Winter (Four Seasons #1)

by Frankie Rose

Noah’s at my side before the crush of bodies has filed out of the theatre. He’s hatless, and a few of the girls are staring. He brushes his hand back through his wavy hair and draws a tight smile. “You have another class after this?”

  I come out straight out with it. “Why didn’t you tell me you were married?”

  Noah reels like I just slapped him. “I…it…”

  “What? It just never came up?”

  “It wasn’t important.”

  What. The. Fuck? I want to smack him straight in his pretty boy Irish face. “How the hell d’you figure that?”

  “Because me and Kimberly, we were never really in love. We just had to get married, because…”

  This is going to be interesting. Is he going to tell me he has a child? “Because?”

  “Because…”

  Apparently not. “Because you have a child together.” I finish for him. He blows out a sharp breath down his nose.

  “Yes.”

  “We’re done here, Noah.” I start walking away but he grabs hold of my arm, hard enough that his fingers dig into my skin through my coat.

  “We’re not done, Avery. You fucked up, too. You slept with that guy.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t lie about it. I didn’t hide it from you and pretend like I had any business messing around with you. Plus the fact, you’re not my boyfriend!”

  “Then you’re a slut, Avery. Plain and simple. You shouldn’t have been fooling around with me at all if you didn’t want to commit.”

  My jaw hangs open. Some words are a red flag, can be heard over a chattering crowd. Slut is one of them. Two guys pause in the hallway; the tallest, a dark haired guy with full sleeve tattoos, steps closer and smiles. “Hey!” That smile says we know each other, but we don’t. He continues, ignoring my look of confusion. “I was wondering if we could go over some of those notes you mentioned last week? You got time now?” He eyes Noah’s hand gripped around my arm and his steely glare contains a clear message—get your hands off her or I’m gonna fuck you up.

  Noah scowls but lets go. I rub my arm and step away from him, thanking the stranger silently with my eyes. “Yeah, sure. Now would be perfect.”

  The stranger shoots me a smile—no judgment, nothing—and gives me a nod. “Okay, then. Let’s go.”

  I start walking, hugging my file to my chest, and I don’t look back. I can feel Noah’s gaze burning into me all the way down the corridor, until the door slams closed behind us and I find myself stranded on the street with two guys I’ve never spoken to before.

  “Uh…thanks. That was a little…”

  “Fucked up,” the tattooed guy says.

  I try hard to smile, to keep things light in order to hide the fact that Noah really scared me for a second there. “Yeah. That. Are you guys in Media Law and Ethics?” I don’t recognize the tattoos. Both of their faces are unfamiliar, which isn’t surprising given that the student populous clocks in at close to six thousand people and I generally keep to myself. The shorter guy, who I now see has a small nose stud and shockingly bright green eyes, snorts.

  “Yeah, I doubt either Cole or myself would fare too well in a class that requires you to study the law or ethics, media related or otherwise. No, we just like climbing up into the towers. It’s nice and private up there.”

  Okay, wow. So they’re together. My gaydar must be on the fritz these days because I really wasn’t expecting that. Then again, I was hardly expecting my mother to be gay, either. I look between them, trying to picture them together in my head and failing big time. Cole drops his messenger bag and thumps the other guy on the arm. Hard. He tugs a hand through his scruffy, dirty blonde hair, shaking his head. “Dude!” He turns back to me and points a thumb over his shoulder at the other guy. “Ignore Pete. His brain doesn’t filter anything that comes out of his mouth. Or think about how it might sound first, either. We go up there to smoke sometimes, when the monotony of college life grows too dull to handle. That’s why a little privacy comes in handy.”

  My gaydar has been vindicated, if only slightly. I notice that their eyes are a little bloodshot, and it’s obvious Cole doesn’t mean they smoke cigarettes. “Oh. Sure.” I give them a cautious smile. “Okay, well thanks again for the save. I really appreciate—” I cut off when I look down and one of Cole’s tattoos, three script letters on the inside of his wrist, jumps out at me. D.M.F.

  D.M.F?

  I narrow my eyes at him. “You guys know Luke, don’t you?”

  Cole and Pete shoot each other wary looks. “Reid? Yeah, we know Reid. Why, how d’you know him?” Cole asks.

  Pete scans me from head to toe, rubbing his hand across his jaw. “You aren’t one of those girls, are you?”

  “One of what girls?”

  “The pathetic ones that follows his ass around, trying to have sex with him at every available opportunity? You look too classy for that.”

  A hot blush leaps up at my cheeks. “Uh, no. I’m not. I’m normally trying to run in the opposite direction from Luke Reid.”

  Cole bursts out laughing. He elbows Pete in the ribs, rubbing his fingertips across the stubble darkening his jaw. “Hey, y’know what? I think this might be her.”

  Pete eyes me even closer now, a look of intrigue on his face. “Y’know what? I think you might be right.”

  This sounds like it’s heading somewhere bad. I shunt my bag strap higher up on my shoulder, clutching at my file like it’s a shield and I can fend off whatever they’re about to say with it.

  “Yeah, the past year we’ve been playing together Reid hasn’t even looked at a groupie once. Said there was a chick he was waiting on,” Pete continues.

  Cole appraises me, curiosity on his face. “I haven’t seen you at any of our gigs. How d’you recognize us?”

  “I…your tattoo. Luke mentioned D.M.F. I just put two and two together.”

  “You seen his D.M.F. tattoo?” Cole asks, smirking. My blush grows even deeper. Cole knows if I’ve seen Luke’s ink, then I’ve at the very least seen him shirtless.

  “No, of course not. I’m not this girl, either. You must be thinking of someone else.”

  It’s plainly obvious he doesn’t believe me. Not for one second. He gives me a placating smile and raises his hands—I surrender. “Fair enough. But you really should come to one of our gigs. We’re pretty good.”

  “Good enough to get signed, anyway,” Pete adds.

  My poorly formed sorry,-I-can’t-come-to-your-gig excuse freezes on my lips. “What do you mean, signed?”

  “Y’know…an agent spots you, realizes your band kicks every other living rock band’s asses and wants to make millions off your exceptionally talented behinds. Signed.”

  A hundred different thoughts collide at once inside my head. It’s hard to pick out a question, to know which one to ask first. “Luke never mentioned that he’s signed,” is all I can mutter.

  “That’s because the contract’s still waiting for the bastard’s signature,” Cole says. A stern look forms on his face. “The ink on our John Hancocks dried weeks ago, and yet ol’ Lukey boy’s still ‘thinking things through’ apparently.” He bunny rabbits his fingers on either hand, throwing up some air quotes.

  Pete snorts for the second time since I met him. “I have no idea why he would choose being a cop over being a fricken’ rock star is all I’m sayin’. His salary has to be terrible. If he waits much longer, we’re gonna have to try and replace him, see if the record company will still have us.”

  This is so confusing. To never have met them, to have never even seen them play, and then to be confronted with the knowledge that Luke could really do this. Could really be in a successful band…I don’t know how it should make me feel, but my anxiety levels just tripled. I start backing away from them, my head reeling. “It was nice meeting you both,” I mumble, turning my back. I only get five paces before Cole calls out after me.

  “Don’t forget, mystery girl. Come to a gig! We’re playing Friday night at Papa J
oe’s.”

  Twenty Three

  Just Call