Collide (Worlds Collide Book 1)

by Quinn Nolan

  I finish the first song but don’t open my eyes. I don’t want to know her reaction yet. My fingers switch to playing the second song. Maybe I’ll have her hold off on giving me notes. I’ll finish this song and grab my electric and my amp and replay them with some modification.

  During an instrumental break, I hazard a glance at Ashlyn. Her face is set in concentration, but she’s bobbing her head along with the beat. Every couple measures, she scribbles something down.

  After I hit the last chord, the music fades, leaving behind only the persistent ticking of the clock on the wall. Ashlyn isn’t writing anymore; she’s squinting at her notes, her lips pursed. I set the guitar next to the couch and stand up. “Let me go get my electric. It’ll give you a better idea of how—”

  She shakes her head and I sit. “Believe me, working at the brewpub, I’ve heard enough stripped-down acoustic versions of rock songs that I’ve got a pretty good idea the way it might sound with a full band.”

  A beat passes, but she doesn’t go on. “Want me to play them again?”

  “No, that’s not necessary.”

  Her eyes are back on her notes. My palms tingle and it takes a second for me to realize I’m sweating. Like, full-on, nerdy-boy-asking-out-the-homecoming-queen sweating. Waiting for her to pass judgment on my music is making me nervous. Not everyone likes my stuff—I know that. It’s impossible to please everyone. Then why is it so important to me that she likes these songs?

  After a short eternity, she flicks her blue eyes up to meet mine. “I think they’re catchy.”

  Although she stops there, I can hear the word coming next. “But...?”

  She bites her lower lip, cheeks pinkening. “I don’t want you to think I didn’t like them—because I did. Just, don’t you think they’re a little...derivative?”

  Heat creeps up my neck. “Derivative?” My voice nearly cracks at the end of the word and I swallow before continuing. “Who, exactly, do you think I’m trying to sound like?”

  She shifts, setting the clipboard beside her on the chaise lounge. “Maybe this was a bad idea.”

  I don’t disagree. But now that she’s begun, I can’t let her walk away without explaining what she means. I scoot back on the couch cushion, leaning against the back and flashing a practiced grin. She’s just another critic. I can take or leave her opinion. It doesn’t matter what she thinks.

  Except, somehow, it does.

  “Don’t hold back on my account,” I say, relieved by the easy cadence of my voice. “This is what I need from you—your opinion.”

  Her face tightens, still unconvinced, but she sighs. “The songs both sound too much like the stuff on Adversity Corporation. The first song is like a mix between ‘Movement’ and ‘Ashes to Dust.’ And the second one is too much like ‘Shrill Passion.’”

  My eyebrows hitch up and the pink of her cheeks deepens. The songs she’s talking about were never singles—a casual listener wouldn’t hear them on the radio. I grin again—this time it’s genuine. “You’ve got my record?”

  She folds her hands in her lap. “Maybe.”

  I laugh, clapping my hands. “And you know all the song titles. You’re totally a closet superfan, aren’t you?”

  She rolls her eyes, but she can’t hide the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You wish.”

  I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “Do I ever. Come on, tell me. How many concerts have you been to? Do you have a shirt with my face on it? How about posters? Is there a poster of me above your bed?”

  She throws her pen, hitting me in the shoulder. “What am I, thirteen?”

  “Considering we’ve made out in public, I hope not.”

  I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth. The blood drains from Ashlyn’s face and her smile falls. Clearly, the last thing she wants is to be reminded of the night we met and what she did to attract Graham’s attention.

  She picks up the clipboard again, tracing her finger over the words since she no longer has her pen. I’d reach over and hand it to her, but I think that’d just make things worse. “So, yes, I know your first album.” Her tone is formal: She’s back to teacher mode. “And these songs sound just like it.”

  If she wants to be serious and businesslike, I can be, too. “That’s good, right? Fans expect a certain sound from the band.” I’m parroting Somer now—this is the kind of stuff he said came down from the label. “If I deviate too far off that, no one’ll buy the record.”

  “I get that. But don’t you run the same risk if all the songs on the second record sound just like the ones on the first? Why would someone want to buy a CD they already own? Shouldn’t your sound...mature?”

  Her words sting like a slap. “Mature? So now you think the songs are immature?”

  “No—that’s not what I’m saying. I just mean... You’re not the same person you were when you wrote the songs on Adversity Corporation. These songs should reflect how much you’ve changed—”

  “Thanks for your opinion.” I stand and her pen clatters to the floor. I don’t bother picking it up. “I didn’t eat lunch because I didn’t know when you were coming over and I’m getting hungry. Thanks for stopping by.”

  She stands, too, picking up her clipboard. “Everett.” She closes her eyes, exhaling through her nose. “The sprinklers are on a timer. They’ll be on tomorrow morning at seven. I wouldn’t want you to get caught in it.” The corners of her mouth twitch—not quite a smile. “I’ll show myself out.”

  I should walk her to the door, but I don’t. I’m pissed as hell, but not at her. What she said makes sense—in fact, it’s what I’ve been trying to tell Somer. And Somer’s been telling me I’m wrong.

  Chapter Ten

  Ashlyn

  When the buzzer sounds through my apartment Saturday evening, announcing Graham’s arrival, I don’t panic. He texted last night, checking in on me, and asked if I’d be at the brewpub tonight. When I told him I didn’t have to work, he invited me out.

  I check my reflection in the bathroom mirror one last time. I opted for keeping my hair down tonight and run my fingers through the ends one more time. Even if I wanted to change it, it’s too late now.

  For some reason, I’m not nearly as nervous about tonight as I was for our first date. Reagan insists it’s because we’ve already crossed that first hurdle successfully, as evidenced by the fact he asked me out again. I didn’t freak out once about my wardrobe, and even now, as I head down the stairs toward the garage’s main door, I don’t regret my choice—capris and a cap-sleeve button-down blouse.

  I should be happy I’m not a mess about tonight. Maybe I’m getting back into the swing of this whole dating thing. But isn’t the fact that I’m no more excited for this date than I would be if I were hanging out with Reagan cause for concern?

  Graham smiles when I open the door, his green eyes twinkling. “Hey.”

  I smile back—I can’t help it. This is the smile I’ve seen from the stage so many times, the one I’ve wanted aimed in my direction. Now that it is, it’s infectious. My apprehensions from moments ago evaporate as a flutter builds in my stomach. That definitely doesn’t happen when I’m hanging out with Reagan. “Hi.”

  I close the door behind me, but Graham doesn’t step back; instead, he steps closer, placing a hand on the door and pressing in toward me. With his free hand, he tucks my hair behind my ear. “Looks good down.”

  Heat rushes to my cheeks and I bite my lower lip. “Thanks.”

  His eyes flick from my face to the main house. “Okay, I’ve gotta know—what’s with living in the garage? Is that your parents’ place or something?”

  The butterflies in my stomach change into writing snakes. I haven’t seen Everett since I left his house yesterday afternoon. I didn’t mean to make him so angry—I was just doing what he asked, giving my opinion. Was he expecting me to fall over myself telling him how good the songs were? They were good—I didn’t lie about that. Definitely the kinds of songs people could
sing along with on the radio, but not overly commercial—the kinds of songs that made Toxicity famous to begin with. But I guess I was just expecting more—something deeper, richer. Something that better encapsulated the Everett I know.

  But that’s ridiculous. I don’t really know Everett. We’ve never even had a real conversation—not about anything that really matters.

  Graham’s still watching me, heat radiating off his body. “No, that’s not my parents’ house. It’s a rental property, actually. I work for the landlord as the groundskeeper—you know, mowing the grass, weeding the flower beds, washing the windows.”

  He nods as I talk. “That’s kinda cool. It’s gotta be awesome, living this close to the water.”

  “Yeah, especially when the fish flies start swarming. You ready to go?”

  He straightens but doesn’t start toward his van. “Can I get a tour?”

  I tense. I can’t have him wandering around the house. What if he sees Everett? How will I explain that? “That’s not the best idea. I’m really not supposed to—”

  But Graham is already heading further up the driveway toward the main house. Cursing myself for choosing wedge sandals instead of something more sensible for chasing, I head after him. If I put up too much of a fight about him not going onto the grounds, he might get curious and think I’m hiding something—which I am. But if I can lead him around without getting too close to the house, maybe his curiosity will be satisfied and we can get going. When I’m beside him, I link my hand in his and tug him to the left. “Here—I want to show you something.”

  Graham doesn’t immediately change courses, but I don’t give him the option to continue on his trajectory. I lead him to a tiered retaining wall surrounding a Japanese maple and a small garden of flowers and start describing its construction. I’m actually pretty proud of it—this was my first independent task as the groundskeeper. Leo, the land lord, showed me the ropes for a week when I started work. He taught me how to use the riding lawn mower and how to program the sprinklers.

  He wanted some more creative landscaping done and one day showed me a picture his wife cut from a magazine. He didn’t help me with it at all, just pointed at a pile of materials and told me to do it. Before that, the most real thing I’d ever put together with my hands was a bulletin board in my classroom, but Leo seemed to think I could do it, and I believed him. Sure, it’s not perfect—a couple of the bricks don’t line up the way they should, and the spacing’s off a bit on the second tier, but I did it. And now, filled with a riot of summer flowers, it couldn’t be more beautiful.

  Since that first project, I’ve done a number of improvements around the property, including some found-art installations. One day, Reagan dragged me with her to a string of yard sales, and at the third one, an old metal bucket caught my eye. When I bought it for ten cents, I wasn’t even sure what I’d do with it. But by the end of our shopping day, I had a dozen more bits and scraps and a clear vision for what I wanted to create. That particular piece now looks like a rabbit, and I’ve hidden it in the bushes a few trees over.

  I’m about to suggest to Graham that we head in that direction, but his attention strays to the house. “Damn, that’s a lot of windows. Do you have to wash them? I bet that sucks.”

  Before he can take more than a step in the direction of the house, I pull him toward the water. Most of the lots in the area are long but narrow, with houses that nestle close together to take advantage of the available shoreline. This lot is different—wider, with arbor vitae on either side, making it feel more secluded than it is. I stick close to the trees. “I’m not supposed to get too close to the house.” It’s not exactly a lie. Leo always stresses the importance of leaving guests alone, of doing my best to be neither seen nor heard while people are staying there. But now I’m less concerned with Everett seeing us as Graham seeing Everett.

  “Have you got a tenant in there now?”

  I hesitate. “It’s kind of an all-the-time rule.”

  We clear the house and I glance at the deck, praying Everett’s not out there. When I don’t see him, a relieved sigh escapes my lips. Graham raises an eyebrow.

  I slow, sweeping my free arm in front of us. “Here we are: Lake Saint Clair in all its glory. Now, we should probably get going—”

  “Is that a Marine Dream?” Graham drops my hand, moving toward the boat. “Center console? That’s a beaut. My uncle had one like this, but he sold it a few years back. Said he didn’t have enough time to go out anymore.”

  “Graham. We really shouldn’t—”

  He turns, flashing a grin. “Come on, Ashlyn. Just a sec. Please?”

  I open my mouth, but no words come out. Damn that smile.

  I follow Graham to the dock, checking over my shoulder to make sure Everett isn’t sitting in the great room. Luckily, the way the sunlight is slanting overhead makes it difficult to look into the house. If Everett is in there, I can’t see him, which means Graham won’t be able to, either. We’ll take a look at the boat and then we’ll head back to Graham’s van. No harm done.

  Graham’s feet thud against the dock and he lets out a long, low whistle. “I’m gonna have one of these, someday.”

  I try to smile, but my stomach roils. He’s seen the boat. We should be going now. “They’re pretty expensive, right?”

  “Nah. Well, I mean, yeah, they are—but it won’t be so bad once I get a record deal.”

  My nervousness at being out here ebbs, replaced with curiosity. “Yeah? You’re getting a record deal?” I don’t know how the music business works at all, but I wasn’t aware that the metro-Detroit area had agents or labels that could give someone a big deal.

  “Well—there’s nothing in the works at the moment. But my band? We’re gonna record a demo in a couple months, once I get a couple more songs written and we get the orchestration worked out. But then, yeah. The sky’s the limit.”

  A muffled snort sounds and Graham’s eyebrows pull together. I shrug—it wasn’t me, and Graham realizes that. We draw the same conclusion simultaneously: There’s someone on the boat. Before I have a chance to distract him, to pull him away, he strides to the side. His eyes widen and he looks back, eyebrows hiked halfway up his forehead. “Ashlyn?”

  I peer onto the deck hoping that, by some miracle, the sight I’m expecting doesn’t meet my eyes. But there’s no miracle: Everett is laying out in the open space on the bow, a large cream-colored towel spread beneath him, wearing only a pair of orange-and-white swim trunks the lines of the tattoos along his chest and biceps clearly visible. He grabs for his t-shirt and pulls it on hastily, shielding his eyes as he squints up at us.

  Shit. This bad. Bad, bad, bad. You can’t find a picture of Everett in a magazine without seeing his ink—it’s far more recognizable than his face without his makeup and stubble. My mouth opens and closes, like a fish out of water, but no sound comes out.

  “Wait—does he live here?” Graham points at the lake house. There’s a shrewdness in his eyes that twists my stomach.

  “No,” I say quickly, which isn’t exactly a lie. “He—works here.” So much for not lying. “That’s how we met.”

  Graham crosses his arms over his chest. “All he’s working on is his tan.”

  “Nah, I’m just finishing my break.” Everett stands, winking at me behind Graham’s back. “I, uh... I work on the boat. Make sure it’s running. You know.”

  I nod emphatically, grasping onto the explanation. “It’s true. He’s an aquatic engine specialist.” I have no idea if it’s a job that even exists, but it sounds good. “The boat’s been making a strange noise since spring. There are parts on order.”

  Graham’s expression softens, but he’s not all the way to belief yet. “If you’re at work, what’s with the swim trunks?”

  Everett shrugs, the corners of his mouth turning down momentarily. “In case I need to get in the water to check something.”

  Graham’s mouth works back and forth, like he’s chewing over his next word choi
ce, and I take the opportunity to tug on his arm. “Let’s get going and let Everett get back to work.” I point at Everett, narrowing my eyes for effect. “If there’s not some progress on this thing by tomorrow, I’m telling Leo he needs to look for a new aquatic engine specialist.” When Graham still doesn’t budge, I bring a hand up to his face, forcing him to look at me. “Let’s go. I’m hungry.” I offer what I hope is a flirty, coquettish smile, my stomach twisting as I wait for his response.

  After a beat, Graham sighs and starts back toward the shore. He checks over his shoulder every few yards until the boat is out of sight, blocked by the house. “So, is he around much? Everett?”

  I bite the inside of my cheeks, considering my answer. “I don’t see him very often.” Not exactly the truth, but the closest I can come to it.

  Chapter Eleven

  Everett

  I should’ve taken the damn boat out.

  It was, after all, my intention when I went out there earlier. I found the boat’s keys in a drawer in the kitchen. I was pretty sure that’s what they were, anyway, because the keychain had a boat on it. So, I got into my trunks, grabbed a towel, and headed out. But I got no farther than turning on the ignition before deciding it was a stupid idea, going out alone with not even a rudimentary understanding of how the boat worked. I could see the headlines now: Rock star lost at sea, music community mourns. There’d be pictures all over the internet of scantily clad fans weeping at candle-light memorials. An ego-stroke, for sure, but worthless if I was, you know, dead. So, instead, I laid out.

  And then they showed up.

  I wasn’t going to say anything. I couldn’t see them and they couldn’t see me—a perfect arrangement. But when Graham started talking out his ass about how he was getting a record deal, I couldn’t help it. Before Toxicity, before I had any real prospects, I never told girls I was anything more than I was—a musician earning his chops. I didn’t need to lie to impress them. But apparently Graham thinks he does.