“Sore breasts and cramps are also signs of pregnancy. You need to take a test. I have one at the apartment.”
“No! Jesus, I’m not pregnant. Stop being so dramatic. I’d…um…I’d like you to go home now.”
“You don’t live here anymore.”
“What? Oh, right. Of course.”
“Come on, honey. Let’s get you back to my place.”
Chapter Eighteen
Cleo’s stomach heaved and her heart pounded. He was here.
She’d seen Mitch look to the back of the church. His face had paled, then he’d glanced at her, eyes wide and mouth open. It wasn’t cold feet—he’d seen Julian.
She stirred in the wooden pew, hands damp and sticking to the organza of her mint-colored dress. She could feel him back there.
“Quit squirming. Do you have to pee again?” Sherry whispered.
“He’s here,” Cleo said. She didn’t have to say who.
Sherry twisted in her seat.
“Nice and subtle of you,” Cleo hissed.
“Well,” Sherry said, turning back, “I don’t see him.”
“You don’t?”
“Nope.”
“What a relief,” Cleo said, melting into the pew. “If he were to find out I’m pregnant…”
“He’d run. Don’t sweat it. Also, you’re just four months along. You don’t even look pregnant. I keep telling you that.”
Would he run? Of course he would. Oh, he might throw some money at her—he was good at that. He’d already sent her the royalties from “Playing Cleo,” which had been released as a single and was topping the charts. Guilt money. Well, she didn’t need it and hadn’t cashed a single check.
Luckily, she’d had the brilliant idea to write an unauthorized biography about Lou. A publisher had jumped on it, and she’d received a nice advance. She didn’t want any ties to Julian at all. He’d been clear about not wanting children. All he wanted was to be a stupid rock star and do stupid rock star things like be a stupid rock star cliché. She was done with clichés.
Mitch and Addie thought she should tell him about the baby. And she’d put Addie in a horribly awkward position, asking her to keep the pregnancy a secret, but it was all for the best.
The “Wedding March” began, and everyone stood, looking toward the back of church. Addie emerged, and Cleo joined the collective gasp at the sight of her. She was breathtaking—regal, really. And her face lit up as she looked down the aisle at Mitch. Even little Emily, tossing rose petals in her princess dress and tiara, couldn’t quite steal the show away from the bride.
Cleo rubbed her belly. A sonogram had confirmed she was not carrying a tattooed fetus with a full head of hair and a guitar strapped to its back. The baby was a girl.
Addie passed, and Cleo started to turn toward the front of the church, but something large, dark, and tattooed in the back pew caught her eye. Sheik. Her heart jumped to her throat, and she frantically scanned the crowd, looking for Julian’s dark waves. It didn’t make any sense for Sheik to come to Addie’s wedding without Julian, but Cleo didn’t see him.
Everyone began to sit, but Cleo remained standing. She looked directly to the right of Sheik—he had to be there—and oh, shit. He was.
Her hand went to her mouth as she spun and plopped into the pew. He’d sheared his sexy head of hair down to a buzz, and he wore sunglasses inside the church, as if the paparazzi might appear out of nowhere. Good grief, what an ego.
“What is the matter with you?” Sherry whispered.
“Julian,” she said. “He’s back there.”
“Motherfucking sons of whores,” Sherry muttered, causing the entire pew in front of them to shift and turn.
The ceremony passed in a blur of nausea after that. When Addie and Mitch finally marched back down the aisle to the cheers and applause of the guests, Julian was gone.
...
Julian closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the headrest as Sheik ranted.
“I can’t believe we missed the flight. Last one out tonight and all because you had to sit in the church parking lot and spy on Cleo. We were supposed to get in, say hello to your sister, and get out. Now we’ve got to spend another night in this one-horse town.”
“San Antonio isn’t a one-horse town. And I don’t know why you won’t let me drive.” Sheik was a domineering dickhead, and Julian was sick of it.
“’Cause you have a death wish and I don’t.”
He should deny having a death wish, but it seemed more trouble than it was worth, and besides, the jury was still out on that.
“You need to clean yourself up, man,” Sheik said, with a twinge of disgust.
Julian closed his eyes. “I am clean.”
“You’re not using. That’s not the same thing. You need to get back into life, Princess. As long as you’re like this—”
“Like what? I’m the vision of health and vitality.”
“You got no goals.”
“I’m in the middle of recording a solo album. I’m buying a house in Los Angeles. Those are goals.”
“You don’t care about any of that shit.”
Actually, he did care about the solo album. But mostly, Sheik was right.
“Don’t worry. Just because I’ve got nothing to live for doesn’t mean I’m going to kill myself. I failed miserably the last time, and Addie’s never stopped bitching about it.”
“You got something to live for. We saw her in that church.”
“Thin ice, Sheik.”
Seeing Cleo had almost fucking killed him. Her shiny red hair, pretty green dress, luminous skin…it had all come together to create a bombshell. No need to wonder if she’d seen him. Subtlety had never been her forte.
She hated him, of course. There had been a few text messages he could probably have her arrested for. But he was glad she was angry. It was better than what he was. Shattered.
Addie hadn’t told him much about how Cleo was doing. She was living in Kerrville, a small town in the Texas Hill Country, and she was dishing dirt on Lou. Julian figured he’d be next.
He fingered the small citrus vial in his pocket. A tiny whiff would give him a warm shiver. A deep inhalation could prove embarrassing.
When Cleo left Minneapolis, Julian had hit the heroin hard. But only for a few weeks. Then he’d kicked it, cold turkey.
“I tell you what,” Sheik said. “We get you back to L.A., get a personal trainer or some kind of shit like that, set you out in the sun, then we come back here and get the girl.”
Julian knew he looked bad—pale and skinny with the requisite black circles beneath his eyes. He didn’t care, though.
“Sheik, why don’t you find a real job and stop taking advantage of my generous nature? I mean, how much am I paying you, anyway? I don’t need a personal assistant.”
“I’m more of a goddamned nanny. And you’re not paying me enough, Princess. Not nearly enough.”
“Then quit. You don’t owe me anything—I’d have found the dope with or without you, okay? Stop following me around like I saved your life or something. You saved mine, for Christ’s sake.”
“As I was saying, we’ll get some meat back on those bones and—”
“I’ve told you a million times. I’m no good for her. Even if I cleaned up spectacularly well, I’m not what she wants. I never was, and I never will be. That’s why she left me.”
“She left you because you told her to, asshole. Right after you lied and said you’d been fucking everything that moved. She wanted to help you, to get you out of there, and you should have let her. You never belonged in that band.”
“That’s true, I didn’t. And that’s the problem. She was going to get me out of there and do what? Watch me play backup for garage bands in my pathetic analog studio in between hooking myself up to electrodes so she could take me out in public every now and then? How long was that going to keep her happy?”
“Probably forever, you stupid shit. She certainly doesn’t seem too hap
py now.”
“She’s fine. She’s interviewing stars left and right. I saw a picture of her with Cory, did I tell you that?”
“About a million times. And that woman looks seriously forlorn,” Sheik muttered.
“Did you just say forlorn? Wake me when we get to the loft. We’ll need to get to the airport early, so don’t let me oversleep in the morning.”
Julian turned his back to Sheik and pretended to curl up in the seat for a nap.
“I’m stopping at a restaurant. Some of us still like to eat. All you do is sleep and play that fucking guitar. Sorry-ass excuse for a human being, if you ask me.”
Couldn’t argue with that.
...
Sneaking into the loft after the wedding had probably been a bad idea. Cleo had intended to drive straight home to Kerrville, where she lived with her brother, Ben, and his spouse, Marcus. The two had recently moved back to Texas from Portland so Ben could take a position with a small orthopedic group. They had a beautiful house with plenty of room and were begging Cleo to make it a permanent arrangement. But she’d been plugging away at the Lou Michaels biography and interviewing celebrities for an online publication. She could afford her own place. It was just a matter of finding a perfect home for her and the baby. The problem was, whenever she thought of home, she thought of the loft.
She’d cruised by for a last look—it still hadn’t sold—and since she had a key, she’d let herself in to look around. Somehow that had resulted in a climb up the spiral staircase to the bedroom, where the bed still remained, along with a few of Julian’s clothes. Naturally, Cleo had stripped down, thrown on one of Julian’s T-shirts, and crawled into bed to torture herself with his scent. According to Addie, he was on a flight back to Los Angeles. So he’d never know and probably wouldn’t care—beyond thinking it bizarre, which it was.
It was dark in the room, except for the light coming in through the window. Cleo listened to the band playing across the street at Sunset Station. The partygoers were whooping it up, despite the threatening thunderclouds. She wasn’t going to get any sleep, but that was typical. Insomnia had become her normal nocturnal state.
She snuggled down into the covers and watched the shadows play across the wall. If Julian were here, he’d describe the colors of the instruments and the voices of the partiers, and she’d listen and try to imagine what he saw. Instinctively, she closed her eyes. Purple. The bass would be purple…
They hadn’t talked since their cinematic breakup, but Cleo had heard rumors. He was clean and recording an album. She didn’t know what his long-term plans were beyond selling the studio and loft. Was he doing his biofeedback? Did the vial marked citrus still clear the colors out of his head? A steady rain began to fall. A clap of thunder shook the loft, and Cleo pulled the comforter up under her nose.
A storm rolled in out of nowhere. Just like the first night she’d spent in the loft.
...
Julian strained his eyes to see through the downpour. “That’s her car, all right,” he said to Sheik. “What the bloody hell is she doing at my loft?”
“Let’s go in and find out, cream puff. You won’t melt in the rain.”
“I’m not going in there. Let’s go to a hotel.”
Sheik grunted and opened his door. Julian felt for the lock on his, but wasn’t fast enough, and Sheik came around and yanked it open. A wall of cold water poured in, and Sheik grabbed him by the collar and pulled him into the deluge.
“Hey, let go of me!”
“I don’t think so, you scrawny mutt,” Sheik yelled. “You can either walk in there on your own, or I’ll carry you in over my shoulder.”
Well, fuck. Julian smacked Sheik’s arm away and made a run for the door. Sheik was right beside him, and they arrived under the eave drenched and looking like drowned rats. Julian struggled to dig the keys out of his pocket, dribbling guitar picks at his feet.
Once inside, they proceeded through the darkened studio to the stairwell leading to the loft. Their shoes made squishing sounds on the wood floors. The place felt desolate and empty. Julian entered the code to the loft, then they padded up the stairwell. The sconces flickered as thunder shook the building.
“She has no right to be here,” Julian muttered. “It’s my place.”
“Shut up, you big baby. She is here, and I’d take advantage of that if I were you.”
Julian opened the door at the top of the stairs, and the lights flickered. Then they went out completely. Cleo was probably terrified. She didn’t do storms.
“Stay down here, Sheik.”
Julian felt his way to the spiral staircase and climbed it in the dark. He opened the bedroom door just as a flash of lightning struck, revealing a lump of trembling blankets and linens in the center of the bed. Hello, Goldilocks.
He walked to the side of the bed and stood there for a moment, strategizing. Should he shake her? Clear his throat? Whatever he did, she was going to freak the fuck out. He braced himself and poked her.
The blankets and linens exploded, and like a girl popping out of a cake, Cleo shot from the bed wearing one of his T-shirts. Only instead of singing, she screamed and threw punches. Charming. Predictably, one connected with his jaw.
“Jesus Christ,” he said, grabbing her wrists and holding them. “It’s me, calm down!”
“Julian?”
“Who else?”
“Oh my God,” she said, yanking her wrists free and smacking him one more time for good measure. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“This is my loft. What the bloody hell are you doing here?”
She looked so completely perfect in his bed that it seemed a silly question. She was there because she belonged there. He shook his head to clear it of the orange bubbles. They made it hard to think.
“I don’t really know what I’m doing here.” Cleo sighed and moved toward the edge of the bed. “I’ll leave. I’m sorry.”
The loft shook with a rumble of thunder, followed by the machine-gun rat-a-tats of hail pelting the roof. Cleo grabbed Julian’s neck, burying his nose in her hair. Tangerines.
“I’ve got you,” he said, wrapping his arms around her waist. “It’s just a storm.”
He was home, in his loft. And Cleo was in his arms. He squeezed her tightly, willing the rest of the world to disappear, until there was nothing left but the two of them.
His clothes were wet, but Cleo was the one shivering. Her red hair cascaded down her back, and he ran his fingers through it. They came to rest above the swell of her ass. He swallowed as the shirt rode up to reveal bare cheeks and a thong. And now a wet T-shirt, thanks to him. His jaw clenched as his cock grew hard. How was he ever going to let her go?
Her fingers brushed his jaw. He tensed. Did she still hate him? Her hand moved to his head, and she ran it softly across the bristly stubble of his scalp.
“Why did you shave your head?”
He swallowed, trying to find his voice. “I don’t know. I guess I wanted to be different.”
“Are you?” she whispered.
How could he answer that? He was better, and he was worse. Better, because he was off heroin. Worse, because he was without Cleo. “I’m sorry I made such a mess of things,” he finally said.
There was a long pause before she answered. “Why? Why did you do it? Why did you have to join that band?”
Was it really not obvious? He pulled away just enough so that he could look at her. “I wanted you to love me.”
Her mouth opened as if to speak. Her brows rose in question, then furrowed in confusion and something akin to anger. Finally, she said, “I did love you.”
No. She just thought she did, after she’d discovered he was Julian Lazros. Only he hadn’t really been Julian Lazros. And never would be.
“You don’t understand. I don’t want to be a rock star. I’m just a studio musician—and I like being a studio musician. You needed more than—”
“How dare you tell me what I needed?”
&nbs
p; Was she serious? It was obvious what she needed. She loved the thrill of being around famous performers. Her romantic relationships had been with rock stars. She’d been obsessed with rock stars since childhood. And now she’d made it her fucking job to be with rock stars. “But—”
Cleo’s lips were drawn in a tight line, and she trembled, but not from the cold. He’d obviously pissed her off. She hastily wiped a tear away. “Because of some childish obsessions in my past, you believe I’m nothing more than a groupie. That at my very core, I’m capable of nothing deeper than a crush. That I was willing to give my heart and soul to you because of a guitar. How could you claim to have loved me while thinking so poorly of me?”
“Cleo, even my own mum couldn’t love me if I wasn’t on a stage.”
He covered his mouth with his hand. Where the fuck had that come from? It wasn’t even true and…yes, it was. He lowered his eyes and pulled away a bit more. This was all stupid. What was he doing here?
Cleo lifted his chin. “Look at me.”
He didn’t want to. He knew his eyes were filled with shame and embarrassment, and the only thing worse than him knowing it would be Cleo knowing it, too.
“Why did you cheat on me?”
His eyes snapped up to hers. “What?”
Cleo raised an eyebrow. “You did cheat on me, didn’t you?”
“No, of course not. I just wanted to get rid of you. For your own good, because I’m toxic to people I love.”
“Oh, Julian. You don’t have to be. And I need to tell you something—”
He crushed her mouth in a kiss. He simply couldn’t wait any longer. He hadn’t been with a woman since their breakup—hadn’t even considered it—but now the pent-up longing came crashing through, and he just wanted to kiss her, love her, and fuck her.
Soon, their lips and tongues found familiar patterns, and Cleo made a sweet, helpless sound in her throat. She wanted him. She fucking loved him. Julian felt a rush of euphoria—it set him on fire and lit him up more than heroin ever could. He wanted to pounce on her like a hungry puma on a skittish rabbit.
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