Yes. She’d given him her number. But there was no way that he could call her. It was corny and clichéd, but she deserved everything he couldn’t give her. She deserved a man she could create a home with. Not one who freaked out when one of his roommates went out of town. She deserved a man to have children with, and there was absolutely no way in hell that he was going to procreate given his genetics. She deserved a man to have normal conversations with, like “What’s for dinner?” and “What’s on TV tonight?” All he could give her was an unpredictable night’s sleep as the nightmares he’d had since a child continued to terrorize his adulthood.
He marched up the empty street to his home, desperate to outpace the cold and the idea that he shouldn’t call. Not seeing her, not being with her hurt worse than the time his father had kicked him so hard he was sure he’d broken his arm. It wasn’t until he was thirteen, when he’d fallen out of the large apple tree in the back garden of the group home, that an X-ray had confirmed it. There was evidence of an old fracture, as well as the new one that had left him in a cast for five weeks.
Which was just the fucking reminder he needed as to why they shouldn’t be together. But, shit, no matter how noble he wanted to be, he couldn’t help but think they needed each other, were good for each other.
He could provide for her. He had money—although he had no idea how much. Ryan, their new manager, occasionally mentioned how much was being deposited, and he had to believe that it had all mounted up by now. Fuck, the rest of the band owned multimillion-dollar property in their own names, so he certainly must not be broke.
And perhaps he could love her. In his own way. Like taking out the garbage and shit so she never had to deal with anything crappy in her life. And he could play music for her to dance to, assuming she wanted that. Knowing his stupid luck, this was simply the start of an affair, something torrid and passionate that would leave them breathless but would fizzle out over time, leaving them both free to go their separate ways.
Which would really suck.
He reached home and unlocked the door, his head buzzing with thoughts. What he needed to do was go play some music for a while down in the recording studio. See if he couldn’t channel his uncertainty, frustration, and horniness into something productive and useful for the next album.
As he stepped inside, he realized he was still wearing her scarf. He pulled it to his nose, and the smell of flowers filled his nostrils.
God, she had to be his. He needed to figure the fuck out how to make that happen. He wasn’t prepared to have an affair with her. That couldn’t be it. And he couldn’t hand her scarf back and then walk away.
He took off his coat and wandered down to the recording studio, still wearing the scarf. Dred’s rack of guitars was sitting there waiting for him to use. Here he was, worrying about whether he could be in a relationship with someone, and yet he still couldn’t face the idea of owning anything for fear that somebody would take it away. He’d grown up knowing there was no point showing anybody that you cared for anything because it simply gave them power over you. But it was ridiculous that he couldn’t trust his brothers.
This was the first step. The one he had to take to be good enough for her.
If he was going to start living his own life and be worthy of someone like Lexi, he needed to get his shit together. He raced up to the kitchen where he’d left his laptop earlier that the day and pulled up his favorite guitar site. Without thinking too hard about it, he ordered tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of guitars he’d had his eye on, along with a new stand for ten guitars, and arranged for them all to be delivered the next day.
With the exception of a slight thud in his heartbeat, the world hadn’t stopped spinning on its axis. The guitars would come, he’d set them up in the morning, and for the first time in his life he’d play on a new guitar he actually owned. And somehow, for reasons he didn’t understand, he wanted to explain to Lexi that she’d caused the change. To share that he’d made progress because of her.
Phone.
The ink on his hand had started to smudge, so he quickly added her number to the contacts in his address book and ran up the stairs.
“Bro, I need a phone,” he said without knocking as he barged into Elliott’s room.
A woman screamed as she scrambled to cover herself with a bedsheet, and Elliott lifted his head from between her thighs. “What the fuck, man?”
“I need a phone,” he restated as the woman pulled the pillow over her face.
“I fucking heard. Take mine.” Elliott tipped his head toward the dresser.
He didn’t want some loaner phone number that he’d have to explain to Lexi. For the first time in his life, he regretted not having a phone of his own. “Don’t know how much fucking clearer I can make this. I. Need. A. Phone.”
Elliott shook his head. “And Tracey—”
“Stacey,” the girl corrected.
“Sorry.” Elliott grinned sheepishly in Jordan’s direction. “And Stacey needs an orgasm. Now fuck off and leave us alone.”
Jordan glared at the girl for a moment. “I need you to take me to that grocery store down on Queens Quay that’s open all hours. Now.”
“For fuck’s sake. Take a cab.”
“I need fucking help, man. Do I need to spell it out?”
The girl—Tracey . . . Stacey . . . whatever—threw back the sheet. “You know what? Forget it,” she said as she climbed out of the bed and shimmied her jeans up her thighs. “I have an early class.”
Jordan watched as she finished dressing because, hell, those were some perky tits, but the idea didn’t arouse him anywhere close to the same way that kissing Lexi on the porch had.
“This better be good, asshole, because my dick’s about to fucking break,” Elliott said, slipping on his own jeans after apologetically sending Stacey on her way with cash for a cab.
Lexi.
“It’s the best fucking reason in the world.”
* * *
“Who is this man with no hair on one side of his head who brings you home so late?”
Shit. She’d been so certain her father was in bed, happy that she wouldn’t have to deal with him for once. Illuminated by the warm orange glow of the streetlamp outside, her father sat in the chair closest to the window. There was no chance that he hadn’t seen her kiss Jordan. It would have been impossible for him to miss.
“Please, Dad. I really don’t want to talk about this tonight. Can we just leave it for once?” she asked as she unbundled her scarf and removed her coat before hanging them both on the peg by the front door.
“No. Not when you shame me by flaunting your sexual relationships on our porch,” he said angrily.
Lexi sighed. “Oh, for God’s sake, I kissed a guy. It was a long, long way from flaunting a sexual relationship.” Although after the kiss Jordan had just laid on her, she couldn’t wait to see how far a sexual relationship with him could go. Or at least that’s what she’d felt before she’d walked into the house. Everything that had seemed so natural and perfect was being turned into something seedy by her father. The buzz she had felt as she had bounced up the steps was leaking out as steadily as the drip from the kitchen faucet.
“I know what I see. You are too distracted. This is why your dancing is suffering. I think it’s time for you to consider your next move. You have done all you can here. Now we must prepare you for the real world stage before you become too old.” Her father leaned forward, and she could see the squat glass that he was holding. Great. Just what she didn’t need tonight. Drunk dad.
Lexi tried to think through the best way to handle him. Simply walking past him to her room and locking the door behind her would not work. It never did. Taking offense at the rebuff, her father would stand and hammer on the door, shouting until she opened it again.
“This conversation is getting very old. I’m happy where I am. I’m a principal dancer with an internationally renowned company. It has one of the greatest artistic directors and a rep
ertoire back catalog that is extensive and diverse. Honestly, I don’t feel the need to prove that I can get into the New York City Ballet, or fly halfway around the world to dance in Paris or England. I’m happy here.”
Her father took another slug of whatever it was he was drinking.
“So your mother died for this? She died so that you could be a mediocre dancer, in a mediocre company?” he snarled.
She felt sick to her stomach. It was the one argument she struggled to fight back against because it was true, in a way, that her mom had technically died because of her.
“We both know I wasn’t even there when the accident happened,” she said, though she knew it wouldn’t make the smallest difference.
“She was on her way to collect you from dance class, was she not?” Her father stood and wobbled on his feet.
God, it hurt when he threw that at her. She felt like her insides were being sliced up. A van driver had jumped a red light and hit her mother’s car from the side, killing her instantly as she had been on her way to collect Lexi from dance class. Intellectually she knew that none of this was her fault, but there were times, usually compounded by her father’s drunken ramblings, when it was hard to remember, when all she could think about were what-ifs. What if she’d never enrolled in dance? What if she’d never signed up for the extra lessons? What if she’d been old enough to take the bus by herself, and what if it hadn’t been raining?
“You know what, Dad? I’m done. The reviews for The Nutcracker prove I’m not a mediocre dancer, and the only reason you think the National Ballet of Canada is a mediocre company is because they wouldn’t hire you when you first defected. You’ve held it against them ever since. You’re going to hate me for saying this, but I really think you should consider going to speak to Dr. Demidov. Because this”—she waved her hand between the two of them—“this isn’t healthy. You spending all day in this house, unless you’ve come down to the ballet to berate me, isn’t healthy. This can’t be the way you want to spend the rest of your life.”
“You have no idea how my life has been. When I—”
“Stop, Dad. I do. I’ve been here for the last twenty-six years. I’ve heard you tell stories to anybody who will listen about the time you spent with Mikhail, but the truth is you didn’t even dance at the same academies.” Anger started to rise, a festering, bubbling weight that started in her gut and made its way to her throat. “And I’ve seen videos of you dancing. You were really, really good. But Mikhail was something else. You were still young. You could have done what Mikhail did. You could have gone and danced for a lesser ballet company, but your pride stopped you. And the fact that you had a petty juvenile criminal record in Russia stopped you from moving to America. You blame irrational immigration laws, but it is your fault you can’t pass them. And then, finally, the fall stopped you,” she shouted. “I have watched you sit and fester over those decisions my entire life. It’s time you found a way out of this pattern, Dad, and I think you’re going to need help doing it.”
She hurried to her apartment and locked the door behind her. He could hammer all he wanted, but she wasn’t going to speak to him again that evening.
Lexi put her hair up into a tight bun on the top of her head because she couldn’t be bothered drying it and got into the small shower. There were days she envied her father the luxury of the large bathtub upstairs, but this would do. The hot water soothed her, as did the lavender-scented body cream she applied once she’d dried off, looking forward to escaping into the comfort of her bed and dreams about Jordan.
After pulling on her comfiest pair of pajamas, she padded back into the kitchen and made a cup of chamomile tea in her favorite mug. Lexi wandered over to her desk and flipped open her laptop. It was a mistake to use one of her gadgets so close to bedtime, but she wanted to see Jordan’s face again. She typed Preload Jordan into her browser, and thousands of images returned. He’d once had shorter hair, which looked strange to her. In another photo, he had fewer tattoos. Finally, she found one in which he looked exactly as he had that evening. Looking around her apartment, she realized the low ceiling would probably keep him from being able to stand up straight. A problem she’d address another day—if she were ever lucky enough to have to.
It was relatively easy to resist the urge to go to news stories or trawl the web for information about him. But when she had told him at the restaurant that she would rather learn about him from the source, she’d meant it.
She yawned and stretched her arms above her head. Bed was calling, and she had a busy day tomorrow. She closed her laptop, but not before she waved good-bye to Jordan’s face. It was such a stupid high school move that she almost couldn’t believe she’d done it.
Looking forward to a good night’s sleep, she set her alarm, placed the phone on her bedside table, and turned off her lamp. With her head against her soft pillows and her eyes closed, it was easier to remember the moment Jordan had laid his lips upon hers. Snug under her thick comforter, she could recreate the feeling of his arms around her.
Her phone vibrated against the tabletop. A message. Firmly on the cusp of sleep, Lexi did her best to ignore it. But then it vibrated again. It could be any number of people, but she couldn’t escape the surge of excitement she felt at the thought that it could be Jordan.
Convincing herself it was best to ignore it, she buried her head further into the covers. Until it vibrated again.
Lifting her arm out of her cocoon, Lexi felt her way over to the bedside table and patted around until she found her phone.
Three messages.
So I got a phone.
If you reply, it will come back to me.
Fuck. That was kind of obvious. Good night, Lex.
She chuckled. There was something endearingly awkward about the way Jordan acted around her. She couldn’t decide whether it was the effect she was having on him or this was just the way he was, but either way, she liked it. Quickly she responded.
LOL—you are funny. Thanks again for tonight. I had a wonderful time.
Three little dots bounced in the bottom of the screen.
What are you doing?
His text messages were like his conversation. Short, sweet, and to the point.
I’m in bed.
Don’t say things like that to me, Lex.
You asked :-)
I wasn’t expecting you to respond.
That’s what usually happens when you send someone a text.
So I’m meant to respond immediately every time you send a text?
Only if you want to :-)
Don’t think that’s going to be a problem, Angel.
He’d called her Angel, and she didn’t know quite what to say to that. She flopped back against the pillows and squealed out loud, not really caring that her behavior had deteriorated to that of a fifteen-year-old adolescent. Her phone vibrated in her hand.
Are your doors locked properly?
It was such an odd question. Yes.
Windows?
Yes, why?
Just wanted to know you were safe. Good night, Lex.
Good night, Jordan x
CHAPTER FOUR
“What if we changed the timing?” Lennon asked from behind his drum kit in the basement recording studio. “I mean, I kinda like it as it is, but I just think it might work better if we speed it up a touch.”
Jordan ran his fingers along his new Ibanez five-string, one of the stack of guitars that had arrived just before they’d left on a mini-tour of the upper West Coast of the United States and Canada—Seattle, Vancouver, Calgary. They’d played six shows in nine days. Smaller venues where they’d tried out new stuff. Their old manager had warned them about straying too far away from their heavy-metal roots, but some of the new material had ventured to the cusp of hard rock, and they were eager to know how fans would react.
If any of his brothers had an opinion about his new guitars, they’d never said anything to his face.
Now, after a night in his o
wn bed and a morning of hard-core songwriting and rehashing everything they’d learned about the new tracks they’d tested while out on the road, they were getting close to wrapping up.
“I’m game,” Jordan said. “Going a little faster is easy on my end. But Nikan has a shitload of notes in the middle that may need scaling back so he doesn’t end up sounding too much like Herman Li.”
“I’m thinking no,” Dred said. “I think we could play faster, but I think we want to mix up the pace of this album. And it’s a habit of ours to keep jacking the speed. But can we try it again once I’ve gotten Pixie and Petal from the airport?”
Pixie had taken Petal with her back to Miami while Dred had toured. It was the longest amount of time Dred had ever spent away from his daughter, and it had pretty much killed him. But it had hurt Jordan, too. He considered Pixie and Petal part of his family, too, except that unlike the band, who knew and understood Jordan’s need to know where they were, especially at night, Pixie didn’t. He found it almost impossible to sleep properly on the tour, not knowing where the two of them were, and he hadn’t wanted to be the weirdo texting Pixie every five minutes to check in. Truth be told, he couldn’t wait to see them either.
“Yeah, don’t sweat it,” Elliott said. “Thanks to Ryan, we have tons of time to record this album. This is the fun part where we just try to figure out what it’s going to sound like.”
Jordan placed his guitar into the rack. For years he’d played Fender because that was who sponsored Dred, and Dred had always bought guitars for him to borrow. But the Ibanez was fun to play. So was the Ernie Ball StingRay bass from 1977, and the Gibson ES-Les Paul. In fact, Jordan couldn’t recall a time he’d enjoyed playing the guitar more.
He looked down at the phone lying faceup on the table next to him. The curious looks the guys were giving him told him they knew he was up to something, but none of them had asked. Not even Elliott, who’d let a girl walk out of his bedroom to go with him to buy it. He felt a little like a child who’d fallen down, whose parents—the rest of the band—were all trying not to make a big deal about it because they knew it would make him feel worse.
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