Collide (Worlds Collide Book 1)

by Quinn Nolan

  There’s something in her voice, in the crease between her eyebrows, like she’s surprised it happened, like she’s trying to convince herself it’s true.

  “You seem happy now.” I stretch my hand toward her arm and pull away at the last second, running it through my hair instead. There’s something about her that makes me want to touch her skin, her mouth. Maybe it’s because I can’t remember the last time I just made out with a girl. Or maybe it’s something else.

  “I am happy now.” She turns toward me and looks like she almost believes it. Then she smiles and all doubt evaporates. “Thanks again, Everett. If you hadn’t helped me...”

  She doesn’t finish the sentence. I don’t think she can. She has to realize the same thing I do: If I hadn’t pretended to be a competing suitor, Graham never would’ve asked her out. I’m the first to admit I don’t know a ton about healthy male-female relationships, but this doesn’t seem a promising start. Everybody wants something from a relationship, and I’m pretty sure what Graham wants isn’t security or someone to snuggle with on the couch while watching reruns of primetime TV. Once he gets what he wants—once he realizes Ashlyn’s been claimed—what’s to keep him interested?

  “I should get back to my place. I promised Reagan I’d call her when I got in.” She rubs her hands over her upper arms. It’s cooler here by the water than it is even up by the house.

  “I’ll walk you.”

  We’re halfway back to the garage before she speaks again. “What time did you want me to come over to listen to the songs? I remembered while I was out that I’ve got lunch plans with Reagan and Teresa at eleven—”

  “After that’s fine. I’ll be around all day. Just come over.”

  We’re at the garage now and she stops, turning to me. It’s the exact scene I watched played out between her and Graham not half an hour ago. Except I’m not watching now. I step toward her, so there’s only a breath of space between us, and place two fingers under her chin to guide her face upward while I swoop down for a kiss.

  Her hands go to my chest, pressing me backward as soon as our lips touch. She takes a step away, her fingertips grazing her bottom lip as she shakes her head. “Everett—I...”

  I hold my hands up as heat prickles up my neck and down my arms. “Whoa—sorry. I just thought, you know, since we kissed before—”

  “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just...”

  She doesn’t have to finish her sentence. I know what’s going through her head all too well: She’s done with me. She got the guy she wanted, and while she’ll still hold up her end of our deal, my role in it is over. I recognize the brush-off because I’ve been on her end of it time and time again. Mine’s usually more of the, “We had such a great night/afternoon/fifteen minutes—let’s not ruin that perfect time with the harsh light of reality. Let’s live forever in each other’s memories. I’ll remember you—will you remember me?” I’ve found this works for the fangirls who don’t understand their real role. Most come in knowing that ours will be a one-time thing, but for the few who think whatever we shared will lead to a happily-ever-after, the gentle brush-off is best for keeping them from blasting social media about what a womanizing prick I am. Ashlyn isn’t as practiced at the speech as I am, but her intent is the same.

  I force the easy smile I use when the paparazzi show up outside the restaurant or bar I’m at. “No worries, Ashlyn. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  The prickle of heat reaches my cheeks and I run my hand over my face as I head back to the main house. Am I...embarrassed?

  Chapter Eight

  Ashlyn

  The late morning sun glints off the lake and I squint, cursing myself for leaving my sun glasses at home. Of course, I knew we’d be eating at a restaurant on the water—I just didn’t think we’d be eating out on the back deck.

  Reagan taps me with her menu. “Stop staring at the ducks and dish.”

  She’s right: There are two ducks swimming in the water. I hadn’t noticed them until now. I adjust my chair, trying to position myself so I won’t have to squint through lunch. Reagan and Teresa are both wearing sunglasses. “What do you wanna know?”

  Teresa rolls her eyes and Reagan sighs. The two exchange exasperated looks, but before they can lament my inability to appropriately discuss a date, our waiter arrives. He’s dark-haired with a hint of stubble—not quite as thick as the beard Graham sports. More like Everett—the public, lead-singer-of-Toxicity Ever, that is. Not clean-shaven, no-guy-liner Everett staying at the beach house. I think I might prefer the look of private-Everett, Everett-in-hiding.

  I shake my head. I shouldn’t be thinking about Everett at all, but I haven’t been able to stop since he kissed me last night. I should’ve been replaying the kiss with Graham, but any time I think about it, all I can recall is the scratch of his beard against my chin and upper lip before he morphs into Everett. How is it that my non-kiss last night with Everett gives me butterflies but the one with Graham makes my stomach twist?

  The waiter is staring at me, and so are Teresa and Reagan. “Diet Coke,” I say quickly, hoping he asked what I wanted to drink. He nods and heads off and I let out a breath.

  Reagan laughs. “Wow. Distracted much?”

  I smile, but it feels more like a grimace. “Yeah, sorry. Just...thinking about last night.” She raises an eyebrow and I kick at her under the table.

  “Oh, go easy on her,” Teresa says, flicking a strand of dark hair over her shoulder. “Neither of us think you went home and did the nasty with Mr. Sexy-Beard.”

  “Though we’d be mighty impressed if you did,” Reagan chimes in.

  The waiter returns then, passing out our drinks. He asks if we’re ready to order, but none of us have even looked at the menus yet. He leaves, and before the girls can ask me more questions, I bury my nose in the menu.

  Why don’t I want to talk about last night? I already know I can’t tell them about what happened with Everett—they have no idea he’s the client in the lake house, the one I had to sign an NDA about. They’re both smart—they’ll figure out who he is if they know that bit of information. There was a moment the night Teresa met him that I was convinced she figured it out, but she hasn’t mentioned it, so maybe I was imagining things. So, it’s not the Everett complication that’s sealing my lips.

  It’s that I’ll have to lie.

  The truth makes my stomach roil. I can’t tell them what actually happened on the date, because it’ll make Graham sound like a self-absorbed jerk. And, if I’m honest, that’s kind of how I feel about the date. But I don’t want them to agree. He was probably just nervous—sometimes people talk too much when they’re nervous. I know I do—in fact, I tried my best not to ramble like a crazy person. Maybe that was the issue: I didn’t do enough talking, so he thought he had to fill all the silence. I don’t want the girls to judge him for that.

  We order and there’s no more stalling. I take a long pull of my Diet Coke before launching into the spin on events I’ve been working on all morning. “I learned a lot about him—a lot about his band and his influences. He was really sweet. Paid for dinner.”

  “If he didn’t, you should’ve kicked his ass,” Reagan mutters.

  Teresa nods emphatically.

  I nod, too, and swallow. “And at the end of the night, he kissed me. We’re going out again.” I shrug, not sure what else to say. The details from the night sound thin, even to me, but I don’t want to have to make things up.

  “How was the kiss?” Teresa asks.

  Which one? I still can’t believe I was kissed by two guys last night. It’s so unlike me. Then again, the last few days have been pretty out of character—making out with a stranger at a bar, using that same stranger to make a crush jealous. It’s so not me. But Teresa didn’t ask about that. How can I describe Graham’s kiss? Awkward. Sloppy. A little too long. Such a contrast to Everett—not last night, but every time he’s kissed me. With Everett, things are... “...Electric.”

  Teresa and Reagan
exchange loaded glances as the server returns with our food. I’ve never been so excited for the arrival of a chicken sandwich. But as I pick it up and take a bite, I’m disappointed to see neither of my companions are even looking at their food. Their eyes dance and sparkle as they watch me, identical grins across their faces.

  “Electric, huh?” Reagan raises her eyebrows suggestively. “Is that why you didn’t call me until so late last night? Were you experiencing some electricity?”

  Teresa’s eyes widen and she leans toward me, her meal completely forgotten. My cheeks burn so hot I’m sure there’s steam rising off them. I look down at the sandwich in my hands, at the empty semicircle where I took a bite. The tomato is dripping toward my fingers. I didn’t call Reagan right away because I couldn’t. After what happened with Everett, I had to take a shower to clear my head. A shower turned into a bowl of ice cream and a couple episodes of a show on Netflix. I didn’t call until Reagan sent a text asking if I was dead or alive.

  “We didn’t have sex.” I whisper the last two words, my eyes darting to make sure no one’s listening. The sixty-something couple at the nearest table doesn’t pause in their conversation, and the next closest table’s inhabitants are too intent on the screens of their smartphones to notice anything around them.

  Teresa raises an eyebrow like she doesn’t really believe me.

  “Come on, Ash, lighten up.” Reagan picks up her pickle spear and takes a bite. “Besides, it’s not like it’s a completely out there assumption. Did you or did you not make out with a complete stranger in front of a bar full of people this weekend? How is a casual shag with the guy you’ve been drooling over for months that big a stretch?”

  Teresa chews thoughtfully on a bite of salad. “What ever happened to that guy? Everett, was it?” She spears a piece of chicken and points her fork at me. “He was ridiculously hot.”

  “Sex on legs,” Reagan agrees. “You think now that you’ve got your very own guy to make out with, Everett’s feeling lonely? Because I could offer my lips into service for him.”

  Teresa snorts. “Your lips, sure. And various other parts of your anatomy.”

  Reagan throws her napkin, along with some aspersions against Teresa’s character. I take another bite of my sandwich to avoid having to join in. I have no claim on Everett. Still, the way my friends are talking about him makes my stomach twist and my ears prickle. What do I care if they think he’s hot?

  “Is he new in town?” Reagan asks, jarring me from my thoughts.

  “Visiting,” I say quickly. “I don’t know where he’s staying.”

  She arches an eyebrow. “Good to know you’re not stalking him.”

  I’ll see him later today—maybe I should give him both their numbers, and he can call them if he wants. It’s the least I can do, really, for him helping me get Graham’s attention.

  I got what I wanted. But why does my stomach sink at the thought of Everett with one of my friends?

  Chapter Nine

  Everett

  It’s almost one. Ashlyn said she had lunch plans around eleven, but she’s not back yet.

  I know, because I check out the front door every five minutes. How long does it take someone to eat lunch, anyway?

  I haven’t felt nerves like this in a long time—years, probably. Or longer. I’m good at music—I know I am. My dad said the first time I picked up a guitar, I just knew how to use it. I wouldn’t know, really, since I was four and don’t remember; still, I carry that fact with me every day. My dad’s matter-of-fact, not touchy-feely at all. If he pays a compliment, it’s sincere with no strings attached. So when my dad told me the songs I wrote were good, I knew they were. And I haven’t had a hint of nerves since.

  Until now.

  The first record flowed out of me like water. The band loved it. The manager loved it. And, most importantly, the label loved it. But everything’s all messed up this time. It’s like I can’t trust myself. I spent all week writing lyrics and scratching them out again, choosing chord progressions and second-guessing them. Going into writing this record, I thought things would be easy—the way they always are. But no one likes my new stuff, not even Chase Whalen, the band’s other guitarist and the only member of Toxicity I count as my friend.

  How can they all hate it when it feels so right?

  The driveway is still empty. I kick at the door frame and spin around, stalking back through the open floor plan to the living room—or the great room or the family room or the den—I never know what people call these things. I reach for my guitar, which sits propped against the cream-colored leather sofa, but think better of it, closing my fist and continuing toward the back door.

  I’d go for a walk, but I’ve already walked the property a half dozen times. I wish I could take the boat out, but I’m not entirely sure how it works. It can’t be that hard. Maybe Ashlyn can show me. She and I could head out onto the water, maybe bring a few beers. See where things take us...

  I shake my head, dispelling the images gathering there before they’ve fully formed. She made things clear last night.

  I curse—not for the first time. Why did I have to try to kiss her? She just got back from a date. It’s so obvious to me now that it was a dick move. But at the time, it seemed like a good idea. I mean, it’s not like it would be the first time we kissed. Why not do it again before we parted ways for the night? Part congratulations, part see-you-later. But normal people don’t do that. Normal people are with one person at a time and don’t kiss anyone but that person. And that person for Ashlyn is Graham.

  The douche.

  The clock on the wall dings. It’s one o’clock. How long is she gonna be gone?

  Maybe Graham called while she was out and the two made plans to go see a movie or go to a museum or whatever it is people do on dates. Or maybe they decided against that and just went back to his place.

  No. Ashlyn isn’t that kind—I can tell by looking at her. I take a little comfort in the memory of the night we met. She would’ve come home with me that night.

  Take that, Graham.

  Someone knocks at the front door and I spin around, heart hammering, but it’s just Ashlyn. She’s visible through the window beside the door, wearing short black shorts and a turquoise camisole. She bites her lower lip as I approach. Is she nervous being around me after the failed kiss attempt? I’ll kick myself more about that later; for now, I hitch an easy smile onto my face as I pull open the door.

  “I was beginning to think you forgot about me.” I wince. I meant to tease her, but the words sound desperate to my ears.

  She doesn’t seem to notice, instead tipping her head back as she enters the house, studying the cathedral ceiling. “I love this house,” she murmurs before turning her attention to me. “So, you’ve got songs for me to listen to?”

  “Yeah.” I head to my guitar. I can’t get a read on her. Is she uncomfortable being here? Afraid I’ll try to kiss her again? Or is she trying to keep things businesslike for another reason? I perch on the edge of the couch, settling the body of my acoustic across my right thigh. Ashlyn sits on the blue chaise lounge across from me, and for the first time, I notice she’s brought a clipboard. She sets it on her knees and clicks a pen, poising it over the paper. Nerves twist my stomach. I don’t think anyone’s ever literally taken notes while listening to my music—not with me in the room, at any rate. For some reason, the idea of her judging me, judging the words I’ve written, the sound I’ve created, unsettles me. “Wow. You came prepared.”

  The corner of her mouth quirks up in a brief half-smile. “Occupational hazard.” She shifts, looking hesitant for a moment. “I’m not sure how you want me to evaluate you. I could just make notes about what I observe—or, if you tell me what you’re aiming for, I could write up a quick rubric and…”

  It’s not until she stops talking that I realize I’m grinning like a fool. I shake my head and try to make my lips set in a neutral position. “I thought you quit teaching?”

  Her m
outh twitches and she lays the pen across the clipboard. “Some habits die hard.”

  Shit. I’m making her uncomfortable. Again. When she told me last night about quitting her career, I knew the decision was hard for her. Now, what? I’m going to rub salt in her wounds? “Ashlyn, I’m…”

  She presses her lips together, picking up the pen again. “Are you ready to play?” She narrows her eyes. “Or are you stalling because you haven’t actually written any songs?” She grins, sternness evaporating.

  I slide my left hand down the neck of the guitar, relieved she seems at ease again. “I’ve got two. You want me to just play them through or...?”

  “Sure. If I need you to play something again, I’ll ask.”

  I press my fingers down against the strings of the first chord, but I don’t bring the pick down to start strumming. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea. What kind of experience does she have rating music? Why do I think I can trust her opinion? If it sounds good to me, I should just send it to the label.

  Except I’ve already tried that, and they basically told me to scrap what I had and start over. I can’t trust my own opinions right now. And Ashlyn, at least, is a relatively disinterested party. She knows the popular tracks off the last record, but she’s clearly not a crazy fan who’ll like anything I play. Besides, I’ve already helped her get what she wants—she has no reason to lie to keep me playing along.

  Blowing out a breath, I bring the pick down across the strings. I can’t watch her face, so I close my eyes, letting the sound wash over me. I’ve played these two songs so many times over the last couple days that I don’t need to look at the scribbled chords and lyrics anymore.

  Maybe she won’t get it—the whole feeling of the song, the way I hear it in my head. I’m just on an acoustic. Maybe I should’ve broken out the electric to play for her, added in some effects too so she’d have a better idea of what it might sound like with the band behind it. Toxicity’s first record isn’t so much the acoustic-guitar sound. It’s hard and heavy—without being too metal; it’s gritty without being grunge.