What the hell had Hailey been doing in her closet? They’d agreed never to cross each other’s thresholds, as if they were state lines and violation an act of war. Sure Chloe still secretly borrowed clothes occasionally, like that cardigan when she’d been Sandra Dee for Halloween. But Hailey never even wore clothes like Chloe’s, especially not the party stuff. It didn’t make sense.
She picked through all her clothes and found her platform boots missing. Her stilettos too. God, Hailey would break an ankle in those. Chloe almost had several times. Her slinky black dress was gone. A few tops. Possibly a pair of acid-washed jeans.
She sat amid the textile wreckage and shook her head. The world was turning upside down. Here she was at home alone on a Friday night. Hailey was out someplace mysterious, past curfew. Well, one thing was for sure, wherever her sister was, she was looking damn hot.
And Chloe knew where she needed to go.
* * *
Hailey sat at the gleaming dining room table, alone in the expansive room. She bit her lip and stared at her sister’s smiling pic on the phone screen. She had avoided calling Chloe on the way here, knowing it would change her mind. But the text messages and voice mails had already started coming. If Hailey didn’t answer for the whole weekend—the full three days of the contract—Chloe would genuinely worry.
With a sigh, Hailey pressed the Call button.
Her sister sounded cautious. “Did you get lost picking up a movie?”
“No, I…I forgot about movie night.” She grimaced. As explanations went, that one was weak.
There was a weighted silence. “You mean the movie night we’ve had every Friday for three years. That movie night?”
“Except for when you were gone on tour,” Hailey retorted, but it was a cheap shot. Her sister was pregnant, for God’s sake. Hailey should be there, making sure she was comfortable, making sure she ate enough.
And she would…right after this.
This was for the best. This was necessary. She had to believe that, because the alternative felt too much like history repeating itself. Absent parents and struggling to get by. No, Hailey wouldn’t let that happen.
She’d just have to say it quickly, like tearing off a Band-Aid. “I’m in Chicago. At the hotel where the band is staying.”
“What?”
“I know you said to drop it, that the father wasn’t interested and you’re fine with that, but I’m not fine with that. It’s not right for the baby to grow up without a father.”
“You realize this is the twenty-first century, right? There are women who have babies alone on purpose.”
“Well, you aren’t one of them. And those women probably have careers and…you know, money. They aren’t nineteen years old and dropping out of college, with no plan for their life.”
A huff of breath. “No, tell me how you really feel. I can take it.”
Her stomach twisted with guilt. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.” That sounded lame, so she added, “You know I love you.”
God, how could that sound lamer?
“I love you too,” Chloe said with that pouting voice, which helped strengthen Hailey’s resolve. Chloe was practically a baby. And now she was having a baby. Someone had to do something, and this desperate race over Illinois’s plains was the only plan she’d come up with at five p.m. today.
“Look, just tell me who the father is, and I’ll talk some sense into him.”
“I can’t believe you’re even in Chicago. Who are you, and what you have done with my sister?”
“Even if he doesn’t want to be involved with the child—after I’ve talked to him—he has a financial obligation. We should talk to a lawyer.”
“That’s definitely not happening.”
“Chloe, this isn’t money for you or me. This is money for the child.”
“Can you please stop saying the child the same way you’d say the plague or Voldemort. He can hear you, you know.”
“No, he can’t—” Hailey let out an exasperated sound because Chloe was just messing with her. That was Chloe, always casual, always chill. But this whole situation? Not casual. And Hailey was feeling a long way from chill.
“Tell me his name,” Hailey said sternly. It was her mom voice, as Chloe called it. Usually right before she said the words…
“You can’t make me.”
“I’m going to find him anyway. You’re just making this harder.”
“No, I’m making it impossible. As it should be. You’re never going to find him.”
It felt like a challenge. Was it supposed to feel like a challenge? Did Chloe secretly want her to find the father and convince him to help? Regardless, it was happening. Starting with this contract, which would give her the access she needed. Not to mention a place to stay in the swanky hotel that was probably booked solid.
“I’m going to find out who the father is,” she said softly. Fiercely. “And he’s going to help.”
That definitely came out like a challenge. Hailey didn’t want this to be a sibling-rivalry thing, but maybe it was too late for that. No matter how many times she’d said do your homework or please don’t graffiti our living room wall, she was still a sister. Not a parent.
Chloe sighed. “Oh, Sis. I love that you want to help me. I just hate the way you’re doing it.”
Hailey swallowed hard as she stared down at the printed sheets of paper in front of her. This was her own personal gauntlet, walking on the fire of her secret desires. She’d have to give Lock whatever he wanted—and get what she wanted in return. She hated it too. But she also kind of loved it.
“I’ll be home in a couple of days,” Hailey said. “In the meantime, make sure you eat enough. And go to sleep early.”
Chloe snorted. “In your dreams.”
Somewhat reassured, Hailey ended the call. At least that much was the same between them. Because so much else had changed. On a typical Friday night Hailey would be throwing popcorn at Chloe while her sister chatted through the movie. She’d read two chapters of her library book and go to sleep by eleven. Whereas today…what was she doing? It was hard to tell, even with the words spelled out in black-and-white. The gleaming sheets of paper with crisp ink might as well have been a crumbling stone wall painted with hieroglyphs. Strings of symbols her mind couldn’t comprehend.
Confidentiality Agreement, it said in bold letters at the top. And right here, she had to come to terms with the fact that he’d been serious about the contract. A real piece of paper, signed by both parties and filed…where? The Department of Rock-Star Relations? The Ministry of the Rich and Famous?
But farther down the words grew stranger. Her brain turned to mush, unable to process the bluntness of bodily available and kink allowances. She had, in the heat of the moment, agreed to do anything with him. Anything for him. But both her arousal and impulsiveness had deserted her now. She shuddered under the draft of air-conditioning above the desk.
Most of the contract was in legalese, things about nondisclosure and proprietary obligations.
She was supposed to read and sign this thing. A simple exchange, that’s all it was.
She’d get to stay here and find Hailey’s lover—and more importantly, convince him not to be a deadbeat father. And in return, she’d share Lock’s bed. Something she wanted to do anyway.
At least she had wanted to. Now she was wondering whether she had what it took. Like maybe she should stretch and do push-ups before putting on her pjs. And oh God, her pjs! The threadbare old camisole and shorts she’d packed would look ridiculous in this place.
Taking a fortifying breath, she read the rest of the contract. No monies will be exchanged. So she wasn’t going to get paid for having sex with him—should she be grateful she wasn’t sacrificing her morals?
Or offended she didn’t warrant a tip?
She might be going mad. This was all some weird, gritty Alice in Wonderland. She’d fallen down the hole, into a land where grinning cats led her up elevators and mad ha
tters invited her to share a Coke. Off with her head, the Queen of Hearts would say, and God. God. She was so screwed.
“You haven’t signed it yet,” he said from behind her, his breath caressing the back of her neck, sending shivers down her spine. “Having second thoughts?”
Oh, second and third and forty-seventh thoughts. “No, I just…I always read contracts before I sign them.”
“Of course you do. I bet you balance your checkbook every Sunday too.”
Hah, she did not. Unless he counted the spreadsheet she updated with the downloadable statements from her bank. Which he probably would. But there was nothing wrong with that. Money management was an important life skill.
She hated money management. She hated the downloadable statements and the spreadsheets. She did them so that Chloe could go to college—except her sister had never cared that much about her classes. She did the spreadsheets so that she wouldn’t end up like her mother, accepting a “date” to make rent. And most of all, she did them because she didn’t know how to stop. She’d never learned how to stop being responsible and boring. She’d never learned how to live.
With shaky hands, she picked up the pen and signed her name at the bottom.
“Don’t look so terrified,” he said, scrawling his name beside hers. “This is going to be fun.”
Exactly what she was afraid of. She had lived her life buttoned-up and tucked away. She never saw anything to long for or experienced anything to regret. It was a kind of stasis that had helped her focus on raising her sister and keeping their tiny family unit going.
Finding out about her sister’s pregnancy had torn Hailey right out of her neat little box. She’d been so focused on raising Chloe that she had barely realized she was a woman now. So when was Hailey going to stop playing surrogate? Soon there would be another child to help raise, another kid who wasn’t exactly hers but was still her responsibility. When was Hailey going to start living?
And once she started, once she knew how sweet it could be, how would she stop?
FIVE
Tim reached for the light pull dangling from the storage-closet ceiling, but before he could tug it, someone stepped into the darkness behind him.
Not someone. Chloe.
The door clicked shut. The strong scent of tempera paint and oak tag mingled with her vanilla perfume. His fingers curled around the frayed ribbon. He should pull it—let there be light—but he couldn't. She'd be able to see him, see how much he wanted what he could not have. “You shouldn't be in here.”
“I need to talk to you.” Her fingertips landed softly on his shoulder, and he held his breath. One second. Two. A few moments more and the heat of her touch might leave scorch marks on the white cotton of his button-down. He'd stopped wearing T-shirts to church functions weeks ago. Even with his beard and his height, he had blended too well with the kids in the youth group.
“Let me find the board games, and then we can talk in the activity room.” He pawed at the shelves, searching for the familiar box by touch, desperate for her to leave him in peace.
“Nobody gives a shit about Yahtzee, Pastor Tim.” The light clicked on, and he fumbled. A box of Popsicle sticks clattered to the floor.
“Don't call me that. I'm not a pastor.” He wasn't. Youth ministry leader, sure. Pastor, no. She did that on purpose, to rile him. She'd done it for years, but it had only started to bother him this past year. She'd graduated from high school and taken over the junior youth group for the summer. They were sort of coworkers now, and what had once been a sweet schoolgirl crush had taken on a dangerous edge.
Possible but impossible. Torture.
When she’d left town with that band, he’d thought it was over. She’d go live the wild life he couldn’t give her, and he could unbury himself from all the guilt. He dropped to his knees, scrambling to pick up the sticks, certain that any minute someone else would fling open the closet door and catch them—doing what, exactly? Organizing supplies? He wasn't doing anything wrong. Not this time.
She crouched beside him. “Let me help.”
“You should get back out there, make sure the younger kids aren't staging a coup.” The teens were trouble enough, but the tweens could make a young man go prematurely gray with the pranks they tried at a lock-in. Not that he'd found any silver himself. He checked, though, more often as he crept closer to thirty.
“They've already dropped spiders in the chip bowl—don't worry; they're plastic. And you might want to check your sleeping bag for ice cubes. You can always share mine. They know better than to prank me.” She shoved a handful of sticks into the box he held, and brushed her thumb over the inside of his wrist, tracing the infinity symbol tattooed there. His hand shook. Like she’d never left.
“You're supposed to stop the pranks, not catalog them.”
“They're harmless.” She held his gaze, brow arched in question, thumb still pressed to his wrist. She had to feel his pulse now, the unmistakable thump thump thump hammering beneath his skin.
“I'm not sharing your sleeping bag.” He'd take a bath in ice cubes first. The town would run him out on a flaming pitchfork if he even looked too long at Chloe's sleeping bag. Off Limits. It practically flashed neon above her head. She'd been one of his charges. No amount of grown-up, legal, or willing would change that.
“Of course not. Then everyone would know you like me.” She licked her lips.
“I don't. Like you. I mean, of course I like you, you're lovely and smart, but we can’t. Oh crap—”
The shock of her mouth, warm and wet against his, stunned him into silent acquiescence. Her fingers didn't scorch his shirt now; they raked over his shoulders as she pushed herself into his arms. A milk crate full of Sunday school workbooks shoved into the small of his back. A dull pain, overwhelmed as liquid heat coursed through his body, crowding out thought, mingling with the dread coiled in his belly.
The Popsicle sticks clattered to the floor again.
God help him, he kissed her back, unable to resist slipping his tongue into the apple-sweet depths of her mouth.
“Seven minutes in heaven,” she gasped against his cheek as she grabbed his hand and guided it to her breast. “We can have that, can't we?”
The hard point of her nipple jutted against his palm through the fabric of her top. She felt so good. The soft weight of her pressed into his fingers. He groaned, erection already straining the fly of his jeans. He might not go to jail, but he was probably going to hell.
It took every ounce of his resolve to end the contact. He blew out a breath, slow and measured, and squeezed his eyes shut. A coward. “I'm so sorry, Chloe. This is wrong.”
Cool air washed over him as she pulled away. Hurt filled her expression like he’d never seen before. Like he’d never imagined. So confident, so damn gorgeous he’d never thought she could be hurt. She was perfect, and she could do much better than her old youth leader. Her pain was like a lance, like a hundred of them, and they stabbed at him until his mouth opened. He wanted to tell her he was sorry, how much he loved her, how they just couldn’t ever be together—
“I’m pregnant.”
* * *
Chloe successfully avoided Tim through two rounds of Yahtzee before he asked her to help him set up snacks. Just an excuse to get her alone, and nope, she had an urgent dodgeball game she needed to coordinate in the gym. Anything, anything but to face him after her blurted revelation in the closet.
She didn’t know the best way to break this news to a guy, but that wasn’t it. And immediately after her ill-timed confession, she’d left. Darted into the center of the group, using the kids as a shield so she wouldn’t have to face Tim’s judgment. She couldn’t even look him in the eye. Even though he had done just as much as she had to create the baby. Even though he’d been a willing, eager participant at the time. But it was always the girl who got blamed, wasn’t it? She’d been coming to Sunday school most of her life. She knew the stories.
Now her shields, her charges had aband
oned her. Once the sweet smell of chocolate chip cookies permeated the gym, they’d dropped the colored kickballs in place and run to eat the cookies fresh from the oven.
She hadn’t minded. Collecting the balls had given her an excuse to stay behind. It had given her an excuse to stay behind, to collect the balls. To hide in the storage room, breathing in rubber and disinfectant. To panic. She was panicking. God, why had she thought she could do this? Go about her role as one of the youth group helpers when she could barely help herself? Or have a calm, grown-up conversation with Tim about the situation when she didn’t feel grown-up? And she certainly wasn’t calm.
“Chloe?”
Shit. That was Tim, looking for her.
The worry in his voice was like a splash of ice water. It stole her breath and bent her over—and that was how he found her, head in her hands. The wooden bench squeaked as he sat beside her. His warmth suffused her hip and all along her body.
It made her want to turn to him. To turn into him and be held, comforted. But the hand that feathered so lightly over her back, it was hesitant. Not gentle and deliberate the way it had been when he taught her guitar. Not desperate and grasping like it had been that night.
The wisp of air between his hand and her back might have been miles for how isolated she felt. No man was an island, but she was doing her best impression of Greenland—set apart and so damn cold.
“Are you okay?” he asked quietly. “Do you need to see a doctor?”
“Already have.” Her words came out clipped, as if she were pissed at him. He didn’t deserve that, but she didn’t know any other way to be. They weren’t in this together. As he’d made clear in the closet before her rushed confession, there wasn’t a together where they were concerned.
“We need to talk about this. After the lock-in. Will you come over?”
BANGED: Rock Stars, Bad Boys & Dirty Deeds Page 24