“That’s not going to be easy, Asher. She’s already pushing hard for the money and primary custody.”
“I don’t give a fuck about money. I want my kid.”
“Her lawyer said she’d be more amenable if she had a percentage of future earnings. She wants a full twenty percent.”
“She’s crazy. There are four of us in the band. That’d leave me with five percent on all the work I do after she’s out of my life.” A growl rose in my throat. “I’m not her indentured servant. That’s after the house and all the cash we’ve managed to put away, right?”
“That’s her current demand, but each time it’s for more.”
“She’s said she’s willing to ditch Mason for the money and future earnings. Can we use that?”
“She’s his primary caregiver, always has been. You know judges like continuity. We’d have much better leverage if we could show she was an unfit mother. Something concrete, not your kid’s comments, though those will help. You have a nanny. Get her to document neglect.”
I closed my eyes, warring with myself. “Kinda hard if the nanny’s here, taking care of him.”
“Yeah, and Jessica will claim she needs the money to keep the nanny. That happens a lot. You’re going to have to do more, Asher. Talk to your nanny. Leaving the kid home alone—get someone to take pictures or something. We have to build the case.”
“Mason might love Jessica, but he’s suffering,” I said. “That has to stop. You said we had a better case because she’s the one who filed, both for the separation and the divorce.”
“True, but your past doesn’t endear you to a judge.”
“The partying? I haven’t done that in years. I was never busted. I don’t have a record.”
“I’m talking about that huge spread with that rock magazine fifteen years ago to showcase your rowdy lifestyle, which Jessica’s lawyers have already mentioned. You’re smoking pot in the picture, Asher. Hell, half your songs are about pills and easy sex.”
I closed my eyes, tilting my head back.
“Once again, that was before I was a parent. There isn’t any recent story or magazine spread to add. I have a stage persona, one I cultivated in my early twenties. That’s not me.”
“I’m not the judge, Asher. I’m just telling you what he’s going to be thinking.”
“What about Jessica’s affairs? Use them. I pay you a lot of money. I want my son. Figure this out.”
Mason came out, carrying a bag of Oreos. Those were Jessica’s favorite. I smiled at him, knowing we were both going to catch shit when she realized he’d raided her stash. I snagged two cookies. They tasted like sawdust, but I ate them anyway.
I opened the web browser on my phone, intent to do some more cyber stalking. Happiness rocked through my chest when a tiny headshot blinked up in my message app. Dahlia had answered me. I could almost imagine the hesitancy in her eyes as she wrote her reply.
“I’m gonna put on my suit!” Mason said. His mouth was coated in the chocolate powder.
“Be right in, buddy,” I said, dialing the number I’d finagled out of Paul Loomis.
I headed inside, my heart lighter and a smile splitting my face.
13
Dahlia
“What?” Thank goodness I was shocked into breathlessness because otherwise I would have screamed.
The waitress brought our food. She set it on the table and glanced back and forth between my flushed, gawking face and Abbi’s smug one.
“You ladies doing all right here?”
Abbi waved her away as she picked up her fork. “My mom’s just surprised at how much other people like her. It’ll be fine.”
“Promise?” the waitress asked, twisting her fingers into the hem of her top. “We had a guy have a heart attack in here last week.”
I turned to the girl. “I’m fine.”
My phone started ringing again.
“Mom, you have to answer this time.”
I peered at Abbi before picking up the phone with a shaky hand. “Hello?”
“Dahlia. I’ve been worrying about you.”
“You don’t have to.”
“But I do. I thought either our walk meant more to me than to you, or Simon talked you out of continued contact with me. I’m glad I was wrong. I hope on both counts.”
“Asher, I—”
“What I said in the elevator? I know the timing is terrible. I know you’re nervous. But, dammit, Dahlia. This may be my one chance to get this right.”
“This?”
“Don’t give up on me. Please.”
His voice, so filled with emotion, slithered through my defenses. If I was smart, I would step back, push him away. I’d been with a musician before. I looked over into Abbi’s eyes, saw her hope reflecting my own. Stupid though it was.
“I’m here,” I whispered. My heart pounded slow and sure in my chest.
“I want you to meet Mason. I want to meet your daughter.”
“I have commitments, Asher. This project. I need it to work out. I know you want it nearly as badly as I do.” The uncertainty built, pushing away the pleasure and peace I’d just derived from his words.
“Just write. It’ll start out rusty and horrible, but push through. I have faith in you. Can I read it when it’s done? I know it’s going to be worth reading, Dahlia Moore Dorsey.”
That was the problem. I no longer had faith in myself. “Thank you for saying that.”
“I’ll always tell you the truth. That’s my promise.”
“Bye, Asher.”
“Think about what I said.”
I chewed my lip. “I haven’t stopped,” I blurted out.
“Dahlia? You’re not just an ideal.”
I hung up and set my phone on the table. I ignored the fact that my hand was still shaking.
“I’m no longer going to feel so lame when I’m dying for Luke to call me. Not if Asher’s doing it with you.”
“Abbi. Stop. Please.”
Abbi ate the rest of her salad and most of the onion rings while I nibbled and thought. I mourned the end of Asher’s marriage, just as I had my own.
“I’m going out with one of the guys from the dating site.” I snagged a cold onion ring and munched.
“What? Asher Smith likes you, and you think there’s some other guy that’s better for you?” She picked up her phone and texted someone, completely ignoring me as I ate another onion ring.
My phone rang, and I groaned when Ella’s number popped up on my screen. I glared at Abbi, who glared back, her chin tilted forward just like Doug used to do.
“Don’t you dare start with me, El.”
“Lovely greeting, darling. I can see where your daughter gets her charming personality. I want you to post a pic of your new haircut, love. Abbi says it’s gorgeous.”
“Abbi already took pictures and posted them to her page.”
“But I want to ooh and ah on your page. Do it now. We’ll talk about how you’re trying to sabotage your life later.”
I scowled at my phone. After uploading the new picture, I pulled out my credit card and tossed it on the check tray. “We’re going home. I’m so done with your shenanigans.”
Abbi smirked. “That’s an old lady word.”
My phone chirped. I flipped it over, and there, on the screen, was a text from Asher. You look beautiful. I smiled, my heart warming more than my cheeks.
Abbi’d been playing with her phone, but she grabbed mine from my hand. She let out a little squeal and fanned herself. “I’m so excited he’s texting you, I’m not even going to make fun of you for saying ‘shenanigans.’”
My cheeks flamed again. So that was Ella’s game. I was bad at this dating thing.
My experience was limited to Doug and Patrick Johnson, who’d, in the seventh grade, wanted to shove his tongue down my throat. Seriously the worst kiss ever, and he’d had the gall to tell people how hot I was for him. Ruined the rest of my junior-high experience, not that it’d been that stellar be
fore.
But this . . . Ella was taking advantage of my naïveté. While her intentions were sweet, I was annoyed I’d fallen for such an obvious ploy. Why did he have to like my haircut on Facebook? I’m sure Ella thought linking our names would scare off other potential date options. For me. Not him. As many men did, he’d remained a sex symbol even after getting married eight years ago. Some women took a wedding ring as a challenge, one they’d then flaunt in the wife’s face.
My phone rang, and I huffed out the breath I’d been holding. I rolled my eyes as I answered. “Hey, Briar.”
“Hey yourself, sis. How come I didn’t know you’d hooked up with your favorite lead singer? You know I was always jealous you hung out with him years ago.”
“He told her she was beautiful,” Abbi practically yelled into the phone.
I pulled back and frowned at her, but she was bouncing with excitement.
“I don’t hang out or hook up with anyone. And you were in junior high last time I met Asher. He was so wild.” In that sexy bad-boy way I’d written about. I frowned as I mentally flipped through the heroes in the Gardiner series. Any of them could be Asher’s twin. Why hadn’t I realized that before?
“He seems to have toned down the wild. More’s the pity. I bet he was all kinds of fun. You were mesmerized by him then.”
“Stop it. I’m already annoyed with my meddlesome daughter.”
“Aw, Abbi’s a cutie. She’s just worried about you, like the rest of us. So what’s the scoop with you and the Supernaturals lead man? He likes you under his own name. Tristan. I got a shiver saying it.”
I grunted because I knew what she meant. Thinking of him as Tristan, so distinct from his stage name, was intimate.
“So he’s, like, a real friend?”
I signed my name to the bill with a flourish and stood. I didn’t bother to look back. I knew Abbi would follow because she wanted to hear as much of the conversation with my sister as possible.
“I saw him a couple weeks ago at Simon’s show. He’s taller than I remembered. Broader. His forearms are amazing, probably from the guitar playing. He wore Converse.”
“Omigod. His forearms?” Briar’s giggled. “That’s what you want to bring up?”
“We talked. That’s all.”
“That’s not what Ella said.”
“We may work together on the sound track for the miniseries. He sent a friend request. That’s about it. So I told Abbi I’m going to start dating. I have a dating profile on Ranch Singles.”
“Erm . . .”
“Isn’t that what you’ve all wanted me to do? Meet a nice, solid guy?”
“Yes, but Ranch Singles? What the hell is that?”
“It’s the dating website for Idaho. I’m thinking about only dating guys my age or younger. You know, in case I get attached. Men die so much younger than women, on average. That’s what you told me after your last symposium.”
Briar was quiet for a long time. “I have no idea who you are.” She hung up on a laugh.
Sad thing was I didn’t know either.
Abbi helped me narrow my choices to five guys from the dating site she’d chosen once she realized I was serious. It wasn’t actually called Ranch Singles, a name I’d made up to annoy Briar. Abbi pouted the whole time, making the process even more harrowing than I’d anticipated. Like I was begging for a prom date. I could almost hear the popular cheerleader girls at every high school in the country laughing at me.
“You want me to date Asher Smith so you can go to free rock shows. It’s not as glamorous as it seems.”
Abbi’s brow furled. “I thought he made you happy.”
Shame burned up my chest, flushing my neck and cheeks. “I’m sorry, Abbi.”
“Write your own date request.” Abbi stormed out of the room. I sucked my lip between my teeth. She was so angry, she hadn’t even stopped to collect her bags of new clothes.
I opened my e-mail, which I’d been avoiding since I posted that picture to my Facebook page earlier today. As expected, I had a flood of e-mails, nearly all of them asking how long I’d known Asher Smith and when I was going to do my supposed friends the favor of introducing them to Asher. All he’d done was like my picture; he hadn’t even written anything.
I made a new file titled Not Friends and crammed all the e-mails into it.
A new message from Briar caught my eye. She rarely e-mailed me, preferring the faster method of text or phone calls.
Hey, sis. Since our conversation earlier, I’ve gotten no less than 25 e-mails asking me when you hooked up with Asher Smith. There’ve been rumors of trouble in his paradise for years, but I just confirmed that his wife filed for legal separation months ago—the divorce is proceeding and was in the entertainment news in the Seattle paper a few days ago. Wasn’t sure if you knew.
Call me if you need to talk—completely off record. But you should already know I would never sell you out. Hugs.”
I called her. “Thank you for realizing I would never get involved with another musician.”
“I don’t think I said that,” she said, amusement lacing her voice. “Doug played guitar in a glorified garage band, but Asher Smith is a freaking rock star. Who doesn’t need to live at least one lurid fantasy in her life? Especially if you write romance.”
“I don’t do lurid. Not in real life, anyway.”
“Maybe you should.”
“Not you, too, Briar. Abbi’s angry with me because I don’t want to pursue something with Asher.”
The timing of his return to my life was so wrong. He was in the process of dissolving his marriage, and I . . . I tugged at the ends of my hair. He would hurt me like Doug had.
“Look, for what it’s worth, Jessica Smith’s up here in the San Juan Islands with another man right now. The two of them have been seen together off and on for a couple of years.”
“Years?” I dropped my head into my palm. “Are you sure?”
“Yep. I could forward you the pictures one of our people took yesterday. Others are stored at the paper’s servers from their previous visits, but I could pull them out, if you need them.”
“Why would I need them? Why didn’t you print them?”
Briar was the editor-in-chief, the youngest for the San Juan Tribune, and one of the younger women newspaper chiefs in the country.
“Nothing super juicy, or I’d never be able to hold them back. I don’t know how to get in touch with Asher Smith directly but it seems like something he should know about.”
My chest tightened, my lungs compressed. “Why?”
“She brought her son up here,” Briar said. “Those pics bothered me, but I’m not running the freaking Tattler.”
I did not want to know. “What did she do to Mason?”
“It’s what she didn’t do. She left him alone at a cabin while she was off with her boyfriend. Who, by the way, does not compare to Asher.”
“Focus, Bri. The pictures.”
“Right. The time-lapse says a couple hours.”
“She left him alone?” Censure filled my voice, and the pressure in my chest increased. I rubbed, trying to ease the building pain. “I don’t think Asher knows Jessica’s been cheating that long.”
“My guess is no if the divorce is just now coming about,” Briar said. “I’ll forward the pics to you if you think they’d help.”
“Do. Asher wants custody of Mason.”
“So you two are friends?”
“I don’t know him that well,” I said. “I should go.” I held the phone away, hoping Briar couldn’t hear my choppy breathing.
“Stop hedging. What’s your problem? Why don’t you just go for it?”
I squeezed my eyes closed. “He’s a musician, Briar.”
“So?”
“Like Doug,” I whispered. “You said it. Asher’s more famous. More messed up. And I need to go.”
“No. Tell me why you’d pass on the one man we know you want.”
“I don’t want to talk about Ash
er,” I said.
“You’d rather talk about Doug?”
“He lied to me.”
“Doug?” Briar asked.
Yes. My husband. That grievous place in me cracked open all the way. My breathing hitched again as I tried to force it down.
“You can’t still miss him.” Exasperation laced her words. She knew. She was the only one who knew how bad it had gotten.
“He promised to love me,” I managed to gasp. “But he didn’t. He didn’t.” Not like I needed him to.
“You’re crying.”
I was. They were big, ugly tears. I slid from my chair to the floor. I heard Briar call my name, but I didn’t respond.
The sobs worsened, and I pulled my knees up to my chest. I didn’t believe that love trumped all. Doug took that belief from me, and I was as angry and hurt about that as I was about his death. Maybe more so.
I’d held the trust we’d had in each other early in our relationship close, nourished it for years. Until he shattered my every illusion.
“Some days, I hate him,” I whispered. The words fell between my tears, heavy with the truth I’d held inside for way too long.
“Ouch!” I groaned as a few eyelashes popped out of my lids. My lashes had fused together either during my hours-long cry-fest or in my sleep. I needed to get to the bathroom before I tried opening my eyes again. Problem was, I couldn’t see.
I flopped over and hit something hard, maybe a knee or elbow. I squealed, dragging the covers up to my chin.
“Need a washcloth to get the gunk out?” Abbi asked.
“Thank God, it’s you. Yes, please.”
“Who else would it be?” She opened a door. A moment later she laid a warm, wet cloth over my eyes. The heat and moisture soothed my swollen tissue.
“Did you sleep in here?” I asked.
“Yeah. I got you into bed.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
“Guess I still had some sadness to get out,” I mumbled, embarrassed.
“I hope so,” Abbi said, her voice sharp. “I never saw you cry after Dad died. You seemed so . . . unaffected by everything. Aunt Ella and Aunt Briar told me it was your coping mechanism, what you did when Grandpa died.”
Seattle Sound Series, The Collection: Books One to Five Page 10