Playing At Love: A Rogue Series Novel

by Lara Ward Cosio

  Colette wore a red and white skirt with chevron designs that fell long but had a thigh-high slit and a skin-tight white top with cropped sleeves, showcasing her amazing body. Her long hair had been straightened and swung about her shoulders in a shiny waterfall as she moved. She appeared perfectly put together to him.

  “You’re always gorgeous, honey,” he replied, falling into old habits. He realized he wasn’t prepared for the conversation he needed to have with her. But, then, he wasn’t sure he ever would be. It just had to happen.

  “All the same, I need a few minutes. I’m going to steal Miranda for her help.”

  “Em, then what’s on the agenda?”

  “Your timing is perfect,” she said. “We’re meeting with some friends for dinner before going to a burlesque show. It’s not my group. We’re scoping out the competition,” she said with a wicked smile.

  “Those plans set in stone?”

  “I can’t drop them, if that’s what you mean. It’ll be fun, mon cher.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Don’t I always support you with your work?” She pouted playfully.

  He felt like answering truthfully that she didn’t really support him. That, in fact, she had been actively hostile about the new album. But he knew this wasn’t the time.

  “Do you really want to turn down a chance to look at near-naked women dancing?” Miranda asked with a snort.

  Conor shook his head. He felt trapped into these plans. “No, it’s fine.”

  ~

  Left waiting again, he sat back down and wondered at his next step. He hadn’t thought through anything more than that he needed to end things. It was obviously going to require finesse.

  His text chime sounded and he grabbed his phone quickly, guiltily.

  Felicity’s response said, “You made me . . . .”

  He wondered what she meant by this half-sentiment and then a photo followed. It was black and white and shadows gave it the kind of artistic feel he would have been drawn to even if she wasn’t the subject matter. The photo showed only her mouth as she smiled sweetly. Sexily. It made him think of kissing those lips.

  He was encouraged that she was engaging with him in this way. It gave him hope after feeling like she practically wanted to wash her hands of him.

  Colette strode out into the living area then, wearing only a matching black lace lingerie set with high heels. The sheer bra barely contained her full breasts and pointed dark nipples. Her waist was narrow above womanly hips, and her olive skin was smooth and taut.

  Jesus, those curves.

  Here was this gorgeous young woman who was so anxious to marry him, and instead of wanting to ravage her, he was plotting ways to end it. It made him think of Felicity’s urging him to consider what he really felt. He knew he was ready to listen to his heart. And it didn’t belong to Colette.

  She held up a flowy boho-style maxi dress in one hand and a bustier in the other. “Which one?”

  He kept eye contact with her, rather than letting his gaze wander back to her breasts. “Whichever one you want.”

  Her brow creased at his lack of interest. “What’s wrong?”

  “I thought we were in a hurry.”

  She went to him and bent at the waist as she pulled his hand to cup her breast. “There is always time if we make it.” She kissed him on the mouth, teasing her tongue against his lips.

  This seduction was familiar. She had always used sex to create closeness when it was lacking. Despite the element of game-playing, he hadn’t minded. But everything was different now. She just didn’t know it yet. He pulled away from her and stood up, leaving her frozen in her bent over position for a moment as she tried to process the rejection.

  “Colette!” Miranda called from the bedroom. “Your cell is ringing!”

  Confusion colored her face. They hadn’t had sex since before Conor kissed Felicity in the pool in Los Angeles, and that kind of dry spell was entirely unfamiliar in their relationship. He watched her as she shook off the suspicion that something was amiss and gave him a small smile before hurrying to the bedroom.

  ~

  As they walked down the street, nearing the restaurant, Colette pulled Conor’s arm around her neck and held his waist firmly. Normally, he was the one to initiate this same connection. It created an intimacy he no longer felt, though, and he shrugged her off with the pretense of checking his phone.

  As the night wore on and he found himself dining with Colette and her friends, then visiting the little burlesque club where he drank too much and withdrew into himself. He felt separated from her and the rest of their crowd as he ruminated on what he was doing. Was this supposed to be the bold breakup move he had described to Felicity? Or was he on his way to taking the out she had offered him? The easy route would be to let this wedding plan keep moving of its own volition.

  Colette was sitting next to him in their red pleather booth, but she was speaking with her friends, dissecting the costumes and the girls in the show. He took out his phone and saw that it was one-thirty in the morning. Dawn might be breaking in Dublin.

  Impulsively, he sent a text:

  “Question?”

  He wasn’t entirely surprised when he received a response a few minutes later. But he was grateful that Gavin was still the kind of friend who would answer him when he was in need.

  “I’ve got an answer.”

  Whenever anything of consequence had come up in their lives, they had used this simple repartee to start a conversation, signaling that it would be serious. The question could be specific or general and the person who had “an answer” wasn’t claiming it would be the right answer, but that he could at least offer something of value.

  Conor typed: “What’s the right thing?”

  He concentrated on downing the remaining Chimay ale in his pint glass as he waited for a reply. The text tone signaled and he looked at his phone for Gavin’s response.

  “Best guess: not the easy thing.”

  They quickly traded messages.

  “Thanks, Gav. Go back to sleep.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “It was my question. And I’m good. Thanks.”

  “Take care of yourself.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  Conor didn’t sleep well that night. It was hard to drift off for very long with Colette by his side. He felt like a fraud and a coward. He had allowed the purpose for his visit to be put off by minor circumstances. Instead of insisting she break her plans so he could reveal his life-altering news, he had spent the night out on the town with her before collapsing into her bed. She had clung to him in her sleep as if in her dreams she had worked out his intentions.

  They had stayed out until almost four in the morning, moving the party from one place to another before calling it a night. With the time change of having come in from Dublin, he had been up for twenty-four hours and so Colette believed him when he said he needed to just sleep when they got back to her place. But sleep hadn’t come for more than a few minutes at a time.

  At ten o'clock, Conor got up and showered. He lingered under the water, wondering if Colette had defined their relationship from the beginning: They wanted different things and pretended otherwise. That’s what she had declared during their first days of really dating, back when they were easing into the idea that they were going to be something more than a one-night stand. She had meant it in general terms and had come off as being far more sophisticated about relationship dynamics than her twenty-one years should have allowed. Then she followed that up by saying the two of them would be good for each other, if only in the name of “fun and distraction.” He should never have allowed their relationship to go beyond that early prediction of hers.

  With a heavy sigh, he shut off the water and grabbed a towel. Colette did not stir in bed as he pulled fresh clothes from his bag, dressed and went to the kitchen in search of coffee. Unsurprisingly, he found none. There was the tea he liked, but this morning definitely called for coffee.<
br />
  As quietly as he could, he stepped out of the apartment and went on the hunt for strong caffeine. Walking up the street to Bleecker and turning onto Carmine, he pulled the collar of his gray wool pea coat up against the cool air.

  He soon found the coffee shop he had vaguely remembered. He gratefully stepped inside and took in the distinctive, rich aroma of fresh grounds. The place was narrow but comfortable, with blonde wood floors and one full wall of brick painted white. After purchasing a six dollar organic coffee and a five dollar croissant with organic wild berry jam, he took a seat at a table by the window and began scrolling through emails on his phone. He stopped and opened the daily media mentions of Rogue he received automatically.

  The image of the band had always been of special interest to him. He, more than any of the other band members, wanted approval on their official photos and merchandising. And he was always at pains to read any review or other slight mention of Rogue. And so, from the start he had been the one to collect everything he could to ensure that they were being portrayed as he wanted. Above all, he had wanted recognizability.

  When Gavin and Sophie’s love story broke all over the media years back, he had been nervous it would take away from their music. In the end, it had put an even greater spotlight on it and Rogue had become a household name. That had been the positive side of the sliding scale. The negative had been with the news last year that the mother Gavin had so often insinuated was dead was in fact alive and had simply abandoned her family. This had brought down a media firestorm on the band as their lyrics and interviews were picked apart to find the multitude of deceits (as it was called) Gavin had propagated. Despite the frenzy—or more likely because of it—their album sales increased exponentially. The first outcry of accusing Gavin of betraying his fans soon turned into sympathy for what he had endured as a boy.

  Then his depression and drug use became something the tabloids feasted on once more. Conor had been relieved that it had happened at a time when they were between albums so it couldn’t be related to their music. He always had an eye on their legacy and wanted to ensure that the music was what remained when all was said and done.

  Thus, it was with both interest and routine that he reviewed the daily aggregate of media mentions on the band in these emails.

  Today’s included a few links to blurbs detailing the tour schedule that was just released. Then there were a half dozen stories that made his stomach drop. They were all tabloid variations chronicling the night he had spent with Colette. The ambient noise around him of people in conversation or tapping on laptops, the foamer of the espresso machine, and the whirl of beans grinding, faded away.

  Photos of the two of them walking down the streets of New York City, his arm around her neck in that brief moment before he pulled away, along with several from them at the restaurant and even at the club showcased everything he should not have been doing given the reason behind his impromptu visit. As per usual, Colette looked outrageously hot. The bustier she wore had its intended effect of emphasizing her voluptuous figure. She had paired it with leather leggings that conformed to her body so tightly that they might as well have been painted on.

  And he knew that Felicity, as their media manager, was seeing the exact same email. But she’d likely be reacting to them in a personal, rather than professional, manner.

  “I’m fucked,” he said under his breath.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  Balancing two coffees in one hand, Conor let himself back into the apartment and heard the shower running.

  While he waited for Colette to join him, he put aside the drinks and pulled an acoustic guitar out of the hall closet and sat on the couch.

  He was lost in the music when she came out and sat in the chair opposite him. Instead of a classical piece, he was working on an idea for something new, switching the chords around to find the balance that best pleased his ear.

  When he looked up, Colette had her eyes on the phone in her hand as she texted. Her hair fell wet down her back, dampening the oversized tee-shirt she wore with thin sweat pants.

  "Morning," he said.

  After a moment, she turned the phone screen side down and looked at him with a smile.

  "Good morning to you. Thanks for the coffee." She took a cup and curled her legs under herself as she sat back.

  “Sure.”

  “Did you see the photos?”

  “Photos?”

  “Of us. From last night,” she said with a smile. “I guess the paparazzi was with us all night. The pictures are on TMZ.”

  Conor thought for a moment. He knew that Colette’s apartment was not a usual stalking ground for photographers. The restaurant where they had dinner wasn’t particularly trendy. And the burlesque club was no more than a hole in the wall. How had paparazzi latched on to them? And why had they done so in such a covert manner when they were usually in their faces?

  “Ugh, look at this one,” she said and held up her phone. It was a photo of them in the club. Conor was texting while Colette was engaged in unguarded laughter. She was still beautiful, but she always doubted herself in candid moments. “I told them—” She stopped herself from saying anything more and instead pretended to focus on her phone again.

  Conor looked at her, understanding now. She had arranged for the photographer last night before they went out. Probably when she had insisted on changing clothes. There had been no draw for paparazzi when it was just Colette and her friends going out. But when she was able to pitch that Conor was in town with her, she had scored. She must have made some sort of deal to keep the photographer at a distance, knowing how much Conor disliked the attention. He was less surprised at this realization and more concerned over how many other times she had done this.

  "So," he said and gently placed the guitar on the couch next to him. He had to start this conversation somewhere.

  "I was thinking we should really get my parents a suite at The Ritz for their whole stay, rather than having them here first and then there. Don't you agree?"

  "Listen, I need to tell you something.”

  “I know, we’ve got so much to go over for the wedding.”

  “No, honey, listen. I, em, I made a mistake."

  She narrowed her eyes at him. "Don't you dare tell me you slept with Sophie again."

  "No, that's not it. Jesus, there's nothing there with Sophie."

  "Oh," she said and relaxed.

  He took a breath, trying to regroup. "My mistake was not warning you I was coming. It was—"

  "I actually liked the surprise."

  "Colette, let me get through this."

  "Well don't be so snippy about it. I was being sweet to you."

  "I know and it only makes this harder."

  "What harder?"

  He could see now that her defenses were finally raised for the right reason.

  "I'm sorry. I really am. But we can’t get married."

  Only half of a beat passed before she said, "You mean until after the tour? You want to postpone again?"

  Watching her hopeful eyes, he almost wanted to give in to turning this into a delay rather than an outright cancellation. But he couldn't do that.

  "No.”

  “Because of the photos?” she asked quickly. “I’ve never done that before and I won’t do it again, okay?”

  “No, it’s not because of that.”

  “It’s free publicity. I don’t understand why you have such a problem with free publicity.”

  “I don’t need free fucking publicity,” he snapped and she went quiet. “It is not a media event for us to walk down the fucking street. Don’t you get that?”

  “You don’t know how much it might help with the album sales.”

  He sighed. They were way off track now. “Yes, I’m sure you were doing it all for Rogue’s benefit.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Okay, it was for everyone’s benefit. What is so wrong with that?”

  “Let’s stop this. I don’t want to talk about paparazz
i crap. That’s not why I can’t marry you.”

  That brought her back to the point and she shook her head slightly in disbelief.

  “I . . . I haven’t been fair to you with all this. I’ve been trying to force something, force us to be something we’re not."

  "What is this?" She unfurled her legs and stood up as her confusion turned to anger. "What kind of cowardly, selfish move are you trying to make?"

  He stood up with her. "The thing is, you're an amazing woman and we've had good times but we aren’t fit to marry."

  "Because of Sophie?"

  "No. I'm telling you she has nothing to do with this."

  "I don't understand. The last time you came here without notice was to beg me to be with you again. You asked me to marry you.”

  “I only asked because you said that’s what you needed. I didn’t—”

  She raised her hand and though he saw it coming, he didn’t try to stop her from slapping him. He had never been properly slapped and the stinging did more to wake him up than the coffee had.

  But she didn’t stop at the one hit. She struck at his body with her fists and kicks as she cursed him.

  “And what was last night? Why did you sleep in my bed if this is why you came here?”

  “This isn’t easy for me, Colette.” He blocked and dodged her attempts to hit him.

  “Oh, poor you,” she said and kept trying to land blows.

  “Stop now,” he said.

  He had to take control since she refused to calm down. It didn’t take much effort to overpower her. He grabbed her shoulders and turned her so her back was to him, holding her still with his arm around her chest, pinning her arms to her sides.

  “You’re right to be angry as hell,” he said softly into her ear. “I’m sorry I did this to you. It was never my intention. I really thought I could give you what you wanted. I thought I could love you like you deserve.”

  He felt her go slack and he let her go.