by Scott, S. L.
“How can you think I wouldn’t?”
When his head hits the back of the seat, he blows out a big breath. “I don’t know what to think when it comes to you anymore.”
I’m about to tell him I’m some of the girl he knew with a lot more of the woman I want to be after London, but I pause. He’s just not himself. Reaching over, I touch his arm. “Hey, what’s going on? You can talk to me.”
He rubs his eyes with one hand but doesn’t move the other that’s touching mine. Until now. When I lean back like he is, he moves hair that falls in my eyes. “Meadow Soleil.” There’s a rough tinge to his voice, trapping it somewhere between exhausted and exasperated.
“What is it?”
His hand slips under my hair to hold my neck. “Damn girl. You’re sunshine on an otherwise shitty day.”
The comfort of his hand warms my skin, and I relax into his hold. “What made it shitty?”
He just looks at me with that roguish smile I remember so well as if that’s an answer. Maybe it’s the only answer he’s willing to give right now. I recognize the street we’re on. We’ll be back to the house soon. Since he doesn’t say more, I do, “Whatever made your day so bad, I hope it gets better.”
“It already has.” He pulls his hand back to his side just as the car pulls up to the end of the driveway. But I wasn’t ready for him to pull away, to break our tenuous connection. I want this man in my life in some form. A friend? Yes. Right now, he seems like he needs a friend, too.
I tell the driver, “You can stop here.”
Dave asks, “Is the gate still broken?”
It’s a running joke at this stage. “Yeah. Do you want to come up?”
“I’m going to take off and get some sleep.”
“Okay. I leave tomorrow.” I don’t know why I offer up the information, but he says, “Safe travels and—”
“And you’ll use that number of mine sometime?”
“I will.”
I’m still not used to the platonic goodbyes when we had steamier exchanges at one time, but I appreciate his respect for this friendship. “Take care of yourself.”
Popping the door open, I don’t drag it out. I move around the car and wait for it to back out before I punch in the code. When that doesn’t work, I lean down to the keypad and call the house. Rivers answers, “Gate not working?”
“Nope.”
“Motherfuck. The service company was just out here. I’ll come down.”
After a moment, Rivers opens the gate and looks out. “Meadow?”
I walk through the open door, but he keeps looking out. “Did Ridge leave?”
“Yeah. He said he needs sleep.”
“Me too. Whatever could go wrong with the road crew did. Not our best show.” The gate slams closed, and he walks next to me up the long driveway. “Did you have a good time?”
Thinking about Dave first, I realize Rivers means the shopping. “Your fiancée never treats herself to anything. I don’t know what your actual money situation is, but I feel like you have enough for her to buy herself a twenty-dollar pair of socks that she fell in love with.”
“Twenty-dollar socks?” He smirks.
I don’t roll my eyes this time, but I want to. “You two are so made for each other.”
His expression is thoughtful as he shoves his hands into his pockets. “So she didn’t buy them?”
“No. And while we’re at it, her car is hideous. Let the woman ride in style.”
Rivers is tall like his brothers, but he carries his frame with ease. The least showy of the Crow brothers, he listens more than he speaks and always weighs the options. He gets that this conversation is not about socks, but something deeper. Taking in the advice, he replies, “I was going to get her a new car as a wedding gift, but she’s shown no interest in car shopping.”
“Do it now just because. This doesn’t come from me wanting you guys to blow money. It comes from the fact that neither of you should feel guilty for the money you’ve earned. You get the glory. She should get the stinkin’ socks.”
He stops, searching my face as if he doesn’t recognize me. “Where’s the kid I used to know?”
“Everyone keeps saying that. I haven’t changed that much.”
We start walking again. He wraps his arm around me, and says, “Nah, you’re still you. You’re just also growing up.”
“Is it that bad?”
“No.” He chuckles as we part again. “It’s that good.” When we step onto the front porch, he asks, “Any ideas what kind of car she’d want?”
“It’s Stella, so I would say practical, safe, and little sexy.”
“Not just a little. I’m the luckiest fucking bastard in the universe.”
He opens the door for me, but before I dash upstairs to my room, I say, “Hey, Rivers?” He stops just before he reaches the kitchen and looks back. “We’re lucky to have you.”
A singular nod and no words. Very Rivers—appreciative, but not needing the glory.
In my room, I pull the card I sneakily purchased out of my purse and sit at the desk Stella set up for me to study when I’m here.
Dear Stella and Rivers,
I wanted to say thank you for always being my cheerleaders and biggest supporters—emotionally and financially. I will always be grateful for the opportunity you gave me to take an internship an ocean away. You made that possible, and it’s something that will stay with me forever.
Everyone is saying how much I’ve changed. I feel it too. Sometimes I’m able to see it in the mirror as well. I just hope if I’ve truly changed it’s for the better. I think it is.
Anyway, thank you again for everything you do for me and have done. I hope to make you proud.
Love,
Meadow
I put the card back in the envelope and seal it, planning to leave it behind on the bed when I leave in the morning. Getting up, I pull the gift I also bought from my bag. It’s wrapped in tissue with a little sticker sealing it. I set it next to the card and get to packing.
8
Ridge
The bellman doesn’t make a move to help me as I carry my duffle bag to the front desk. I must look as bad as I feel. Being on the road will do that to a guy. Add in the lack of sleep and I’m spent.
This is Hollywood, though. A billionaire can be dressed in cargo shorts and Birkenstocks and a struggling actor dressed to the nines in a suit he bought with his last dime.
But even I’m surprised they’re even letting me in this place at this point. I must not look as battered as I feel. The desk clerk summons me but immediately starts tapping on the keyboard, ignoring me when I approach. Without looking up, he asks, “Do you have a reservation?”
Dropping my bag on the floor next to me, I lean on the counter, and whisper, “No. Do you have any available rooms?”
Tapping.
More tapping.
His gaze slides up from the screen, up my dirty shirt, and stops cold on my unshaven face. Eyes go wide, and I know what’s coming next. A year ago, I couldn’t get arrested in Austin if I tried. Okay, I could get arrested, but I couldn’t get decent publicity out of it. Now, I’m plastered on a billboard down the street.
The clerk leans in, and a sly grin replaces his initial judgment. “We have a suite available, sir, but only one. Would you like it, Mr. Crow?”
“Carson,” I’m quick to correct. It’s an easy and common mistake to make. The band is called The Crow Brothers. I’m a Carson among Crows. This comes with a unique set of challenges, such as everyone assuming I’m one of the brothers. They’re cool, but I can only claim them as friends and bandmates.
“Your first name is Carson?”
“No, my last name is . . .” Shit. I should really use an alias like Rochelle, our business manager, told us to do. To the outside world, the band is an overnight success story, recognizable, and a household name. We know the hard work we’ve put in. For ten years, we each paid our dues several times over. I’ll take the money, the fa
me, and the success, but I’ll never pretend that I didn’t earn every fucking copper cent. Right now, though, I want a bed to pass out in and no hassles. Only one name comes to mind since the only person who I would detour my mission to sleep for did just that. I inwardly chuckle. She won’t mind. “Fellowes.”
He begins typing, but his fingers stop. “And your first name?”
Meadow . . . “Field?”
“Are you asking me?”
“No. Field.”
“Field Fellowes?”
“That’s right.” I pat the counter and look around ready for him to hurry this along.
“I’ll need ID, sir.” Leaning forward again, he whispers, “Your information will be safe with me. We have strong policies in place to protect the privacy of our clientele.”
I slap the ID and credit card down on the black counter with a chuckle. Field Fellowes. That’s got to be the most ridiculous fucking alias ever. Before I check into another hotel, I really need to sort that shit out and come up with something cool. Although it makes me laugh, Field Fellowes sounds like a botanist who chases fucking butterflies. Not exactly the rugged, badass image I’d like to be remembered for.
After getting my key to the suite and being sent off with a wink, I drag my ass up to the room and toss my bag on the couch. The door closes, the lock bolting on its own behind me. Walking toward the windows, I stare out at the Hollywood sign in the distance as my phone vibrates in my back pocket.
On the screen, I see a message from Kiki: Heard you’re back in LA. Want to get together?
No. I don’t. I’m in no mood to deal with her. I’d be better off fucking a stranger than busting a nut with her. She looks good, but her psycho scent is stronger than pheromones. My life is crazy enough. I don’t need to add more into the mix.
Anyway, my balls are going through their blue period, similar to Picasso’s, but there’s no paint involved, and it’s not related to art at all. Basically, we both just need the inspiration to get us out of this funk. Someone soft and warm instead of this calloused hand would be a solid start.
But something’s been holding me back . . . Someone. I don’t know why I’ve hung on to memories of what might have been with a certain sexy little green-eyed blonde when I can be with anyone. Meadow is the definition of complicated, her breakfast order is as mixed up as her taste in music. She makes no apologies for listening to everything from rap to rock with a dose of classical thrown in, and she’s more stunning than ever.
Fuck me.
It’s as though she was brought back to test me, built with all my weaknesses in mind—dangerous curves from the waist to the hips, great tits, and full lips. A killer little body with that wild hair and sharp intellect. Her sense of humor is a huge turn-on and her independence an aphrodisiac.
I’m like an addict, carrying a token buried deep inside to represent my strength and conviction. I don’t need to be tethered when my career is taking off. Things have never been better, and I’m free to do whatever I want.
Why do I still want her?
There’s nothing about us that makes sense, yet, besides my career, she was the best thing I had going last year. The only one who got Dave and not Ridge.
Friends, I remind myself.
It’s the only logical way to be with her. We have one thing tying us together—great chemistry—and a hundred reasons we should only be friends.
I’m here in LA.
She’s there in Austin.
I’m on the road half the year.
She’s in her final year of college.
I’m twenty-six.
She’s twenty-one.
I like coffee.
She likes tea.
But when she looks at me, none of that matters. She’s funny, a little quirky, and damn sexy.
Friends.
That’s all.
If she had stayed, what would we be? I’m not sure, so I think the time away was good for both of us. Fuck buddies aren’t meant to be forever. I feel shitty for calling her that, even just mentally. We both know we weren’t as basic as that.
Somehow, she makes being friends feel like I’m still winning. I don’t have the time or the energy right now to date anyone seriously anyway. So being nothing serious with her sounds just about right to me. Maybe over the past six months, time has started to smooth the rough edges of who we used to be. We were a moment in time, something tangible before sunrise.
Complicated.
Does that mean we won’t have a future?
Guess we’ll see.
I sit on the couch despite wanting to go to bed. Wandering around the large suite from the separate bedroom to the kitchen to the living room with the view, this place has style. I’ve come a long way from playing gigs on Dirty Sixth and sleeping on friends’ couches. I spent too many nights on the floor of the van touring Texas back in the day with my old band.
Hollywood is now my sandbox, The Crow Brothers’ playground. Sitting pretty on top of the charts, we own this city. Anything we want is ours for the taking. I have everything I could want and more than I’ll ever need. I’m living the high life in this castle in the sky.
So why do I feel like something is missing?
Standing up, I walk to the bedroom, kick off my shoes, and strip off my clothes. Climbing under the white covers, I shut the blinds with the click of a button. I lie in the dark, restless in my surroundings, wondering if I actually have everything I want and need, then why does this place feel so empty?
It’s this room. It’s too quiet. The only noise is the white noise ringing through my ears.
I toss.
Then I turn.
Check my phone.
No messages.
Thank fuck Kiki got the message and didn’t text me again.
Take over the whole mattress by spreading out. I like owning this king-size bed. I like the freedom to sleep however the fuck I please. I don’t need anyone.
But . . .
It’s not the room that feels empty.
It’s me.
Why am I thinking about her? Her smile. Her curled against me. Her body in the early hours of the morning. God, it’s been months, but after touching her today, having my hand around her neck—how I wanted to lean in and claim those lips—it’s as though my body found what it’s craving. Her. Beautiful Meadow Soleil.
I’ve missed her.
Friends.
Fuck.
Fuck this noise.
I flip the covers off, make my way into the bathroom, and flip on the shower. Looking at myself in the mirror, I’m a fucking mess—mentally and physically. It’s not been twenty-four hours since I was standing on that stage in front of thousands of fans that were chanting our name.
The lights are down, and I can’t see a fucking thing. My fingers find the strings I need, and I wait. The spotlight hits, and the drums kick in. Despite fifteen thousand people screaming, I hear Jet in my earpiece counting down.
The lights hit us just as we play the first chord. I don’t think. I just play the song I’ve played a million times before and had a hand in writing. My mind drifts to the beat as it centers me as my favorite guitar vibrates against me. I feel the chords, the songs, the music. My soul bleeds through each riff, dying through each set.
I give my all, and when the show is over, I’m done. I can sleep for a week, but I’ll get two nights. This time. More than one is a luxury when we tour.
. . . Figures I’d be faced with beauty when I’m at my worst. Between the show and the call in the middle of the night, I wasn’t good company for anyone. But there’s Meadow, put in my path to revive this tired soul with just a look in her eyes that tells me I’m not alone. “You can talk to me.” Maybe when I’m feeling less . . . depleted . . .
Getting under the warm water eases my sore neck and the muscles in my shoulders. We’re only halfway through the summer tour, and I’m starting to feel it. Add the issues at home and my mind is always spinning.
I need to forget all that. T
hink about the release I’m desperate to have—free my mind, relax my body, and get some sleep.
Meadow standing in a white dress. The bonfire flames dancing between us. Her eyes like stars sparkling in the night. My dick stirs just thinking about that impossible woman, and the muscles in my lower belly tighten. She was a sight to fucking see in the moonlight, but I liked it better when she was on top of me.
I take hold of my dick and start a slow pump to warm up. It’s been a while since I did this.
My body clenches as my fist does, and my dick hardens. Resting one hand on the wall, I speed up the other. God, how I want her tits in my hands. In my mouth. I want her taste. Everywhere. This is what this woman does to me. Beautiful eyes. Soft-as-silk skin. “Fuck.” My grip tightens, and I pump harder. Faster. “Oh fuck.”
The water rinses my body clean of my dirty thoughts, the images of Meadow, her perfect, ripe tits and nipples hard from the cool desert air.
I grab the hotel soap and rip it from the package before scrubbing my body and washing my hair. Rinse. Shower over.
After toweling off, I lie back down and close my eyes again. This time, my body feels heavy, matching my thoughts. I surrender and let my mind drift back to some of the good times we’ve had.
“Are you really going to eat all of that?” With her hands on her hips, she tilts her head to the side.
The Cheetos fall into the shopping cart, and I wiggle the Hostess box in the air. “Yes. And you’re going to help me.”
“I don’t think I’ve eaten a Ding Dong since high school.” As soon as the words leave her mouth, her face scrunches, and she points at me. “Don’t. I know what you’re going to say.”
I think she’s going for menacing, but the girl’s just too cute to pull it off.
I zip my lips and raise my hands from the shopping cart. “I wasn’t going to say anything. I’m innocent.”
She walks farther down the aisle. “Sure. Sure. Whatever.”
“Although . . .” Her ponytail swings as she shakes her head. “I have a vivid recollection of you eating my D—”