Love Songs (8 page)

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” Christian walked around her and gave her a kiss on the head. “I’m going to head upstairs. Tori is supposed to Skype.”

“Where is she?”

“L.A.” He stood up straight and held his hand out to Warner who shook it. “Thanks for taking care of my girl.”

He looked at Clara who smiled. “My pleasure.”

Christian headed upstairs leaving Warner and Clara in awkward silence.

“I assume you know why I’m a chicken in the dark.”

He reached for her hand. “I don’t think that way. You have every right to have been frightened.”

“It was a long time ago. It upsets me more when I get upset over it.”

He understood that emotion. “It looks to me that everyone takes good care of you though when you need it.”

She smiled. “Yeah. The Kellers work that way.”

“I’ve already seen it quite a bit in less than a week.” He ran his thumb over her knuckles. “It’ll never go away. You just learn to deal with the situation that frightened you.”

Clara narrowed her eyes. “You’re talking about your dad, aren’t you?”

“I found him.”

“Warner…”

He sat back and shrugged. “He ran the car in the garage. I sometimes wonder if he meant to take me with him in his forever journey.”

“Why?”

“Because I was home asleep in my bed.”

Clara covered her mouth. “That’s horrible.”

“It is what it is. And if I never get a record deal or sell one song, I’ll know I’m a survivor. So are you.”

“I guess us kind should stick together, huh?” She moved in closer to him.

Warner rested his forehead against hers. “You’re willing to risk it all over some slob like me?”

“You may not have been raised a Keller, but something tells me you have the same kind of fight in your blood.”

He grinned. “I like that.”

“Stay with me, Warner. Just hold me all night.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Let’s both sleep our demons away wrapped in each other’s arms. Nothing more—just comfort.”

He knew he shouldn’t accept the invitation, but he couldn’t help it. This had gone far beyond needing her voice. He needed her.

The private world beyond Clara’s door told Warner exactly who she really was and it brought a grin to his lips.

Her bed was unmade. The girly rose covered comforter was bunched up at the bottom of the bed as though she had been too hot to sleep with it. There were miscellaneous clothes strung over the back of a chair in the corner of the room and a pile of shoes making their exit from the closet by way of potential avalanche.

A guitar sat in the corner as well as a keyboard. Sheets of music lay on the floor next to them in a pile.

Clara was carefree and this proved it to him. Nothing was too important and Warner liked that. Living with his grandmother that hadn’t been the case; a perfectly organized and tidy house was more important than anything, including the happiness of her grandson.

But Warner knew a creative mind. He had one too and his apartment didn’t look much different. Though, had he brought her to his house, he’d have been running amuck trying to pick up everything. Clara embraced her individuality, he decided, because she didn’t seem to worry what he might think. And he thought the mess was lovely.

Clara turned to him and smiled. “You’re eyeballing my mess.”

“I am not.”

“Yes you are. You think I’m a pig. My mother always warned me that someday…”

“I didn’t take you to my house, did I?” He laughed. “Your room looks fine.”

“I have too much to do to worry about duvets and pillow shams.”

“Do whats?”

Now she laughed. “Nothing.” She moved in closer to him. “I know this seems silly. And I’d understand if you’d want to go.”

“Why would I want to go?”

“Because I don’t have sex with men I only met.”

Warner took a step back to distance himself from her. “You said sleep over and that was all. Clara, I’m not the kind of man…”

She moved into him again. “I know you’re not. That’s why I asked you to stay.” She rose up on her toes and pressed a kiss to his lips.

Being trusted wasn’t something he dealt with a lot. He usually hid from any reason to be trusted. There was always the chance he’d let someone down.

Clara picked up an old T-shirt and a pair of shorts off the pile on the chair. “I’m going to go change. I could find something for you to sleep in if you’d like. Christian should have…”

“No,” he interrupted thinking that borrowing her brother’s pajama bottoms was certainly crossing the line. “The boxers I have on are new, no holes.” He laughed. “If you’re comfortable that will work for me.”

Clara grinned and her cheeks flushed pink. She nodded and headed to the bathroom with her pajamas.

When the door had closed he went about getting undressed. Maybe if he were in bed, covered up, it would ease her.

He toed off his boots and pulled off his socks, stuffing them into the boots. He shimmied out of his jeans and pulled off his T-shirt then folded them nicely and set them on the floor in a tidy pile.

Warner quickly fixed the sheets on the bed and climbed in as the bathroom door opened.

As awkward as she looked trying to be normal, he knew Clara Keller wasn’t used to bringing men home.

She turned off the light and climbed into the bed next to him. She turned to face him. “Thank you for staying with me. John turning off the lights shouldn’t have set me off like that.”

Warner caressed her face. “You went though some serious trauma. I don’t blame you for freaking out. I don’t think you ever get over that moment when your life flashes before your eyes.”

Clara smiled and rested her head against his chest. “You’re right. You never do.”

He pulled her closer to him. She rested her head against his chest and he held her. A week ago he didn’t know what he was doing with his life. Now he wondered if music was his calling at all? Or had it just been the force that brought him to Clara Keller? He kissed the top of her head.

This was what he wanted more than to hear his song on the radio. How could his dreams have changed so quickly?

The next morning Warner drove Clara back to the theater and went on his way home. He had the urge to clean house because after holding Clara all night in his arms, he wanted to make that a normal occurrence.

As Warner pulled up in front of the small building which looked like a house with four small apartments, he saw a black BMW pull away. He parked in the spot the car had occupied, turned off the overworked engine, and climbed out of the truck.

Warner rubbed his eyes under his sunglasses. He was tired. He shouldn’t be, he’d gotten a full night’s sleep for the first time in weeks. At least his current unemployment offered him time for a nap.

He climbed the steps to the second level of the quad-plex and walked to the dull red door with the number two nailed to it. A bright yellow piece of paper hung there adhered with a piece of tape.

Warner thumbed through his keys until he found the right one. He jiggled it in the lock and finally pushed open the door. As he walked through he tore off the paper and carried it inside.

For a moment he stood there and then kicked the door shut behind him. What a horrible little hell he’d created for himself in that little apartment.

Pizza boxes and two liter bottles littered the table where he wrote music. His keyboard had no less than three stale mugs of coffee balanced on it. As if he could afford for one of those to spill—he’d paid an outrageous fortune for that damn thing. And did he have a cat? No, but it smelled like he did.

He threw down the piece of paper he’d collected from the door along with his keys onto the cluttered coffee table and let out a long breath. No napping. He needed to clean this place up.

Three hours later Warner fell onto the couch, kicked his feet up, and closed his eyes. Six bags of trash had been taken to the dumpster. Four baskets of laundry had been carried to his truck so he could make a trip to the Laundromat.

His cupboards were now filled with clean dishes and he’d thrown out the rotten strawberries in his refrigerator and made a grocery list. Other than condiments, he had no food.

Rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand he laughed at himself. He was a slob. Clara’s cluttered little bedroom was a haven compared to the hell hole he’d been living in. But maybe that needed to change.

Warner tapped his hand against his leg and a beat generated at his fingertips.
The hell I’ve created…that would need to change.

He sat up and tapped the same beat on the coffee table.
The hell we’ve created…it was time for a change.

The words danced in his head and beat now tapped his foot.

He stood and walked over to the newly dusted keyboard and began the workings of the song that now played in his head.

***

Clara sat at the kitchen table and bit into the sandwich she’d made for dinner. It was nearly nine o’clock and she’d been calling Warner since she’d left the theater. He’d never answered.

She was setting herself up for disappointment. He had a wanderer’s soul and she was just a stop on his route to wherever he was going to land.

The house was too quiet. Tyler was gone and the basement was void of everything but the furniture that stayed. Christian was at Tori’s. It seemed as though she’d decided he was worth having over at night. And now Clara sat alone in her kitchen with a piece of bologna between bread and she was calling it dinner time. She was pathetic.

Well, it was only one night. She knew she shouldn’t feel bad for herself. Tomorrow night would start the final run of West Side Story. Her days as Maria were numbered. And then there was the gig Randy had set up for them, though it was going to have to be all Warner now. There was no way she could commit to performing with him.

As she bit into her sandwich there was a pounding on the front door. She yelped as she bit down on her cheek.

Who could possibly be at the door this late?

The pounding continued and Clara quickly stood, hurried to the cupboard, and reached for her gun. She’d hated Christian leaving it there, but now she was glad it was in reach.

“Clara, are you home?” She heard Warner’s voice call out.

Her adrenaline had kicked in and she laid the gun back on the shelf. Her hand was shaky and even holding it in her hand wasn’t safe.

She took a deep breath and hurried to the door.

As she pulled open the door she narrowed her eyes on him. He was a wreck. Were those the same clothes he’d had on when he left her off at the theater?

“What are you doing?”

His eyes were open and bright. “You have to listen to this.” He moved past her with his guitar in his hand, not even in its case.

Warner propped his foot up on the coffee table, raked his fingers through his already mussed up hair, and then he began to play.

Clara smiled as Warner dove into the song. The dark cords, his deep voice, the haunting lyrics of a love on the mend. The man was a musical genius.

The song and his voice echoed through the house which only moments earlier had been so quiet. This was where he’d been all day she realized. The creative mind had shut off from the world and this masterpiece had been written.

As the last chord of the song resonated through the air he finally looked up at her. His eyes were wide and he was waiting for her approval.

“You wrote that today didn’t you?” She asked.

He only nodded, his foot still propped up on the table. His guitar still balanced on his knee.

“Warner Wright, I think you’re a genius.”

“You do?”

Clara nodded. “That was one of the most amazing songs I’ve ever heard.”

His eyes darkened and narrowed. “Let’s record it.”

Clara laughed. “Now?”

“Yeah. I have my computer in the truck.” He set his foot down and held the guitar by its neck.

“You don’t even know what time it is, do you?”

Warner scratched the back of his neck and then pulled his cell phone from his pocket. He winced. “Eww, sorry. I didn’t realize it was this late.” He tapped his finger on the screen of his phone and scrolled through the list of missed calls. “I didn’t even know you called me.”

“Obviously.” Clara crossed her arms over her chest. “You need a shower.”

He looked down at himself. “God, I am a slob. But my apartment is clean.” A line crept between his brows. “But all my clothes are dirty and in the back of my truck. I forgot to go to the Laundromat.”

Clara covered her mouth to keep from bursting into laughter. This certainly was going to take some getting used to. The creative mind, she’d learned, was very disorganized.

“You have your laundry with you?”

He nodded.

“Go get it. I have a washer and dryer.”

“Right. Thanks.” He propped the guitar up against the couch, set his phone on the table, and fished his keys from his pocket. A folded up piece of yellow paper came with the keys and he set it on the table. Obviously it had been what he’d written the song on.

Clara watched him as he hurried out to his truck.

Oh, they had pegged her—her brothers and Darcy. Warner Wright was just her type.

As Warner carried in his laundry Clara buzzed around the kitchen.

“That’s the last one. I’ll pay you back for the use of the washer.”

She set a plate down on the table with a sandwich on it. “Eat. I’ll bet you haven’t done that all day either.”

His stomach growled as if on cue. “You’re right. I cleaned my apartment and wrote. As productive as I was—I wasn’t very productive at all.”

“Sit. I’m going to start that laundry and you’re going to relax.”

Warner sat down and picked up the sandwich. Bologna? Did people in real houses really eat that? He’d never been one for the strange meat, but it was cheap enough for him.

He bit into the sandwich and began to feel the drain of the day settle into his muscles.

The noise from the other room of Clara loading the wash machine twisted guilt in his belly. But the realization of the moment kicked in. Never in his life had a woman taken care of him. Clara had known him a week and there she was making him sandwiches, listening to his songs, washing his clothes.