Love Out Loud

by Aimee Salter

  “Kelly, calm down.”

  “I-I’m calm. Just overwhelmed. It’s beautiful, Crash. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” he says quietly. Neither of us says anything for an awkward moment. But then, “Kelly, do you think we could ever work again?”

  If he can be that brave, so can I.

  “Yes,” I say, my voice breaking again. “I do.”

  “Oh, thank God.”

  “But Crash?”

  “Yeah?” He’s hesitant.

  “I’ve still got to figure out how to trust you again. So, we need to stay just friends for now.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Of course,” he says, his disappointment plain.

  I wince. “I’m not saying never.”

  “I know. I’ll wait, okay? But I’m ready, Kelly. I want to make it up to you. I want to show you everything. And I still want forever. If we can figure out how. I still want that. I want to kiss you and wake up with you and share everything. All of it. Even the shitty stuff.”

  My heart feels too big for my chest.

  Me too, Crash.

  Me too.

  And I must have said it out loud because he blows out a breath that thunders down the phone. But I smile through my tears because I know that sound and it means he’s relieved. I smile and I hear the smile in his voice when he says, “I know it’ll take a while, but we’ll figure this out, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “I love you, Kelly.”

  “I love you, too.”

  And it’s true.

  Damn me, but it’s true.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Two Months Ago

  Kelly

  The next couple days seem impossible. Like I’m watching myself.

  Sony called first thing Monday wanting me to record the song with Crash to release it as the primary single for the tour.

  So Dan and I met with Bob.

  Or rather, Dan met with Bob while I winced as Dan talked about things he knows nothing about and Bob was polite about it.

  Before we leave, Bob says he needs to ask Dan something important.

  “Kelly needs a lawyer—someone who specializes in copyright and entertainment. Since she’s a minor I can’t give her contract to anyone except legal counsel—so we know she’s getting accurate advice. Company policy. You understand. It really would be great if you could find a lawyer for me to send this to now.”

  Dan hesitates.

  “I’ll wait here with Kelly while you make the calls,” Bob says. “One of your friends will know someone, right?

  Blustering, Dan trots off with his phone. Bob doesn’t hide his smile.

  “Well played,” I say dryly.

  Bob doesn’t say anything until Dan steps outside. Then he puts a hand on my shoulder. I squirm under the contact, but he’s so friendly and father-ish, I want to please him.

  “Honey, when are you eighteen?”

  “Not until February.”

  Bob squeezes my shoulder. “Well, my advice would be to keep him as far away from your career as you can. He’s not your real dad, right?”

  I wince. “No. But he’s my legal guardian.”

  “Sorry, kid. I don’t want to be an ass. But we’re going to be right up in each other’s business pretty soon. So let’s just put it all out there, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “So, I’ve been in this situation before, and it never ends well when someone like that is calling the shots. I’ll do everything I can to keep the reins in your hands. But I want you to promise me if I give you The Look on the day, you won’t sign this.”

  “Okay.” I can do that.

  “What I’ll write into this contract is that no matter who signs it, the money is paid directly to an account solely in your name. I’ll make up some BS about how it has to be that way and hope he doesn’t double-check with his lawyer. Do you have an account?”

  “Yes, and my aunt’s also a guardian and she’s pretty awesome. You could maybe talk to her? She could sign it. I know she’d have no trouble giving me control.”

  Bob grins. “Perfect. Give me her number.”

  As we exchange details, we agree Bob will talk directly to me as much as he can. That Dan won’t be allowed to make decisions unless it’s unavoidable. And that I’ll get a lawyer on my side so Dan can’t steamroll me into bad decisions. Bob takes my personal bank account—the one I use for savings, that isn’t attached to Dan’s accounts—and says he’ll get the contract drawn up with that number, so Dan can’t touch the money. Then he’ll send it to whatever lawyer Holly engages.

  “Your stepdad’s thinking this is a Hollywood movie,” Bob said. “And it just doesn’t work that way.”

  “I know.” I was around enough in the early days for Crash and Tommy to know that.

  “We’re in this together, kid. Talk to me if there’s a problem. I won’t let Dan in on any secrets as we go, and we’ll deal with the rest as it comes, okay?”

  “Okay.” I smile.

  Bob pulls me into a hug. “I’m putting a call in to your aunt to make sure Dan doesn’t get his hooks into any of your cash. You let me know as soon as she’s looked the contract over, okay?”

  “I will.”

  “Good girl.”

  Holly was ecstatic and took the next day off work to get everything in place.

  Two days later I had a contract with Bob, another with Sony, and a bank account heavy with the expectation of a sizable fee for my recording services which they planned to engage in the next few days. Dan had no clue. He thought it was “good business” to make Bob wait, so was still having his lawyer hold onto the copy of the contract he’d been sent.

  “Make ‘em sweat. And then we hit them with what we want.”

  I couldn’t help thinking that I didn’t have the leverage to make anyone sweat, and how grateful I was that Holly was so down to earth—and trusting of me. This would have been a nightmare without her.

  By the time all the details were in place and I had a moment to think, I realized I hadn’t seen, had barely texted with Crash and Tommy for three days. On a whim, I told Dan that I had to do a rehearsal with Tommy and Crash and that I’d be at their house for the evening. And probably late.

  And he let me go. Just like that. No curfew. No dark tone over the phone.

  “You do what you need to do, sweetie.”

  In over twelve years living together, Dan’s never called me sweetie. Not once.

  I almost didn’t go, just to spite him, since he clearly thought I was off to make him millions. But I needed to see the guys and know that this was real, and figure out how I felt about it because I hadn’t had a chance to do that.

  Do I even want to be famous?

  Because fame was coming. Even I could see that.

  My YouTube channel had fifty-thousand followers, and the views of my song had topped six-hundred thousand. It was all too much. Too hard to believe.

  I needed to see Crash—and Tommy—and know this was real.

  Then the most wonderful thing happened.

  When I got to the house, they were both on the deck with a bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket for me, and playing their guitars.

  And for the first few hours, we didn’t talk about contracts, managers, lawyers, or Amber. We just played. And sang. And laughed. And I maybe cried a little. But they were happy tears.

  There was a moment in the middle of one of the songs where I didn’t need to sing or play. So I just watched them—Tommy ripping on his guitar, Crash’s voice tearing the night. And I realized, this is happening.

  Maybe it can be a good thing.

  I’m feeling reckless. Probably because of two glasses of champagne, but who cares?

  Tommy’s headed home and I should leave too. Instead, when Tommy stands and stretches, yawns that he’s going, and leans down to hug me, I hug him back but don’t get up.

  Crash immediately fixes on me—on how I’m not moving. The tension that appears in his shoulders is the delicious kind
. He walks Tommy down to his car. I hear their voices murmuring for a couple minutes, but can’t make out the words. Tommy’s probably threatening to kick his ass. And I don’t care, because I’m feeling reckless.

  Then the gates creak, Tommy’s truck roars, and then the sound fades.

  Then Crash’s face appears coming up the stairs watching me. He doesn’t want to make assumptions. Which is good. Because I’m not sleeping with him tonight. But I need to be alone with him.

  It’s easy to see he needs that too.

  When he gets to the top of the stairs I wonder if he’ll come right up to me. But he doesn’t. He hangs back, running a hand through his hair. “It’s getting cold. Do you want to go inside?”

  “Sure.” I grab my guitar and my purse because I never actually went into the house, then follow him through the slider.

  He goes straight to the kitchen to make coffee, while I settle onto the couch and wonder what will happen. What he thinks will happen. And whether tomorrow, when I wake up, I’ll wish it hadn’t. Because even a kiss could ruin me.

  But I’m feeling reckless.

  I bite my lip and stifle a giggle. Damned champagne.

  Then I giggle because I swore. Even if it was just in my head.

  Reckless.

  Crash comes back with a couple steaming mugs a few minutes later, sits down on the couch, close, but not touching, puts my coffee in front of me, and takes a sip of his own, before sitting back and drinking me in with more relish than he gave to the caffeine. His hair falls in his eyes—it needs another cut—but he doesn’t flip it away. I wonder if he wants a buffer between us.

  “Why’d you stay, Kel?”

  “Because I feel reckless.” It’s playful and teasing, and completely unfair. But I feel like being unfair. I feel like having fun, but I’m scared of it too. And that’s his fault. So if I can torture him a little, that’s okay.

  “Define reckless,” he says, breathily.

  I hold my coffee, but don’t drink. And suddenly I’m not playing anymore. “None of this feels real,” I say to the dark, steaming liquid. “I needed to figure out if I even want this to happen. The singing stuff, I mean.”

  “And do you?”

  “I think I do. At least, I want to try.” I take a sip. “What I said the other night, in that text, was real. And right now, I want to throw everything away and say to hell with it—” Crash’s brows pop up. “—but then I think maybe we’ve only got one more chance and I don’t want to ruin it. So I’m confused and frustrated and . . .”

  “Reckless?”

  “Yeah.”

  Crash sits forward, puts his coffee mug on the table, then reaches for mine hesitantly. I give it to him and he sets that down too. He slides closer to me on the couch until our thighs are pressed together and then he stops.

  “Is this too much?” he asks, and his voice is deep.

  “No.”

  He nods like a scientist making a note on a research project. Then he takes my hand and twines our fingers. “What about this?”

  “That’s fine, too.”

  “Good.” He looks at me then and, using his free hand to turn my chin, cups my face, his thumb brushing my cheek. “This?”

  “Still good.”

  He smiles for the first time, light in his eyes, not shadow, when leans right in until our lips almost brush, and our breaths mingle. “How about this?” His voice is husky, barely above a whisper.

  Mine isn’t much better. “It’s good.”

  And then he kisses me, gently at first, our lips brushing, tongues barely touching, slow and sweet. Then he lets go of my hand to slide his fingers into my hair, tips my head to get a better angle, and kisses me deep, but slow.

  When he pulls back, it’s like the sun goes down.

  Our lips still brush when he talks. “Is that okay?”

  “That’s great.”

  Crash lights up. I hold his gaze for a second and the world disappears.

  Then he crashes into me.

  Lips, tongues, teeth, we’re frantic. Our hands tracing arms, shoulders, backs, muscles. His hand cups under my knee to bring my legs up and over his so I’m sitting across his lap, I grab at his shoulders and pull him in, he cradles me and kisses his way to the spot beneath my ear, down my neck, then back, whispering to me the whole time.

  Won’t ever let you go again.

  You’re so beautiful.

  I love you, I love you, I love you . . .

  And I know I should be saying it all back. It’s how I feel. This, here, with Crash, is real, no matter what else happens. But the words get stuck in my throat, so I try desperately to communicate through touch and kiss, to let him see how much I want him, even when I’m not taking him. But the thought that he might not know, might not be sure, batters at me until I have to force myself to speak.

  I pull back, chest heaving, and Crash does too. We’re still wrapped in each other, I’m still on his lap. But I see his fear that I’m about to bolt.

  So I put a hand to his face and talk to his mouth that I want so badly because it’s easier than locking eyes.

  “I’d rather have you than this stupid song any day of the week.” I do meet his wide gaze then. “I don’t know how to make this work. But I want to try.”

  Crash brushes a strand of hair off my cheek. “How would you feel about trying on the road?”

  “You mean going on tour?” My heart stops.

  “Not the whole thing. But I know they want you to try the song live. And if it works, to join us at least for the west coast concerts. I told them they couldn’t force you. Mark grumbled like a little kid but agreed. So they’ll ask. You don’t have to do it. But, fuck, Kelly, we could finally be away from here, away from Dan, and just together.” His voice brims with awe.

  I want that so badly. But that little corner of my heart that’s still bleeding from the last time we talked about this, shouts to the rest, too fast, too soon!

  I look at my hand on his neck. “I don’t even know what to think.”

  “Think that you’ll consider it? Maybe?” he pleads.

  And that’s when I realize I’m humbling Crash. Making him ask, declare himself over and over. Keep putting himself at risk when he’s already been through so much. And I hate myself for that.

  “Oh, Crash, I’m so sorry!” I pull him in, kissing his neck and holding him close. “You’re being so great about how wishy-washy I am.”

  Crash chuckles. “I’ve been waiting a year to kiss you again. No complaints here.”

  I touch his face. “I will definitely think about it. I’ll talk to Bob, and school, see if I can sort something out. But whether I go on tour or not, at some point, I’m coming for you. I mean that, Crash. This is hard and I know you’ve got a lot to carry and I’m so sorry I haven’t been thinking about that.”

  His face kind of crumples then, so I pull him in into a hug. And it’s wonderful.

  “I’m not letting you go.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Two Months Ago

  Kelly

  I walk out of Crash’s with my fingers on my lips, pressing the memories back into them to live it again. My fear isn’t gone. My anxiety about the future hasn’t magically disappeared. But I know I want to try. And kissing Crash only solidified that. Because I can’t stop thinking about it, and my entire body hums when I do.

  So I’m distracted when I get home. It takes three tries to get the car lined up right in the driveway. And I have to go back for my bag. By the time I’m walking into the house, I’m half-floating, half-pissed at myself for being such an idiot.

  “Hi,” I say as I walk in the door.

  Dan’s on the couch tonight, a bucket of chicken in his lap, pressing against the round distension of his stomach. He doesn’t acknowledge my greeting.

  A cold trickle of fear starts at the back of my neck and slides down my spine. “I’m sorry about dinner. When you said I could go I t
hought—”

  “I don’t give a fuck about dinner.”

  My heart hammers at my ribs. “Did something happen while I was gone?”

  Dan cuts me a dark glance, then puts the chicken on the coffee table, grabs a napkin to get the grease off his hands, then eases himself around to face me until he’s sitting with his elbows on his knees, honed on me. “Got a call from the lawyer,” he says.

  Oh no. I’d hoped this wouldn’t come out so soon.

  “He says he contacted Bob with some suggested changes to the contract and Bob told him the contract’s already signed and stamped. It’s a done deal. You know anything about that?” he asks. I twist my hands together at my waist.

  “Well, we had to send a copy to Holly, and you know she’s got lawyers at work and one of them does copyright—and he said—”

  “So you thought you’d cut me out of this little deal, keep it all for yourself? The lawyer got to see the final contract. The money will go to you. You’ve been feeding on my teat for ten years and now you come into some money you don’t want to share, huh?”

  “No! That’s not—!”

  “You don’t trust me, Kelly?” His voice is too quiet. I take a step back.

  “It was what Bob said was norm—”

  “I don’t care about normal!” Dan barks. I startle. “Ten years I’ve been paying for you! Ten years I carried you and your mom. And this is the thanks I get?”

  “Dan.” My voice shakes. “I’m happy to help with anything that’s needed around here. I’ll save and—”

  The bucket of chicken goes flying sideways as he swipes it off the table and shoves to his feet, almost falling over when his back catches.

  “Dan, be careful, the doctor said—

  “Shut up about doctors. I’m only hurt because of you! Was that the plan? Make me sick so I can’t beat the crap out of those boys when you fuck off with them?”

  “No!” I stumble back, keeping enough space between us that I can see him coming before he can reach me. “Dan, please. You’ve got it all wrong. I’ll do whatever you need. It’s just to—”