Chapter 5

Kirsten's painting sat on the tiny table in the eat-in kitchen of Kirsten's apartment.

Skyla had left hers at the rental house when they grabbed her guitar, and then they'd picked up tacos, which they were eating on the couch. They were good. Street tacos with baby white corn tortillas like she'd had in LA, but good anyway.

Maybe she'd have a chance to make tacos for Kirsten while she was here in Colorado and show her Tex-Mex.

She liked to cook, loved to share the food she craved with her friends, and her band.

Kirsten was going to be a friend, dammit.

Even if she didn't usually find butch girls hot. Something about Kirsten made her eyes cross. Maybe it was because the first thing she'd seen the woman do was pick and sing. That was always enough to pull her if someone was good at it, and Kirsten could flat-out play. She was jealous, in fact, of how good Kirsten was with that guitar.

"Did you like painting? I think they both came out okay." Kirsten was licking salsa off her fingers.

"I love them both." Hers was like her: a little sparkly, a little funny, but still pretty creative, she thought. Kirsten's was wild, with slashes of color and a churning energy to it.

"Cool. So… I have a confession. I've never written with someone else. Never."

Kirsten's cheeks were red, and she wouldn't meet Skyla's eyes. "I'm not sure how it works."

"Oh, well, now this I have down." She pulled her guitar case over. "If you want to keep that one you were working on for you, we can start with something I was noodling on last night…" She didn't want to push. Well, any more than she had.

"I threw that one away, unless it's in my pocket."

"Okay, rule number one." This one she knew like her own name. "Never, never, never throw anything away. You never know when a piece of shit can be polished, and that one is no piece of shit."

"Oh, but?—"

"Nope." She held out her hand. "Check your pockets."

When Kirsten pulled out the crumpled napkin, she took a breath of relief. She had a pretty good ear, and would have been able to pick most of it back out, but to have it noted down was better. She looked it over, then settled her guitar.

"Is this the tempo you had in mind?" Skyla asked, playing a few bars.

"Yeah. I was thinking bluesy and low, just a little mournful."

"I can feel that. Like with a thump behind it. Bass. Like a little uhn." She made a stank face.

Kirsten nodded, playing along, riffing with her, the music wrapping around the melody she was laying down. Then it was just about adding words. Which was funny, because she usually came at it the other way. Someone would say something, and she would be like, oh. That's a song. And then build the music.

The music begged for a folksy blues, so she kinda pushed that way and then let Kirsten drive, because that seemed like her wheelhouse.

Together they worked out a couple of verses, then they settled into the chorus, polishing it up.

It was strong and quick, and soon they had a solid song. Depending on who they sold it to, it might need polishing, but it was damn good for a first effort.

Kirsten sat back, a bemused look on her face. "We did it."

"We did. That was a heck of a first session, honey. It doesn't always come together like that." And she was tickled as a pig in shit. "You want to do it again?"

"I do. You want another cup of tea? A beer? A Coke?"

"A beer would be grand." She paused. "Though I might do Coke since I have to walk back to the rental."

"You could have a beer, and then I'll make sure you're safe, fair enough?" Kirsten shrugged and smiled. "I can always call you an Uber."

"Fair enough, one way or the other." She'd loved the wine at the painting place, but beer went with leftover tacos. She looked at her phone, surprised to find three hours had passed. "Lord, girl. We're writing fools."

"Well, we're totally fools…" Kirsten winked and unfolded herself, heading back for the kitchen. One of the cats immediately sat in the leftover space, purring loud.

"Hey, sweetpea." She let the baby cat sniff her, then rubbed under the chin. Ears could be tricky with cats.

That earned her a long stretch, and a shiver. Oh, someone liked that.

She grinned, because she did love a happy, healthy animal, and that meant Kirsten was a good cat mom.

It didn't surprise her—the house didn't smell bad, the surfaces were cat-friendly, and the cat tree was vast and well-used.

"Here you go," Kirsten said, handing her a bottle that, thankfully, didn't say Coors. It said Fat Tire.

"Amber ale, huh? Is that like a bock?"

"I think a bock is maltier than this." Kirsten leaned back against the sofa cushions, throat working.

She didn't usually like neck tattoos, but on Kirsten it was hot, erotic, strong.

It kind of made her want to lick it.

Which was probably a mistake. Not that she wasn't all about learning from her mistakes, and thus making a good damn many of them.

"You want to play some more? We have some time." Kirsten picked up her guitar again.

"I do." She would just jam all night if she had the chance. Kirsten might regret asking her.

"Me too. This is—this is something I'll be talking about forty years from now."

Kirsten didn't seem like she was fangirling. It was more…true. It felt true.

"I sure hope so. You're memorable, honey. And I never forget anyone I write a song with regardless." It was a business thing in Nashville, but any songwriter worth their salt put real emotion into the songs they wrote. They mattered more that way.

"I never forget anyone I write a song for…there's something there, you know what I mean?"

"Yes. We leave some of ourselves in it." She nodded at Kirsten's ink. "Like a tattoo. I don't let anyone touch my skin that I couldn't trust, and I'm not going to lie to the people I sing to. I have to feel it."

"Yeah. I have a good woman here. Starr. She's something else. She's done most of my ink."

"Oh, now. That sounds promising too. This town is full of surprises." She would so add to her ink. She kept most of it covered, but there were a few she let show by the end of a concert.

"It's a little mecca for those in the know. I heard about it and moved here as soon as I could." Kirsten strummed her guitar, her fingers dancing idly.

She watched them, wondering what they would feel like on her skin. Skyla had to be careful who she hooked up with. Country music was supposedly more accepting these days, but coming out was pretty much a way to stop getting mainstream airplay. Kirsten might just be worth the risk.

One way or the other, the woman was a temptation, and Skyla found herself resettling her guitar to hide the fact that she was squeezing her thighs together, her body insisting she had an itch to scratch.

She cleared her throat. "So. How do you feel about rednecking it up a little?"

"Let's do it. I'm pretty sure I can channel my inner Gretchen Wilson."

"Oh, man. She's classic. I like the Chicks, too."

"They're from your neck of the woods, right?"

"The lead singer is from Lubbock, yeah." She had no idea where the other two girls were from in that band, but they had a damn good sound and a kick-ass attitude. "We had a jam session once in Austin. Just a four-part harmony deal for a radio station."

"Oh, man. I mean, I'm not into commercial stuff too much, but they have the real deal. Like you." Kirsten smiled, but it had a wry edge.

"Hmmm. Something tells me a week ago you might have called me too commercial?"

Kirsten chuckled. "Then I heard you sing."

"And I heard you pick, and that told me you're the real deal too." She winked. No hard feelings. Disco, for fuck's sake. She couldn't blame anyone who wondered if she was real or auto-tune.

"So, where do you want to start?" Kirsten started a chugga-chugga Johnny Cash bass line that thrummed inside her.

"I like that. Like an old freight train on the tracks, picking up speed." She added a little ching-a-ling to it. Man, this was a hoot. So much damn fun.

She'd written with some of the best, but there was something here, something way more raw than commercial. And it was hot. Like really hot, making her pulse kick up, and her mouth dry. She watched Kirsten, who was playing by instinct, eyes closed, body swaying, and damn.

Damn.

She wanted to grab that guitar away and crawl into Kirsten's lap herself.

Kirsten blinked up at her, eyes dragging along her body like she was being touched, and when she spoke, Kirsten's voice was husky. "Come on, now. We're writing."

"Huh?" She looked down, realizing she'd stopped playing and or making notation. "Sorry. Right." She had to swallow hard, her throat making a dry click. She grabbed her beer and took a sip, grimacing when she found it had warmed. They'd been really going at it.

"Let's get it on."