Lost For You

by Jayne Frost

  I swallowed hard at the endearment I didn’t mean to bestow. Old habits died hard, and in the natural progression of our path from lovers to friends, sometimes I lost track of where we were. Or when we were.

  Beckett didn’t notice, his focus on the picture window overlooking the shore. “I just want things to get back to normal.” He slipped his arm around my shoulder. “You two need to get over … whatever it is that this is.”

  I glanced around at all the boxes littering the floor of the small beach house. This was not something we could sweep under the rug like the grains of sand that blew in from the shore. Tori and I would eventually speak. It was inevitable. She was my best friend. But truth be told, we would never be what we were. I no longer lived in Austin, and I didn’t work for Twin Souls. That part of my life was over.

  I shifted, creating some distance. “I’m going to talk to Tori privately next week when I go home. If I can get past Stacia.”

  My lip curled inadvertently around the name of Tori’s assistant. Since Stacia came on board at Twin Souls, she’d taken it upon herself to run interference between Tori and me. For all I knew, that was in her job description—keep Taryn out of Tori’s hair—in big bold letters on the top of her offer letter.

  “Just give me the word. I’ll take care of Stacia for you.” Beckett paled when I shot him a speculative glare. “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant—”

  “I know what you meant.”

  Beckett shut off the ringer on his phone when a Damaged song broke the silence. I glanced at Tori’s picture, still lighting his screen.

  He scrubbed a hand over his face, then looked around glumly. “How did everything get so fucked up?”

  “It’s not fucked up … it’s life.” I smiled sadly. “People change. They grow apart. They—”

  “Die,” Beckett said softly, turning his attention to the framed pictures on the sofa table.

  Most were photos from the first tour. Rhenn and Paige were in every one.

  I swallowed past the hard lump in my throat. “Life goes on. Even if you don’t want it to.”

  Like an unwelcome visitor, Chase Noble flashed in my mind. He was the bookend on the painful chapter of my life that closed the day I left Austin. I couldn’t think of him without smiling. Or crying. The fact that I thought of him at all was the greatest irritant.

  Beckett stood, adding in a dash of guilt to try and change my mind about dinner. “Every song on that album is for you.” He took my hands and pulled me to my feet. “Take a shower and come with me. It won’t be the same without you.”

  Biting my lip, I counted to ten in my head, the proper amount of time for faking consideration. “Nah, I’ve got a little work to do for the party.”

  “That was exactly ten seconds.” He bent to brush a kiss to my lips, lingering with his mouth an inch from mine. “You need some new material; I taught you that trick.”

  I was about to mention that the proper length of time for a peck on the lips was one second—according to Beckett’s Rules To Live By. And he’d just spent a good four seconds with his mouth pressed to mine. But that would only start a debate. Most likely he would want to provide a demonstration. I wasn’t going down that road. I’d only kissed Beckett a handful of times in the past few months. Really kissed him. I wasn’t sure if I did it to keep him with me, a vague promise for a future that would never be. Really, I wanted to see if I could breathe life into the corpse of our relationship. It’d be so much easier if I could love him the way I used to.

  “You better go.” I patted his chest. “I’m so proud of you, Becks.”

  The new album was a masterpiece. And tomorrow night everyone was going to know it. I kept my back to him when he walked away.

  Pausing at the door, he said quietly, “I love you.”

  My chest constricted at the sincerity in his tone. Six months and our roles had reversed. “Love you too.”

  I waited until I heard his car door slam to shuffle to the refrigerator. Pulling out the bottle of chardonnay, I frowned at the thin sheet of metal covering the cork. Life was simpler when my wine came with a top that screwed off. Spotting the box in the corner labeled “stuff,” I sank to my knees in search of a corkscrew.

  As I dug through the mishmash of items, a pair of yellow eyes caught my attention. I plucked the card from the box, my thumb tracing the Nite Owl Pub logo. Grabbing the elusive corkscrew, I stood on shaky legs and then released the card. It fluttered to the top of the heap of junk, the yellow eyes staring up at me.

  I gave the box a good kick, and the container skittered across the hardwood. Snatching the bottle of wine from the counter, I headed out the back door and onto the beach, leaving all thoughts of Chase Noble where they belonged. In the past.

  Passing one of the bonfires dotting the landscape, I trudged along the water’s edge to avoid the raucous game of football taking place a few yards away.

  “Want a beer, honey?” one of the shirtless hunks called out.

  I resisted the urge to look over my shoulder and see whether he was actually speaking to me. I was never insecure about my looks until I moved to California. At home, in the land of sanity, the few extra pounds I carried in my hips and the laugh lines around my mouth were sexy. Out here? A standing appointment for Botox and a plastic surgeon on speed dial were all the rage to wipe away such imperfections.

  “No, thanks.” I lifted my hand and dropped it just as quickly when I realized I was waiving a half-empty wine bottle. Which may have been the reason the guy was proffering an invitation.

  Pathetic, drunk girl walking on the beach. Yeah … I was a catch. I bet the hunk could smell the desperation from a hundred paces.

  I shivered as the tide crept in, soaking me to mid-calf. Stupid California and its stupid weather. It was hot enough downtown this afternoon to fry an egg on my head. But in my little corner of heaven, the temperature plummeted as soon as the sun dipped below the horizon. The climate was as schizophrenic as the people.

  Pulling out my phone, I glanced at the time and seriously considered calling Beckett. But that would be awkward.

  What would I say?

  Please come find me. I’m drunk on the beach, and I lost my house.

  Not the way to go. It would only cement his theory that I had no business living out here alone. A battle I was fighting on the daily. Since I realized this afternoon I was unwittingly aiding Beckett’s cause by turning my place into our place, I needed to tread lightly, or I’d end up with a roommate. And at some point, I’d like to get laid.

  I giggled at the thought. Drunk and horny. Not a good combo. Drunk and horny led to rash decisions of the Chase Noble variety.

  Get out of my head.

  I glanced at the rows of houses cupping the shore. They weren’t the custom two-story homes with elaborate decks that lined the beach two miles north. I knew I was headed in the right direction.

  Finally.

  When I’d first ventured out this evening, I’d taken a detour after I’d spotted a small patch of trees in one of the more palatial enclaves a mile or so up the shore from my bungalow. I missed trees. And grass. Staking out a spot under a palm, I’d finished most of my wine and didn’t get back to the beach until the sun had set. Hopelessly lost, I’d wandered the same three-mile stretch of beach for the last two hours trying to find my house.

  The tension floated away as I approached the familiar sign warning of high tides and the danger of swimming without a partner.

  No worries there.

  The Pacific Ocean was beautiful, with its sparkling blue water and frothy waves. But like the people, I found this particular ocean cold and foreboding. The Gulf of Mexico was inviting. I could venture into the warm, still water without falling off the edge of the world. That’s what I felt here—like I was at the end of the world, and if I wandered too far into the frigid deep, I’d be lost forever.

  I took another sip of the wine. Then another.

  Spotting the rickety steps attached to the back of my c
ottage, I trudged up the small dune, my feet sinking into the unforgiving sand. My legs wobbled from the exertion as I climbed the stairs. Four steps from the top I lost my footing, falling to my knees.

  “Fuck!” The ear-piercing shriek escaped into the night air, full of all the frustration that bubbled inside me.

  My chin fell to my chest as hot tears stung my eyes. I had everything I wanted, the freedom and the success, and it wasn’t enough.

  More time.

  I just needed more time to adjust.

  Panic seized me when the wood planks on the deck creaked. And then a beat-up pair of Doc Martens appeared in front of me. I knew those boots. And even in my drunken haze, I recognized the scent drifting to my nose.

  My mouth dropped open when Chase extended his hand. “Let me help you, baby.”

  Inwardly I balked at the request, even as my palm slid into his. Knees weak from the contact, I dropped the bottle clutched in my other hand, and the glass landed with a thud and then rolled down the steps.

  Chase’s arm slid around my waist, and I was off my feet, pressed against him. “Careful.”

  I blinked up at him. His lips were right there. So close I could lean in and …

  Coming back to myself, I scrambled to the top of the deck. Our gazes now level, I scowled. “What are you doing here? How did you know where I live?”

  A stupider question never left my lips. His brother was my client. My best friend was his business partner.

  “Never mind,” I said, defeat coloring my tone. Not because he was here, but because I wanted him to be here. “Thanks for the hand.”

  Stumbling to the door, I pressed my shoulder against the wood and pushed, nearly falling over the threshold.

  Fucking perfect.

  The rickety steps protested Chase’s weight when he walked away. It was that easy. Tell him to leave, and he was gone.

  More wine.

  I stumbled to the counter and grabbed the hated merlot. My fingers froze around the neck of the bottle when Chase’s voice sounded from the door.

  “Judging from this bottle,” he held up the wine that I’d dropped, inspecting the contents, “you might not need anymore.”

  “Well, that’s none of your concern now, is it?” A smug smile lifted my lips as I poured the crimson liquid into Beckett’s old glass. “This is California, not Texas. They have laws against stalking, so you better get.”

  The southern belle warred with the angry drunk bitch in my head as I leaned against the edge of the counter and glared at him. He looked too damn good, this man. And he brought feelings to the surface I’d suppressed for months.

  “Technically, you’re the one who’s stalking me.” He grinned that cocky grin. “Since I’ve owned a house on this beach for five years.”

  I nearly choked on my next sip of wine. “W-what?”

  Before I could process the information, Chase stepped inside. “I had to see you, baby. I want to explain. If you let me … I …”

  Brazened by the wine, I snorted a very unlady-like laugh while he fought to find the words.

  “This should be good.” I lifted my goblet to him. “Can I pour you a glass? You’ll probably need it to wash down your bullshit excuses.”

  He gazed at the glass in my hand, then up to my face. “I don’t drink.”

  Another snort tickled my throat. “Since when?”

  My mouth dropped open to protest when he took tentative steps toward me. But I couldn’t find the will.

  Stopping a foot from where I stood, he released a staggered breath. “Since I got out of rehab.”

  Chapter 40

  Chase

  The goblet slipped from Taryn’s hand, shattering against the hardwood. Wine spread at her feet, and bits of lead crystal scattered along the floor.

  “Don’t move.” I looked around at the boxes. “Do you have any paper towels? Or a dish cloth?”

  Since my little confession left her speechless, I was on my own. Pulling open a container marked “kitchen,” I sifted through the clutter, turning in horror when she screeched.

  Balanced on one leg, she gripped the edge of the counter while a steady drip of blood slid from her foot, splattering the puddle of wine.

  “Baby, I told you not to move.” I slipped my arms under her knees and then lifted her up, the glass crunching under my boots as I extricated her from the mess. “Where’s your bathroom?”

  “Ouch.” She squirmed to get a view of her injury and then looked up at me. “I think I stepped on glass.”

  Heading toward the dim light in the hallway, I held her tighter. “You did. We need to see how bad it is.”

  From the amount of wine she’d consumed, Taryn probably didn’t feel it. But having her in my arms?

  Shit.

  “Put me down,” she protested.

  Even as she said it, she burrowed closer to my chest, so I ignored her rambling. It’s not like she could walk, I reasoned. I drug my feet as I crossed the room, just to prolong the contact.

  Pathetic.

  “Do you have a first aid kit?” I asked.

  “I think so.” She blinked up at me, then frowned. “It’s in a box somewhere.”

  Sweeping the toiletries from the counter, I eased her onto the granite. “I’ll find it.” I took her ankle and gently maneuvered her foot over the sink. “Are you in pain?”

  A small amount of blood dripped onto my hand, and she gasped, squirming to get free of my hold.

  “Baby …” Sliding my hand up her leg, I inched my way in front of her. “It looks worse than it is. I don’t think you need stitches.” Noting the panic in her big blue eyes, I fed her the first bullshit line that popped into my head. “Your blood is thinner here. It’s the dry heat or something.”

  She narrowed her gaze skeptically. “You’re full of shit,” she blurted, her bottom lip pouting in the most adorable way. “I think you’re full of shit.”

  My common sense left the building, the same way it did the first day we met.

  “Probably,” I said as I pressed a kiss to her mouth. The bitter wine mixed with her sweet taste in the best way.

  “You’re trying to distract me,” she breathed, resting her palms on my chest.

  “Is it working?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Only the prospect of an infection from the gash on her foot tore me from her lips. That and the fact that she was probably drunk, and I didn’t want to give her another reason to hate me. I hadn’t gotten a chance to explain all the reasons she shouldn’t hate me for my last lapse in judgment.

  “Let me fix you up.” I stroked her hair. “Where are your tweezers?”

  Confusion lit her blue irises. “Uh … in that box. If I have any. I get waxed.”

  She turned beet red at the admission, since we both knew that her eyebrows weren’t the only place that received that particular treatment. After six months with no sex, and no release beyond Taryn’s image behind my lids when I stroked myself in the shower, my mind immediately went there.

  Much to my embarrassment, my dick decided this was the perfect time to acknowledge Taryn’s presence.

  “Let me just find those … um … tweezers.” As I crouched to open the container, I discreetly adjusted my erection. I needn’t have bothered. The minute I saw the stash of men’s razors and the other obviously male toiletries, all the wind left my sails.

  Flinging the deodorant and aftershave on the travertine, a stick of Degree for Men slid across the floor, landing right below her.

  “T-that’s not mine,” she stammered.

  No shit.

  “I didn’t think it was.” I grabbed a first aid kit, a bottle of alcohol, and the elusive tweezers. “Unless you’ve developed a wicked perspiration problem.”

  Her eyes widened, zeroing in on the rubbing alcohol in my hand. Considering my ardor had cooled dramatically, I debated letting her squirm. But that look on her face. God … she was terrified.

  “The alcohol is to sterilize these.” I held up the tweez
ers.

  Relief flooded her face. “Oh.”

  I washed my hands before pouring alcohol over my fingers and the little pink tweezers. “You ready?”

  Swallowing hard, she nodded.

  I gave Taryn a small smile as I set up the makeshift triage supplies on a towel. The wine was still playing havoc with her emotions. The fear morphed into something else, some thought wicked enough to hood her eyes as she stared at me.

  “I’m going to try not to hurt you.” Dropping to my knees, I took her ankle without breaking our gaze. “Don’t move. If it gets too bad—scream. Or grab my hair. I’ll stop.”

  Grab my hair? If she did that, she wouldn’t be thinking about the pain in her foot. With my head between her legs, the only thing she’d need to worry about was banging her skull against the mirror when I sent her into orbit.

  But that’s not what I wanted. That was easy. I could find that in Austin. I wanted her. Sweet Taryn.

  I touched the inflamed skin, and she flinched, gripping the lip of the counter.

  “Baby, this is lead crystal.” Making small talk to distract her, I provided her with some useful knowledge. “The pieces aren’t that small, but they are sharp. I should be able to get them.”

  “You went to rehab?”

  Whoa, whiplash.

  Blowing out a breath, I steadied my hand and gently extracted the first piece of glass. “Yeah.” Examining the shard like it was a map to the lost city of gold, I avoided her gaze and released the glass into the sink. The pebble clanked against the porcelain on its path to the drain.

  “When?” She narrowed her gaze. “I haven’t seen you in six months.”

  “Six months and thirteen days,” I said quietly.

  “That’s how long you’ve been clean?” She crossed her arms over her chest in a manner I’m sure she thought was menacing. If she weren’t drunk, she could do the math. Or maybe it wasn’t that important to her.

  “Nope.” Looking up, I rubbed my thumb in circles on her instep. “That’s how long it’s been since I’ve seen you. Six months and thirteen days.”

  Giving her the exact number of days might freak her out, but I knew them. Missing Taryn became my vocation after I got out of rehab. She was more addictive than Oxy, I’d realized. It took all my newly acquired willpower to stay away until I completed aftercare.