Deepest Blues

by Heidi Hutchinson

  She turned and led them back downstairs.

  “Where are the other house guests?” Harrison asked, and Mike could hear the small undertone of protectiveness that came out.

  “The guys are probably out surfing. That's what they do. Tatewin works at a law firm in town, she's a paralegal. And Clarke works at Soaring Bird, but you probably knew that.”

  They made it down the stairs, and she led them into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.

  “Why would we know that?” Mike asked, twisting the lid off the bottle of water she handed him.

  “She runs West Coast operations for Shane Brookings.” Greta frowned, confused by their confusion.

  “Lenny's business partner and ex-boyfriend, Shane Brookings?” Harrison attempted to clarify.

  “Yeah. Huh, thought you guys knew.” She shrugged it off. “Well, you know now. When do you go to the studio?”

  “Sounds like we need to make housing arrangements as soon as possible.” Mike gave a disapproving look to Harrison, who shrugged, looking exactly as his sister had a few seconds prior.

  “Ugh, I would love to have you guys stay here. But Clarke is already stretched pretty thin the way it is. If I could convince Steve to get out and take his homeboys with him, it would be way different around here.”

  “Do you want me to rough them up for you?” Harrison asked, half-joking.

  Greta snickered. “Maybe. I'll think about it. They're Shane's friends, so I think Clarke feels like it's part of her job to sort of take care of them. But Shane's back now, so I think she's hoping he'll take care of it.” She took out some vegetables and a cutting board.

  “Steve is the loud one. Brady and Bo are brothers, they look nearly identical. Brady is the nice one, Bo—” she shrugged one shoulder and dipped her head to the side, “can be a little off-putting. He's a little... unrefined.”

  Mike took a seat on a stool opposite Greta and craned his neck to look outside at the elegant palms that edged the courtyard. The place was truly magnificent, inside and out. He had no idea Greta's living was so posh.

  “I just finished getting the place back in order before I came to pick you up. Those boys are messy. I certainly hope you have better manners.” She washed a few bell peppers and started to slice them expertly.

  “So when are you going to finish school?” Harrison asked, his brow furrowed.

  Greta rolled her eyes dramatically. “I'm gonna do that...” she smirked at Mike, “Eventually... probably... maybe.”

  “Greta,” Harrison growled.

  “Oh stop.” She grinned. “C'mon, artists can't be rushed. I'd rather be steaming milk than trapped in a classroom.”

  “I told you that you should have stayed in Boston for school. I knew California would be a distraction.”

  “Right. My brother, the rock star. Who barely finished high school, never even considered college, and still somehow made his dreams come true. You're the worst advocate for further learning.”

  “I worked hard!” Harrison defended adamantly.

  “Please, I've seen the behind-the-scenes on the DVDs.” Greta's smile stayed wide.

  “That's not...” Harrison trailed off and looked to Mike for assistance.

  “How is the art coming along, Greta?” Mike asked curiously, not getting sucked into a sibling squabble.

  “Good, thank you for asking.” She flung her hair over a shoulder indignantly, turning away from Harrison, who made a show of looking offended.

  Mike laughed out loud at them both. They were always like this, but he had only been able to see Greta when they were all home for the holidays. Where Greta's older siblings leaned a little more to the cautious side of things, she was very much a free spirit. Or “hippie” as her dad would put it. It never seemed to bother her that she marched to the beat of her own personal drummer. A fact Mike appreciated since he did the same, although more literally.

  “I heard rumors that you have a degree in physical therapy.”

  She popped a slice of pepper in her mouth and nodded while she chewed. “Kind of. I'm a certified physical therapy assistant. It's only a two year degree.” She spun around and grabbed more food items out of the fridge. “That's actually how I met Clarke. She came into the clinic I was working at and I helped with her injury.”

  Mike tried to anticipate how many guests would be joining them for dinner based on the amount of food she was preparing. It could be a lot.

  “It should just be us and Clarke for dinner. I don't cook for those freeloaders anymore,” she said, as if reading his mind.

  “Honey, I'm home!” a strong, female voice echoed in the foyer.

  “I'm in the kitchen!” Greta's eyes lit up and she looked at Mike with that same whimsical expression she had been wearing at the airport. “You ready to meet Clarke?”

  Mike couldn't help but smile at her. She still had such a child's spirit in her. Like Harrison. Endearing and adorable. He spun on the stool and stood at the same time as Clarke entered the kitchen.

  Mike hadn't been sure what he was expecting. Greta basically told him nothing about her roommate except for her name and for some reason Mike's brain had decided that a chick named Clarke would be a little more... butch. This was not the case.

  Tanned skin, petite figure, caramel hair that reflected the track lighting in the kitchen in an appealing way. Almond-shaped turquoise eyes regarded him through thick lashes under perfectly arched eyebrows. Full, pouty lips, the bottom one just a bit bigger than the top, a healthy shade of pink. The face of a Hollywood screen siren.

  Mike swallowed the saliva that suddenly filled his mouth.

  “Clarke, you know my brother Harrison. This is his friend Mike,” Greta made introductions without even pausing her dinner preparations.

  “Hey, Harry.” Clarke leaned in and kissed Harrison's cheek quickly before sticking her hand out for Mike to shake. “Nice to meet you, Mike.”

  Her voice. Damn, her voice. It was velvety and smooth. Deeper than the average woman, but not harsh. Like Kathleen Turner. Rough in a way that made him think that whatever she said would sound seductive. Even if it was, “Pass the potatoes.” Mike took her outstretched hand, it was cool to the touch. Or maybe he was just warmer than usual.

  “You have time to shower before dinner will be ready,” Greta broke in, a smile in her voice.

  Mike realized he hadn't said anything but was still holding onto Clarke's hand. He sucked in a breath and let go, then ran his hand through his hair, attempting to look casual. Like his world hadn't just been knocked off it's axis.

  A ghost of a smile played on her lips. “I'll do that,” she answered, sliding her eyes away from Mike slowly to address Greta. She backed out of the kitchen, giving a low wave on her exit, and Mike felt his breathing slowly return to normal.

  “Told you you'd like Clarke,” Greta said smugly, popping a cherry tomato in her mouth.

  Harrison chuckled. Mike threw a fake glare in Greta's direction.

  ***

  Clarke started the shower and stripped out of her clothes. She stuck her hand under the water to check the temperature and watched it pelt a pattern onto her palm.

  This is exactly what she had been afraid of.

  The last thing she needed was for some hot guy to show up in her life and make her forget all the reasons she lived the way she did. Why she lived in a gated community, why she never went surfing alone. Why leaving the house without her cell phone, bear mace and knife seemed ludicrous.

  But she had. For those thirty seconds that Mike had held her hand, she'd forgotten to be wary. She'd forgotten to be suspicious and annoyed.

  She was just a girl, looking at a cute boy.

  Stepping into the shower, she rolled her eyes at her own thoughts.

  Boy. Right. Mike Osborn was not a boy.

  A few years ago, the pictures in the tabloids and worried headlines on the gossip columns painted him as a beautiful man-child. The tortured musician who got his heart broken and tried to end it all i
n the most rock and roll way possible. Cliche didn't cover it.

  What Clarke hadn't revealed to Shane earlier that day is that she had had the biggest of crushes on Mike Osborn years ago. Before the drugs. Before the overdose. Before her surfing accident and before her baby brother's untimely death.

  Sometimes it felt longer than three years ago, more like a lifetime. Maybe that was because all those things had occurred in the same weekend.

  The worst weekend of her life.

  It wasn't fair to tie Mike to the choices of her brother. It wasn't fair to look at his face and also see the moment before her own face connected with her surfboard, splitting open her forehead and rendering her unconscious long enough for her to nearly drown.

  Clarke watched the lather of her shampoo swirl down the drain, remembering the moment she had awakened on the beach, spitting out water. Kip had been performing CPR, he'd been the only one with her that day and thank God he'd been there. Otherwise she would have drifted out to sea and no one would ever have known what happened.

  It's not something she thought about often. Not in detail anyhow.

  But Mike standing in her kitchen had triggered something.

  Stepping out of the shower, she wrapped a towel around herself and began to comb out her hair, being sure to pull her bangs forward over the scar that arced over one eye and pointed toward her temple where it faded into her hairline.

  Kip had driven her to the hospital where she'd received twenty-six stitches. The concussion was minor. Kip's freak-out was newsworthy. He was usually a laid-back, go-with-the-flow person. Apparently nearly having a girl die in your arms while blood seeped out of her head was cause for asking for a vacation from work. Poor Kip.

  If that was where her issues had ended, it would have been fine. Clarke would just make sure she wore a flotation device and possibly a helmet from now on. She would also never go surfing alone, which is something she had used to do all the time.

  But when she got home she had an ambiguous message on her home machine from her little brother.

  The events that followed changed everything.

  ***

  “So what's Clarke's story, anyhow?” Mike asked, looking down at the condensation on his glass of iced tea like it was all the same to him.

  It wasn't.

  Those eyes were familiar. He hadn't placed it yet, but he felt like he'd met her before.

  “She works for Shane, she surfs, she's super cool. What else do you want to know?”

  “Does she have family?” Mike asked.

  Greta shrugged uncomfortably. “Not anymore. Her mom died when she was little. She was really close to her dad and brother, but they both... passed a few years ago.”

  Mike waited as he saw Greta struggle with whether she should reveal more. Finally her eyes tilted up to his.

  “It's not my story to tell.”

  “I can respect that,” Mike acknowledged with a dip of his chin. Besides, if he did know her from somewhere, he was sure it wouldn't take many more details before he had it figured out.

  ***

  Clarke got dressed soberly, choosing white capris and a brown tank that highlighted her tan. Her head was a muddle of a mess.

  She didn't trust people with drug problems in general, and she didn't trust Mike Osborn in particular. She knew how the industry worked; studios and PR people could cover up and spin a problem until it looked like there wasn't one at all. Sure, the public had been told he was reformed and clean. But was he? Really?

  There was that tiny fact that Greta was her best friend and had vouched for Mike's sobriety. So Clarke resolved not to be the skeptical, prejudiced, self-righteous bitch she had a tendency to be without even thinking about it. Defensive? Sure.

  She could smell whatever it was Greta was cooking downstairs. Best. Housemate. Ever. The girl cooked, cleaned and was crazy fun. She loved that girl and had no idea where she would be now if they had never met.

  Probably well on her way to being a crazy cat lady with an addiction to online shopping.

  A fast coat of mascara, some clear lip gloss and she was finished. Glancing one more time in the mirror, she tried to put on her happy face and was pleasantly surprised to find that it wasn't completely forced. A hot shower could, indeed, work wonders.

  She jogged lightly down the stairs and rejoined the small group in the kitchen. Yep, Mike was still hot. A younger version of Clarke cheered inwardly. Then current, jaded, protective Clarke gave her a stern frown and younger Clarke shut right the hell up.

  “Gah, I wish I could wear white pants. It's not fair how perfect your butt is,” Greta called over her shoulder as she took glasses out of the cupboard.

  “Please don't talk about my butt in front of company,” Clarke reproved her, and moved the glasses to the table, hoping her blush didn't show. She did not want Mike's attention anywhere near her butt. “Besides, no one has a perfect butt.”

  “I, actually, do have a perfect butt,” Harrison argued as he took his seat at the table. Mike sat next to him, leaving Clarke to sit directly across from him. Joy.

  Clarke surveyed the table settings. “Do you need to me to get anything else, Garbo?”

  “Nope, sit down. I have hot food headed your way.”

  “Garbo?” Mike asked with a slight smile.

  Oh no. She'd looked right at him. That smile was pure devilry. But the question she could handle. She actually enjoyed being asked about the nickname she had given Greta. It was the perfect description for their friendship and no one understood it. It didn't matter how many times or ways she explained it, people generally thought they were weird. Plus, it would give her a place to start a conversation she was comfortable with.

  “She calls me Clark Gable, I call her Greta Garbo. They were in a movie together—”

  “Susan Lenox,” Mike interrupted her, catching Clarke off guard. “It was the role that finally pushed Clark Gable into leading man material.”

  “Yeah...” Clarke frowned at the center of the table, the wind knocked out of her sails. She wasn't sure how she felt about Mike knowing the answer. Disappointed? Impressed?

  “Sorry, I shouldn't have interrupted you. I get excited when other people know about classic movies.”

  “Clarke looooves old movies.” Greta finally took her seat and began to pass the salad bowl. “She's always making me stay up late with her and watch all these black and white flicks.”

  Clarke focused on loading up her plate, but she felt eyes on her. She looked up to see Mike studying her.

  “Is your name really Clarke? Or is that a nickname?”

  “It's my name.” She shot a look at Greta before the girl could respond for her. Clarke was her name. Her middle name.

  “Actually,” Greta swallowed her bite of food and held up a finger. “Clarke was named after a famous movie star.”

  So maybe Greta wasn't her best friend today. If she would have been sitting closer, Clarke would have kicked her under the table. Instead, she surrendered to her fate. She was going to be expected to share personal information with the drummer. It was part of polite conversation. It had been so long, she had forgotten the basic principles of small talk. And now she was going to have divulge piddly information with her first celebrity crush. Why did these things happen to her?

  This was like when Serge would come into the shop and flirt shamelessly and she was supposed to pretend like it wasn't her every fantasy coming true.

  “No kidding? Don't tell me you were really named after Clark Gable?” Mike's eyes twinkled, and Clarke was caught between liking his smile and hating the fact that she liked his smile.

  “No, my parents used my mother's maiden name for my middle name. And I started using it as a first name when I began competing in local surfing events.” She tried to make it sound like it was boring. Even though, secretly, she really loved being able to use her mom's name. It felt like they were connected somehow even though she really hadn't had a chance to get to know her before she was gone.
r />   “You gonna tell us what your name is or should I start guessing?”

  She couldn't tell if he was flirting, but for some reason it flustered her and she felt heat spread into her cheeks.

  “You should guess, Mike,” Greta goaded him on cheekily.

  Mike set his fork down and studied Clarke's face like he was trying to understand a riddle. “What did your parents do for a living?”

  Clarke's mouth had started to smile without her permission. She tried to squash it and bit the inside of her cheek to regain control. “My father was a plastic surgeon and my mom was a swimmer.”

  Mike went slack-jawed at her words as his eyes lost focus and his back hit the chair. At first, Clarke thought maybe he hadn't been listening, but then his eyes fixed on her seriously.

  “Lauren.”

  Clarke felt her stomach fall to her feet. “How...?”

  She turned to Greta who's eyes were wide in surprise. She shook her head, indicating she hadn't told him.

  Silence descended around the table. Mike was looking at her differently now, scrutinizing her more intensely than before. And something new had entered his eyes, something haunted and sad. It was unnerving.

  She cleared her throat. “Wow, that's impressive. You'll have to teach me that trick someday.” She laughed lightly under her breath and focused her attention on her plate.

  “You like working for Shane?” Harrison easily changed the subject, probably picking up on Clarke's discomfiture.

  “Yeah, he's cool.” Clarke chomped into her food, hoping to discourage any more questions directed toward her specifically without seeming impolite.

  “He may be my next project,” Greta said slowly, looking at Clarke sideways.

  “What? No.” Clarke frowned hard. “He's my boss. He can't—no. You can't. You just can't.”

  “C'mon, Clarke.” Greta's eyes pleaded sweetly. “He's so sad and his body is soooo nice.” She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. “Mmmm.”

  “You have a problem.” Clarke stabbed her fork into a pepper and tried to look upset but the truth was, Greta was too hilarious to really be mad at.