Anything You Need (Cataclysm Book 1)

by Jerica MacMillan

  The only time was when she slept in my twin bed in college. She was so drunk, and the bed so narrow, that the only way to be sure she didn’t roll off and hurt herself was to wrap my arms around her and hold her close. Which was … exquisite torture. Getting to hold my old high school crush who’d friend-zoned me from the beginning. But she didn’t acknowledge my painfully obvious attraction to her in any way, so I didn’t say anything either.

  And now, here we are again, sharing a bed, cuddled together …

  While at her parents’ anniversary weekend where I’m pretending to be her boyfriend.

  Fuck.

  I love Kendra. I’ve always loved her. I’ve been in love with her since I was a scrawny, nerdy high school kid.

  I’d do whatever she needs. But dammit, pretending to be her boyfriend makes my mouth twist with bitterness. It’s the role I’ve always wanted for real.

  I should know better by now, though. If she thought of me that way, she’d have given some indication before now. Right?

  Right.

  So as nice as this little fantasy is, I’m only going to embarrass myself if I let it continue.

  Gently, slowly, I slip out from under her. She shifts when I get up, curling into herself, tucking her hands under her face. I keep my hand clenched at my side to resist the urge to brush her hair out of her face. Her cheeks are pink, her lips slightly parted, her face serene. She looks … sweet, innocent. Beautiful. The stuff of dreams. Which is where she’ll always be for me.

  Someday, when she’s married to some investment banker and happily doting on little Phillip or tiny Joanie or whatever upper crust names they choose, I’ll find a girl to settle down with who’ll banish the ghost of Kendra.

  Turning away from her sleeping form, a weird hollow feeling takes over my chest at the direction of my thoughts, and I head for the bathroom. A shower will clear my head and get me in the right mindset to go lie to her parents some more.

  Chapter Six

  Kendra

  The sound of the shower wakes me, and I blink in the dim light of the room.

  I’m alone and curled up on Marcus’s side of the bed.

  Did I crowd him in the night?

  I remember dreaming about his strong arms wrapped around me … was that really just a dream?

  If that really happened, it probably freaked him out. Which is why he went running to the shower. We’ve been friends for too long. He probably sees me like a sister by now.

  A memory surfaces of our friend from college. Adriane. She had the worst crush on him. She ignored my advice to not say anything—because I knew Marcus didn’t feel that way about her. He had a massive crush on the female timpani player. All the guys did, now that I think about it.

  Anyway, Adriane confessed her feelings. In the middle of campus. In front of god and everyone.

  It was a train wreck.

  The kind of thing where you want to look away but can’t because you’re captivated by the horror unfolding in front of your eyes.

  She asked him out. Told him how much she cared about him and how she thought they’d make a great couple.

  He cut his eyes to me, where I was standing behind her, as though asking for help. But no one could save either of them.

  He let her down as gently as he could. But it didn’t make a difference. She screamed at him. “You’re missing out on the best thing that could’ve ever happened to you.”

  And their friendship never recovered.

  I sit up, trying to figure out how to salvage this. I need his help with my family. Mitchell is insufferable. And I know the second I’m unattached, he’ll be trying to convince me to give him another chance. My parents will be hounding me to give him another chance. And soon I’ll be at some stuffy, expensive restaurant while he proposes. Feeling caught, I’ll say yes, just to save everyone the embarrassment. And then I won’t be able to find a way or a reason to break the engagement, and I’ll be stuck with him for life. Some socialite arm candy to trot out at business functions and charity dinners.

  The thought makes me feel like I’m suffocating, my breath coming short and fast, the walls closing in around me.

  No. That won’t happen. I won’t let it.

  Yes, I’m an incurable pleaser. But I won’t be pushed into a sham marriage just for show and easy inheritance laws.

  I’ll convince Marcus that I value our friendship and appreciate him helping me out, and I’ll stop wrapping my body around him in my sleep. Easy peasy. Especially since there’s no reason for us to share a bed again any time soon.

  Another thought that has my body reacting, but this time it’s my stomach falling. Because being wrapped up in bed with him? That’s the best I’ve felt in a long time.

  Not that it matters. I don’t want to lose our friendship. I don’t want to be Adriane, let down easy and never alone in the same room again.

  The shower turns off, and I hop out of bed, not sure what to do with myself now. I’m standing there next to the bed when he comes out of the bathroom.

  I gawk.

  There’s no other word for it.

  Because he has the white hotel towel wrapped around his hips and a rivulet of water is running from the dark hair plastered to his neck, down over his collarbone and onto his gorgeous pecs. I’ve always enjoyed a well-developed chest on a man. And damn. Well-developed is an understatement here. Not overly muscled like the steroid-fueled bodybuilders, but compact, tight muscle, bumps and curves in all the right places.

  “Sorry. Did I wake you? I forgot to grab my clothes. I’ll just, uh, do … that.”

  When I finally look at his face as he’s trailing off, his brows are pulled down and his forehead creased with concern. “Are you okay?”

  I blink. “What? Yeah. Of course! I’ll just hop in the shower since you’re done. Brunch with my parents is in forty-five minutes. You can get dressed out here.”

  Practically hopping around the foot of the bed, I sprint past him, once again locking myself in the bathroom to get away from my shirtless best friend.

  Yup.

  My plan to be nothing like Adriane is turning out great. Just fucking fantastic.

  Fortunately we’re able to get ready for brunch without any more awkward gawking moments or questions about my sanity. Because I was totally acting like a crazy person.

  “Sorry I surprised you coming out of the shower,” Marcus says in the elevator on the way down to the private room my parents have reserved for brunch.

  “Oh, it’s fine. I wasn’t very awake yet, y’know? Mornings.”

  He chuckles, and the sound sends goosebumps up my spine. Dammit. Not helping.

  “You never were much of a morning person.” His voice is low and intimate. Like a real boyfriend’s would be.

  I force a smile. “Nope. Remember in high school when people would try to get me to agree to do things on Saturday mornings?”

  His eyes light up at the memory. “Didn’t you used to say you had an appointment with your bed?” At my nod, he laughs again. “I always thought that was brilliant.”

  “I thought it was clever. Not that it ever worked with my parents. They had no problem forcing me out of bed to attend some workshop or charity event if they thought it would help my college applications.”

  The elevator dings, and we get off, his hand going to my back to guide me out. I force myself not to relax into it, but he gives me a weird look. Right. Now we’re pretending to be a couple. So I give in, and let him wrap his arm around me. Like he did all last night.

  It’s not the first time. He usually does when I’m his date at some event. But this time it feels … different. And I don’t know if it’s because this time he’s doing me the favor or because we spent the night together, but now it seems more … real.

  He spends brunch acting like the perfect gentleman and the perfect boyfriend. My mother is charmed, my father less so, but he’s never been Marcus’s biggest fan. Something about Marcus being from what he calls “the wrong side of the track
s.” Which is ridiculous. Okay, so Marcus’s parents aren’t fabulously wealthy or anything, and he was a scholarship student at our high school and at Berklee, but it’s not like his family is trash.

  And now, money isn’t something Marcus needs to worry about. Just that his line of work isn’t what my father considers “respectable.” Whatever. The only type of work he considers respectable is what I consider boring. I’ve dated or at least pretended polite interest in all the guys they’ve trotted out to meet me since I started college.

  According to them, the only useful reason for a girl to go to college is to end up with an MRS. When I didn’t start dating a senior accounting major or pre-law or, better yet, an MBA candidate my freshman year, they went to work setting up dates for me. With their friends’ college-aged sons at first. Then, by the end of my sophomore year, guys who’d already graduated and gone to work with their fathers.

  Mitchell, though, was the final coup. Dad’s business partner’s son, already working for their business. The perfect match, according to everyone. Everyone except me.

  Handsome and wealthy, sure.

  But also condescending, selfish, and pasty. And all he cares about is work. Talking about it ad nauseam. Showing no interest in anything or anyone else.

  No way am I shackling myself to that for life.

  As though he could sense me thinking about him, Mitchell sidles up to me while Marcus is getting me another mimosa. “So you’re dating the rockstar now?” His pursed mouth and lifted nose, like he has the permanent scent of shit in his nostrils, have me glancing around, hoping for Marcus to save me from this conversation.

  But he’s talking with the guy at the carving station, laughing and joking. Then I see him pull a pen out of his jacket pocket to sign a napkin the starstruck buffet attendant is handing over.

  With a sigh, I face Mitchell again. “Yup.” I pop the P, just to annoy him.

  And it succeeds. His mouth twists into a grimace, and he looks down his nose at me. He manages to keep the condescending comments I know are on the tip of his tongue to himself, though. Instead, he takes Marcus’s seat and turns it so he’s facing me, then reaches over and scoots my chair around to face him. It’s bossy and brazen and pisses me off.

  I give him my own condescending look. “Can I help you?”

  He gives me his most winning smile, leaning close enough that I can see that his bottom lip is a little chapped.

  His hand lands heavily on my thigh, and there’s no way for me to pull away. “Yes, Kendra. You most certainly can help me.”

  Just then Marcus comes to my rescue. Thank God.

  His hand lands on my shoulder from behind and gives me a squeeze. My new mimosa is sitting on the table now, and he sets his plate with roast beef and a strawberry crêpe next to mine, since he can’t get to his place. Leaning down, he gives me a quick kiss on the cheek, then gives Mitchell a mild look. “Hey, man. Michael, right? No, that’s not it.” He snaps his fingers and points at Mitchell with a finger gun motion. “Martin. Hey, Martin. Looks like you’re in my seat.”

  Mitchell straightens up. “It’s Mitchell.”

  “Right, right. Isn’t that what I said?” Mitchell sucks in a breath, but Marcus doesn’t give him the chance to say anything. “Anyway, like I said. You’re in my chair. And I just brought my girl here a new drink and one of those strawberry crêpes I know she loves.”

  My girl. The words slither down my body with a warmth I don’t expect. Especially hearing them here, like this. When him claiming me is more for show than anything. But I know he doesn’t like Mitchell. That he knows exactly what his name is and is acting the careless asshole on purpose.

  He turns to me, his hand caressing my neck. “Sorry it took so long, babe. The guy at the carving station’s a fan, and you know I do my best to sign autographs when I can.”

  I give him a big smile. “Of course. The way you treat your fans is a big part of the reason everyone loves you. Thanks for the crêpe.”

  With my face tilted up toward him and the way he’s still leaning down a little, our faces are close together. He closes the distance and brushes a kiss over my lips. It’s quick and chaste, nothing crazy, but it still stuns me into stillness.

  But he acts like nothing happened and faces Mitchell again, who stands, his mouth still twisted into the grimace he uses when he’s forcing a polite smile. “Yes. Keeping your fans happy must take up so much of your time. Sorry to get in the way of your girl’s crêpe.” His emphasis makes it clear that he either doesn’t like Marcus claiming me, or doesn’t buy it. The way his eyes scan over us makes me think the latter, but I don’t care about Mitchell’s opinion.

  Everyone else seems to buy us as a couple. My parents do, and that’s what counts.

  Marcus watches as Mitchell walks away, making his own way over to the buffet. Then Marcus resumes his seat, scooting it even closer to mine and propping his arm on the back of my chair as he pulls the plate between us. He pitches his voice low. My breath catches at the way his body heat surrounds me, the intimacy of our position, leaving me with a whoosh at his words. “Sorry about the kiss. Needed to sell it. Especially with him obviously trying to get you to pay attention to him again.”

  I turn my attention to the crêpe and pick up my fork, nodding more than necessary. “Of course. No big deal.”

  “Right.”

  I feel his eyes on me, but don’t turn to look. I can’t meet his eyes, because then he’ll see that his apology stings. I don’t want him to apologize for kissing me. I want it to be real.

  “You alright, Ken?”

  Now I do look at him, pasting on the charming smile I use at all social engagements where I must play the part of Richard and Elizabeth Strickland’s perfect daughter. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be? You just rescued me from Mitchell and brought me a delicious crêpe. You’re the perfect date.”

  He looks at me for long moment, and I’m sure he sees the mask for what it is but can’t tell what’s hiding beneath. But he lets it go. “Glad I could help.”

  Chapter Seven

  Marcus

  “Are you back yet?” Aaron asks over the phone clutched between my ear and shoulder as I unlock the door to my apartment in LA.

  “Yeah. Got in this afternoon. Although I’m hungry for dinner already. Even just a couple of days on East Coast time messes me up.”

  Aaron chuckles. “Come on over. I’ll grill some steaks. You probably don’t have any good food in your house anyway.”

  “Good point. Be there in five.” I end the call and toss my keys on the table inside my front door and drop my doubled over garment bag on the floor. It’s getting all beat to hell. I should buy a new one before we go on the road again. I have a few months before that happens, at least. We still need to finish writing and recording our next album.

  Aaron’s apartment is down the hall. Danny and Mason live on the floor below us. Sometimes, like now when Aaron invites me over to feed me after a weirdly stressful trip, it’s nice having the guys close by. Other times, I wish we were on separate continents. The two-year tour we just wrapped up a few months ago was long and grueling, and we all got on each other’s nerves after a while.

  But the truth is, those guys are my family as much as my parents and sister. The rest of the crew too. And I could use a steak and a beer and some time to decompress before I get together with Danny for our writing session tomorrow.

  “Come in!” Aaron calls as I give a courtesy knock on his door while opening it. He’s already out on his back patio getting the grill going. The steaks are sitting on a plate on the breakfast bar, waiting to be cooked.

  “Hey, man. These steaks look nice.”

  He steps back through the sliding glass door, a grin on his face. “Been going to that butcher shop. Something about the way the old butcher’s daughter wields a cleaver does something for me.”

  Shaking my head, I can’t help chuckling. “That’s disturbing. But if it means you’ve got extra steak for me, I won’t compl
ain.”

  He heads for the fridge and pulls out a couple of beers, popping off the top before passing one to me. “How was the trip back home?” he asks before taking a pull.

  I shrug. “Fine.”

  “You finally score with Kendra?” At the look on my face, he holds up his hands. “Just askin’. You said something about being her date for the weekend. You guys have been dancing around the subject for years. Thought maybe it was time you both pulled your heads out of your asses, but I guess not.”

  With a sigh, I gulp half the beer. “Nah, man. It’s not like that. I was just her cover.”

  “Ouch.”

  I shrug. “Not really. I knew what I was there for. Her parents like to meddle in her dating life, set her up with people from their world. The latest is her dad’s business partner’s son. She dated him for a while to keep the peace, but when someone dropped a hint that he was looking for an engagement ring, she dumped him like last week’s garbage. Can’t blame her. The guy’s a tool.”

  Aaron leans against the counter, his beer bottle next to him. “So? What does she need a cover for?”

  “To keep them off her back. The tool’s trying to win her back. She didn’t want to get cornered and risk causing a scene at her parents’ anniversary weekend, and she figured if she had a date, she’d avoid that.” Though I didn’t seem to be too much of a deterrent at brunch, which still burns. The guy’s an even bigger asswipe than I thought, trying to horn in on another guy’s territory. Yeah, it makes me kind of a douche that I’m so possessive, but something about the way he approached her brought out a caveman side of me I didn’t realize I had.

  When I saw him cozying up to her, I wanted to rip his face off. Never reacted that way with any other girl. It took everything in me to remain cool and calm, knowing if I kept messing up his name it would needle him more. I know guys like him. Went to school with them in high school. Wealthy, privileged assholes who think their shit don’t stink and that everyone who doesn’t belong to their country club is beneath them.