“Yes,” he says. “Why don’t you come into the study and we can talk before we eat.”
I nod.
Finally. Some answers.
32
Spider
God, I wish I still drank whiskey.
But then I guess I wouldn’t be able to run five miles like I can now.
I kick up my pace, jogging through the trail in Central Park, but no matter how hard I try to keep my focus, keep my breathing tight and even, I feel unbalanced and off.
I don’t have Rose.
Nothing is right.
My phone has been ringing off and on for twenty minutes, and I finally come to a stop on the stone bridge that overlooks the park then pull it out of my pocket to check.
It’s Father.
“Hiya.” I breathe heavily into the phone as I take a seat on a nearby bench. “Did you get your invitation to the show?”
“Spider…” His voice is quiet yet strong at the same time. “I have some bad news.”
My head runs in a million directions. “Is it Rose?”
“No, no. We can’t make your show tonight. Bella has come down with a high fever, and we want to get back to Dallas. Anne and I have a flight out in just a few hours. I just wanted you to know. I hate to miss it, son. I really mean that.”
“Can I do anything?”
He laughs softly. “Not unless you want to hold a crying toddler for a few hours.”
I laugh.
He sobers up, a long sigh coming from him.
“There’s something else?” I ask.
I picture him nodding, his face stern. “Rose came over last night. I told her everything.”
Now it’s my turn to exhale. I pace back and forth across the small path, phone to my ear, thinking. “What did she say?”
“Not much.”
“Ah.” Disappointment rushes over me.
What did I expect?
“I’m sorry, son. I hope it works out for you both.”
33
Rose
I’m all nerves walking into the gallery. Oscar is next to me, a somber, contemplative expression on his face, and I guess he’s still mulling over the conversation we had last night with Robert.
I think back to the folder he gave me, the one with receipts for Oscar’s and my tuition for NYU, the total cost over four hundred thousand dollars, all paid in increments as Spider rocketed to success over the past four years. Robert even told me that Spider negotiated that I’d get to attend NYU as part of his terms of leaving me. He also wanted to pay for it…just something he wanted to do for me.
It boggled my brain that Robert gave him half a million dollars to leave and then he turned right back around and gave most of it to me and Oscar.
Also enclosed in the folder was a beautifully written invitation with the address to the gallery in Soho.
I’m here tonight to ask him why.
Why…everything.
The first person I see is Mila.
Our eyes meet across the room and she starts, her face paling as she sets her drink down on a passing waiter’s tray and pushes through the crowd to get to us.
I stiffen, my back tightening.
Oscar sends me side-eye. “Incoming bitch?”
“We’ll see,” I murmur.
“Dammit. I should have brought my brass knuckles.” He links his arm with mine. “I got you, baby girl. Me and you, we might just be white trash from Texas, but we look good doing it.”
“You look delightful, by the way,” he says. “I’m glad you wore the white dress—makes you look like a bride. On the other hand, the approaching vision in pink is a bit hard to look at for too long.”
“She reminds me of cotton candy, right?” I look at Oscar, my face grimacing. “Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.”
He shakes his head. “No, just listen to her. You came this far. We’re here and there’s free champagne and shrimp. A man has to eat.”
The vision in the pink maxi dress with a million sequins stops in front of us. I have to squint so she doesn’t hurt my eyes.
“So you’re Rose,” she says, eyeing me carefully, as if I were a rabid dog that might bite her. “I was so nervous in Dallas that I barely looked at you. You’re also different from the pictures he drew of you...although tonight is the first time I’m seeing them.”
What pictures?
Mila is still talking. “I’m a bit of a ditz. I had no clue who you were when you came to Spider’s door. I thought you were some drunk groupie.”
“Would that have made a difference in how you treated me?”
A horrified expression crosses her face. “Of course! It’s…you’re…his Rose.”
Mila touches my arm, rather tentatively. “Look, I’m not into him anymore. If I were, they’d be no way we could work together.” Her eyes are wide and direct as she looks at me. “I’m really sorry for thinking you were a crazy stalker fan.”
People who lie tend to look up and to the left.
She isn’t, and I believe her.
We stare at each other, me remembering her and Spider kissing all those years ago, and my pain must show in my eyes because she nudges me toward the entrance to the art room where guests are drifting in and out. “Look, just go in. I don’t think you’ll regret it. If you still have questions afterward, I’ll answer them, but I don’t think you will.”
Oscar and I walk away and enter the room as a hostess hands us programs with information about the show. With a high vaulted ceiling, spacious skylights, and white walls, the art takes up all the attention.
Guests mill around everywhere, some I recognize.
“Holy Mary Tyler Moore, is that Sting over in the corner?” Oscar hisses in my ear.
I glance to where his eyes have darted, toward the end of the room. “Looks like him. You should go see. I’m going to start at the beginning and make my way across the room. I’ll meet you there?”
He pats my hand. “You sure?”
I nod, wanting to be alone.
As I begin the show on Spider’s side of the room, I see right away that the pieces are done in charcoal, like his sister’s. I move from piece to piece, realizing it’s organized as an autobiographical journey. There’s one of Cate playing in the snow outside their childhood home. I study them intently, noting the bold strokes and modern feel. I smile. He really is so incredibly talented.
Is there anything he can’t do?
I gasp when I come to one of me…waiting tables at Jo’s Diner, my hair in a braid, wearing that horrible polo. It’s a profile, and my lips are full and lush as I bite on my bottom lip. I look so…beautiful and achingly young.
My heart thunders.
The next three drawings are all of me.
One of me with a copy of Jane Eyre in my hand.
One of my naked back with my face hidden, the focus on the butterfly tattoo with his cell number inside the wings.
Finally, there’s one of me outside his apartment building in Dallas, sitting on the park bench. My face is upturned as if I’m looking for him and I have my school uniform on.
I clench my small beaded handbag, emotion whipping through me, and instinctively I move on, needing to see how this ends.
The next few pass in a blur though I study each one, each one a depiction of himself.
Spider doing a line off a small mirror.
Spider’s head on a table with a bottle of whiskey next to him.
Raw and real.
I struggle to contain my feelings. I can’t break down here, not when this isn’t really about me. It’s about him.
I come to the end, another self-portrait of him looking into a mirror, his guitar strapped on his back. His hand rakes through his hair and his face is sharp and lean, his eyes open and clear. It’s entitled Recovery.
I wipe at my eyes and head to the restroom just off to the side, avoiding everyone. Standing in front of the sink, I wipe at my face, and once I’ve gotten my mascara straightened out, I wash my hands, still teeteri
ng on losing control.
I have to see him. I have to tell him that I don’t care if he can’t say the words, I want to be with him anyway.
I don’t even know he’s followed me into the restroom until I raise my head to grab a tissue.
“Rose.”
I turn to face him, whipping around and sucking in my breath.
He looks incredibly handsome in black slacks and a gray sweater. A leather cuff is on his wrist and a silver necklace hangs around his neck, accentuating his tan skin and the highlights in his dark hair, but it’s his eyes that have most of my attention.
There’s need in them.
“You paid for me to go to college? And Oscar?” I don’t know why those are the first words out of my mouth instead of a compliment about his art, but since Robert handed over the folder, I’ve been in shock.
He gives me a short nod as he leans against the doorjamb and crosses his arms.
I shake my head at him, recalling the contents of the folder, the little things that had surprised me. “You made sure I got into the Krav Maga classes even though the waitlist was ridiculous and you even called the owner of Bono as soon as I applied for a job?”
He nods.
I swallow, feeling emotion tearing at me. “I used to wonder why I was so lucky in New York.” I bite my lip. “How did you keep up with me?”
He exhales, his eyes scrutinizing my face, memorizing it. “For a while I had someone watching you periodically…nothing intrusive…just to make sure you were okay. Robert would keep me updated about things you wanted or mentioned, and I’d try to make it happen for you. It wasn’t anything big.”
“Why not let Robert pay for NYU?” I feel like he would have.
“I wanted to do something for you, Rose. I worked for that money and it was mine. I wanted you to be happy and have your friend with you.” Anguish crosses his face. “I hurt you so much.”
“Why do all this?” I ask, spreading my hands.
He smiles, though just barely, as if it hurts to do anything more. “I think you know why.”
I nod.
His chest expands as his eyes sweep over me, and I know what he sees: a girl who dressed just for him. My dress is pure white, a slinky backless number that clearly shows my tattoo with my long hair up in elaborate curls. The skirt is a ridiculously short bit of tulle that flounces against my thighs when I walk in my silver stilettos.
“You’re beautiful.”
His words are like a balm to my soul.
“Thank you.”
He comes closer and touches my face gently as if he’s afraid I might vanish.
I close my eyes.
God.
I want to be his everything.
I want him to be consumed with me.
I want to be the person who keeps him on the straight and narrow.
I want him to not be able to get out of fucking bed unless I’m next to him.
I want him to crumble if I walk away.
I want him to love me forever.
I say those things to him as tears run down my face.
His face looks broken as he falls to his knees.
“Rose, I’ve been thinking about what you said. It’s always been my intention to get you back someday, but everyone always leaves me,” he says, his voice low. “The day Father dropped me off in Texas, I swore I’d be cold and hard and ruthless for the rest of my days. I swore to never let anyone rip my heart out, but then you came along…and I got so fucking lost in you.”
I touch his cheek and he leans into me, his lips brushing my hand.
“I didn’t admit it to myself until I was on the plane to LA, but I fell in love with you the moment we kissed, but I was a fucked up mess, and I didn’t deserve you. I couldn’t drag you down with me. I had to give you a real life without me, had to give you something so when we met again, you’d know I was ready for forever.”
“You’ve been my forever since I was eleven.” I drop to my knees in front of him.
He takes a deep breath and wetness shimmers in his intense gaze. “I love you, Rose, more than anything. I’m sorry I didn’t say it earlier. If you still want me, if you still want us, then I’m right here.”
My heart flies.
“Of course I still want you. I love you,” I whisper. “I can’t go on another single day without us together. I’m sorry for needing to hear those silly words. All we need is each other—”
He kisses me, cutting me off, his lips clinging to mine.
“Forever,” he says in my ear.
And it was…
Part III
Epilogue
34
Epilogue: Spider
A few years later
“Sir, you can’t carry that on the plane.”
I arch my brow at the ticketing agent. She’s around fifty with a halo of blonde hair and bright pink lipstick. Normally, I can make any female do my bidding with my cocky grin and fancy English accent, but truth be told, I don’t try as hard as I used to.
“Indeed.”
She nods.
Her nametag says her name is Gwendolyn, and I smile, even though I’m beat from the three-month tour we just wrapped up in New York.
“Gwendolyn…may I call you Gwen?”
She blinks. “No.”
I’m not fazed. I lean in and prop my arms on the counter, giving her a great view of my muscled biceps in the short-sleeved Vital Rejects shirt I’m wearing. I’ve been working out daily, and I’m not ashamed to share my beautiful muscles with the world. “The truth is, I can’t live without Helene—that’s the name of my guitar.” I glance down at the case at my feet. “She’s been with me since the beginning of, well, everything, and it’s bad luck to travel without her. Plus, I’m utterly exhausted, and if I don’t have my guitar…I might be sad.”
The agent gives me a once-over, her eyes lingering on the sweptback hair, which is white this month. “Do I know you?”
I grin. “You like British rock stars?”
“Not especially.”
“Beautiful men with tattoos?” I twist my neck so she can see the spider.
Her nose turns up a notch. “Definitely not.”
I smirk. “How about gritty music with incredible guitar riffs?”
She compresses her lips. “Don’t want none of that stuff that makes my ears hurt. I listen to Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton.”
My eyes flare and I freeze—Dolly freaks me the hell out. Maybe it’s the hair, maybe it’s the boobs, but just the mention of her evokes mental images of her hiding behind a door or a shower curtain with a knife. I don’t know why. I can’t explain the fear; it just is.
“Need some help, baby?” Rose whispers from behind me, so close that her breath fans against the back of my neck. Just the sound of her voices relaxes me and makes me want to turn around and kiss her, but I have to focus. I’m determined to win this ticket agent over.
“No,” I hiss under my breath. “I got this.”
She laughs. Before arriving at the desk, we bet on whether or not I’d be able to get Helene on the plane with us. Usually we travel first class and it’s not an issue to put the case in the coat closet, but when you’re in coach, everything’s different. Granted, I could have just checked her, but it bugs me if she isn’t close.
“Sir,” Gwendolyn says, eyeing me dismissively as she looks over my shoulder. “If you’ll move along, I can get to the next person.”
I try again, flashing a bright smile and waggling my brows. “In case you didn’t know, I’m Spider from the Vital Rejects. Our fifth album just went double platinum.”
“Never heard of you.” She scrunches her nose.
Bloody hell. Leave it to me to get the person who doesn’t know music.
From behind me, Rose laughs, reminiscent of the time when we met on a plane all those years ago. “Aren’t you going to make up some lie about your girlfriend cheating on you with someone—oh, or maybe a dead dog?”
I answer her with, “My girlfriend
—also known as my wife—would never cheat on me. She’s happy with what she’s got, if you must know. Her husband is fucking amazing.”
“Is he now?” Rose says.
“It’s no secret he’s a stand-up mate, plus a stallion in the bedroom.”
“Yes, he is,” she murmurs. “And I love him.”
Deep satisfaction falls over me. “Do you love me enough to handle this old bird? I don’t think she cares for my looks, my tattoos, or my music.”
“Are you talking to yourself, sir?” the agent finally asks, her brow pulled down low over beady eyes. She’s been eyeballing me since I started talking to Rose without actually turning around. I guess I do look weird. “Do I need to call security?”
I blink. Security? Shit. I really have lost this bet. I exhale, perturbed that I can’t get a guitar on a plane anymore.
“Let me handle her,” declares Rose as she brushes past me, her heart-shaped arse swaying in all the right ways as she steps in front of me in her black halter dress. It’s summer and her legs are bare and tan, and her copper hair is twisted up in some topknot that looks messy and stylish at the same time. With a determined look on her face, she marches up to the desk.
I grin and watch as she does what she does best: reading people and knowing exactly how to gauge their reactions. Her skills come in handy as our tour publicist for the band, focusing primarily on big media spots when we’re on the road. Mila, who recently got married, still does our general PR, but she doesn’t travel with us.
Rose fishes around in her bag, pulls out her phone, and shows something on it to Gwen—who has decidedly changed her tune and is smiling from ear to ear.
Wait…
What’s going on?
I lean over to see Rose showing her photos of Chloe and Connor, our one-year-old twins.
“They’re adorable!” she says, cooing at a picture of them playing in Central Park just a few days ago.
Rose smiles. “I know.” She nudges her head at me. “And this cocky rock star is their dad.”
British Bad Boys: Box Set Page 64