Page 7 of Score
“I don’t need to meet him,” I repeat, injecting firmness into my voice.
Yes, I’ve had a night or two with someone else, a casual hookup, but some instinct warns me nothing with that man onstage would be casual. Thereisan intensity to him that I don’t want in my relationships. Petra has been exactly what I’ve needed transitioning from USC to Finley for my junior year. A committed relationship, but not restrictive. If we broke it off today, neither of us would be devastated. That’s the other thing I don’t do in relationships. Devastation.
I’ve seen enough of that firsthand.
Wright Bellamy flashes a white smile and leans into the mic. “Thank you all for listening. I’m Wright Bellamy. Iwon’tbe here all week.” He pauses for the crowd’s light laugher. “But I will be back before the semester is over.”
He briefly meets my eyes, his smile flattening a little on his full lips.
“Y’all have a good night,” he says, shifting his gaze and pushing the mic away.
“Let’s go say hello.” Petra stands and extends her hand to grab mine and drag me to my feet. “He’s gonna be a famous musician someday and you’ll regret not meeting him when he was nobody.”
That man has never been nobody—not a day in his life.
I reluctantly follow my friends to where a small crowd has gathered around Wright. He’s seated on the lip of the stage, at ease, long legs spread and his elbows resting on his knees. Some girl with a honey-blond faux hawk is practically preening, fawning over him, and he’s laughing at whatever she said, throwing his head back and exposing the strong column of his throat.
When we reach him, Petra subtly pushes past the people still ringing the stage, gripping my hand and pulling me behind her. The closer we get, the more my stomach lurches and my breath shortens, like I’m approaching a cliff with someone’s hand at my back, poised to shove me over its edge.
Then I’m right in front of him. Our gazes tangle, and the air charges around us. If my hair wasn’t teased tonight into natural curls, tendrils would probably lift and stand on end, infused with static electricity. That’show powerful of a shock it is to my system being so suddenly close to him. He was speaking to the blonde, but stops mid-sentence, his gaze shifting from my face to my hand gripping Petra’s and back.
“Wright,” Petra says, her smile genuine. “I ain’t seen you in a hot minute. Where you been?”
“What’s up, P?” They fist-pound, and he aims his smile at her. “I been around. I’m interning at a studio off campus. Don’t have many classes this year, so I’m rarely on the yard.”
“I didn’t know you were playing tonight,” Petra says. “Hard to believe you’ve gotten even better. I told my girlfriend she needs to meet you before you on the Grammys or some shit.”
“Hey, that’s the dream.” His eyes drag over to me. “It could happen.”
Everyone laughs, and I pull my lips into a waxen curve, too unreasonably nervous to rouse much amusement.
“Wright Bellamy, by the way,” he says, extending his hand to me.
“Um, Verity Hill.”
I shake his hand with my free one, and I swear it feels like lightning strikes between our palms. I draw a sharp breath, my eyes snapping to his face. He stares at our joined hands, brows lifting before he releases me. I rub my palm along the length of my thigh, hoping to chase away the sensation so strong it’s like the spark from a flame.
“Nice to meet you, Verity.” His voice—dark and rich and smooth—glides across my nerve endings. I’ve never experienced a bodily response this visceral, like it’s a living thing curling up beneath my skin and panting at my neck.
“Great set, Monk,” a server calls as they walk by, carrying a tray of empty glasses.
“Thanks, Chuck,” Wright answers, and gives a quick salute. “See you next time.”
“Monk?” I ask before I think better of it.
His eyes slide back to me and he licks his lips before answering.
“A lotta folks—my friends—call me Monk.” An easy smile settles on his full lips. “My middle name is Thelonious. My mother’s a pianist,too, and she loved Thelonious Monk. My father’s name is Wright, and he was determined I’d be named after him, so the middle name is the compromise.”
“You’re a Junior?” Ezekiel asks.
“Actually, mydadis Wright Bellamy Junior.” His expression clouds a little before he goes on. “I would have been a third, but my mom insisted on the different middle name, and it evolved into Monk.”
“And from what I remember freshman year,” Petra inserts, “you were slightly obsessed with Thelonious Monk, too.”
“Pretty sure I played his song ‘Blue Monk’ in every set till sophomore year.” Wright chuckles, shaking his head. “I’m a little less on the nose now, but still love him. Dude’s God tier.”
I’d have trouble naming one song by the famous jazz musician. I mean, I know his name, but that’s about it. Monk suits Wright better than his given name for some reason, though.
