Dangerous Kiss (Dangerous Noise Book 1)

by Crystal Kaswell

  I can hear the orders from the crew and from Mal, and I can even sense the continuing frost between Joel and Mal—the two of them hold grudges better than anyone in the universe.

  It's all here. It's all happening around me. But I'm not here. I'm off some other place, stuck in how badly I fucked everything up again.

  Mal's New York fuck buddy is sitting in the front row, half watching our rehearsal, half looking at her phone. She's waiting for him. She's at his beck and call.

  It's the same with all his fuck buddies in every city. They jump to meet his terms. They jump to do what he wants to do, wherever he is, whenever he wants to be there.

  No doubt he makes it up to them with his hands, mouth, or cock, but I'm not entertaining those thoughts.

  They really are sidekicks. He cares about them, yeah, but he always makes it clear it's only when things are convenient for him.

  If that's what I was doing to Violet, she was right to let me walk away.

  Fuck, I'm an asshole.

  It's possible she's better off without me. But there's no way in hell I'm better off without her.

  All day, I stay off some other place. We finish rehearsal, wait around in separate rooms, and perform for a live studio audience. I can see people cheering and clapping and screaming out our lyrics, but it doesn't stir me the way it usually does.

  After we finish, a production assistant shepherds us to a dressing room. We're to wait until the producers look over the footage to make sure it's usable.

  The room is an average dressing room. It's got a vanity, four hair and makeup chairs, and a table piled with snacks and beverages. It's a nice size but it's far too small for the hostility between Mal and Joel.

  Joel grabs a bottle of water and rubs his temples. Another hangover. You'd think he'd know his limits by now.

  Most days, I'd throw out a joke about it. Right now, it doesn't feel worth the effort.

  Joel takes a seat in one of the makeup chairs. Kit does the same, only he directs his attention to his e-reader.

  Mal reaches for the door. "I'm gonna grab Stacey."

  Joel's eyes narrow. He shakes it off. "Valentine with your fuck buddy?"

  Mal shakes his head.

  Joel rubs his temples. "Where is Valentine?" He looks to me. "Strong, don't fucking tell me she's not here."

  I say nothing.

  Joel stares daggers at Mal. "Oh, was she getting in the way, too?"

  "Violet is like a sister to me," Mal says.

  "Never see your sister around. That's not helping your case," Joel says.

  "Don't need you falling on this sword for me," Kit mutters.

  "Yeah, well I'm not doing shit for you, Rhythmic One. This is fucking personal." Joel looks at me. "You gonna fucking say anything?"

  "You're doing a bang-up job speaking for me." My shoulders clench up, but this isn't Joel's fault. Or Mal's fault. It's my fault. Should say as much. "Mal left it up to me. I choose to be here."

  Joel's brow screws with confusion.

  "Mal didn't do shit. This was all me," I say. "I fucked everything up."

  "Why the fuck would you choose this over the woman you've been pining over for the last two years?" Joel asks.

  Because music is all I'm good at. Music is what makes me happy. Music is everything.

  It feels like nothing right now.

  Feels empty if I can't share it with Violet.

  Despite my insistence Mal isn't at fault, Joel continues staring daggers at my brother. Mal stares back with the same don't fuck with me attitude.

  Might not know how to fix shit with Violet, but I can do something to fix this.

  "Enough of this fucking animosity," I say. "Joel, Kit, you're family as much as Mal is. I trust both of you with my life. Let's stop this bullshit."

  Joel and Mal hold their stares.

  Kit pushes himself up from his chair. He looks at Mal. "I get why you don't trust me. Don't blame you for that. But fuck you for sneaking around behind my back."

  Mal nods. "You're right. Don't have a good excuse. I'm sorry."

  "Good," Kit says.

  "It was the ex-manager. Shouldn't have jumped to conclusions about you, Kit. I know you wouldn't fuck us over." He offers Kit his hand.

  Kit shakes.

  Like that, they're cool.

  Joel looks between them. "That's it?"

  Kit nods. "This is where I want to be. If I wanted to be somewhere else, I'd leave."

  Joel tosses his empty water bottle in the trash and grabs another. Discomfort spreads over his face as he paces. He looks at Mal. "Democracy from now on. We discuss everything. If we can't agree, we vote."

  "What breaks ties?" Mal asks.

  "Flip a coin," Joel says.

  Mal nods.

  They shake.

  This feels way too fucking easy, but it's not like they're best friends now. They're ready to work together again. They're ready to occupy the same space.

  That's the best it's going to get for a while.

  Joel chugs his new water bottle and tosses it in the trash. He turns to me. "You got a plan for fixing shit with Valentine?"

  "Not yet," I say.

  Joel's brow furrows. "That girl is fucking mad about you. You'd have to try to fuck it up."

  Kit nods. "She lights up around you."

  It's not like I threw her away. I want Violet around, but I keep fucking it up.

  "What did she say?" Joel asks.

  A lot, but one thing stands out. "She wants to come first."

  Joel cocks a brow. "Ethan, don't tell me you're too fast on the trigger."

  I have to laugh. It's the first thing I've felt since I walked out of Violet's door. It's another thing I want to share with her. She'd crack up over the bad joke.

  "No, I always get her off first," I say.

  "Good man." Joel laughs.

  "She wants to be a priority," I say.

  Joel's brow screws. "Isn't she?"

  "Evidence speaks for itself," Kit says. "He chose this over her. Bet it's not the first time he chose the band over her."

  Joel jumps in. "Ethan, you're an amazing guitarist. As good as Drew—but don't tell him I said that. And you've got more stage presence than he does. You belong here, with the band, but you don't have to throw away everything else. We made shit work with Kit's recovery. We'll make shit work so you and Violet can last. All due respect, but you're a miserable little shit when she's not around. You act all happy, but it drops fast and you don't seem to get much out of drinking or sleeping with groupies."

  "Still Joel's favorite pastimes," Kit teases.

  Joel flips him off playfully.

  Kit returns the gesture.

  My shoulders relax as I sigh. Shit is still fucked up with Violet, but this is getting back to normal.

  The band really is going to be okay.

  "The woman spent the last week with the three of us on a tiny bus because she wants to be with you. She gave up her break to be with you," Joel says. "Back when you two were together, she was always around. She didn't miss a single fucking show. Not one."

  He's right. Fuck… I've been making Violet a priority, but only when it works for me. Chose music over her the first time we broke up.

  Did it again today.

  I get that she doesn't want to feel like one of Mal's fuck buddies, like I expect her to say how high when I ask her to jump.

  "What the fuck are you doing to be with her?" he asks.

  Nothing. Fuck. "She's taking a job in Orange County."

  Joel throws his arms into the air in a damn, this man is helpless gesture.

  "She's meeting you halfway," Kit says. "You need to do the same. You need to prove you'll make her a priority."

  He's right.

  They're all right.

  Violet's always been there for me. Always.

  If I really want her to be mine forever, I have to prove I can do the same.

  The how is the tricky part.

  But— "I have an idea. I'll nee
d your help. All three of you."

  In unison, the three of them say, "I'm in."

  Sometimes, it's not so bad having three older brothers.

  Chapter 37

  Violet

  The next day, Saturday, is miserable. Athena checks up on me every five to fifteen minutes. It's sweet that she's concerned, but mostly I want to curl up into a ball and disappear until this hurts a little less.

  Thankfully, she has a meeting for her group project on Sunday. I get the apartment to myself and I use the time to chain drink homemade matcha lattes while binge-watching Battlestar Galactica. This must be the tenth time I've seen the show, but it's as good as the first. There's something about the distrust and the suspicion and the way traitors backstab the people they've been pretending to love and support for years.

  It would be easier if Ethan really had stabbed me in the back, but he didn't. He can't help how he feels. He can't help that music matters more to him than I do.

  He can't help that he's unwilling to put me first.

  The heart wants what it wants.

  I know that, because my heart has wanted Ethan since the day he tried to teach me how to play I'm Only Happy When It Rains on his prized Les Paul guitar. He never lets anyone else touch that guitar. Only me.

  He was patient with me that day. No matter how many times I missed the same notes, no matter how horribly I failed to get my fingers to form chords, no matter how many times I let the guitar pick slip from my fingers, he started at the beginning.

  He looked at me like he'd wait for me forever.

  Maybe he would have waited for me to throw away everything in my life to be his sidekick. But I'll never be happy like that.

  I'm still on the couch, turning everything over, when Athena gets home from her group project. She's soaked wet from the rain.

  Still, her eyes go straight to me. She hangs her coat on the rack, plops on the couch next to me, and slides her arm around me.

  "You hanging in there?" she asks.

  I nod. "Tell me I'll stop missing him eventually."

  "You will, but it might take a while."

  "You didn't have to add the part at the end."

  She laughs. "You'll stop missing him eventually."

  "When is eventually?"

  "Just before never."

  I pull my shit together enough to get through school all day Monday, then my Skype interview Monday evening. The lab is in Newport Beach, a twenty-minute drive from my parents' place. The drive takes a hell of a lot longer on busy summer days, but it's right across from the beach.

  That's practically paradise.

  The woman who will be my supervisor, if I take the job, is smart, dedicated, and funny as hell. I can tell I'll learn a lot from her. I can tell I'll enjoy working with her.

  It's a perfect opportunity. It should be a great fit. Still, when she offers me the job, I ask for a week to decide. I'm not ready to make any major life decisions right now, not with my heart this broken.

  Tuesday is a wonderful blur of school.

  Wednesday is my birthday. The words Happy Birthday mock me as I scroll through my text messages on my phone. It's worse on social media. There must be a hundred people I haven't spoken to in years wishing me a happy day.

  There are a few old friends I miss. I have to smile when I see a text from Joel.

  Joel: Happy Birthday, Valentine. I recommend spending the day in your birthday suit with an attractive man in his birthday suit. Or in a business suit if you're into that kind of thing. Might make a nice change from the tattooed rock star type. Don't open the present I sent with company. I couldn't torture anyone enough to find out your preferred mode of sex toy, so I sent a mélange of options. Don't do anything I wouldn't do.

  There's a text from Ethan too. Just Happy Birthday, Violet. No details, no embellishment, no promises to fix this.

  I'm not sure if I should be flattered or annoyed. I'm not sure what to say in response.

  Before I can figure it out, the fire alarm starts beeping. I smell smoke.

  "It's okay, I swear," Athena calls out from the kitchen. There are footsteps, then she's pulling open my bedroom door. "So it turns out I don't know how to make pancakes properly." She grabs a notebook and fans the fire alarm.

  "Here." I open the window in my bedroom then push past her to open the window in the living room. The kitchen is a verifiable mess of batter and charred pans. "You've never been much of a chef."

  "Everyone starts from zero." She takes a pot and puts it in the sink. "I'll clean this, I swear, but later. Let's go to breakfast. I'll buy you pancakes."

  "I'm gonna grab a bagel on the way to class." I step into my bedroom to change into my clothes.

  "No class. It's your birthday. Happy birthday, by the way." She comes into my room, waits until I'm dressed in black jeans and a black corset top, and throws her arms around me. "Yes, you're coming with me."

  "I am?"

  "You don't go to class in those look at my boobs tops." She steps back with a smile. "Oh, makeup, right? I'll give you fifteen minutes, then I'm dragging you to breakfast."

  "Not sure I'm in the mood."

  "The place has matcha green tea pancakes."

  "Twenty minutes. This is a smoky eye and red lips kind of day."

  "Violet, do you have other days?"

  "Sometimes I do a purple smoky eye and sometimes more grey."

  She laughs. "I don't mess with perfection." She lingers in my doorframe. "You gonna be okay?"

  "Maybe." I grab my concealer and dab under my eyes. "Ethan texted Happy Birthday."

  "Oh." Her voice drops. "That's um… that's all?"

  I blend the concealer with my fingers then move on to the primer potion and shadow. It's a purple smoky eye kind of day. That means crimson lips and cheeks and maybe even big fake lashes. I need a massive shield. "That's all."

  "The nerve of that guy. I guess when you're famous, you put your head up your ass."

  I throw her some serious side eye.

  She laughs. "Get him back. Tell him to break a leg. Actually—" She grabs my phone. "How about I tell him then I hide this from you for the rest of the day?"

  "That seems wise."

  She taps a few buttons on my phone. "This will show him. The bastard, wishing you a happy birthday."

  "You're the worst."

  "I know."

  The matcha green tea pancakes are fucking fantastic. After breakfast, we take the subway to midtown and wander up from Times Square to Central Park. It's a beautiful day. The sun is bright, the sky is blue, the air is chilly but not cold. My coat is enough to keep me warm, even wearing only my low-cut corset top under it.

  It's not a crime wanting to look hot. It doesn't ease heartbreak but it doesn't hurt.

  Guys give me plenty of attention on our walk and during our late lunch at a mediocre chain Mexican restaurant. But none of them look at me the way Ethan does, like I fix some broken part of them, like I'm the only thing they've ever wanted.

  I try to push thoughts of him aside on our subway ride back to somewhere (Athena is in charge and she isn't giving me any details), but it only works so well. My mind keeps going back to his smile, his eyes, the locked heart tattooed on his chest.

  There's life on the subway. A woman is coming home from the park with her daughter. Two nannies with babies in strollers are trading gossip. A few businessmen and women are heading back to the office post lunch break.

  Even in the sleepiest part of town, late in the afternoon, New York City is alive with energy.

  Even at its best and most beautiful, New York City doesn't feel like home.

  I miss the beach, I miss the temperate afternoons, I even miss the deep purple walls in my bedroom.

  And my parents.

  And everyplace I ever went with Ethan.

  Athena squeezes me. "Guys are the worst, huh?"

  "After you."

  She nods. "Well, after me then you."

  I laugh but it doesn't break up the tensio
n in my shoulders. Athena is a great friend but friendship isn't going to soothe my broken heart.

  We joke about a mutual professor (turns out marketing majors take tons of math classes) for the rest of the ride. When we get off the subway downtown, I focus on the spectacular skyscrapers, the yellow taxicabs, the crisp smell of the air, the deep blue of the Hudson River.

  It's beautiful here too, but it will never feel like home.

  Despite everything I hate about Orange County—the superficiality, the commercialism, the strip malls on every corner—it feels like home.

  Maybe even without Ethan.

  My thoughts fall aside as Athena grabs my wrist. "Careful, that cab almost mowed you down"

  Sure enough, there's a honking horn echoing through the air. I take a better look at my surroundings. It's too early for rush hour.

  Still, I pay attention to my steps as Athena leads me. After a few more blocks, we enter a totally nondescript bar.

  It's just as average inside. The walls and furnishings are all wood. There's a small stage set up with cheap-looking instruments for a four- or five-piece band.

  "Please tell me we aren't watching a live show," I say. "I'm not in the mood for a concert."

  "There may be music, yes." She points me to a seat in front of the stage. "There may be men taking off their clothes. There may be revelations. There may be secrets."

  I throw her some serious side eye as I take my seat.

  She smiles. "If you don't like it, I'll buy you an entire cake."

  "From that place across the street?"

  "Let me guess: matcha and lemon?"

  "What else?"

  She nods. "Hope you like it. Those cakes are nearly a hundred bucks." She motions for me to sit. When I do, she goes to the bar and orders drinks.

  I rest my elbows on the table. Then my arms, my hands, my head. I'm tired and I still have a million and one emotions running through me.

  It's going to hurt less one day. I'm going to not miss him one day. But I'm not sure that I'm ever going to love anyone the way I love Ethan. Not any day. Not ever.