Collide (Worlds Collide Book 1)

by Quinn Nolan

  “Yeah—they said that before they left the stage.”

  I press my lips together. I didn’t even notice what songs they were playing—I was too lost in our make-out session. Apparently Everett’s attention wasn’t nearly as absorbed as mine was. My stomach twists, but before I can say anything, he’s talking again.

  “I’m gonna head out, too. It’s getting late and I promised myself I’d be up early tomorrow.” The corners of his mouth quirk upward as he strokes a finger down my cheek. “I wasn’t expecting to be here this late, even.”

  Panic flares. He’s getting ready to leave. What I wouldn’t give to have one of those secret-service ear buds with Reagan on the other end. I have no idea what I’m supposed to say to him. We were just kissing on the dance floor—that seems like a pretty good indication he’s into me. Is it the guy’s responsibility to ask the girl back to his place? Or am I supposed to be the one to initiate it? I swallow but my throat is dry. I never did get that water. “Are you from the area?” I bite the inside of my cheek, sure I’m not doing this right.

  Everett’s face tightens before relaxing again. “Nah. Just vacationing.”

  I scrunch my face—I can’t help it. I can’t imagine why anyone would vacation here. I mean, yeah, this part of metro-Detroit is by a lake, but it’s Lake St. Clair—not even one of the Great Lakes. Maybe he’s in Detroit on business—except he said “vacation.” Besides, he doesn’t really look like the kind of guy who takes business trips. “Well, I’m from here. I grew up about five miles from here, and now I live about five miles in the other direction.” I’m rambling a bit now and I clamp my mouth shut to avoid looking like a babbling idiot.

  He cocks his head, squinting for a moment before offering a lopsided smile. “Thanks for tonight, Ashlyn. Good luck with that guy.” He leans forward, feathering a quick kiss on my lips, before pivoting and heading for the front door.

  My jaw drops. Is this really happening? Did I do something wrong? This can’t be the way this ends. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m following him. By the time my hand closes on his shoulder, I can’t stop myself.

  Everett turns, eyebrows cinched together. He opens his mouth but I don’t give him the opportunity to speak.

  “Don’t you want my number or something?” The words tumble out in a rush and I regret them as soon as they pass my lips.

  Everett cocks his head to the side, his shoulders dropping as the look I’ve seen a hundred times on a hundred faces crosses his. It’s the poor-little-lamb look, the oh-I’m-sorry-but-clearly-you-don’t-understand-how-this-works look. I got this look a lot in high school during my few attempts at making friends, and it still hurts as much now at twenty-two as it did at fourteen.

  “Look, I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression,” he says bracingly.

  I shake my head. “Never mind.” I turn and rush out the door ahead of him. I think I hear him calling my name, but I’m probably just imagining it.

  Chapter Three

  Everett

  The shrill beep of my cell phone jars me from my sleep. I blink heavily a few times before my surroundings come into focus.

  No matter how many times I do it, waking up in a new room always messes with my head.

  The walls are white—stark white—and dazzling in the early morning sun. Of course the master bedroom has to be on the east side of the house. I forgot to pull the heavy drapes last night, and the only curtains between me and the sun are flimsy and sheer—frankly, they might as well not be there for as little as they do to block the light. Outside the window, the lake stretches out, glittering as it reflects the sunlight. It’s something I might be able to appreciate if I’d managed to get enough sleep last night.

  I roll over, pounding the empty pillow beside me. Last night. I should’ve stayed here, gotten some work done. But after the flight, I couldn’t get my mind to wind down. Someone—the landlord, probably—left a dossier on the coffee table with local events and attractions, and the flier on top advertising live music and drink specials seemed just the thing.

  I’m still not sure I didn’t fuck up, dancing with that girl like I did. Ashlyn. If I’m honest, we did more than dance. I didn’t expect it when I first went over to her. Blame it on the beer, or the relative anonymity of this city—whatever it’s called—but when I saw her last night, I couldn’t help wanting to help her. It was painfully obvious she needed some assistance.

  The shrill sounds again and I press myself into a sitting position. I know exactly who’s on the line, even before my hands makes contact with the phone: There’s only one person who always calls with a video chat. I roll my shoulders and run a hand through my hair before hitching an easy smile onto my face and accepting the call. “Hey, Somer.”

  Somer Jennings, the band’s agent, appears on the screen, looking harassed as ever. He dabs at his forehead with a cream-colored handkerchief. Judging by the jiggly quality of the picture and the changing play of shadows and light behind him, he’s on the move. More than once, I’ve wondered if Somer doesn’t plan calls for when he’s moving from place to place to make sure he projects the image of being busy. If he doesn’t spend most of his days lounging behind a desk with his feet propped up, only to jump up at a moment’s notice and start pacing the hallways when he needs to make a call.

  “Ever, good mo—” His brow creases. “I didn’t wake you, did I? It’s got to be, what? Ten o’clock there?”

  I open my mouth, ready to lie, but I think better of it. Somer’s listened to enough bullshit from enough musicians to know when he’s being lied to. “Yeah. You know—jet lag and all that.” Not exactly the truth, but closer than an outright lie.

  Somer runs his free hand over his chin, scrutinizing me with his sharp gray eyes. He’s in his early thirties—only about ten years my senior—but he looks older. Tired. Probably from stress. There isn’t enough money in the world to make me do his job, even for a day. “How’s the songwriting coming?”

  I sigh, rubbing my hand on the back of my neck. I figured he’d give me at least twenty-four hours before hounding me about that. “Hell, Somer. I just got here last night.”

  He nods, a light fixture above his head momentarily bleaching out his image. “A night free from distractions, near the water because you said it helps you think. You know how important it is for you to start producing some tunes the label likes.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I don’t need to hear this again. When the label started making plans for Toxicity to get back into the studio for our second record, I sent demos for four songs I’d written on tour. I expected them to react to these tunes the same way they reacted to everything I gave them for the first album, Adversity Corporation. Instead, they informed me I’d missed the mark so much they were already thinking of hiring out the songwriting. It was no small feat for Somer to orchestrate this little writing getaway as a last ditch attempt for me to be the writer of my own songs. “I wrote a couple choruses that might go somewhere.”

  He nods. “Good. Let’s hear them.”

  “Come on, Somer.”

  “Ever, I don’t think you fully comprehend just how much my ass is on the line right now. The label’s not happy to be delaying your next record, and they’re only doing it because I’ve given them my word that you’ll be able to write them a dozen new songs that will sell even better than the last ones. Now, who do you think is more disposable if you don’t come through?”

  I sigh. He’s right, of course. “Look, now that I’m up, I’ll grab something to eat and get right to work. All the traveling last night had my head in a fog, and I just needed one night to blow off steam. That’s it. Now I’m all business.”

  I expect for Somer to nod, maybe even offer a smile. What I don’t expect is for his face to go red and the vein on his forehead to stand out. “Hell, Ever—what did you do? You haven’t even been there a day and already—”

  “What?” I ask, defensive. “Already what?”

  “You went out, didn’t you?”

&
nbsp; I deflate, my indignation at his anger ebbing as I begin to formulate my response. “I was careful,” I say quickly. “No one recognized me.”

  Somer’s face disappears from the screen and for a moment I’m afraid he’s thrown the phone. But after a quick kaleidoscope of carpet, ceiling, and walls, he’s back, his face tight. “What’s the point of planning your little getaway in Michigan and having the whole staff sign a non-disclosure agreement about your being there if you’re going to go out in public where anyone could recognize you?”

  “But no one did.”

  “That you know of.”

  I purse my lips. I was as incognito as possible last night—a beanie over my hair, none of my tattoos visible, none of my typical stage makeup. And as there were no girls screaming and throwing themselves at my feet at the bar, I can safely assume no one guessed who I really am—Ever Anders, lead singer of Toxicity, the hottest band of the year.

  “I promise no one knew it was me. And from now on, consider me on house arrest.”

  Some of the red drains from Somer’s face, but he still doesn’t look happy. “You’d better be. I’ve got to go. Remember, you owe the label some songs by the end of the week.”

  “Yeah, I know. Bye, Somer.”

  He doesn’t offer a farewell before ending the video chat.

  I head out of the bedroom, moving down the hall as much on instinct as memory. I only spent half an hour or so in the house before heading out last night. I know I should’ve stayed in, but this place is too big, too quiet, and I needed noise, movement.

  The kitchen is massive—like most of the house. It’s set off to the side, so it’s slightly darker here than in the main part of the house. Windows surround both the front and back doors, so a person could look from one side of the house clear through to the other. It’s a little creepy, if I’m honest. I like my privacy when I’m indoors. But the place sits back from the road a decent ways and there’s a garage between it and the traffic on the street, so I guess it’s not so bad. I head to the fridge and peer inside. It’s stocked with everything I requested, from the Mountain Dew Throwback to the thick cut, applewood-smoked bacon. I pull out the bacon and a carton of eggs. If I’m gonna make breakfast, I might as well do it right. Then I’ll buckle down with my guitar and get working.

  There’s a groundskeeper at this place—I remember Somer mentioning that to me. If I pay extra, I wonder if he can cook. I crack two eggs, shaking my head. Nah. I don’t really want some sweaty, leather-skinned guy making food for me.

  Once breakfast is cooked, I take it onto the back deck and sit at the table overlooking the water. When I said I wanted to stay somewhere with a beach, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind, but I’ll admit this place isn’t so bad. And Somer knows me well enough to avoid booking me someplace with bikini-clad women wandering around. I’d never get anything done. After all, I never have a hard time finding a pretty girl to pass the time with.

  The face of the girl from last night flickers in my mind. Ashley. No. Ashlyn. I shake my head as I pile some eggs into my mouth. I could’ve taken her home—I wanted to—but then there’s no way I’d be up this early, no way I’d be writing songs before the afternoon at the earliest. I promised to have some tunes to the studio by the end of the week. I can’t deal with distractions right now.

  Besides, even dancing with her was a risk. I’m lucky she didn’t recognize me. Somer’d have my ass in a heartbeat.

  There’s a boat moored to a dock off to the right. If I get three songs written, I’ll reward myself with some time out on the water. Hell, maybe I’ll even write some stuff out there. I need to have the groundskeeper show me how to work the thing first, though. I’m not really looking forward to some middle-aged guy talking down to me because I don’t know how to work a boat. It can’t be that much different than a car, but Somer made me promise I wouldn’t crash the thing or tip it over or whatever it is you do in a boat. That’s the last thing I need on this vacation—a media firestorm. No, I left L.A. to get away from everything—to get away from all the distractions. As much as I don’t like the idea, I’ll let the guy show me how to use the damn boat before going out on it.

  But first, I need to write some tunes. I finish the last piece of bacon and chug the rest of my orange juice. My head is a bit clearer—clear enough, in any case, to strum my guitar.

  After a brief debate, I decide to bring the guitar out onto the deck. Maybe the fresh air will be good for me. I set up with a half dozen extra picks and a notebook and pencil before strumming a quick G-C-D pattern to get the blood flowing in my fingers. From there, I pick out some scales, allowing my fingers to move in the old practiced rhythm as my mind wanders. Sometimes writing songs is easy. The idea is just there and it won’t leave my head until it’s written, until it’s right. But sitting down and writing because I have to has never been my strong suit.

  I wrote a handful of tunes before this vacation, but the studio didn’t like any of them. After our first album went platinum, they’re even more concerned that our second album does well. In this day and age, if people don’t like what you’ve got to offer, there’s no end of opportunities to discover someone else they do like.

  The first record was so easy, so organic. The studio execs loved everything I gave them—they lapped it up. Now, it’s like I can’t do anything right.

  I strum the chords to “Mischief Chain.” It’s not the only hit off the record, but it’s the biggest one. Although it’s not an official title, it’s been called by many the “song of the year.” This is what they want me to replicate: Something that’s not mainstream but still has mainstream appeal, something movies will want on their soundtracks, something that everyone will sing along to whenever it comes on the radio and not complain it’s overplayed.

  “Another wink, another drink / All links in the mischief chain / I’ll shed a tear to quell my fears / ’Cause every story ends the same...” I close my eyes, my fingers seeking out the well-known chord changes.

  Blue. That’s the color of that girl’s eyes. And she had a sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks—the kind I’m sure aren’t there in the winter.

  My eyes snap open. That kind of thinking isn’t going to get me anywhere. I could go back to that bar every night I’m here and I probably wouldn’t see her again. She was there because of that guy, and, after last night, if she plays her cards right, she’ll have him.

  Maybe there’s a song there? I pick up my pencil, poising it over the paper. After a hesitation, I scribble down some words. I scratch the line out before rewriting it. Lyrics never sound right the first time I put them down.

  I’ve got a verse and a chorus down when a ridiculously loud buzzing starts. I cover my ears, looking left and right. It sounds like it’s nearby, but that’s crazy, right? Trees line the property on either side, so I shouldn’t be able to hear lawn equipment from the adjacent houses this clearly. Because that’s what it is—maybe a weed eater or something. I curse under my breath, laying my guitar across the table. The groundskeeper dude is really gonna do yard work now? Shouldn’t all that shit have been taken care of before I got here? I mean, I knew coming into this that I’d see him around—he lives in the apartment over the garage, apparently—but I didn’t think I’d have to deal with this kind of noise—at least not my first day here.

  I round the corner, ready to give this guy a piece of my mind... Except it’s not a guy. Standing by one of the decorative trees, whipping the weeds sprouting up between the terracotta-colored bricks of the retaining wall, is a girl. She’s wearing a giant pair of black headphones over her ears and cutoff jean shorts that are probably going to fall apart after a couple more washes. Her jade green tank top has smears of dirt and grease on the back. And although I’ve never seen her before—I mean, how can I have?—there’s something familiar about her, about the lines of her body.

  Her back is to me and before I know what’s happening, I’m moving toward her. My original goal was to get the noise to stop, but t
hat’s only secondary now. I want to see her face, to know whether I’m crazy for thinking I might know her.

  Tapping her shoulder is out of the question, so I make a wide semi-circle around her so I end up in her line of sight. Her eyes, hidden behind clear plastic safety glasses, are down, fixed on the job at hand. But even the least attractive eye wear in the world can’t disguise this girl. Ashlyn. From the bar. I squint, sure I’m imagining it. Can it be I’ve been thinking about her so much that now I’m seeing her face where it isn’t? I lean forward, ducking down to get a better look at her down-turned face.

  And she screams.

  The string trimmer jumps upward, arcing away from the retaining wall and grazing the tree trunk before she’s able to get it under control. The engine cuts off and she drops it to the ground, one gloved hand going to her chest, the other to her earphones. “Oh, god. You scared me.” She’s staring at the tree trunk. “I’m sorry—I thought no one was supposed to be here until this afternoon.”

  Her eyes flit as far as my feet, but she doesn’t look up. Still, my suspicion is verified: It’s the same girl, alright. Her blond hair isn’t loose around her shoulders like last night; instead, it’s pulled back into what would probably be considered a pony tail if her hair was a couple of inches longer. Still, despite that and the fact she’s still wearing safety glasses, she’s as pretty as I remember. “Sorry. I got in yesterday evening. I was supposed to do an—” I bite off the word interview. “I had a thing yesterday that got canceled so I came early.”

  Her gaze drifts to my face for the first time and her lips part. She takes a step backward, losing her footing when she hits the weed eater. Her arms pinwheel as she attempts to regain balance, but her feet can’t find ground not covered by lawn equipment and she falls flat on her ass.

  I press my lips together, trying not to smile as I move to her side, offering her my hand. She doesn’t take it.