True for You(20)
“Do you still talk to them?”
The Coreys are the only people on the planet I’ve ever wished harm on. They’d taken me in at fourteen and proceeded to make the next two years of my life a living hell.
“What do you want, Jackson?” I’m done talking about a past he has no business knowing.
He runs a hand through his hair. “To apologize.”
My heart races, though it should be forbidden to ever do so in his presence. “Again?” I sit up, facing him. “How many times do you expect me to forgive you?”
“As many times as your willing to forgive, and just as many times I won’t forget what I did.”
“But you keep repeating the same mistakes,” I point out, struggling to stay calm. My plan to be the one who saves him, and me in return, is becoming more and more difficult to follow. I hadn’t expected his rejections to hurt so much.
“Put your glasses back on and look at me, sweetheart. I want you to see how serious I am,” he says, holding out my glasses. “Give me the chance to make it up to you.”
I put them on, doing exactly as he asks. He does look serious, but I wonder what has happened to make him change his mind.
Then I remember—his inheritance. He needs me to get his money.
Chapter Ten
Bliss
“I can’t,” I say. “I’m tired of being hurt by you, over and over. I’m tired of being rejected, until it’s convenient or someone owes a debt… or wants their inheritance.”
“I don’t give a damn about the money.”
“Then why did you—oh God, you lied to me.”
He nods, sheepish. “Yeah.”
“Why? It makes no sense. You said it yourself. We’re not in love. We’re not—”
“But we are desperate for each other. Call me a liar about anything but that.”
“Liar.” I glare at him. “You were more than happy for me to stop touching you.”
He scrubs his hand over his face. “Give a guy a little slack, baby doll. You wounded my ego with the assumption of divorce.”
I gape at him in amazement. “I wounded your ego? There are not enough pins in this world to deflate that thing.”
“You’d be surprised just how easy it is, coming from the right person,” he says wryly.
My mind whirls. He wants me. He doesn’t want me. He needs me for money. He doesn’t need me for money. Are all celebrities like him—forever changing their minds to suit their moods?
“What do you need me for? And don’t give me some bullcrap answer about pissing off your dad. I’m sure you could find a million ways to piss him off that don’t involve getting married to someone.”
A grin kicks up the corners of his mouth. “Because June Bliss Davenport, aka Mrs. June Bliss Morgan, you’re my new muse.”
*** *** ***
Jackson
“I’m your what?” Bliss asks, her nose wrinkling.
“My new muse. The reason I spent the last five hours singing old songs and composing new ones,” I say, laying it all out there for her and waiting for some kind of reaction. This sounded much better in my head. Out loud I sound maniacal, like I should be rubbing my hands together—evilly.
But the only kind of reaction I get from her is a blank stare.
I try again. “You know, muse—inspiration for my music. You and I are going to be Country Music’s next big act.”
Her face goes from blank to pale. “But I can’t sing, play an instrument, or even dance.”
“You can learn. I’ll teach you everything,” I insist. “It’s easy to read sheet music.”
She shakes her head vehemently. “No.”
“But you have to. You’re my June.”
“I’m Bliss.” Crossing her arms over her chest, her look turns mutinous. “I’m not this June, or Violet, or Callie, or any other girl who’s been your muse in the past. They had a talent for it. I have nothing.”
“Nothing my ass.” Thinking she needs to take a look at what I’ve written, I grab the notepad I’d scribbled the songs on. “Read this. See what you inspire.”
She eyes the notepad like I’m trying to get her to touch a snake. With a sigh, she finally takes it.
“Go on. Read it to me.”
“Out loud?”
“Yeah, if you read it, then I’ll be able to hear what I missed and fix it.”
“I’m not sure—“
I grin. “But I am.”
She takes a deep breath, her brow scrunching. “Wha-ish-inguh. Wishing.” She glances up at me, and then back at the notepad. “Huh-ahpping, um, hopping for a guh-l-emp-s-e, um, glimpse?”