All the Best Nights

by Hanna Earnest

“You can’t keep thinking I’m fucking with you, Nelle.”

  “I know.”

  “We’re in the same boat here. And you’re rocking it.”

  “I forgot that was your job.”

  A half smile flickered on his face and her guilt eased. She took a deep breath in. Bran’s skin gave off a familiar scent—warm and salty. Like August air. Stubborn and reluctant to break. She wanted him to crack another smile. “We never fought like this before we were married.”

  He toyed with the hem of her shirt. His shirt. KELLY it said. And she felt the weight of the letters across her shoulders. He was trying to hold himself together and she kept pulling him apart.

  Nelle edged forward and Bran moved instinctively back. His knees caught on the couch and he landed where he’d sat when she came in. He’d looked defeated then—having made the concession to let Aya buy more time from his father. His head was up now, his attention on her.

  “I know a trick for stress,” she told him. His legs widened to make room for her. The smile dropped from his face when she turned and disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a clementine, cold from the fridge.

  “What are you gonna do with that?” Bran’s brows pulled together skeptically.

  “You’re gonna open it, release the oils into the air.” Nelle played it cool as Bran rolled the clementine in his palm. “Benj swears it’s the best way to relax.”

  He huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, sure, let’s give that a try.”

  He’d just broken through the peel with his thumb and pressed the fruit to his nose when she lowered herself between his legs. His jaw opened slowly, wordlessly.

  They were inching back to where they’d been, rewinding to the moment before Aya had interrupted them. Skipping back on an album to play a favorite track.

  “And what are you going to do down there, Nelle?” The obvious slant of his mouth told her he’d caught on to her game.

  “Plan B, in case the clementine doesn’t do it for you.”

  His eyes burned the inner blue of a flame as her palms ghosted over his knees and up to the waistband of his grey sweats.

  “Is that working?” She flicked her eyes to the fist at his side, orange rind peeking through the circle of his thumb and forefinger.

  Bran could only shake his head, eyes riveted on her face.

  She fit her fingers under the band and pulled it taut, maneuvering the eager cock from inside. “Plan B then?”

  A groan rumbled through Bran as Nelle fit her mouth over him. Warm and salty. She took her time memorizing the taste. Memorizing the sounds of his pleasure. Memorizing the feel of Bran Kelly. Finding out what he needed.

  And when he came, squeezing his balled hand so tight the clementine within burst, she tried to ignore the thought that she was just like everyone else: that the more she had of him, the more she wanted.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The den was in disarray, couch cushions strewn about the room like a tornado had come through. And it had. Nelle was a solid Midwestern twister, blowing through his life, his home. Touching down unexpectedly, making Bran wish he’d had time to shutter the windows closed.

  But even if he had, would it have helped? It was impossible to keep her out. She’d rattle the glass in its frames until it broke—which was why he’d just given up and let her in.

  She’d been here a day. And had the complete run of the place. He hadn’t planned on telling her anything about the situation with his father. But she’d thought he was playing her. His chest rose and fell as he drew and released a quick breath. She’d thought him capable of that. She’d been convinced of it. The jagged look she’d cut him with still smarted.

  He’d had to tell her about his dad, had to reveal more to Nelle than he’d ever intended. He had to trust she’d keep it to herself.

  She would. He knew she would. They wanted the same things from each other: sex and secrets. He fit an ampersand between the two words, and an image materialized in his mind, twin s’s on an album cover, black and blue and inky like midnight. Like it hurt. That was the other reason he needed her close. Because she made the future of his music clearer.

  Bran Kelly: sex&secrets, that was an album his label would wait for.

  He was looking up. Lying on his back on the middle section of the couch. Wood beams striped the ceiling, swirled knots intensified by the stain he’d chosen, and sun blazed through the high window. Nelle was nestled in the crook of his arm. She’d fished his phone from his discarded pants to stream Carly Simon’s Greatest Hits Live through his built-in speakers. Her fingertips tapped his chest one by one, punctuating the lyrics with a light press the length of each syllable. She rolled thumb to pinky through the infamous accusation and lifted her head.

  “Imagine being vain enough to think a song is about you and being wrong.”

  “It’s pretty detailed. Whoever it’s for would know.”

  “Whoever it’s about. Not for. I agree he’d know, but there would still be people presuming to be the subject. That’s the level of ego that concerns me.”

  Bran shifted to his side and Nelle turned to mirror him, letting her palm rest on his coarse cheek. They shared a long flat pillow from the armrest at the other end of the couch. He wasn’t sure how it had migrated all the way to that corner, but he had a rough idea it had something to do with the slow doggy-style thrust and crawl that had taken them across the sectional.

  He brushed his knuckles across her skin, lazily strumming her back, rephrasing her words as a question. “Whoever it’s about, not for?”

  “You tell someone when a song is for them. You have to say.”

  Bran stopped his hand. “But the specifics—she makes it clear. She wants him to know.”

  “Of course she does. That’s where the power is. When it’s not a gift, it’s a move. To make someone hear a song and realize it’s about them. If you never tell them, it’s for yourself.”

  His fingers closed on her wrist and he raised her hand off his face. Bran rolled over Nelle, freeing his arm from under her and planting his feet on the carpet.

  “Now I’m cold,” Nelle whined, snuggling into the plush spot he’d left.

  “I have to get dressed.” Bran sorted through the couch debris.

  “Why?” Nelle sat, her long hair falling over one shoulder, skimming her back. It didn’t smell like peonies anymore. It smelled like that orange she’d given him. He’d pushed his juice-covered fingers through her waves and pulled her face to his, tasting himself on her tongue. Then he’d spread her out on the upholstered coffee table and returned the favor.

  Bran’s brain stalled, trying to remember the question. “Aya’s reported back to Cormac by now.” Nelle blinked, her mouth dropping open, and he hurried to explain. “She’ll have told him everything is fine and there’s nothing to worry about.” He pulled on his pants, his shirt. “He’s probably on his way.”

  She scanned down his body, the full outfit he’d pulled together from their two discarded components. “And I’m going to be naked when he gets here?”

  “You’re going to be out of sight when he gets here.”

  She stood, stretching her arms above her head, her nipples growing hard as she left the warmth of the couch. “Where am I going to hide? You have four rooms.”

  Bran reached out to stroke her breast. He gave it a gentle tug, pulling her into him, her bare form curving against him. “In the shower.” He breathed in the citrus on her neck. He’d never be able to peel an orange again without getting hard. “You’re sticky.”

  They rocked to the song, slow dancing as his palms cupped her ass.

  “Alone?” she whispered before her teeth sank into his earlobe.

  There were such better things they could be doing than worrying about intruders. Maybe he was wrong about Cormac. Maybe he didn’t have to waste any more of their precious final hours dealing wi
th his meddling bandmate—

  The unmistakable bass of Cormac’s pimped-out Crown Vic shook the room around them.

  Unfortunately, Cormac was as predictable as a click track. With the timing to match.

  “Shower,” Bran said, but Nelle was already rushing from the room. His palm clapped against her ass as he sent her up the stairs. The slap rang out, clear and sharp, music to his ears. That ass.

  He trailed up the stairs after her before remembering the car parking in his driveway. The front door clanged shut like a cymbal crash announcing Cormac’s entrance. Like Aya, he had a key. Unlike Aya he was not stealth. After a minute of obvious prowling on the first floor, footsteps beat a rhythm up the stairs and Cormac emerged from the steps off the kitchen.

  “Hey, buddy.”

  “Why the visit, C?”

  An innocent shrug did little to counterbalance the devilish grin on Cormac’s face. “Just dropping off some leftovers from recipe testing. So you don’t starve. Took a year off my life opening your fridge to find honest-to-goodness ingredients.”

  “Aya told you not to worry about me.”

  “Aya told me what you pay her to tell me. You think I don’t know the difference?” He glanced at the door to Bran’s room and then back to Bran to repeat the proof. “There’s food in your fridge.”

  “I was hungry.”

  “Just you?”

  Bran suddenly doubted whether Cormac had the decency not to burst into the shower searching for Nelle. He needed to get his friend out of his house. “I’m fine, as you can see, so why don’t we make plans for you to come back tomorrow—”

  “You’re busy now?”

  “You know I’m trying to write.”

  “Oh yeah, suddenly you’re working away on that album?”

  “Don’t you have a restaurant you were supposed to open six months ago?”

  “You can’t rush perfection. Or a liquor license apparently.”

  Nelle chose that moment to turn the shower on, and for the first and only time in his life, Bran cursed the oversized rain faucet that pounded out water in a torrential downpour. Loud enough to be heard clearly through two sets of doors.

  Cormac charged down the hall, giving Bran just enough time to tuck in his elbows, protecting his organs from the battering of jabs landing at his sides. “You lying sack of shit!” The insults rang out, full of glee.

  Bran ducked into the opening to the music nook and fell into a brown leather Eames, spinning defensively away from Cormac. Giving up the chase, the drummer slanted himself across the green chaise opposite Bran, like he was goddamn Rose DeWitt Bukater. Admittedly he looked just as good. Cormac was comfortable anywhere, unencumbered by the artistic angst that plagued Bran. Since the band had broken up, he’d taken to working out, another outlet for his immeasurable stores of energy, and his hulking frame dwarfed the lounger. His eyes gleamed with interest. “There’s food in your fridge. And someone in your shower. I knew you weren’t celibate. Why aren’t you in there with her? Him? Her?”

  Bran let his knees fall wide in the chair. “Because I knew you’d bust in on us.”

  “And you’re the only one busting a nu—”

  “Why are you like this?”

  Cormac laughed, his head tipping back. “I’m intrigued. You’re taking my advice for once.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Didn’t I tell you yesterday? Beat this writer’s block thing. Bang it out. Get those juices flowing. Let it rest and then cut into the meat—”

  “I think that metaphor got away from you.”

  “It was never my department.”

  Behind Cormac, the evidence of that statement was set in frames: records that had been certified gold, platinum, double platinum. A shelf with shining awards in various shapes and materials, silver rocket ships stamped with a cable logo and glass stars from the Besties, with one iconic combination missing.

  Bran sighed, trying to release how badly he wanted that damn gold clef. He relaxed his grip on the chair’s arm rails. “Will you get out of here now? Before she—”

  “She! Why can’t I stay and talk to Shower Girl? She’s in there because she’s dirty, huh?”

  “We’re keeping it private.”

  “Aya knows.”

  “Aya knows everything.”

  Cormac’s smile softened and then he frowned. “It’s not Francesca again, is it? The rhyming was really too much. And you gotta know she just wants the hottest date for the big dance.”

  Bran laughed, forgetting himself for a moment. “Shower Girl doesn’t need me for a prime seat at the Note Awards.”

  Cormac sat up. “She’s industry?”

  In the silence, the rain-head stopped thundering. Bran stood. “Thanks for coming by, don’t come back because I’m barricading the door.”

  The drummer’s body went limp. Bran tugged at his meaty arm. “Cormac, get up.”

  “I want to meet her.”

  “Not happening.”

  A struggle ensued as Cormac let his body drag them both to the floor. Bran fell back, huffing out a curse, and rolling sideways to inspect a rug burn at his elbow. Cormac reclined against the chaise. “You’re so weak.”

  “I’m not weak. You’re an ox.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It wasn’t a compliment.”

  Cormac laughed and heaved himself off the ground, biceps bulging with the effort. He offered Bran a hand, but Bran pushed up on his own. With Bran on his feet, Cormac started to leave, pausing before he reached the hall. He turned in the opening and stretched his arms wide across the arch.

  “You clammed up on us yesterday.”

  “Like I said: it’s private.” Vitally private. Secret. Something they had to protect, or lose.

  With a narrow look, Cormac corrected him. “I meant before your guest arrived. What happened at the funeral? Your old man wasn’t ‘okay,’ was he?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “I’ve met the son of a—” He stopped himself. “No offense meant to your gran. I don’t know how he managed to get so mean, with a mother like that.”

  “I asked her once,” Bran admitted, not meeting Cormac’s eye. “She said he always took his coffee black.” Bitterness became a habit. A craving. Bran had seen it in his father’s scheming eyes at the funeral.

  “I tried getting into the house this morning, tried to pick up some of my old things,” he’d said as they stood on the church steps, collars up against the wind. “Did Gran change the locks?”

  “About the house,” his father had replied, without answering the question, “it was real nice of you to send Mom those checks each month.”

  Bran’s shoulders had risen, like he’d anticipated the blow.

  “Maybe we keep that going for a bit.”

  “I don’t think she has many expenses now.”

  His father had snatched the glasses off his face in a blinding flash. Bran had squinted in the sun, cold wind stinging the scrapes on his nose.

  “You think that’s funny?”

  “No, sir,” Bran had said automatically, hating how his father produced that child’s role in him. But he’d rehearsed it too many times. The performance had become too natural. He had seized up, listening to his father with his eyes down, memorizing the pattern of the salt on the steps.

  “That’s my mother you’re disrespecting,” his father had continued in a low snarl. “And while you’ve sent checks, I’ve been here, I’ve put my own money and time into taking care of her. And now I’ve got to get the house fixed up and ready to sell. New kitchen, new windows, stuff you should have done for her while she was still here, but it’s too late now.”

  Bran’s gaze had shot up and his father had raised his fist in response, crushing the glasses inside and holding one finger up as a warning. “She could have paid
for it herself if she’d sold some of the junk you left behind. So could I, come to think of it.” Like he hadn’t already thought of it. Like he hadn’t changed the locks, to make sure Bran was a step behind. Bran had fumed, his elbows tucking in as he held himself together, held his mouth shut, the way he’d learned, repeating to himself Gran’s advice, When he’s like that, Bran, don’t give him anything else. Don’t feed the fire. Wait for it to burn out.

  His father had noticed Tomi then, walking up the path from the parking lot to join them. He’d clapped a hand on Bran’s shoulder. He’d squeezed. “But I know you’ll do the right thing by your pop. Keep sending those checks and when I’ve got it all worked out, we’ll talk about what you earned from inside.”

  Cormac sighed, loud enough to break Bran out of the memory. “You’re not gonna tell me, huh?” His gaze lifted to the far wall, where Bran’s collection of guitars rested on hooks for easy access. He tapped a thoughtful rhythm on the frame. “You ever think that’s the real problem? You’re keeping too much to yourself? How can you write if you won’t let anything go?”

  Bran waited until Cormac was halfway down the stairs. “Ask Aya.”

  “She already told me,” Cormac called back. “I wanted to hear it from you.”

  Bran didn’t respond as his friend finally departed. He stood in the center of the room, listening for the front door to open and close.

  Then he and Nelle were alone again, their secret safe. He sank into the chair, kicking his feet up on a matching stool. Running one hand over his face, he tried to shake out the tight feeling in his chest—a heartstring, overtuned. He rubbed at his collar.

  The final cheers of the album Nelle had put on faded into silence. He was starting to get used to it when she peeked into the room. He managed a smile. “All clear.”

  “I thought so, I didn’t hear anything,” she said, but her attention was on the walls. She walked slowly through the space, her hand grazing the frames, as she’d done in his closet. Her hair was still wet, seeping into the grey T-shirt she wore. Another one of his that he’d always picture on her.

  Nelle stopped at a shelf of awards. Deft fingers began shifting them each an inch to the side, rearranging them so there was a space in the middle. She looked over her shoulder at him, her eyelashes still thickly spiked from the shower. “You need an open spot, for that Cleffy.”