Collide (Worlds Collide Book 1)

by Quinn Nolan

  He shifts and the sheet pulls downward, revealing his bare chest. I run my fingers over his skin and he releases a soft sigh. His eyelids flutter and I pull my hand away, not wanting to wake him. I scoot toward the end of the bed, planning which outfit to grab on my way to the bathroom, but before I can stand, his hand closes around my wrist. He peers at me through one open eye.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  I can’t help smiling. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”

  “Oh, you can bother me all you want.” In a flash, his arms are around my middle, pulling me back into bed, back on top of him. He cuts off my surprised squeal by covering my mouth with his. My hands go to the back of his neck as his hands slide down my back, making gooseflesh erupt over my whole body.

  Suddenly, the checklist in my head disappears. I don’t care what time it is or how many things I need to accomplish before one o’clock. The only thing that matters is Everett and me, here and now. The feel of his body pressed against mine, the heat of him, the way his soft lips feel as they trail down my neck.

  I never knew anything could be like this. All my life, I’ve run myself ragged in an attempt to prove my worth, to make my parents proud, to achieve the goals I thought I wanted—needed. But I’m not striving now. I’m lost not in work or duty but in Everett—in his arms, his kiss. And for the first time, I don’t care about what I have to do, what’s expected or who might be inconvenienced. All I want is him and me, here in my bed—a universe of our own creation. And when the world comes apart, his eyes are open, watching me, reminding me that for now, at least, I’m the only one in his world.

  ***

  I’m nearly ten minutes late to the restaurant. Mom has sent not one but three texts asking where I am, despite the fact that I already let her know I’d be late.

  I had time to shower, but not to dry my hair, so it’s wound into a bun at the crown of my head. And while I’m wearing one of the binding blouses she bought for a career I’ll never go back to, today I’ve paired it with jeans and wedge sandals.

  She won’t like it. And, for the first time, I don’t care.

  My mother’s displeasure is obvious as soon as her eyes land on me. Her mouth puckers and her eyebrows crease, making her look like an irritated librarian.

  “You’re late,” she says by way of greeting as I take my seat across from her. “I nearly lost the table, I had to send the waitress away so many times.”

  I glance pointedly at the half dozen empty tables in our immediate vicinity. It’s such a flat-out lie that I don’t bother disagreeing. Maybe it’s all the happy-chemicals still surging through my system from this morning with Everett, but I’m barely even irritated with her.

  The waitress notices my arrival and, smiling, approaches the table. Without blinking, I order a margarita, ignoring my mom’s tut of disapproval.

  She wastes no time as the waitress leaves our table. “Really, Ashlyn. I’m starting to think you have a serious problem. Is it really so hard to get through a simple meal without alcohol?”

  I sigh. “Do we seriously have to have this conversation again?”

  She straightens her back, squaring her shoulders. “Well, what else is there to talk about? You seem to shy away from anything having to do with your life. Any time I try to bring up work, you get upset—”

  “That’s because you bring up a job I no longer have. I don’t teach anymore, Mom. And I don’t ever plan to go back to teaching. And I’m sorry if that disappoints you, but it’s the way it is.” I pause, drawing in a breath. It’s like everything I’ve wanted to tell her for the last several months is tumbling out all at once. For the moment, she’s too stunned to respond, so I press on. “It’s not like I don’t have a job. I have two. And maybe you don’t think they’re respectable enough, but I enjoy them, and I’m supporting myself, so I don’t know what your problem is. It’s my life.”

  The stunned look of a moment ago evaporates, replaced by a narrow-eyed anger. “Your life, is it?” She leans across the table. “Seems to me you’ve suddenly decided that your life is everyone’s business. Can you even, for one moment, understand how embarrassed—how ashamed—I am right now?” She closes her eyes, releasing a breath. “I promised myself I was going to let you bring it up, but it’s clear you don’t care. You’re probably even proud.”

  My stomach twists. She knows. I’d been counting on her not knowing—at least not today. I wasn’t ready to deal with this today.

  “Do you know what it’s like to have not one, not two, but several of your friends calling you on the phone to tell you there are pictures of your only daughter with a half-naked man all over the internet. In her underwear.”

  “We were in bathing suits,” I say weakly.

  “And that’s supposed to make it all better? I’ve seen the pictures, Ashlyn. I know what the rest of the world knows—that you had sex with that man.” She drops her voice for the last part, which is almost comical considering her claim that everyone in the world already knows. But the voice drop isn’t for my benefit, of course—it’s for hers. She doesn’t want herself associated with me. “How do you ever expect to find a husband once they all know you’re used goods?”

  Heat flushes my cheeks, but the embarrassment isn’t for me, it’s for her. What is this, nineteen fifty? “Mom, I hate to break it to you, but Everett’s not the first guy I’ve been with.”

  Her shoulders slump, her eyes going soft. “Oh, honey. No wonder Scott didn’t marry you.”

  I bang my hand on the table. She opens her mouth to scold me, but I talk over her. “He didn’t break up with me because we had sex, Mom, he broke up with me because—get this—I was too driven. I could never just relax and be with him because I was always doing coursework or researching teaching methods. He said I never had time for him, and he thought it would be just as bad—or worse—if we got married. He said he didn’t know if we could ever have a family together because my career would get in the way. Thought I’d resent kids for taking away from the time I could be spending on—I don’t know—grading papers or e-mailing parents. And you know what? He was right. My whole life, I worked so hard. It got to the point that I forgot how not to work hard. And I hated it, but I figured it was just what life was. I wasn’t supposed to be happy. But I don’t think that anymore. I know being an adult doesn’t mean I get to do whatever I want, I know I have responsibilities. But I can’t let that be my whole life. I was dying, Mom. I was drowning when I taught. And maybe you think that I’m weak because I couldn’t handle it, and there’s a time I would’ve believed you. But now I know that having the courage to quit—that was the bravest thing I’ve ever done.”

  I’m panting now, adrenaline coursing through my system. Mom’s eyes are wide like she’s trying to figure out who this person sitting in front of her is.

  The waitress chooses this moment to bring my margarita. “Are you two ready to order?” Her words are bright, but her smile looks more like a grimace. She knows she’s walked into a mess; I can’t blame her for being a bit afraid.

  I shake my head. “I’m sorry, but I won’t be staying.” I pull my wallet out and press a twenty into her hand—way more than is strictly necessary to cover my margarita and a tip, but it’s all I’ve got and I don’t plan to wait around for change. I grab the glass and down most of the drink in a few huge gulps. When I set it back down, I look at my mom, wanting to say something to end the day’s interaction, but everything in my head sounds too final. So I leave without saying a word.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Everett

  There’s a song buzzing around in my head that just won’t go away.

  It started this morning, while Ash and I were still in bed, putting a tune behind the words that came to me in snippets yesterday on the boat. And while I don’t have all the lyrics or the melody worked out yet, I know one thing without a doubt: It’s her song. Or maybe it’s ours.

  I peek out the door before leaving the garage. Somehow, Somer manage
d to get all the cameras to go away before he even arrived last night, but that doesn’t mean that some sneaky bastard isn’t still poking around.

  The only thing out of the ordinary is a police car parked on a side street across Jefferson. It’s amazing what a record label can accomplish. I’m sure the officer in the car has something better to do than babysit that corner, making sure no one sets up with a camera. I wave at him as I leave the safety of the garage and he lifts an arm in return.

  Maybe later I’ll have a pizza delivered over there. It seems like the kind of thing Ash would do.

  The main house is still quiet. It wouldn’t surprise me if Chase is still asleep—it’s only around ten a.m. L.A. time here—but it seems strange that Somer’s not up and about. Maybe he’s worn out from everything yesterday.

  I was surprised last night when the car pulled up and dropped Chase along with Somer. My mess isn’t really Chase’s issue. When I asked, he simply said he thought I might need some support.

  Although our relationship started off rocky—we both came into the band thinking we’d be lead and he didn’t take it well when the label picked me over him—he seemed to have gotten over any bad blood during the last tour.

  None of the members of Toxicity knew each other before the band formed. The band was borne out of a contest—run by Somer—to build the next big thing in music. And while Somer doesn’t have a musical bone in his body and can’t carry a tune to save his life, the man does have an ear for talent, and for what will sell. And despite the fact that the four of us didn’t click automatically, Somer wouldn’t entertain the notion of swapping out any members to promote band harmony.

  Now, nearly two years later, I still don’t really get along with Logan and Tristan, but Chase and I have formed an alliance. And based on his presence here, maybe even a friendship.

  I creep to the great room and pick up my acoustic, which is still propped against the couch, and a notebook and pen on my way to the deck. The water is nearly empty, except for a police boat sitting about a hundred yards out.

  I wonder if you can get pizza delivered on the water.

  I sit down at the patio table and flip my notebook open to a fresh page. When I bring the pen to the paper, the words come immediately, like they were just waiting for me to ask.

  I want hope / to bring to light / the things that I need now. / I need hope / to invigorate / and make it real somehow.

  I pull the guitar onto my thigh and try strumming a few chords, trying out different rhythms. Songs never come to me in just one way. Sometimes, the lyrics are first—I’ll write a whole song before ever touching an instrument or trying to put a melody to it. Other times, it’s the tune that comes first—melodies, harmonies, riffs, and chords. But sometimes, it’s like now, and it all comes in stages—the lyrics, then the music, the music then lyrics. The two feed each other until the song is complete.

  I’m lost in the process. A thousand boats with a thousand cameras could move in now and I wouldn’t notice. I haven’t been this caught up in a song in a long time—maybe not since the last record. Time loses meaning. I could be out here all day or less than an hour and it would feel the same.

  Once I’m pretty set on the melody and chord progression and have what I think will be the verse and chorus down, I run through it. My skin tingles as I sing along. In my head, I can hear what the other instruments will fill in—a bass line here, a cymbal crash there. I can hear the way it will sound on the record, on the radio. And it’s good. Really good.

  The last chord rings out and someone clears his throat. I palm the strings and turn. Somer is leaning against the house, head cocked thoughtfully. Usually I don’t like people overhearing my stuff when I’m still working on it, but today it doesn’t bother me. I grin—I can’t help it. “Hey, Somer. So...what’d you think?”

  His head remains tilted and for a moment I wonder if he didn’t hear me. I’m about to repeat myself when he straightens, pursing his lips. “Kind of a ballad, huh?”

  I shrug, trying to play it casual, but my stomach is already dropping. “Yeah, I guess. A little, maybe.”

  His eyebrows scrunch and he crosses to the table, taking a seat across from me. “I’m not sure the label will go for it. It doesn’t really sound like Toxicity, you know?”

  “It’s not done yet,” I say quickly. How can he dismiss the song so out-of-hand? “Every band needs a power ballad every once in a while, right?”

  He holds up a hand. “I’m not saying it’s not nice. It just might not fit with our vibe, you know?”

  I know Somer well enough to know I’m being shot down. He tries to be subtle about it—never piss off the rock star—but it doesn’t change facts.

  This is a good song—a great one, even. Somer may have an ear for these things, but it doesn’t mean he’s always right, does it?

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Ashlyn

  My cell starts ringing soon after I leave the restaurant and doesn’t stop.

  The thing is, it’s not just the same number calling over and over again. A half dozen or so numbers show up on my caller ID every couple of minutes.

  I ignore them, putting my ringer on silent so I don’t have to hear my ringtone a million times. But the phone still buzzes in my cup holder.

  I’m positive I know who’s calling—or near enough. Reporters must have gotten my number somehow. Still, there’s a tug at the corner of my mind. What if it’s not a reporter? What if someone is trying to get in touch with me for something important—an emergency?

  I’m still five minutes out from the apartment, but I can’t ignore the calls any longer. I have to answer—just to be sure.

  I pull over into a restaurant parking lot and into the first open space I see. I throw the car into park and stare at my phone. It’s not ringing anymore. Maybe it was nothing after all. My hand is on the gear shift, ready to put the car into reverse, when the phone vibrates again.

  Steeling myself, I answer it. “Hello?”

  “Hello?” The woman on the other line sounds both surprised and pleased. “Is this Ashlyn Mackenzie?”

  My heartbeat kicks up. “May I ask who’s calling?”

  I know I’ve said the wrong thing as soon as she starts talking again. “Miss Mackenzie—may I call you Ashlyn? I work for the entertainment blog Star Studded and I was wondering if I could get a word or two with you about your involvement with Ever Anders—”

  “I’m sorry, you have the wrong—”

  “—and Graham Jordan?”

  I freeze, too stunned to hang up. I expected to be asked about my involvement with Everett, but Graham? What would a celebrity blog care about him? It’s not even like he’s a local celebrity—just one musician in a sea of them, playing small gigs where he can get them. How is he on anyone’s radar?

  But as soon as the thought enters my mind, the answer follows: The posts on Graham’s MyFeedMe yesterday. The messages about bloggers.

  I mostly laughed at Reagan—her insistence that she was solidifying her public image, her joking suggestions about what I should do with my fifteen minutes of fame. It seemed ridiculous, anyone really being interested in either of us.

  But maybe Graham doesn’t think it’s so ridiculous. Maybe he’s using this opportunity to get his name out there.

  Maybe he’s using me.

  “Miss Mackenzie? Ashlyn? Are you still there?”

  I swallow. “You’ve got the wrong number. Don’t call back.” The reporter starts to say something, but I hang up. Seconds later, the phone is ringing again. I dismiss the call and block the number.

  I have a feeling I’m going to be doing that a lot today.

  ***

  After the barrage of phone calls, I almost expect the street by the apartment to be filled with photographers again, but it’s blissfully devoid of such shenanigans. I wave at the police officer on the adjoining street and he returns the gesture as I pull into the driveway.

  Everett isn’t in the apartment—I’m both dis
appointed and relieved. As I sat in the restaurant parking lot for ten minutes, denying and blocking every number that called, a solution came to me. And while I don’t like it, it’s what’s best for Everett.

  If Graham is trying to use Everett’s fame to claw his way into the limelight, I have to cut off his access. I have to break things off with Everett.

  I press my lips together as I flop backward onto my bed. It doesn’t have to be forever—just until Graham figures out his plan won’t work. Then, Everett and I...

  But who am I kidding? I went into this knowing it would most likely be temporary. Maybe the shelf life will just be shorter than even I anticipated.

  I roll to my side. The pillow still smells like Everett, like his shampoo. Almonds.

  Tears spring to my eyes and I blink them back. I can’t get sentimental. But it’s hard because I do care about him. That’s why I have to end things.

  I should go now. There’s no need to drag things out. I feel a bit bad for Everett’s manager and bandmate—they just got here. When they find out about what Graham’s doing, they’ll probably agree that the best thing is to get some distance from me. I just wish there was an alternative.

  I push myself off the mattress and start toward the door. Since Everett’s not here, he’s probably at the house. I don’t really want to go there, not with his manager lurking about. What if he’s mad at me? He’d have every right to be. But what if he wants to lecture me, yell at me? It’s not really something I want to deal with.

  To buy time, I veer toward my makeshift closet. I’m still wearing one of my old teaching blouses and jeans—and it’s too warm for both things. I pull off the shirt and kick off my jeans as I peruse my selection.

  I’m pulling one of my fancier tank tops off a hanger when the door opens. I snap my head toward the sound just as Everett enters, his acoustic guitar slung over his shoulder. A broad grin stretches across his face as his eyes rake my body.