Collide (Worlds Collide Book 1)

by Quinn Nolan

  “Looks like you were expecting me.”

  I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. My body is already responding to him, even as he crosses the apartment. He pauses only to lean the guitar against the wall before sliding his hands over my bare sides and running his fingertips up my back. My skin tingles at his touch, and instead of using my lips to form words, suddenly I’m using them to kiss him.

  I should stop this—I know I should. I need to. But there’s a breakdown of communication between my brain and body. I’m about ready to strip off my bra and panties and pull him onto my bed when he breaks our embrace. Surprised, I take a step back, studying him. His breathing is a bit ragged—just like mine—and his face is flushed. He smiles again, shaking his head.

  “I actually came here for a reason. I mean, not that this—” His hands mime an hourglass figure. “—isn’t a fabulous reason. But...” He points at the guitar. “Would you listen to something? I’ve been working on it since you left.”

  “Sure.” I say it because—well—what else can I say? There’s an excited glint in his eye that’s almost boyish. Far too adorable to ignore. I’ll listen to his song, we’ll talk about it, then I can tell him about Graham and the reporters.

  He grabs his guitar and settles himself on the edge of my bed. I bend down to scoop up the shirt I dropped. “I should probably put some clothes on.”

  He shrugs. “You don’t have to.”

  I stick out my tongue, but that doesn’t stop a blush from creeping into my cheeks. Since the shirt is already in my hands, I pull it on, but I don’t grab a pair of shorts. Everett pouts as I sit beside him on the bed. “Didn’t you have a song to play?”

  He holds the pout for a beat longer before turning serious. As he begins strumming the guitar, I study his face. He looks different than the last time he played for me—almost nervous. Is it because of my last critique, or is it something more?

  The surreality of the situation washes over me. Ever Anders, international rock star, one of People’s sexiest men alive, is performing a private concert for me, in the bed we shared last night and this morning.

  Then he starts singing and all thoughts ebb from my mind.

  “Do you feel the way I do / when our fingers intertwine? / This warmth I feel rush to my lips / the need to bring yours to mine? / I want hope / to bring to light / the things that I need now. / I need hope / to invigorate / and make it real somehow. / It fills my form and senses / this hope it seems I’ve found. / It heals me, frees and steels me / and proves that hope was all around...”

  As he sings the chorus again, tears prickle my eyes. Gooseflesh breaks out over my body, like his words are gently caressing every inch of my skin.

  “Look around / let it in / hope without / hope within. / Look around / let it in / hope without / hope within. / I want hope / to bring to light / the things that I need now. / I need hope / to invigorate / and make it real somehow.”

  The last chord rings out and fades and the room goes silent. Everett turns his gaze to me, eyebrows raised. He’s waiting for my reaction, but I can’t even open my mouth. I'm afraid to blink.

  He releases an uneasy chuckle. “You’re, uh, kinda freaking me out right now. If you hated it, just tell me. I can take it. I’m a big—”

  I punch him in the arm. Not able to keep my eyes open any longer, I blink, two fat tears tumbling down my cheeks.

  Everett rubs the spot I hit, eyes wide, mouth agape. “Ash—what—”

  “Hate it? Everett Anders, that is the most beautiful fucking song I’ve heard in my entire life.” I point to my face, where I can still feel the damp trails left by the salty droplets. “Did you miss the part where you made me cry?”

  Relief washes over his face and he rubs the back of his neck. “Anderson.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “What?”

  “My last name. It’s Anderson. The label thought it sounded too generic and shortened it to Anders. It’s not, like, top secret or anything, but it’s not exactly common knowledge, either. The thought was letting people know my last name was as vanilla as Anderson would cut in on my image...” He shakes his head. “It all sounds kinda ridiculous when I try to explain it, but it made sense when they first told me.”

  My eyes fill again, partly still reacting to the song, and partly reacting to this revelation. He’s given me a piece of him here, a piece that he keeps hidden from the world and, I can only imagine, the plethora of girls he’s shared a bed with. This simple thing—his real name, this piece of who he really is as opposed to who he’s supposed to be—is so loaded with intimacy that my earlier resolve quakes. But it’s wrong for me to be so selfish, to allow Everett to be used because of me, because of my association with him. I still have to end things. But maybe—just maybe—when things cool down, there can be a future for us. Although, if I’m honest, I have no idea what a future for us could even look like.

  But I can’t make myself say it. Instead, I move to a simpler, safer topic. “Have you played the song for your manager yet? What did he think?”

  Everett’s face clouds and I wonder if I’ve said something wrong. “Somer walked outside when I was still working on it. He...wasn’t convinced it was the right vibe for the record—for the band.”

  “Oh.” I consider this. I suppose there’s a point—none of Toxicity’s other stuff sounds like this. But when he played it just now, the song definitely sounded like Everett. It’s nothing like “Mischief Chain,” but, somehow, it’s everything like it. Like a continuation of the same story. Is it just because of how I’ve grown to know Everett that I see it? Is it possible that other people—people who only know the band and the image of Ever Anders—won’t be able to tell that?

  He blows out a breath. “It’s just—I’ve never felt this strongly about a song before. I know it has potential—even more than ‘Mischief Chain’ ever did, and that song was huge. I don’t care what Somer thinks. I’ll pitch the song to the label myself if I have to.”

  “Wow.” I don’t know that I’ve ever felt as passionate about something as Everett feels about this song. It’s like my whole life, I’ve been waiting to feel that way about something—anything. I kept thinking it would come with the next phase in my life. First, after all the work I did in high school and college, I thought that once I finally got my own classroom and my own students, I’d be passionate about teaching. But it never came. And when I quit, spurred on by Reagan, I thought I could be passionate about life in general—about having my freedom and doing what I want for once, instead of what I have to do. Still, even then, there was something lacking.

  The corner of Everett’s mouth twitches as he lays the guitar carefully on the floor at the foot of the bed. “You know, I got the idea for the song when we were out on the boat together. The words just kinda started taking shape in my head.” He pauses, dropping his gaze to his hands. He’s quiet so long, I’m sure he’s expecting me to say something, but just as I open my mouth, he reaches over, covering my hand with his. “This song’s about you—about us. And I wanna fight for it.”

  Tears prickle my eyes again, but before they can fall, Everett’s lips find mine. The most beautiful song I’ve ever heard, and he wrote it for me. He wants to fight for the song—does that mean he wants to fight for us by extension?

  And then his hands start roving over my body and I can’t think any more. He pulls me onto his lap, my legs straddling his, and everything is sensation—want, need, heat. We rock together as his mouth trails down my neck, across my collar bone. After he removes my tank top and bra, his kisses trail lower, and the combination of his hands, his body, his mouth, his lyrics overwhelms me and I come apart before we even begin. He holds me against his hard body as I crest and fall, lips grazing my neck, and when I come down, shivering, he guides me to the mattress so I’m lying beside him.

  He strokes the side of my face with his fingertips, eyebrows pulled together as he studies me intently. “What is this?” He murmurs it so quietly, I’m not sure he meant to ask
it out loud.

  Indeed. What is happening between us? Although we’ve known each other for just two weeks, in so many ways, it feels much longer. But we’re stealing this time, there’s no denying it. What happens when it’s over? When he goes back to his real life, full of recording studios and photo shoots and no shortage of women wanting and willing to give their bodies to him? Is there even a place for me? Maybe it’s not just best for him to end things now, maybe it’s best for me, too. Before I can let myself fall too far into this fantasy.

  “I want hope / to bring to light / the things that I need now. / I need hope / to invigorate / and make it real somehow.” He sings the words quietly, like a lullaby, as his fingers trail down my neck, across my chest, along my waist, before skating up and down the elastic of my panties.

  Right now, this is real. Everett here, wanting me, wanting us—it’s real. And as our lips find each other’s again, I hold on to the one thing I can: hope.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Everett

  I only leave Ash’s apartment when she has to go to work.

  We didn’t talk much after I told her about the song. If I’m honest, I’m more than a little afraid what she might say. I wasn’t expecting her to cry when she heard it—but that’s a good sign, isn’t it? If it stirred up emotions like that in her even before she knew she inspired it, that has to mean those feelings are in her somewhere, right?

  For possibly the first time in my life, I wish I had more experience with girls. Not sex experience—I’ve had plenty of that. Like, relationship experience. I dated a couple girls in high school, but even those arrangements were casual at best. A couple even told me they loved me, so I said it back—but only because I felt I was supposed to, not because of any real attachment I had for them.

  The male-female relationships in my life have always been messed up—from my dad attributing my mom’s splitting to her being too emotionally “overtaxing,” to the string of women he always had parading through my house, to throng of women who always paraded after me—I’ve never learned what a relationship is supposed to look like. And suddenly, I very much wish I knew.

  It’s crazy, this thing with Ash. Somehow, it’s like I can be more myself with her than anyone. It’s been so long since I’ve been able to be just me—Everett Anderson—I almost forgot who he is.

  As I approach the house, I see Chase emerge from the kitchen, a bottle in his hand. It rankles a bit, seeing him drink one of the beers Ash so carefully selected. There’s no way he’ll appreciate it—not when he typically finds even a Labatt a bit too flavorful. Somer’s nowhere in sight and I wonder if he’s on a call or just taking a power nap to get his sleeping pattern synched with the eastern time zone.

  I hike my guitar higher on my shoulder as I walk in the house. It’s actually perfect Somer isn’t here. If I’m going to go around him to get this song in front of the label, it wouldn’t hurt to have Chase’s support.

  He’s sprawled on the couch, smartphone in one hand, beer in the other. He’s dressed the way he would be for an interview—tight jeans and a form-fitting, low-cut tee that displays the cut of his pecs. Even his dark blond hair looks like he took the time to style it. He takes a pull from the bottle and makes a face.

  “Hey, man.” I settle down on the room’s other couch, this one across the room from Chase’s.

  His eyes barely flicker in my direction and he raises his chin. “I can’t believe there’s still so much shit online about you and this girl. Good thing I didn’t bet money things’d die down quickly.” His brow creases. “Looks like no one’s figured out I’m here yet. I guess the cops are doing a pretty good job keeping the press away.” He scowls his displeasure at a capable police force.

  It doesn’t surprise me that’s part—or maybe even most—of the reason Chase tagged along. Of the whole band, he’s definitely the biggest publicity-seeker. He’s forever at the hot, new clubs, usually with a model or starlet on his arm. His pictures end up online or in tabloids three or four times more often than mine or Logan or Tristan. More than once, Somer’s actually encouraged me to go out with him, to keep my image in the public eye, to show the world that I’m in with the big celebrity names.

  I shift the guitar onto my thigh. If I wait for him to get done checking all the gossip sites, I could be here a long time indeed. “Hey, could you listen to this? It’s one I wrote this morning and I’m really excited about it. Somer doesn’t think it’s our vibe but...I could use your opinion.”

  Chase clicks his phone’s lock screen and nods. “Sure, man.”

  There’s a tightness in his face I can’t identify, like he’s holding something back. Probably something new on the gossip sites—a story about how Ash is pregnant with my love child or something. I’ll ask him later. Now, without Somer here to insert his ideas and dominate the conversation, I need to play the song, need to know what Chase thinks.

  As he listens, his eyebrows pull together and he nods his head in time with the music, the way he’s done a hundred times before, but I find I can’t help studying him more closely, looking for any tells about his reaction.

  He’s quiet for a long moment after I finish, but I don’t fill the silence. It took Ash a while to respond, too.

  Chase tilts his head. “Yeah. I mean, it’s okay, I guess.”

  The air leaves my lungs. If he’d sucker punched me, his reaction couldn’t have surprised me more. “Okay?”

  He shrugs. “Yeah. If you rock it up a bit—add some drums and a guitar solo or two, a kickin’ bass line—I could maybe hear it on the radio. It’s just... It doesn’t sound like us.”

  His words make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “Did you talk to Somer about this?”

  He shakes his head. “No. He didn’t mention the song at all. Why?”

  “It’s just... He pretty much said the same thing.”

  “Well, there you go.” He sighs, sitting up straight and leaning forward. “Look, Ever—you don’t need to beat yourself up about it, okay? I mean, the album’s gonna get recorded whether you come up with the songs or not. You don’t need to stress so much, man.”

  My stomach clenches. It’s the thing he’s not telling me, I’m sure. “What are you talking about?”

  He blows out a breath, running a hand through his hair. Thick, dark blond chunks stand up on end instead of falling back into place. “Somer didn’t want me to tell you—not yet. It’s still just a plan B. And I’m just telling you so you can let yourself relax a little, okay?”

  “Out with it. What are you talking about?”

  “The label already hired some songwriters. They’re even willing to keep their names off the album—make it look like you wrote the songs, since it’s so important to you.”

  I gape. Ghostwriters. They’ve hired ghostwriters willing to let me take credit for their songs. Is that really what the label thinks is important to me? The credit? I couldn’t care less about being credited with writing the tunes, I need to actually do the work. I can’t get on stage night after night and perform someone else’s words. So much of my life—my appearance, my image, my goddamn name—isn’t really mine. I need for the words I sing to be.

  Chase’s phone is back in his hand. He slides his finger across the screen and taps it a couple times. “Don’t worry—Somer let me hear the songs. They’re all really good. They’re perfect for the band. Whatever they’re paying these guys, I doubt it’s enough—they really nailed it.” Sound erupts from the phone’s speakers and Chase sets it on the table between us, nodding to the beat as the drums and bass line come in. A screaming guitar solo starts and an icy dread fills my stomach. Before the tune is half over, it’s clear this song is just like the ones I’ve been sending—imitations of the songs on the first record. Derivative. It offended me so much when Ash used the word to describe the first songs I wrote here because it was true. But the label loved them, and, if Chase is to be believed, they love this.

  A truth that’s been tugging at the edges of
my consciousness is suddenly thrust into sharp relief: The label’s not interested in the next stage in the band’s evolution. They made us to fill one peg on a board, and it’s the only sound they want from us.

  Maybe they’re right—it’s best to play it safe, to give the fans what they expect, what they loved about the first record. The sophomore slump is a very real thing—something some bands never fully recover from. They’re playing it safe, maybe even playing it smart—and Chase seems okay with that.

  But is it something I can live with?

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Ashlyn

  The brewpub is a madhouse.

  Apparently, Everett’s manager’s concern for privacy doesn’t extend to my second job, and photographers are camped out in the parking lot when I arrive—looking more unkempt than usual, I might add, owing to staying in bed with Everett so long all I had time to do was pull on jeans and a black Shores Brewpub t-shirt and tie my hair back into a ponytail.

  Teresa spots me as soon as I walk through the door, breathing heavier than usual due to the super-power-walk speed I used to get through the parking lot. She says something to Dalton, whose shift must be ending soon, before crossing to me and hooking her hand through the crook of my arm. “Oh, this won’t do. Come on.”

  I don’t ask what she means as she leads me down the hall, past the restrooms, and through the door to the brewery. “Best we can tell, there are seven,” she says, digging through the large pockets of her black apron.

  “Seven what?”

  Lip gloss in hand, she looks at me, tilting her head like my question confuses her. “Seven photographers.”

  I try to remember how many cameras I saw in the parking lot. “Yeah—maybe there were seven.”

  She shakes her head, applying gloss to my lips. “No, I mean in here. Much sneakier. Dalton thinks they’re just gonna snap pics with their phones.” She replaces the cap on her gloss and drops it into her pocket.