by Quinn Nolan
When he doesn’t respond immediately, warning bells go off in my head. What the hell am I doing? But before I can pull away, his arm is around my back, crushing my body against his. His lips part and his tongue darts forward to greet mine, like old friends reunited. My hands tangle in his hair and he moans against my mouth. The sound makes my knees go weak and I’m sure without his support I’d fall to the ground. How could I ever have compared a kiss from Graham to a kiss from Everett? Fireworks explode through my body at his touch, my heart pounds in my chest, seeking his own rhythm to match.
For I don’t know how long, everything is feeling—hands, lips, arms, bodies. Then, there’s motion. Somehow, my legs are wrapped around his waist and he’s carrying me, his mouth never leaving mine. Twice, my back bumps into a wall, but I don’t care—I can’t care.
Everett lowers me to his bed, pulling away for the first time, fixing me with his gaze. “Too far?”
I grip his upper arms, now allowing him to pull any farther back than he already is. The loss of contact between our bodies is already too much. I shake my head. “No.” Not far enough. I trace my fingers down the curves and contours of his chest, loving the way his breath catches and he tenses as my hands move across his skin. After I skate down to the waistband of his swim trunks and back up, I pull his face to mine and we’re kissing again. It’s like that first night—exciting and wild—but it’s better, more somehow. Because this isn’t a game tonight. It’s not about someone else, it’s about us.
I nudge his shoulder and he takes the hint, rolling onto his back, taking me with him. I break our kiss and grab the hem of my t-shirt, pulling it over my head in a swift motion. But when my fingers touch the strap of my bikini top, Everett stills my hands.
“I’m not drunk. I need you to know that. I’m here—with you—right now.”
He wants this. I can see it clearly in his eyes, feel between us just how desperate his need is. But his grip on my wrists doesn’t loosen. There’s something more. He doesn’t just want this—this moment between us. He wants me. A prickling sensation gathers in my eyes and I blink, nodding, hoping he doesn’t notice. He shifts beneath me, curling to a sitting position and wrapping his arms around me. His lips brush against my collar bone, my neck, my jaw. I shiver as he feathers a kiss on my cheek and finally on each eyelid. He holds me for a long while—not kissing, or pressing, just rubbing light circles on my back. And when I’m ready, I bring my mouth back down to his.
Chapter Eighteen
Everett
When I wake, Ashlyn is snuggled against me, her head resting on my shoulder. I’m struck by how beautiful she is—even in the weak rays of light that manage to creep into the room through the black-out curtains. As I watch her sheet-covered chest rise and fall with each breath, I still can’t quite believe what happened last night. After her reaction when I tried to kiss her on the water, I was sure I knew where the two of us stood, sure she wasn’t interested in me that way. And as much as I’m not used to that kind of reaction from women, I understood: Ashlyn’s the kind of girl who takes things seriously. She’s seeing Graham—and while I think he’s kind of a flaming douche, she must see something good in him. She made it clear after their first date that when she was with him, she was with him—no more casual kisses from me.
But last night was so much more than casual kissing. I only hope she doesn’t regret it when she wakes up.
Ashlyn shifts and I hold my breath, afraid I’ve done something to wake her. But she simply rolls onto her side and resumes sleeping.
This is good. It gives me a little more time. As quietly as possible, I creep out of bed and pull on some shorts, prepared to do something I’ve never felt compelled to do for anyone.
I’m going to make breakfast for her.
The sunlight filtering through the wall of windows overlooking the lake dazzles me and I hold my hand out to block the glare as I make my way into the kitchen, thankful it’s set away from the tunnel of windows, affording some degree of shadow.
I open the refrigerator and assess the contents. Mostly, in the mornings, I’ll fry up some bacon and sometimes chase it with a beer, but I can’t exactly do that for Ashlyn. She’ll probably be less than impressed with such a meager showing.
Why do I feel the need to impress her? I made it clear last night that she wasn’t just some groupie to me, that I wasn’t with her because I’d had too much to drink and she just happened to be there. I’m sure she understood that. But that, and now breakfast? It’s not really my style.
I pull out some bacon and a carton of eggs and set them on the counter. There’s a store-bought mixed fruit salad, too, and I grab it for good measure.
As I start on the bacon and eggs, I can’t help thinking of my dad’s old housekeeper, Marta. She was the one who taught me to cook. Not that I’m, like, a chef or anything, but I can keep myself alive and not burn down a building.
My dad was pissed when he found out she was teaching me to cook—he almost fired her. When I finally got him calmed down enough to listen and was able to convince him she wasn’t trying to shirk her duties, he asked why I’d even want to know how to cook. Marta had smiled, wiping her hands across the ever-present apron stretched across her wide hips. “So one day he can impress ladies.”
To this, my dad had snorted, crossing his arms over his chest. “If he has to rely on his cooking to impress women, he’s doing something wrong.”
That was my dad, though—a high-power corporate lawyer, he had little time to worry about going out of his way to impress anyone. He let his court record speak for him on that count—that, and his custom-tailored suits and expensive cars. At the time, I thought he had a good point. He was never without a young, hot woman on his arm or in his bed. None of them ever stuck around for long, and Dad always insisted it was because he didn’t have time for the demands of a relationship. He had his career to think about, and his career was the most important thing.
I never asked, but I always wondered if that was why Mom left.
The eggs are finished, but the bacon’s not quite done when Ashlyn makes her way into the room. She’s wearing her bikini bottoms and the tank top from yesterday and I’m so distracted by the lines of her body that I get snapped with bacon grease.
“Ah, hell!” The tongs clatter to the countertop as I bring my hand up to rub my cheek where the grease landed. It feels like a nail-sized hole burned its way through my skin.
Ashlyn’s at my side in a second, peering into my face. “Are you okay? Did it get your eye?”
Her hand covers mine like she’s trying to displace it to get a look for herself. This is good—she cares, she didn’t try to sneak out a window. For the moment, there’s no morning-after awkwardness and I capitalize on it, swooping down to kiss her.
There is no hesitation when her lips touch mine. She presses in eagerly, her hands slipping around to the back of my neck. The bacon’s probably burning, but I don’t care. I slip my arm around her waist, pulling her close and running my tongue over her lips. She opens her mouth eagerly.
From the bedroom, a high-pitched whine sounds. Ashlyn pulls away. “Is that the fire alarm?”
“No.” But she has a point. I go back to the stove and turn off the burner. The bacon doesn’t look too scorched. The whine sounds again and I sigh. I should’ve just hit send yesterday. Somer was expecting the new songs. Now that he’s woken up and realized he still doesn’t have them, he’s probably pissed. But I can deal with him later. “That’s just Somer—my manager. I’ll send him a message in a bit. He always wants to video chat and I don’t want to have to look at him this early in the morning.”
Ashlyn laughs. “Fair enough.” She peers around me, inspecting the contents of the two pans on the stove. “Bacon and eggs? I approve.”
Warmth fills me at her words. So far, things are going better than I could have hoped. I don’t know what’s going to happen next, or long-term, but I can’t worry about that right now. For now, Ashlyn is smiling, looking c
ompletely happy about being with me—both last night and this morning.
She grabs two plates and some forks, and I don’t bother asking how she knows where everything is. When she grabs glasses, she asks, “Could you get the orange juice out?”
I take a step toward the fridge before stopping. “I don’t think I have orange juice.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me, did you do the grocery shopping, or did I?”
I hold my hands up innocently. “I stand corrected.” After a bit of poking around, I find the orange juice—hidden behind an unopened gallon of milk and half a watermelon. Ashlyn smirks as I fill our glasses.
My phone lets out another whine and Ashlyn touches my shoulder. “It’s okay, you know, if you have to take that. I understand. I mean, he is your manager, right?”
I wave away her concern. “I’ve got what he wants, I just need to send it. He can wait until we’re done with breakfast.” I inject as much confidence as I can into my voice, but something isn’t sitting right. I haven’t checked the time, but it’s still early. And while Somer’s an early riser, he understands that most rockers aren’t, so he doesn’t typically redial so quickly in the morning. But, if the label’s putting pressure on him, maybe that explains the multiple calls. I tamp down a swell of guilt. I should’ve sent the songs yesterday. It’s the day’s one regret.
Ashlyn takes a step toward me, sliding her hands onto my hips. Her eyes lock on mine and I have a feeling breakfast can wait. I lean down and meet her mouth, sweet and warm against mine. Just as we get going, she pulls away, a wicked smile on her face. Before I can ask what’s going on, she holds up two slices of bacon—one in each hand—before taking a bite of one of them.
I wrinkle my nose. “Did you just distract me so you could pull that out of the pan? Shameless.”
She smiles. “It’s really good. I’m actually impressed you can cook. I figured you’d have a fleet of servants in your employ—”
My phone starts ringing again, but it’s not the high shrill of a video call, it’s a snippet off one of the songs on the last record—a guitar solo. Chase’s ringtone. But why would Chase be calling me?
Ashlyn slips past me to the counter, setting her uneaten bacon on a plate. She chews her bottom lip, looking uncomfortable. “I could come back. Why don’t I head back to my apartment and take a shower and change, and—”
“No.” I don’t want her to leave. What if she goes back to her place and the spell is broken? What if she starts having second thoughts about last night, starts feeling guilty because of Graham or something? If she wants to shower, she can do it here—maybe I can even join her. I’m about to suggest just that when an unfamiliar ringing begins. It takes me a moment to place it—the house’s land line. The only other time I’ve heard it ring is the night Ash called to ask if I’d come to the brewpub.
At the sound, Ashlyn stiffens, a blush rising in her cheeks. “That might be Leo. Sometimes he has to come onto the grounds when someone’s staying here, and he always calls ahead to make sure it’s a good time.” She rubs her hands down her face. “He can’t find me here. I’m not supposed to bother tenants—”
“You’re hardly bothering me.” I waggle my eyebrows, but the panic doesn’t ebb from her features. The phone stops ringing and the color drains from her face. I stroke her shoulder. “Hey, I’ll just call back. Tell him now’s not a good time. It’s okay.”
She doesn’t look convinced, but she nods and follows me out to the great room. I squint against the sunlight filtering through the lake-side windows. That whole part of the house is like a wall of light—I can barely make out the water.
“What time is it, anyway?” Ashlyn murmurs, walking to the end table where she left her phone last night. She picks it up, her brow wrinkling. “That’s weird.”
I grab the handset of the cordless phone and jab at a button so the caller ID comes up. I’m about to hit redial when something about the number catches my eye: It’s got an L.A. area code.
Before I can really process what this could mean, Ashlyn gasps. “Oh, my… Oh, my…” Numbly, she holds her phone to me.
I figure her boss sent her a text or left a voice mail. I open my mouth, ready to assure her whatever it is, it’s okay and we can deal with it—she can certainly hide in one of the many rooms in the house if it comes to that—but then I see what’s on her screen. It’s a picture, slightly grainy in quality likely due to both distance and the semi-darkness of the great room. Still, there’s no mistaking what it’s an image of: Ashlyn and me, arms wrapped around each other, kissing right in front of the wall of windows overlooking the deck.
The windows we’re in front of now.
“Shit! Ash, quick—back to the bedroom!”
She doesn’t move, her eyes locked on her phone’s screen. I grab her wrist, tugging her down the hallway. “It’s the only room I know of with blackout curtains. They can’t see us there.”
She follows, numbly. I close the door behind us and run my hands through my hair. How did they find me? How long has the paparazzi known I’m here? I cross to the window and spread the curtain just far enough to see through. As I suspected, there are half a dozen boats parked not-too-discretely off shore. How many pictures did they get this morning? Luckily, Ashlyn and I spent most of the time in the kitchen, but that does nothing to untwist the knot in my stomach.
I pull closed the curtains once more, cursing. How did this happen?
Behind me, Ashlyn lowers herself to the edge of the bed, complexion pale. In three strides, I’m at her side, pressing my hands to her cheeks, forcing her to look at me. “It’ll be okay.” At this point, I don’t see how those words could be even remotely true, but I’ll say anything to make her stop looking so shocked and vacant. “Don’t worry. It’s fine. Everything’s fine.”
My phone shrills, and we both jump. Her mouth twitches like she’s trying to smile but can’t quite manage. “You should probably get that this time.”
Chapter Nineteen
Ashlyn
The picture is everywhere. Reagan and Teresa both told me to turn off my phone, my computer, unplug my internet connection.
But I can’t.
I wouldn’t call myself a celebrity stalker or anything, but my social media is peppered with pop culture. Usually, I barely notice it, but today, it’s like the entire world has exploded around this one story.
Ever Anders shacks up with mystery girl!
Ever Anders in secret love nest!
Ever Anders found in Michigan. You’ll never guess what he’s been up to!
Every headline is accompanied by a shot similar to the one Reagan texted me earlier. Some are at different angles, and a couple show my legs wrapped around his waist. I even saw one of him carrying me back to his bedroom.
Holy hell. The whole world knows I slept with him.
Bile rises in my throat. Everyone knows. Well, that’s probably overstating things. I mean, it’s not like Toxicity is famous in every country in the world. And there are places on Earth where it’s still the middle of the night, so maybe those people don’t know yet. And then there are the people who don’t use the internet—like my mom. They probably won’t know for a day or two at least—until the pictures show up in the supermarket tabloids. But anyone who follows the music industry even tangentially will probably already know.
Oh, no.
Graham.
Forgetting the whole my-picture-plastered-all-over-the-internet thing, my only regret about last night is not telling Graham I wanted to end things before being with Everett. It was shitty of me, and I own that, but I figured I could tell him today. I didn’t plan for the possibility that he might find out on his own.
I pull out my phone again and open the web browser. I have only to type in Everett’s name for a slew of pictures and articles to pop up. I click on the first picture and squint at it. My face isn’t completely visible, and if it’s just thumbnail size, Graham might not realize it’s me. There would be no reason for him to s
uspect it would be me with him anyway—he doesn’t know that Everett the aquatic engineer is actually Ever Anders, lead singer of Toxicity.
There’s still a chance he doesn’t know.
I open the text message app and type in Reagan’s name. Come over. Now. Park in the garage.
She responds in less than a minute. I told you to turn off your phone. You’re a glutton for punishment.
Anger flares. I’m halfway through tapping out a second message when another from her comes through: I’m on my way.
The plan takes shape in my mind as I pace the length of the apartment. There are photographers camped out on the sidewalk across the street—I saw them on my walk from the house. I’m afraid if I leave in my own car, they’ll follow me. Maybe that’s paranoid—why would they be overly interested in me?—but I don’t want to take the chance.
I’m still in the tank top and bikini bottoms from yesterday, so I grab a fresh set of clothes to change into. The girl who greets me in the bathroom mirror makes me jump: Hair a rat’s nest, complexion ashen, mascara shadowed beneath the eyes. Throwing the clothes on the floor, I jump into the shower.
By the time I’m dry, dressed, and applying makeup, I hear the low rumble of the garage door and sigh with relief. Reagan will help. She always knows what to do.
I open the door before she has a chance to knock and am rewarded with a punch in the arm. “Reagan, what the hell?”
But her face is alight, a grin stretched across her features. “I knew he looked familiar. Ash, Ever Anders? This is so huge.”
I pull her into the apartment and close the door. “Later, okay. First, I need your help.”
She snorts. “Do you ever. Did you know there’s paparazzi outside? I flipped them off when I pulled in.”