I missed a step, and Clay cupped my elbow. His touch was light, careful, my undoing. My chin trembled and I swallowed hard, then again, trying to force the tears down.
For the first time in weeks, I wanted someone other than my family to touch me. He led me to a couch where a bunch of books was strewn about. He shoved a couple to the side and indicated I should sit. I slid my messenger bag off my shoulder and collapsed on the cushion, my head falling into my hands.
“I’m sorry,” I gasped, embarrassment adding to my breathlessness. “I don’t know why I’m this much of a mess.”
“I’d cry if Neal touched me,” Clay said. “And you’re not doing that so it’s a win.”
He sat next to me, close enough for our thighs to touch. His nearness was comforting. In fact, I wanted to lean against him, have him put his arm around me, burrow into his warmth and smell.
That was an old Abbi reaction. I’d lost so much of me over these past few months. I wasn’t sure I liked what was left.
His hand touched the back of my head, a subtle caress of my hair. I sighed and gave into the urge, letting my head fall against his shoulder. He stiffened, just for a moment, and I started to pull back. But he wrapped his arm around me, so I stayed tucked against him, soaking up his warmth, reveling in the feel of his shoulder under my head. A small shudder slid through me.
“I’ll go back up there and punch Neal if it would make you feel better.”
His voice was deep, sexy. I liked it almost as much as his eyes. I shook my head as I scrubbed my hand over my cold cheeks, wiping away the last remnants of this latest humiliation.
“No, don’t do that. I don’t want you to get in trouble. Especially because of me.”
“Maybe it’s for me. Neal’s a douche.”
I sat up and he let his hand drop from my arm.
“Thank you. For saving me. And for the, erm, hug.”
Awkward. Why had I brought up our touching? Now he’d think I wanted to go further. Or that I was the tease Neal proclaimed me to be.
He smiled, making his eyes crinkle a little. Wow. That did things to my insides—happy things. I’d almost forgotten what those were. Didn’t matter, though. There was no way I was acting on any of those feelings. I gripped my bag, legs tensing under me as I prepared to bolt.
“You’re welcome. I’m Clay by the way.”
“Abbi.” I cleared my throat. “So, um, yeah, thanks. I should go. I’m interrupting your study time.”
He touched my hand in a quick gesture. “Don’t. Go, I mean. I’ve seen you around campus. You’re in one of my brother’s classes. He asked me to keep an eye on you.”
My muscles stiffened further. “Oh?” I tried to keep my voice neutral, but I failed. I was close to tears again but for a totally different reason. I didn’t want him to be like the other guys I’d met in the past few months.
“Not like that. He and I know what it’s like to be noticed. He said you’re always alone. Not smart for a woman.”
He left off the like you. But we both knew it should be there. Like I hadn’t heard that and worse.
“Nice meeting you, Clay. See you around.”
I started to push off the couch, pausing only when Clay touched my hand again. I looked at his hand engulfing mine. Raising my eyes slowly, I met his gaze. The interest was there—frank and sexual. I hated that look. So much. Like every male had a right to peel off my clothes because someone took pictures of me without my permission.
I blew out a breath and stood. “Look, don’t take this the wrong way. You were super nice to save me, and I really, really appreciate it. But I don’t want to flirt or go out or whatever.”
“Okay.”
He drew the word out, studying me. Well, I wasn’t that easy to gauge, to pigeonhole.
“We’ll study.”
“Clay, you seem like a really nice guy.”
“Because I am.”
“But I had a terrible experience last year, and I don’t want to get involved with anyone. I’m here to get my degree and get out.”
My hands shook but the worst part was the lightheadedness, like I’d disconnected from reality. Those pictures. Bile rose, thick, into the back of my throat as I thought of Clay clicking on the images, sliding from one to the next. Seeing my flesh, thinking I wanted those men touching me.
I tried to steady my breath so I could leave. I wouldn’t be able to walk if I didn’t get my act together.
“Sit down, Abbi. You’re all pale and wobbly.”
For some reason, I sat, then leaned back into the couch, closing my eyes. I was tired. Sleep didn’t come easily like it used to, back before my mom and Asher got serious.
“What really happened to you?”
The way he asked, I wanted to tell him. It was like he’d known me before, like he looked deep enough into me now to see the bits of me that were left.
How could he? We’d only just met, and I was already in his debt for saving me from the frat boys upstairs.
As much as I didn’t want to blow apart this fragile new relationship, I’d learned that honesty wasn’t just the best policy, it was the only policy I could live with. So I took a deep breath and turned my head, meeting his eyes.
“My stepdad is Asher Smith, lead singer for the Supernaturals. People get a little jealous of me because of that.”
“Knew that. About who you were, I mean.”
My mouth dropped open in shock. “And you want . . . what? Tickets to their next show?”
Clay smiled, his eyes dancing. “While that would be amazing, no. I told you, my brother asked me to keep an eye on you. He was worried about you being alone.”
I blinked at him, unsure how to proceed. His hand hovered at the back of my head. When he took in my tensed features, he let it drop back with just a flash of disappointment.
“My dad’s in a band, too,” he said. Color tinted his cheeks.
Oh, wow.
“Really? Anyone I’d know? Does it bother you? The constant scrutiny?” I leaned forward. Now that I knew a little more about him, I craved answers.
“Pete Rippey.”
I sat back, shocked. He did get it.
“Your dad’s an awesome musician. Asher speaks highly of him.”
Clay shrugged. “I like to think so. He can’t improvise worth crap, though. Even after all these years.”
That made me giggle. Any musician with that kind of experience could play the hell out of any piece of music, and we both knew it. Clay grinned back.
“You have a pretty laugh. Your whole face brightens. Bet you don’t do it enough.”
“Not so much now, no. I used to be a lot more open. I liked to have fun. But—” I shrugged, tired of being alone. Clay would understand this. “Some of Asher’s limelight spilled onto me, especially after he asked my mom to marry him. I wasn’t ready to handle the pressure.”
I wasn’t ready to handle the Steves of the world. Wasn’t aware of the ways people could—and would—take advantage of me like that.
Clay absorbed my answer, and I knew he was thinking about the pictures. No, I wanted to tell him. I never did anything that crazy. Not on purpose, anyway. But I couldn’t. Because the pictures showed I had.
“So you resent him for that?”
“No! I could never resent Asher. He’s great. I mean, really great. I’d missed having a father around.” I blew out a breath. “My dad died when I was twelve.”
“What did he do?”
“He was a musician, too.”
“Oh? Someone I’d know?”
I shrugged. “Doubt it. That’s why my dad was bitter. He craved fame, but he couldn’t play anymore by the time I was nine. He hated my mom’s success—she’s a writer. Anyway, after all that, having Asher in my life . . . it’s the best. He always makes time for me, even when I know he’s super busy. Which is pretty much always since their last two albums hit so big.”
“My dad’s like that, too.”
Clay flashed a smile but it was str
ained. What had I said?
“My mom would kick his ass if he put his music first.”
His brows furled, forming a thin line above his nose. He cleared his throat, eyes refocusing on me. I studied him for a moment. He had his own scars. A kid couldn’t grow up with such a famous parent without a few.
“I really wouldn’t know. My dad toured with his local band when I was young. He had to give up music, and he was pretty angry. He jumped out of a plane when I was twelve. It took both my mom and me a long time to forgive him for that.”
Horror gushed through my chest as I realized what I’d said. My mom was going to be upset to see that story run again. I glanced down at my hands, now bunched tightly in my lap.
He reached up, brushing my hair from my cheek. “Don’t worry, Abbi. I won’t share your secrets with the world. Promise. It’s part of the famous-kid code.”
I laughed again, but it wasn’t the easy one that used to come so naturally. I shook my head, needing to break the seriousness of the moment.
“I don’t even know you, Clay.”
I searched his face again, a strange feeling blooming deep in my chest. One I hadn’t felt in a long time.
Hope.
5
Clay
Her eyes were so blue. I’d never seen that shade of blue before—almost purple. They were shuttered, though.
One of the reasons the media started following Abbi Dorsey was because of her looks. Not many young women had the striking features she had. I studied her for a moment. No, striking was the wrong word. I’d read a series of works two years ago on beauty for a philosophy class I’d had to take. One of the authors suggested symmetry was necessary for true beauty.
Abbi’s face was symmetrical, but it was also dramatic. Her nose was thin and well-proportioned between her sweeping cheekbones. Her browbone was smooth and rounded into her arched eyebrows. Her eyes were fringed in deep-brown lashes that darkened toward the long tips. But it was her mouth that I kept coming back to: her lower lip was plump, but the upper one was downright lush. I wanted to run my tongue over the seam, feel that first hot puff of breath as she opened for me.
People would always want to know more about such a beautiful face, especially once people found out she was related to one of the most famous musicians of our age. While the Supernaturals had been indie royalty for years, their last two albums—released just after Abbi had become part of Asher’s sphere—catapulted the band into the stratosphere of elite international superstardom. Abbi had been pulled along for the ride, an interesting side note to her famous stepdad’s new romance.
The first article I read about her, just after she’d moved to Seattle, talked about her volunteer work for a local animal shelter and how the board wanted her to do a series of ad campaigns to increase exposure for their nonprofit. Actually, the piece had been one of the board members whining that she wouldn't give more time and her face to the campaign.
She’d turned down the offer and what I had to guess were others since. There had to be. Abbi was more beautiful now, a year and a half after she was first photographed with Asher and her mother as a fresh-faced seventeen-year-old.
And thanks, in part, to that high level of scrutiny, she doled out tiny pieces of herself, each one only slightly greater than the last. The build was infinitesimal. Anything more would leave her open to attack.
The way she hesitated before she spoke told me someone had hurt her, deeply.
Not just her father, though his death was probably the start of her emotional upheaval. I got that, all of it. Being Pete Rippey’s kid wasn’t easy—journalists believed they had the right to take pictures and write stories about everything from the last book I purchased to the girl I took out to dinner.
All the scrutiny on my life meant I didn’t get to do casual dating. Guarding my emotions came naturally now, something Abbi was still learning after just a couple of years in the limelight.
I cleared my throat, needing to focus on something besides her too-sad eyes. The world believed she was a party girl, but I’d gone back to study the pictures. Seen the glassy tint in her eyes. Like she was drunk. Or worse, drugged. Happened way more often than the college administrators thought, way more often than I wanted to think about.
And Abbi . . . she was one of those women men wanted to brag about bagging. Being in those pictures was more about the guys than her, really, even though she’d been the one to suffer from them.
Which left me caught between wanting to run away as far and fast as I could from this lovely young woman, and sticking close to her side so no one hurt her again, ever. If only she weren’t famous . . .
If she weren’t, she wouldn’t be scarred. That was certain.
She’d inched away from me again, clutching her messenger bag. Right. While I was thinking, I’d been staring, making her even more uncomfortable. “So. Studying. What did you come up here to do?”
“Biochem. I don’t really understand the molecular formulae.”
“My brother’s the science brain of the family. I’m just reviewing some finance.”
She blushed, her cheeks glowing a pretty shade of pink. “I’m still finishing my prereqs so I can get into veterinary school.”
Not what I’d expected her to say. “Northern U doesn’t have a pre-vet undergraduate degree. So why’d you transfer here?”
She slipped back into her shell, her eyes darkening and her cheekbones standing out more prominently. She was thinking about the pictures. I’d bet money on it.
The worst was the nearly nude one, where she was turned on her side, her face partially obscured by her hair surrounded by at least three men. That was the one every site and paper ran. But there were others of her barely dressed, unsteady, hair a tangled, matted mess, mascara dripping down her cheeks, walking out of a fraternity in the early hours of the morning, presumably the aftermath of that salacious pic.
No wonder concern poured in about the negative influence Asher had on his new stepdaughter. Anyone who knew anything about Abbi knew that wasn’t who she was. And if she’d never been that party-hard girl, the attack she’d suffered would be even more devastating.
“I wanted to be closer to my mom and Asher. And Mason. Asher’s son. He’s totally rocking the double-digits.”
She smiled, a fleeting but real one. So she loved her stepbrother. Good to know. She cleared her throat, her eyes drifting past mine.
“And my aunt got engaged. She asked me to help with the wedding plans.”
“Sounds cool. Are you in the wedding?” I asked, still trying to puzzle through the growing mystery that was Abigail Dorsey. No wonder my brother asked me to look out for her. I’d been pissed when he’d asked, but after what I’d seen today, maybe . . .
“Yep,” she smiled, eyes back to mine. “Mom, me and my other aunt. That’s it.”
“So when’s the wedding?”
“January first. New Year, new life.”
“So you needed to be close by to help out,” I said, but something didn’t feel right. On a hunch, I said, “Your aunt? Is she into music?”
Abbi wrinkled her nose. Dammit, I didn’t want to find that so cute.
“No. She’s going back to school to get a counseling degree to set up a program for cancer families. We have a set lunch date whenever she’s on campus. This semester it’s Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
The music scene, like any other, was a small group when you were enmeshed in it. They didn’t have the same last name, but I knew the story. “Your aunt’s marrying Hayden Crewe.”
She nodded, her lips turning down at the corners.
“You don’t like him?” I’d never met Hayden, but my dad said he was a good guy. Smart, stupid-talented on the piano. Difficult to get to know. Huh, that last part was kind of like Abbi.
“Hayden’s wonderful,” she enthused. “He taught me how to surf. That was so much fun.”
That effervescence fit her—the natural skin she should be wearing. Not the cautious, guarded woman w
ho I’d met first.
Abbi had had her share of disappointments, and I wanted to scoop her up, hold her tight against my chest until her pain passed. Which was stupid. Me even liking her was stupid. She was famous. No, infamous, notorious. Not the kind of press I wanted, mainly because I only wanted press about how awesome our music was.
“We’d hit the beach at sunrise just as the tide was turning,” she said, smiling at the memory.
Abbi in a wetsuit. Hell, that lit me up fast. I shifted, trying to get more comfortable.
“But?”
“When we were surfing, there were, like, ten photographers snapping pictures of me falling off the board. Hayden, my aunt Briar, even Mom and Asher, are so calm about all the interest; just go about their lives like it’s no big deal.”
I grabbed her hand, unsurprised to find it shaking. The intensity of my desire when I’d pictured her in a wet, tight outfit fizzled. Sort of.
We sat there, thigh to thigh, my hand on top of hers. She cleared her throat and extricated her hand.
“Is your major finance?”
“I’m also studying composition.”
She slid back behind that shell she’d built around herself. Dammit, I already knew I didn’t like that protective mechanism. It meant she had a reason to feel she needed it.
“English?” she asked, her voice hopeful.
“Music,” I said, bracing myself for her interest.
The word deflated her, and we sat there, me in shock as her face froze. Fear filled her eyes followed by a slick blankness that had to have been practiced.
“I need to go,” she said, picking up her bag.
I laid my hand on her thigh just above her knee. Her muscle clenched. Not an outright rejection but an instinctual need to run. I wasn’t going to hurt her—hell, I’d just saved her from Charles and Neal.
Her eyes fell to my hand and her muscles tightened further, bright red flashing high on her cheeks. Her breath shattered. Mine followed suit as the thought flashed, hard and hot, through my mind.
Seattle Sound Series, The Collection: Books One to Five Page 76