The Wedding Band

by Cara Connelly

  Kota’s heart beat hard and fast against her palm. The rhythm sang up her arm, all the way to her own heart.

  “We were alone for five days,” he said, “until the manager came looking for another week’s rent. He called the cops. They took us to the station and told us Dad was dead. Mom’s dealer shot him, then took off with Mom to parts unknown. An hour later, Tana and me went into the system.”

  And so the parting instruction from the father he’d just begun to trust became the defining purpose of Kota’s life.

  It explained so much. Not only the brothers’ abandonment issues, but also how Kota became a tender. Why he sacrificed vet school to follow Tana to the wilds of L.A. Why he tried to control every situation, to the point of buying his own island.

  It even explained why he made movie after movie where he took out the bad guys, making the world safer for dads and kids everywhere, then disappearing into the smoke, alone.

  It was profound, and it moved her to the core. Tears rolled down her cheeks, for the boy who became a man too young, and for the man still trapped in the boy’s worst nightmare.

  All this he’d shared with her, and she hadn’t even told him where she lived.

  Curling her arm around his neck, she buried her tears in his hair. “Lookout Mountain Avenue,” she said brokenly. “In the house with the stone lion out front.”

  A jagged laugh broke from his throat, short and brittle. His arms closed around her, so big and so strong, squeezing the breath out of her. But he wasn’t done yet.

  “I left out part of the story,” he said, his voice barely a whisper in her ear. “It was my fault. If I hadn’t let her take the money, Dad wouldn’t have gone after her. He wouldn’t have died.”

  The last piece of Chris’s heart broke. “My God, Kota, you were a kid. You couldn’t have stopped her. I don’t care if you were big for your age. Getting between a junkie and her fix is dangerous even for an adult.”

  She stopped short of pointing out that his father’s bad choices put his sons in that position. Kota wouldn’t want to hear it. He was more comfortable blaming himself than taking the sheen off his father, what little there was.

  “I just wanted you to know,” he said, “before you get too involved with me.”

  “Right. Thanks.” Anger flared, not at him but at the parents who abused him. “I wouldn’t want to fall for a guy who got screwed over by his mother when he was five. What a loser. He should’ve been more on top of that. He should’ve knocked her down and taken back the money. Because that’s so much more impressive.”

  For a long moment he was silent, and she wondered if she’d gone too far.

  Then he said, “Okay, I guess I was a little melodramatic.”

  “Ya think?”

  He laughed for real, and after a second she joined him. It built until the bed shook with it. Relief and hilarity. Catharsis.

  Followed by hot sex.

  Chapter Twenty

  CHRIS SAT UP in bed. “I need to make a phone call.”

  “You’re kidding,” Kota said. “It’s the middle of the night.”

  “Here, but it’s the shank of the evening in L.A.”

  He sat up and turned on the light. Her heart clenched at the sight of him, warm and tousled and bristled and grumpy.

  “It can’t wait till morning?”

  “No. I want to check on my mother.”

  That was true, but just part of it. She had to call Reed immediately and quit her job. In her mind, she’d quit twenty-­four hours ago, but now that Kota had opened up to her, she needed to make it official.

  And then she’d tell him everything. She wanted a life with him, and she wanted it to start tonight.

  He levered his big body out of bed, and she followed his fine ass down the hallway to the kitchen, her stomach alive with butterflies, both anticipation and dread.

  He dug out the phone, showed her how to use it, then dropped a kiss on her lips. “I’ll be in bed. Waiting for you.” She watched him disappear toward the bedroom. “I hope she’s doing okay,” he called over his shoulder.

  She smiled. Kota might dislike her mother on principle, but after what he’d been through, he could appreciate a mother who stuck by her kid.

  She dialed Reed’s number. His voice, when he answered, was groggy with sleep.

  “Hi, it’s Christine. Sorry I woke you.”

  “Chris.” She pictured him dragging a hand down his face, getting his bearings. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yes.” For the moment. “How’s Mom?”

  “I saw her today, she’s fine.” His voice hardened. “Owen’s after me to find you. I told you not to call.”

  “It’s okay. Owen can throw me under the bus. I’m quitting the Sentinel. I’m quitting journalism.”

  Silence. Then, “Listen, Chris, I know this is tough. You’re taking a beating for something that’s not your fault. But you need to grow a thicker skin. This isn’t the last time you’ll get kicked around in this business.”

  “Actually, it is. I’m really quitting, Reed, and it’s not because of Owen, or not directly anyway.”

  She sucked a deep breath, then said it out loud. “I’m in love with Dakota Rain.”

  Reed blew a raspberry. “Get over it, Chris. You don’t ditch your career because you’ve got a crush on a movie star.”

  “It’s not a crush. And that’s only part of it anyway. I like these ­people. I don’t have it in me to exploit them. And,” she added before he could interrupt her, “Mom would hate it.” The one argument he couldn’t refute.

  A pause, then, “Your mother would hate it, but that’s because she worked in a different era. If she was still in the business, she’d understand that journalism has changed.”

  “And she’d hate that too. She’d quit if it came to this. She’d want me to quit. Think about it, Reed. Undercover reporting on important events is honest work if it’s the only way to get the truth out. And covering social events is honest work too. Boring, but honest.

  “But going undercover to report on social events? It’s combining the worst of both worlds, and it absolutely wouldn’t fall under Mom’s definition of journalism. Sneaking into a celebrity wedding wouldn’t make her proud. It would make her cringe.”

  “I don’t like your implications, young lady.”

  “I’m not criticizing you. You’re right about all of it. You have to adapt to stay in the game, and thank God you’re there, holding the line somewhere close to where it used to be.

  “But for me, I went into journalism because Mom always wanted me to. I felt guilty that I disappointed her. I wanted her to be proud of me. But Reed, she wanted me to be a serious journalist. A change-­the-­world journalist. And I’m not cut out for that. My heart isn’t in it.”

  Silence. Then, curmudgeonly, “I stuck my neck out for you.”

  “Did you? Didn’t you really stick it out for Mom?”

  “Goddamn it, Chris.” He was losing force. “She’d skin me if she knew I let this happen.”

  Chris leaned her forehead against the fridge. “I’m trying to tell you it was a blessing in disguise. I got into this for Mom. It was a bad decision. All this wedding thing did was bring it to a head. Better now than before I waste ten years trying to be something I’m not.”

  Tri batted her ankle. She hoisted him under her arm. “I’m sorry for the trouble my bad decision caused you. Owen’ll be fit to be tied.”

  Reed blew another raspberry. “He’ll be bullshit about the story, but he’ll have Buckley off his back.” He paused. “Are you sure, Chris? What’ll you do now?”

  “Write Mom’s biography. Maybe do some singing.” In L.A., where she could be with Kota if he’d have her. “Don’t worry about me. I’m good. I’m really, really good.”

  She kissed Tri’s wet little nose.

  Now to tell K
ota.

  She found him on his stomach, out cold, taking up three-­quarters of the king-­sized bed.

  A solid nudge got no reaction. He even slept through a rib-­knuckling.

  Relief snuck up and discouraged her from a full-­scale assault. She curled against his side instead. Now that she’d made it official with Reed, the urgency drained out of her. Telling Kota could wait till morning.

  What could it hurt?

  SOMETHING DRAGGED KOTA from a very pleasant, very erotic dream, where he was back at the wedding reception, the only guest, and Christy was up on the stage, the only performer, and she was buck naked, all pink nipples and round ass and ruby lips, crooning her smokiest, down-­and-­dirtiest “Fever” just for him.

  It was so real he could taste the salty sweat on her skin.

  And then a mosquito buzzed his ear, insistent and annoying and soon to be flattened between his palms . . .

  He opened his eyes. Daylight wiped out the sultry haze of the dream. He looked around, but the mosquito wasn’t in the room.

  It was an airplane, buzzing his island.

  His island, goddamn it.

  He threw back the sheet and bounced out of bed.

  “What?” came sleepily from the other side.

  “Somebody’s buzzing my island.” He hadn’t bought a goddamn island so some jackass could get his jollies by waking him up at the ass crack of dawn. He stepped into his shorts and strode toward the door.

  Cy read his mood and went on full alert, flanking Kota as he marched down the hallway.

  Christy caught up to them in the courtyard, a gorgeous mess fresh from the sack. “Get back inside,” he growled. If this was some fucking paparazzi, they weren’t putting pictures of his woman on the internet. Not today.

  Shielding his eyes, he searched for the plane. When he spotted it, he dropped his hand, startled out of his bad mood.

  “That’s my Cessna.”

  A cold hand fisted his heart. He leaped for the golf cart. Christy piled in too, along with the dogs, and he careened out the courtyard.

  “Whoa.” Christy clutched the dash.

  “Sorry. But this can’t be good. Ma and Pops have the phone number. There’s no reason for anyone to fly here unless something happened to them.”

  “Oh God.” She gripped his thigh.

  The plane was on the ground when they reached the landing strip. Em was coming down the stairs as he wheeled onto the tarmac.

  “Em, what the fuck?” He was at her side, gripping her arm as her feet touched the ground.

  Then Mercer appeared in the doorway, a fireplug in a sharp black suit. His square face was grim.

  Confusion warred with panic. “What the fuck?”

  “Your parents are fine,” Em said, reading his mind.

  Kota’s knees buckled in relief. He grabbed the railing with one hand, Christy with the other. She moved under his arm, her own sliding supportively around his waist.

  “Jesus, I thought—­”

  “I know, and I’m sorry. I wish I could’ve called, but it’s better this way.”

  He pulled himself together. “Okay.” Deep breath. “Okay, what’s the problem? What’s Mercer doing here?”

  “There’s something you need to know.” Her eyes went to Christy. “She’s a reporter.”

  He snorted. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “She works for the Sentinel. They sent her to spy on the wedding.”

  Doubt crept in. He shook his head, slowly. “No. She came with the band. She’s a singer.” Only ten minutes ago, she’d serenaded his dreams.

  “Kota.” Em took hold of his arm. Her trusted voice rang clear and true. “You know I wouldn’t be here unless I was sure. Mercer checked her out. It’s true she used to sing with Zach, and we’re pretty sure he didn’t know what she was up to. But she’s a gossip reporter for the Sentinel, and our sources confirm she was sent to do a wedding spread for their Sunday edition.”

  He turned to Christy. She’d gone sheet white.

  “Wait,” he said. “No. Tell them. No.”

  She met his eyes, but he saw a stranger there, frightened and desperate. The ground opened under his feet.

  “I-­I quit. I told Reed—­”

  “No.” He stepped back, shaking her off, tearing his gaze from her lying face. “Em. Jesus. Get her out of here. Pack her shit and put her on the plane.”

  Em clasped Christy’s wrist as she reached for him. “Don’t even,” she said, twisting Christy around, hauling her toward the golf cart. Christy stumbled on her bad ankle. Tri leaped from her grasp as she fell on one knee.

  Kota turned his back, ice water in his veins. He found Mercer in front of him, and he shoved the man with both hands.

  Mercer fell back a step, but his expression never changed. “Your brother’s wife added her at the last minute,” he said, all the explanation he was likely to give. Then he shot his cuffs. Rolled his neck. Body language for back off.

  Kota didn’t care if the man drew a gun and shot him. “Give me everything,” he bit out. “Every fucking thing.”

  Mercer delivered it military style. “The subject is legally known as Christine Case.”

  So even her name was a lie.

  “After touring with her father, Zachary Gray, for six years, she was hired by the Sentinel twenty-­six months ago. She worked the society beat until approximately one month ago, when she moved to hard news, where her first major story backfired, incurring the wrath of Senator Buckley, who was implicated therein. Reed Washington—­managing editor of the Sentinel and a friend of the subject’s mother, Emma Case—­intervened on her behalf.”

  How skillfully she’d woven truth and lies. Kota pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re boring me, Mercer. Get to the point.”

  “Reed Washington ordered Christine Case to infiltrate the wedding and bring back an exposé on the event.”

  But she’d gotten so much more, hadn’t she? So much more bang for her buck. Because he was too stupid, too smitten, to keep his fucking mouth shut.

  His heart turned to ice in his chest.

  He glared at Mercer. “Took you long enough to figure it out.”

  Mercer stiffened. “We had the data in our hands by dawn on Sunday, but you’d already left with her. Your parents refused to give us the satphone number. And your mother”—­Mercer barely restrained his disdain—­“insisted we not employ our usual methods of accessing that information.”

  Kota bared his teeth. “You work for me, not my mother.”

  Mercer bared his own teeth. “You informed me at the outset that your assistant has authority to act when you’re incommunicado. She acceded to your mother’s wishes.”

  So Em was to blame. He’d kick her ass before he fired her. She’d never work in L.A. again.

  That was for later. “Then why are you here? The ladies let you off the leash?”

  Mercer kept his cool in the face of Kota’s sneer. “My ­people instituted a trap-­and-­trace on all of Reed Washington’s telephones at 0600 on Sunday morning. We recorded all incoming telephone numbers, verified their origin, and determined whether further action was required.

  “Reed Washington received no calls from any number associated with Christine Case. However, at 2300 last night, we intercepted a number we thereafter confirmed as your satphone.

  “Assuming that the call was made without your consent, I contacted your assistant, who rejected my suggestion that she place an immediate call to that number. In her view, a late-­night telephone call implicating the subject might trigger an unpleasant confrontation that could escalate out of control.”

  Em had that much of it right.

  “However, she concurred that if the subject was making contact with Reed Washington, action was called for. Upon further discussion, we decided on a daybreak arri
val and supervised exfiltration.”

  “Good call,” Kota said, keeping a tight grip on his rage. “Now get the bitch off my island.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  CHRIS STARED AT her lap as the cart bumped over the path. Her hands cupped empty air. Tri had stayed back with Kota.

  She’d never hold either of them again.

  Em drove sanely, though her knuckles were white on the wheel. Chris tried again.

  “I quit,” she said, striving to keep her voice calm while panic’s icy fingers clawed her throat. “I called Reed last night and told him I’m done. I won’t write the story. I won’t do that to Kota.”

  “You called Reed,” Em said, “that much is true. But mixing the truth with lies is your specialty. So pardon me if I call bullshit on the rest of it.”

  “Ask Reed. He’ll tell you. He tried to talk me out of it, but I don’t want to be a journalist anyway. I never did.”

  “Boo hoo. Now shut the fuck up or I’ll push you out and you can walk the rest of the way.”

  Chris would gladly take her up on that offer. Kota’s instant, unquestioning rejection had ripped her heart from her chest, and Em’s disgust was acid in the wound. But it was a thirty-­minute walk even on two good ankles, so she shut the fuck up instead.

  At the house, Chris limped slowly behind Em, who ate up the long hallway with her short, furious strides. Then she watched stoically as Em wadded her clothing and forced it into her bag. And she made not a peep when Em tucked the laptop under her arm.

  “You’ll get it back when Mercer’s done with it,” Em said. “If you’ve got a problem with that, tough shit.”

  Chris closed herself in the bathroom and threw up.

  Kota was nowhere in sight when they got back to the plane. Mercer stuck out a hand, and Em passed him the laptop. Then both of them watched Chris hump her bag up the narrow steps.