Page A

Ryan’s grandfather) to Jane Austen to Harold Robbins paperbacks. I went unconventional (for me) and settled on a book titled Papillon about a French safecracker in the mid 20th century who was sentenced to life on Devil’s Island. The paperback’s cover – which was very old and crinkled – screamed, “Now a Major Motion Picture Starring Steve McQueen and Dustin Hoffman!” To be honest, that’s probably what sold me on it.
    I did laundry – both my new acquisitions and my clothes from the tour – as I became engrossed in the book. It all felt very domestic… and relaxing.
    And happy.
    I was even able to forget about Derek for awhile.
    Well… I was able to forget about him in fifteen minute increments, anyway.
    Around 5PM, Ryan came out and asked, “Hey, do you mind if I get your opinion on something?” He led me back to the studio and played a couple of tracks on the computer. There weren’t any lyrics, and the drums were minimal at best, but they were still pretty great. One was a heavy, driving asskicker, and the other was a slower, more contemplative, darker tune. The bass part, in particular, was awesome. The guitar part was good, but definitely not up to Killian Lee standards.
    “That’s great – how long have you been working on those?” I asked.
    “Since we got back this afternoon.”
    I stared at him. “What?!”
    “Well, I mean, I didn’t come up with the tunes since we got back. I just kind of laid down some stuff I’d been thinking about.”
    “You mean… you just walk around coming up with music in your head?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Like… whole songs?”
    “Yeah.”
    “And you remember everything?!”
    “Yeah.” He said it almost like, Doesn’t everybody? “Don’t you walk around coming up with words in your head for stuff you write later?”
    “Not really, no. I’ll think about ideas for stories, but I don’t actually write out sentences or anything until I sit down.”
    “Oh. Well, I’m sure it’s similar.”
    I actually didn’t think it was similar at all. But I wasn’t actually in awe until the next few things he said.
    I pointed at his head. “How many songs have you got bouncing around in there?”
    He shrugged. “Dozens.”
    “Dozens?!”
    “Not dozens of finished songs or anything,” he said quickly. “A lot of it’s just basic tunes, maybe some chords or riffs I want to try out.”
    “So how many finished songs do you have?”
    “…ten?” he said modestly. “Fifteen?”
    “A WHOLE ALBUM’S WORTH?!”
    “They’re not all good enough to go on an album.”
    “Are these definitely going on an album?” I asked, pointing at the computer.
    “Maybe.”
    “They should totally go on an album.”
    “The rest of the band has to improve them, though.”
    “Yeah, well… it’s still amazing.”
    He blushed a little, which was adorable. “It’s nothing. Never mind, I didn’t bring you back here to brag.”
    “Well, you should brag. I didn’t realize you were a genius. Not like this.”
    Now he was blushing a lot. “I’m not a genius.”
    “Yeah, whatever. Genius.”
    I hip-checked him playfully. That made him blush scarlet.
    “I think it’s time for dinner,” he said uncomfortably, like a teenage boy getting attention from a girl for the first time.
    “I think it’s kind of early,” I teased him.
    “What time is it?”
    “A little after five. Dinner’s not till seven, right?”
    “Oh.”
    He really didn’t know what to do. I started to feel bad – like maybe I was being a little too flirty, a little too familiar – so I headed for the door. “Well, I’ll let you get back to work.”
    “Okay… call me when it gets close to seven.”
    “Okay. Genius.”
    “Hush,” he said, blushing again, as I closed the door.

22
    At five till seven we walked over to the MacCruders’. I wore a newly laundered pair of jeans, a red flannel shirt, and my cowboy boots.
    When Mrs. MacCruder met me at the door, she looked me up and down approvingly.