The Wedding Band

by Cara Connelly

  He smirked at the ribbon of dirt lining the low fence. “Still working on that garden, I see.”

  She stuck her tongue out. He laughed. “Honey pie, you need to face the fact that you’re just not domestically inclined. Why don’t you sell this place and move in with me? I’m hardly ever home. And you won’t have to rub elbows with Death-­Ray.”

  “She’s not that bad.”

  “She’s a stone bitch.” Zach called ’em like he saw ’em.

  “I’m not the nicest person either.”

  “You made a mistake. That’s different. Ray’s miserable by nature.”

  Chris sipped her drink. She couldn’t deny that Ray got bitchier each day. She resented Hollywood’s failure to fall on its knees and declare her a star. And pouring liquor on bitterness only sank its roots deeper.

  But no matter how bitchy she got, Ray sure as hell wouldn’t run Chris out of her own house. This was the first place she’d ever called home.

  “Don’t worry, Dad, I’ll kick her out if it comes to that. Meanwhile, it’s nice to have another warm body around. I’m home a lot, now that I’m unemployed.”

  He steepled his fingers. “I was thinking about that. Now that your schedule’s opened up, I’ve got a gig in Dubai next week you might want to get in on.”

  She’d seen it coming from a mile away. “Thanks, Dad, but I’m gonna focus on Mom’s bio. If something local comes up, I’m in. But no travel.”

  “Oh well.” He gave her that famous Zach Gray grin. “Worth a try.”

  With that out of the way, they ordered a pizza and spent a few hours playing rummy like they used to on the tour bus. Then he strolled out the way he’d come in.

  When he was gone, Chris got antsy herself. She brought her laptop out to the table.

  Then she went inside and made a cup of tea.

  She brought the tea outside and turned on the laptop.

  Then she went inside for a cookie.

  Tri dutifully hop-­skipped along behind her. In and out of the slider. Up and down in the chair.

  But when she popped up again to find her phone, he waited outside.

  She got the hint. “I know, I know. I’ll get serious now.” She scooped him up on her lap. Opened the file. Scrolled through her notes.

  Ho Chi Minh City, blah blah. Baghdad, blah blah.

  The words ran together on the page.

  Giving up on dry facts, she went back to the pictures, sorting and organizing. Europe, Asia, Africa.

  A minaret caught her eye, framed against a blazing sunset. Morocco, April 2001. She remembered a boy, dark and exotic, and even less experienced than she was . . .

  She pushed the memory aside. This was Emma’s story, not hers. She kept scrolling. Turkey, Romania, Sierra Leone.

  All her life she’d resented being dragged around the world like a suitcase. Yet she couldn’t deny that these places had formed her. The noisy streets, the desperate ­people. They were real. They were part of her.

  So were the summers, traveling with Zach, seeing the world from backstage. Growing up with the other band kids, playing hide-­and-­seek as youngsters, making out once puberty hit.

  Sure, she’d been lonely a lot. But she’d always felt loved. Her parents might’ve been globetrotters, with big careers and bigger egos, but they never left her behind or shunted her off to boarding school.

  They’d always wanted her. And not every kid could say the same.

  The slider opened and Ray stuck her head out. “Whatcha doing?”

  “Daydreaming,” Chris said. Which was all she ever seemed to do when she opened her laptop. She closed it. “How was the audition?”

  Ray came out and plopped in the other chair with a pout on her puss. “A waste of time. They picked a redhead, if you can believe it.”

  “She can dye her hair.”

  “She can’t dye her pasty skin.” Ray flicked at a fly. “Whatever. She was obviously blowing the producer.”

  Or maybe she was more talented. But that was Ray, always making excuses. Blaming someone else when she didn’t make the cut.

  She aimed a sour look at Tri. “I can’t believe that jerk dumped a lame dog on you.” She held out her hands. “Gimme. I’ll take him to the pound.”

  “No, you won’t.” Chris tucked Tri under her arm. “This is his home, Ray. Deal with it.”

  “Or what? You’ll kick me out?” Ray snorted a laugh.

  Chris eyed her levelly.

  “You’re kidding.” Ray shot to her feet. “This is what I get for listening to your sob story? You pick his crippled mutt over me?”

  “I’m not picking Tri over you.” Yet. “I’m just saying we all need to get along.”

  “Then keep the little shit out of my way.” Ray curled her lip in a nasty sneer. “If I trip over him, I’m suing that dickhead Dakota Rain for everything he’s got.”

  KOTA RACKED THE barbell, but he didn’t sit up. Instead, he lay on the bench, lathered in sweat, staring at the ceiling.

  Somewhere in the vast house, a grandfather clock chimed nine times. Which meant he had another twelve hours before he was due on the set.

  Twelve hours of not going to see Christy. Twelve hours of not touching her. Or fucking her. Or sleeping beside her.

  Tony poked his head through the door. “You expecting anyone tonight?”

  “Nope,” Kota said. He could have lined up Sissy or Danni or some other warm body, but he didn’t have the heart for it. “Go to bed, man. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Now he was really alone. Sure, Tony was only over in the other wing. If Kota asked him to, he’d stay up all night, playing pool, watching movies. But why make both of them miserable?

  Instead, Kota pumped out another set. Ran four miles on the treadmill. Did a hundred chin-­ups, then a hundred more.

  And the clock chimed ten.

  Cy pestered him to go out, so they rambled the yard. Cy sniffed every blade of grass. Kota peed on a palm tree. Cy peed on top of it. And they wandered their way back to the house.

  Inside, they roamed from room to room, ending up in the kitchen. Kota peered in the fridge. Closed it. Rolled his shoulders. Checked his watch.

  Ten hours and forty-­five minutes to kill.

  Cy gave him a “What next?” look. The poor dog was at loose ends too.

  Kota scratched his ears. “You miss Tri, don’t you? I bet he misses us too.”

  In fact, Tri was probably pining for them right that minute. He probably wouldn’t be able to sleep without seeing them, without getting his goodnight kiss.

  Kota grabbed the keys. “Come on, man. Time to exercise our visitation.”

  “YOU’RE KIDDING ME.” Christy blocked the door. “It’s ten-­thirty at night. We’re on our way to bed.”

  That was obvious. Her hair was stacked in a messy bun, and her see-­through nightgown hit her at midthigh and left nothing to the imagination.

  Tearing his eyes from her nipples, Kota glanced over her shoulder. Tri was on the couch, wiggling around with all three legs in the air, like Kota had interrupted something good.

  So much for pining.

  He switched tactics. “Too bad,” he said. “Cy’s been pacing all night. He can’t settle down till he sees his brother.”

  “Baloney.”

  “Truth. He’s out in the car.” He gestured. “You want to break his heart, go ahead.”

  “Oh, for the love of . . .” She shooed her hands at him. “Go get him. I want to see him, anyway.”

  A minute later, Cy bounded through the door, grinning his ghastly grin, dancing at Christy’s feet, sticking his nose up her nightgown.

  When she sat on the couch, he crawled into her lap, paws on her shoulders, kissing her like his long-­lost love. Tri wriggled between them, the pair of them pushing Christy’s nightgown all the way
to New Jersey.

  “Okay, enough,” Kota said when he couldn’t take it anymore. “Down, guys.”

  He’d been propping up the wall so he wouldn’t crawl into her lap too. Now she smiled over at him, and before he knew it he was sitting on the coffee table, his knee an inch from her bare one.

  Her caramel eyes locked onto his. “Kota.” Her voice, her smoky, sultry, sexy voice, shivered through him. “What’re you doing here?”

  “I told you.” He worked to keep his own voice steady. “Cy missed his brother. And you too, I guess.” Obviously, the dog was no judge of character.

  “This is the third time you showed up here today.”

  He tried to look away. Couldn’t. “Don’t read anything into it. You got nothing I want. Except sex. Just sex.”

  She brushed his knee with her fingertips. “Do you want to have sex now?”

  He swallowed. “Well, since I’m here.”

  “Okay.” She stood up. “Ray’s home, so we should do it in my room.”

  He followed her up the steps like a robot, lust wrestling with conscience. His body’s message was clear and simple. Sex. Now.

  But his mind asked, Why? Why is she letting me use her this way?

  It made no sense. She wasn’t slampiece material. She wasn’t a starfucker.

  Yet at the top of the stairs, she lifted her nightgown over her head, leaving only a white thong pointing like a road sign to heaven. She shook down her hair so it tumbled over bare shoulders.

  And she came to him, a slow, sinuous walk that gave him time to drink in every bombshell curve. Stopping inches away, she laid her hands on his chest.

  His own hands hung helplessly at his sides.

  “Kota.”

  God, he loved the way she said his name.

  She smiled, and his knees turned to water.

  He stepped back so her hands fell away. “Christ, woman. Don’t you even want to talk first?”

  Her brow creased. “I thought you just wanted sex.”

  “No. I mean, yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck. What was wrong with him? She was offering it on a platter. Her bed was six feet away. He should toss her down face-­first and do her like that. Then he wouldn’t make the mistake of kissing her again. Or looking into her eyes.

  “Goddamn it,” he squeezed through his teeth. “Why’re you making this so hard?”

  “I’m trying to make it easy,” she said, stepping out of her panties.

  “Christ.” He could do this. He was hard as a spike. All he had to do was drop his pants—­

  A bloodcurdling scream split the air. He leaped out of his shoes.

  Something crashed below, and he shot down the stairs, adrenaline-­powered, testosterone-­fueled, ready to take on the bad guys bare-­handed.

  Streaking through the living room, he slammed on the brakes in the kitchen. A blonde was standing on the counter. “A hellhound! A hellhound!” she screeched at the top of her lungs.

  He followed her pointing finger. Poor Cy cowered in the corner, tail tucked, ears down, embarrassed as hell.

  “Shut up!” Kota shouted over the woman’s wails. “He’s a dog, for fuck’s sake!” Adrenaline stripped away anything like patience or empathy. What kind of movies did this whacko watch, anyway?

  He grabbed her by the waist and tried to set her feet on the floor, but she wasn’t having it. She climbed him like a tree, shrieking in his ear.

  “Ray!” Christy’s voice cut through the din like a knife. “Calm down. He’s not a hellhound. He’s a pit bull.”

  Ray subsided to whimpers, but she didn’t loosen her death grip.

  Kota propped her butt on the counter. Christy helped him pry loose the limbs locked around him.

  “Wh-­what’s he doing here?” Ray managed through chattering teeth.

  “He’s visiting,” Christy said firmly. “So chill out, because he’s here for the night.”

  Ray finally focused on Kota. “Don’t you have any normal dogs? Are they all freaks?”

  Christy stepped between them before he could blast her. “They’re not freaks, Ray.” Her voice had gone from firm to frigid. “They’re perfectly wonderful, and the fact that they’ve had a tough time only makes them more special.”

  Yeah. Go Christy.

  “Listen, Ray. I get that Cy startled you. But now that you know he’s not a hellhound, you can relax. He’s very gentle.”

  “Right.” Sarcastic. “He’s obviously never been in a fight.”

  “Those scars are from abuse, not from fighting.” Christy walked to Cy, who was still plastered to the wall. She crouched down and hugged him, and Cy leaned into her, resting his head on her shoulder.

  And that was all Kota could stand. He’d reached his limit.

  “Come on,” he said, “we’re going home.”

  Christy gazed up at him with stricken eyes.

  “All of us,” he said. “All four of us are going home.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “RISE AND SHINE, sleepyhead.”

  Chris had just enough time to open her eyes before the covers went flying.

  Em stared down at her, goggle-­eyed. “Holy shit! What’re you doing here?”

  Grabbing the sheet, Chris pulled it over her naked body as Kota stepped out of the bathroom. Shaving cream covered half his face. Otherwise, he was naked too. And not one bit embarrassed about it.

  Em didn’t seem one bit embarrassed either. Her head whipsawed back and forth between them. “What the hell? You never have sleepovers.”

  “Well, I had one last night.” He stepped back into the bathroom.

  Astonishingly, Em followed him in. She left the door open. In the mirror, Chris saw Kota calmly stroking a razor down his cheek.

  Bare-­assed.

  “What the hell?” Em said again.

  “There was a problem at her place,” he said. “She might be here for a while.”

  Em raised her eyes to the ceiling. “You’re a dumbass, you know that?”

  “So you’ve told me many times.”

  “And yet it bears repeating.” She met his eyes in the mirror. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “Do I ever?”

  Em didn’t deign to answer.

  Instead, she pulled out her phone and scrolled, all business. “You’re due at the studio at nine. Peter’s coming by at twelve—­and yes, he’ll bring a three-­by-­three. Levi’s okayed the one-­year deal. He’ll bring the papers. And he wants to talk about that Japanese thing, to coordinate with Blood Money opening in Tokyo . . .”

  Kota tuned her out. Chris saw the actual moment when it happened, when he met Chris’s eyes in the mirror . . . and smiled.

  Her heart stuttered, then swelled, filling her chest. Butterflies danced in her stomach, and she smiled back, wholeheartedly, giddily.

  Em pushed the door shut with her heel.

  A few minutes later the shower turned on. Em came out of the bathroom, eyeing Chris like she was a hairy spider in the sheets.

  Chris refused to cringe. Kota had invited her here knowing all there was to know. This time, she had nothing to be ashamed of.

  “Good morning,” she said.

  “Is it?” Em wasn’t giving an inch.

  Chris considered asking if she always conducted business with Kota while he was naked, but really, the answer was obvious.

  “He doesn’t like sleeping with women,” Em said.

  Chris’s brows winged up.

  “I mean actually sleeping with them. Waking up with them. Apparently, you’re different.” Em didn’t sound happy about it. “Which means you can hurt him. Again.”

  “I won’t.” Chris sat up, pinning the sheet to her chest. Somebody needed some modesty around here. “I deceived you too. I’m sorry about that.”

  “
Sorry doesn’t mean shit. If you hurt him again, if you do anything to take that smile off his face, I will hunt you down and I will bury your ass.” Em aimed a finger at Chris. It should’ve been laughable. She was half Chris’s size.

  “Kota’s the best person I know,” Em said through taut lips. “He’s too good for this world. He’s too good for you. I will bury you.”

  And on that chilling note, she stalked out.

  The shower shut off. Kota came out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam. “Is she gone?”

  Chris nodded.

  “She can be scary,” he said, rubbing his chest with a towel. “But I don’t think she’ll really kill you.”

  “Gee. I feel better now.” She got out of bed to hunt down her clothes. “Can you give me and Tri a lift home?”

  “Sure. Or you could stay here.” He smiled uncertainly. “I’ll be back early.”

  She wasn’t quite ready for that, and she didn’t think he was either. “I’ll take the ride. We left in kind of a hurry last night. I didn’t bring much with me.”

  He nodded, then disappeared into the bathroom again. A few minutes later someone knocked on the bedroom door. Chris opened it and Em barged in, glancing at Chris’s jeans and baggy T-­shirt. “Good, you’re dressed. Tony’s waiting to take you home.”

  Kota stepped out of the bathroom. He was dressed in jeans and T-­shirt too, but his fit like body armor. Chris’s belly fizzed way down low, where it counted.

  “I’ve got her,” he said.

  Em crossed her arms. “You don’t have time.”

  Kota took her shoulders. “Chill. My eyes are wide open this time.”

  His words hit Chris like a fist in the stomach. He still didn’t trust her.

  Maybe he never would.

  IN THE CAR, Christy was too quiet.

  Kota took her hand, rubbing her knuckles with his thumb. “Pick you up later?”

  She looked down at her lap. “For more sex?”

  “I won’t say no. But I was thinking about dinner. There’s a little Italian place called Maria’s up in Malibu. Off the beaten path.” No paparazzi, and an owner who understood privacy.

  Her head came up. “Sounds nice.”

  “Only if you like candlelight, and a piano bar, and shit like that.”