Hold You Close (Seattle Sound Series Book 3)

by Alexa Padgett

  She turned toward me. “Over time, he began to open my bedroom door at night and watch me. One time, he’d followed me to school and sat in his car whilst I talked to my friends. Another time, he pulled me out of a bar because the boy I danced with got too close.”

  “Did you tell your mum?”

  Mila gave me that impatient flick of her eyes that said more than words ever could. “I was paranoid, stupid, crazy. That’s what she told the counselor when I told her about Jordan opening my bedroom door at night.”

  Sounded like Mrs. Jones and ran true to what I learned yesterday so far today. Right then.

  “When he pinned me to my bed and . . .” she blew out a breath. “Mum came home, freaked out. While she cried and screamed, I ran out the door and stayed the night on a friend’s couch. But I needed to move out for good, which I did, and I changed universities in hopes he wouldn’t find me. Then I met you.” She sank onto the couch, her voice changing. “I told you I shouldn’t date you.”

  My heart pounded. “And I pushed.”

  Her eyes met mine and even across the distance some of that old passion sparked. I clamped my hands on the edge of the table.

  “You persisted. And I wanted you to,” she said, her voice soft. Her lips flipped up in an insouciant grin. “Best time of my life.”

  I dipped my head in response. Our years together were the highlight of mine as well.

  “Everything was fine whilst you were toiling away, just another musician with a dream. But your music was so good, and you gained fans. The media took notice. And then that picture of us came out in the paper.”

  She sighed, her throat convulsing. She wasn’t aware of her fingers playing with the ring on her finger, but my gaze stayed there. I’d noticed it on her hand within moments of seeing her today. The ring I gave her. Satisfaction mixed with regret, a strange boil of emotions that didn’t set well in my gut. Or my head.

  “Jordan found me, at the hospital. The article said where we’d met, mentioned my residency position in labor and delivery. Jordan was so angry. Angry enough to force me into his car and drive to your mum’s house and threaten her, too. I sat in the car, too scared to get out. He’d taken my phone. I couldn’t call for help.”

  Mila licked her lips. “He said next time he’d start carving and he’d start with you. Murphy, I . . .” Tears pooled in her eyes as she met my gaze. “He didn’t just want to hurt you, he planned to kill you. I couldn’t let that happen. So when he drove me to your gig from your mum’s house, I did the only thing I could think to do. I lied to you. And I disappeared.”

  “Because it worked before,” I said, my breathing just as ragged as hers.

  “Except it didn’t. You wrote that song. It immediately blew up, the band was everywhere online. Some reporter in Perth spotted me, made the connection. I didn’t know he’d written about me, but Jordan found the article. He found me. I’d picked up a pushy at a yard sale so I didn’t have to walk to work.”

  The tears shimmered on her lids for a long moment before they spilled over. Great big tears that held worlds of pain. “I went over the handlebars.” Her throat convulsed and her eyes blazed. “I might’ve been able to hang on through the shock. But Jordan dragged me into the alley. I bled. A lot. That’s what finally did it. I bled too much and there was nothing left for Kyle.”

  I didn’t want to close my eyes. I’d picture her, broken, bleeding, needing help.

  “He was perfect,” Mila whispered against my shirt. “I got to see him. One more month and his chances of survival were between fifty and eighty percent. Four weeks. His life ended because I couldn’t stay away from Jordan for twenty-eight days.”

  I gathered her closer, wanting to kiss away the sadness that clung to her lips. I didn’t move, aching for all we’d lost. This past year, I’d searched for intimacy, impossible to achieve without baring one’s secrets, one’s fear and thoughts, with a partner.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, meaning the words. “For not being there. For you losing the baby. For everything you were dealing with that you couldn’t share with me.” But under those words was that anger—a big, thick pit stewing in my gut.

  “I was scared that you’d leave me if you found out,” she said, her voice nothing more than a whisper.

  My chest tightened. Had I done such a poor job of loving her that she’d had to worry I’d quit? Soon as she walked away, I tried my damnedest to hate her. When that didn’t work, I’d turned to other women. Many of them. But the solace was empty; their arms were wrong.

  “You were there alone? You didn’t call your mum?”

  Mila shook her head. “I didn’t want her there. She never believed me. She didn’t back me up when I went to the police after he made threats against your family. In fact, she gave him an alibi for the night. They never would have picked him up at all if he wasn’t parked outside your mum’s house when the police drove by.”

  I brushed her hair back from her pallid cheeks, liking the weight and tangled softness as it stuck to my fingers. The first time I saw her, in that dingy bar, she’d seemed small, compact but self-assured in her worth. Hearing her talk about her classes, about her past, I’d been knocked on my arse. She was smart enough, capable enough to make great changes.

  She wasn’t the woman standing before me now: this Mila was vulnerable, fragile, fighting to keep her life from tipping her over the edge. But both the Mila of six years ago and this older version ripped at my heart. And yet, there was a piece to the story I couldn’t resolve.

  “So what changed? Why did you come to the Tractor Tavern last night?”

  She glanced up for a moment, her eyes flashing darker, the green swirling like bits of mosaic amidst the deep brown. But her lips pulled down at the corners like they did when she felt guilty about something.

  “I wanted to see you,” she said, her voice too soft. But I heard her. She dropped her gaze as if she’d just admitted a giant sin. Her words were a punch to the gut. Well, just . . . fuck. I leaned in, needing to taste her.

  She didn’t try to stop me, and when my lips touched hers, I wanted more. No, I needed it. We’d always shared amazing chemistry. In this kiss, I poured all my sorrow at what we’d lost. Mila did, too. So deep. Just lips caressing, testing, re-learning each other.

  The best kiss. Because this connection meant something.

  “Because I planned to listen to you sing ‘She’s So Bad’ and finally—finally—put you in my past.”

  A moment ago, I wanted to gather her closer. Lay her back on the couch and make her forget her sorrow. Now . . . I ran my hand through my hair. Bloody hell. She wanted to get over me? I was the injured party here—she’d broken up with me.

  Noelle’s voice rang through my head. She knows every one of your exploits and conquests. Each one cut her a little more. So why are you pushing this?

  Why indeed?

  I wasn’t sure yet, just knew that for the first time in months, I was whole. Maybe . . . maybe Mila was exactly what I needed.

  Problem was, I had no idea how to convince her to give me another chance. Worse, I wasn’t sure I could ever get past my anger—the betrayal of her leaving.

  “Fu-‘atoo,” Alpie growled.

  That bloody bird was smart.

  15

  Mila

  Maybe in the months since I knew him, that was his go-to; he’d kiss a girl to get her to shut up. If they ended up in bed, well, so much the better.

  I was a cynical, cynical being. I ducked my head, shuffling my feet to put more space between us.

  Both our phones rang. Murphy snagged his out of his pocket while I dashed back to my room to grab mine off the night stand. I missed the call; I frowned at the local area code but not a number I knew. I debated calling back.

  “Mila? You’d better come see this.”

  I wandered back into the living room, staring at my screen, waiting for the voice mail message to pop up. I glanced up at the telly, which took up most of the wall near the fireplace. My
phone slid from my fingers.

  “That’s my house,” I whispered.

  Flames licked with cheerful hunger from the windows and out the doors. The roof heaved and steamed.

  Vaguely, Murphy’s hands on my shoulders, guiding me to the couch. The back of my knees hitting the cushion forced me to sit, my eyes never leaving the horrible image on the screen.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “My house,” I whispered again. I wrapped my arms around my middle, trying to hold in the ache. Nothing there wasn’t replaceable. They were just things. But they were my possessions—the ones I purchased to surround myself with something more than the sad, white walls for Jundaloo or even Noelle’s guest room.

  Gone.

  I still had Alpie. I rose, ran to her cage and let her out. She side-stepped up my arm. “Nuff,” she said. “Shush.”

  “Detective Davenport called me. Jordan’s the prime suspect. If they can connect him to the fire, arson is on his growing list of crimes.”

  I nodded, my eyes still glued to the hypnotic view of my house being consumed by flames. “Did they get him?”

  “No.”

  Again, I nodded. I needed a pill. I made to stand when the scene cut to a newsroom. “Breaking news: Jackaroo’s lead guitarist’s on-again-off-again girlfriend Mila Trask’s house in flames here in a Seattle suburb. The fire department believes they’ve contained the fire to just Ms. Trask’s residence.”

  I breathed out a deep sigh. Mr. Henley lived next door in the house he’d moved into with his wife a half century earlier. Mrs. Henley passed before I moved here, but Mr. Henley loved to show me all her crocheted blankets and the pictures of their four rowdy boys growing up. Jordan couldn’t destroy that man’s memories as he did mine. Again.

  “Do you think the police will find him?” I asked.

  Murphy sat next to me, hauling me closer to his side—the opposite side from Alpie, who screeched and dug her talons into my shoulder at Murphy’s manhandling. I let him, in part because I wanted the warmth from his skin, but also because I loved that I still fit him.

  Murphy would go back to his big life—soon. But in this minute, I needed his solid presence.

  “Hard not to. We’re the main story both here and back in Oz.”

  Heat flamed over my skin as my back bowed straight. “No.”

  “Nuff, shush.” Alpie rubbed against my neck.

  “Sorry, love, we’re the ‘it’ couple.”

  I shouldn’t have eaten; my stomach sloshed in an unhappy morass of shame and guilt.

  “But we’re not together,” I blurted.

  Murphy turned my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. I wanted to ignore how good his fingers felt against my skin. I couldn’t. “We have a sad history. For some people, it’ll be an interest in my life. For others, they’ll pay attention once they learn you were ever connected to me. Some will cheer for you because of your stalker. Anyway, the story’s interesting enough for some staying power. And we’ll use that.”

  “How?”

  “To get more pictures of Jordan out there and find the bastard. It’s free PR.”

  I shuddered, my eyes squeezing tight. I didn’t want to be plastered on the news. After a deep breath, I forced my gaze to the television where the reporter still spoke about Murphy and my failed relationship. “Sources tell us Ms. Trask spent a few weeks in Jundaloo, a trauma hospital in Perth, Australia after she was hit by a car biking to work. Her injuries were extensive and she allegedly miscarried Murphy Etsam’s child then.”

  I bolted off the couch. Alpie shrieked again, flying into the dining room. My shame, my heartache laid out there, all over the telly, for the whole world to see. I hurried to my temporary bedroom. Home, I guessed. Once again I was alone, homeless.

  I glanced over at the pills sitting on my nightstand. One was in my hand, my mouth in the next heartbeat. I curled up on my bed with my photo album clutched to my chest. The one memento from my life in Australia. Well, this one narrow book and my accent I couldn’t seem to lose.

  “Come on,” I whispered. Twenty-nine minutes and the sweet relief would start to trickle through my blood stream.

  Noelle and Maura would call. Soon, probably. They’d fuss over me. My phone vibrated with a text. From Susan. Murphy’s mum making sure I was holding up okay. I wasn’t, but I didn’t want to tell her that. My door opened and I sighed, wishing I’d taken the time to lock it.

  “I need to be alone.”

  Murphy moved steadily toward the bed. “That’s the worst thing you can do right now. Being left alone with your thoughts will just make it seem bigger. Scarier.”

  “It is scary. Every time I think I’ve gotten away, started to build a life, Jordan shows up and destroys it. And each time he takes something huge from me.”

  “See? You can’t be alone.” Murphy nudged me with his hip. “Show me the pictures.”

  I hesitated. Sharing this with him would bring back even more memories. I glanced again at the pill bottle. How long until it kicked in? Twenty-four minutes?

  “Why are you clutching it like a teddy bear?”

  Heat swamped my face. Oh, this was going to be mortifying. I shook my head. I didn’t want to share this, not with him.

  “My friends are going to call.” The phone rang, and I sighed in relief. Murphy beat me to the phone.

  “Hello, Noelle. She’s fine, sitting here on her bed. She’ll call you back later.” He powered down my phone and dropped it on the nightstand, next to the bottle.

  Soon. I’d relax soon.

  “Why don’t you show me what’s in there, Mila?”

  I loosened my grip, knowing he’d keep after it until I showed him. He snagged the album from my arms and flipped it open.

  The picture of us at Bondi beach, both of us holding surfboards, wasn’t what he’d expected. His hand trembled as he touched the page, his finger landing on my cheek in the photo. I frowned. I wanted his fingers on my face now, not an image of it.

  Wait. No, I didn’t. If Murphy touched me with such tender concern, I would fall into his arms and be just another one of his conquests.

  I scooted up against the pillows and flipped the page to one of his shows, our cheeks pressed tight together, eyes shining with excitement. We’d hoped this would be his band’s big break. Hadn’t worked out that way, and in hindsight, I was glad. We were together two more years because the record label’s intern didn’t show at that gig.

  The other picture was of just Murphy, at his twenty-sixth birthday party. He’d worn two party hats, one on each side of his head like horns. He grinned at the camera, a huge cake lit with tons of candles in front of him.

  He took the book from me and continued to flip through the pages, studying each one. He wiggled his lip ring as he turned another page. I wanted to snatch the album from his hands. These were my memories, and I didn’t want to share them even with him. Especially with him. I prepared to bolt off the bed and hide in the bathroom. My movements felt slower than usual. I tried to remember how many pills I’d taken today. From my reaction time, too many.

  But he’d flipped to the last page. I stood out front of our favorite beach, my hands forming a heart over my tiny tummy bump.

  His whole hand covered the photo. “I never saw this one,” he said. His voice was hoarse.

  “No.”

  “You’re pregnant in it. I can see this little curve above your bikini bottoms.”

  “Yes.”

  “When was this taken?”

  “The day before Jordan found me in Sydney.”

  Murphy flicked at his lip ring. He dipped his head in acknowledgment. I didn’t add that I’d hoped he’d ask me to marry him before I told him about the baby. Silly though it was, I was old-fashioned, perhaps because of the way I was raised, and I wanted the ring and the vows before the baby. My mother married many men, none my actual father. Trask was the name of her third husband, a kind teacher who’d remained hurt and befuddled when my mother cheated on him. He’d been in
the process to adopt me, already legally changed my surname to Trask so we could all be a family. My mum didn’t have the money or inclination to change my name back to Jones.

  Murphy met my gaze, his eyes stormy. “What would you have done with this, Mila? I know you—you had a plan. This is staged. Who took the photo?”

  “Your mum took it.” Much as I wanted to shut the album, I worried I’d have to wrestle it from his hands. I wasn’t about to sully the photo.

  “What was your plan?” he asked again.

  “I’d planned to give it to you before your show that night. As a surprise. I’d hoped you’d be as happy about the bub as I was.”

  “Fuck.” The word was harsh but his fingers traced the lines of my belly with extreme gentleness. “Fuck. If you’d just told me the truth, Mila.”

  His sigh was harsh. He closed the album, his hand stroking over the cover. His brows pinched tight over his nose. “I planned that night, too.”

  His voice was all gravelly with emotion. A thrill raced across my stomach. I loved Murphy’s voice like this, private, something he didn’t share with many people. He raised his hand to cup my cheek, his thumb drifting in lazy swipes against my temple.

  “Do you want to know what it was?”

  Did I? I wasn’t sure. If he told me, I’d obsess about it. If he didn’t tell me, I’d obsess about what it could have been.

  He smirked at me, probably knowing my thoughts. Murphy knew how my mind worked. And he’d played me well.

  “Yes,” I said.

  He brought his other hand up and pushed my hair from my cheek, his eyes following the sweep of my bangs back from my forehead. His eyes returned to mine. Held them in a long embrace.

  “I’d written this song, see. A ballad. Soft and sweet. Just me and my guitar. I wanted to have you come up on stage whilst I played it. You’d love it, have to hug me, arms twined tightly around my neck.”

  I shook my head again, my eyes widening. I wouldn’t cry. No way. I opened them even wider.

  “When the show ended, I planned to take you there, to our spot on the beach.”