“Can I talk to you after church?”

“Yeah, anything particular?”

“It’s personal.”

Chapter Forty-Five

Shelby

Angelina’s not the same awed woman I met way back in New York before one of my shows. She’s genuine and enthusiastic about my songs. I don’t think she’s making it up just to work with me.

And Lordy, does she have opinions.

Thankfully, they’re smart ones.

“All right.” I pull out a crumpled piece of paper where I’ve scribbled down a few lines. “This song’s been itching at me for a bit now.” It’s personal and I’ve been working on it since the kidnapping. I’m hoping Angelina can help me iron out the melody and chorus.

“First time we met,

You gave me the creeps.

Wish I’d listened before you put me to sleep.

Will this night of terror ever end?

I see skeletons under your bed.”

Angelina’s lips pull into a faint smile. “I think the saying is skeletons in your closet.”

“It’s a twist on the phrase,” I answer sharper than I meant to. Damn, when will I learn to take criticism like a professional?

It’s more than my artist ego, though. That particular line is deeply personal and has a double meaning.

If Rooster hadn’t saved me from Suggs, I would’ve ended up the skeleton under the bed.

I strum a few more notes. Maybe it’s too personal to put into a song. “You’re probably right, people will think I’m dumb and don’t know any better.”

“No! Ignore me.” She taps my arm. “It’s good to mix things up. Put a new twist on an old phrase. That’s what being a creative is all about. The ones who get it will love it. The ones who don’t—” she shrugs. “Fuck ‘em.”

“I knew I liked you.”

“Give me the rest of it,” she encourages.

“Can’t you see?

You can’t handle a girl like me.

I’ve got skeletons under my bed.

You never bothered to ask.

The night we met.

What I was hiding under my pretty face.

Thought you found a way in.

You’d get under my skin.

And I’d want you for keeps.

You didn’t know—I’m a queen.

Who bows to no one.”

She stops me again. “I think that last one should be like a whispered line.”

“Huh, I kinda like that idea.” I make a note next to the line. “You want me to keep going?”

“Let me hear it.”

“I’ve got skeletons of my own.

Should’ve looked under the surface.

The night we met, you couldn’t see

What was hiding under my pretty face.

Better get gone.

My man’s got a bone to pick with you.

We’ve got skeletons in our closet.

And you’re about to meet an early grave.”

“Damn, Shelby.” Angelina stars at me with wide eyes. “That’s scary and badass. Very Goodbye Earl meets Gunpowder and Lead.”

“I don’t know about that. It still needs work.”

She bites her lip, obviously hesitant to criticize me again so soon.

“Go on,” I say.

“That last verse…did you run it by Rooster to see if it’s okay? Club stuff…you know? Maybe. Never mind.”

“Ouch, is it that obvious what the song’s about?”

She gives me a face full of “Duh, yeah.” But she’s too nice to actually say it.

“Kinda. It was heavily reported too. The stuff about the cage under the bed…I’m sorry I didn’t get it right away. I see why you need to keep that line…” her soft voice trails off.

Dang. Besides the Glow article, I didn’t read much of the stuff written about my kidnapping. I mean, I lived it. No need to read what other people thought happened.

“Think Rooster will be okay with that line?” she asks again.

I never thought of worrying about the club. Asking Rooster for permission to write a lyric? Damn, that goes against every instinct I have. Rooster’s never involved himself in my music in that way.

But isn’t this the kind of thing Rooster was talking about when he explained why trust is so important to the guys if they vote on an ol’ lady?

“Suggs is dead. Hung himself. It had nothing to do with the club.” At least I hope that’s true. But if the club was somehow involved, surely Agent Jackson would’ve figured it out by now? “It’s just hyperbole anyway.”

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“No.” I reach out and rest my hand over hers. “You’re right. I’ll ask him. And,” I add in a dramatic tone to lighten her up a bit, “this right here is why you’re uniquely suited to write with me. I don’t know of any other woman songwriters who are also fluent in outlaw code.”

She titters with laughter. “Yeah, my parents blessed me with a unique and mostly useless skill set.” More seriously she adds, “Actually, I’m having a lot of fun with you. I’ve only ever written with my dad, or my uncles Alvin and Andrew before.”

“I’m having fun too.” I tap the side of my head and then point at her. “You get me. It’s nice.”

A few hours later, Dawson knocks on the door. “Afternoon, ladies.” He steps inside the studio and honest-to-God tips his hat at us.

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