Collide (Worlds Collide Book 1)

by Quinn Nolan

  As much as I’d prefer the latter option, I nod, understanding she has things that need to be attended to. So do I. There will be plenty of time for the two of us to attend to each other later.

  Once she leaves, I dress quickly in the clothes I wore yesterday. I need to make good on my decision before I lose my nerve.

  Ash is busy doing something with the riding lawn mower when I leave the apartment and I slip out of the garage quietly. I don’t have the direct phone number to any of the label’s executives, but I know Somer has them on speed dial. I’ll need his phone. If I’m lucky, Somer and Chase won’t have adjusted to this time zone yet and they’ll still be asleep. If Somer’s up, there’s almost no way I’ll be able to pry the phone from his hand.

  My ears strain as I slip in through the front door. No voices. It’s a good sign so far. I creep toward the stairs—Somer insisted on taking a room on the upper floor. The plush carpet muffles my footsteps. As I move to the top stair, I hear a rushing sound. Water. Somer’s in the shower. Saying a silent prayer he doesn’t shower with his phone, I tiptoe to his bedroom door. Slowly, I twist the doorknob and push open the door.

  The room is decorated much like the one I’m staying in—the same type of furniture, even the same blackout curtains. The bathroom door is ajar, providing a sliver of light into the main room. It doesn’t take long to locate the phone: It’s on the nightstand. Of course it would be.

  I dart forward and grab the phone and quickly move back into the hallway. I don’t breathe until the door is closed behind me. Somer will notice it’s missing as soon as he’s done, so I have to move fast. I could call from my own phone, but if the number isn’t recognized, what’s the chance the call will be answered? It has to come from Somer’s number.

  I move down the stairs quickly and head toward the back door, pausing only to pick up my acoustic, which sits propped against one of the couches. I’ll call from the back deck so I can play the song without waking Chase.

  Somer’s phone is password protected, but he taps the code in so often it only takes me two tries to get it right, based solely on how his thumb moves over the screen when he unlocks it. I open his phone book and scroll through the favorites until I see the name I’m looking for: Rena Adair.

  Before I can lose my nerve, I tap her name to start the call. It’s only after it starts ringing that I check the time—it’s just after eleven a.m. here, which means it’s just after eight a.m. there. I hope she’s already at the office, otherwise this call might end before it even starts.

  On the third ring, the phone indicates it’s connecting. I did a video call, knowing it’s what she’d expect from Somer, and when Rena’s face appears, she’s not even looking at the screen. Her face is tight, annoyed, her red hair pulled back in the same way it has been every time I’ve seen her.

  “This had better be good, Somer. Please tell me you have the Michigan situation under control.”

  “The Michigan situation.” Heat rises in my cheeks. She’s talking about me. It didn’t even cross my mind that she would be concerned with me. I don’t know what I thought—maybe that it was Somer’s job to keep his band in check. What if she doesn’t let me play the song, deciding instead to give me hell about the tabloids finding out where I am? I blow out a breath. It’s not like I can just hang up now. “Everything’s cooled down here. The police are doing a good job keeping the photographers away. And, actually, that’s not why I called—”

  Rena’s eyes flick to the screen for the first time and her eyebrows constrict in confusion. “What on Earth?”

  Is it possible she doesn’t recognize me? For the first time, I consider what I must look like right now—hair flat and completely unstyled after my shower with Ash, not to mention the distinct lack of my signature array of makeup. When I came here, we banked on my anonymity without that created look. But this woman is in charge of my career—my future. Does she not recognize me? “It’s, uh, Ever Anders, ma’am.”

  Her nose wrinkles. “I know that. And don’t call me ma’am.”

  I nod. “Of course. Look—I know you’re probably wondering why I’m calling you from Somer’s phone, and I don’t want to take up your time. It’s just... I’ve got a song here that I think could be big—like, huge—and Somer... Well, Somer just doesn’t see it. And I wanted to play it for you, because I thought you might have a different opinion—”

  “This is highly unorthodox—”

  “I know, I know.” I flip out the phone case’s kickstand and position it on the table while pulling my guitar onto my lap. I can’t give her a chance to say no. “But if you’ll just give me, maybe, three minutes...”

  Rena surveys me coolly with her sharp blue eyes. “Fine. Three minutes.”

  I waste no time. As I begin strumming, I hear the lawn mower roar to life in the distance. Rather than being annoyed that Ashlyn chose this moment to start her day’s work, I smile. Even though we’re doing two completely different things, it feels like we’re doing them together. As I sing the song, it’s that thought that fills me, that carries each note.

  I’m so lost in the song that when it’s over, I’m almost surprised to see Rena’s face on Somer’s phone in front of me. I shake my head, anchoring myself back in the present, and smile at Rena. “What did you think?”

  Her face is still, lips slightly pursed, eyes narrowed. It’s an almost calculating look, and I wonder if that’s what she’s doing—adding up the money that could be made from this tune. Seconds tick by before she finally speaks. “This song... It’s rather a departure from your first album.”

  My heart sinks. Is she going to dismiss this song out of hand, like Somer did, because it doesn’t sound like “Mischief Chain” or any of the other songs on the last record? “It’s different, yeah—but there are so many similarities. If you’ll let me explain—”

  She shakes her head. “No need. This song is more in the vein of the ones you were writing before your little hiatus. Somer was pleased with several you’ve written since you’ve been there, and now there’s this... Not to mention the media...” She’s muttering quietly now, and I wonder if she’s talking to herself or me. “A fall launch... Winter tour... Or spring? Spring sales are better...” She shuffles papers around on her desk and picks up a pen, scribbling something down, her brow set in concentration. Does she even remember I’m here? Is all this muttering a good thing or a bad thing? I want to ask, but I’m also afraid to disturb her.

  When her eyes finally flick up, they widen as if with surprise, like she forgot I was there. A smile flickers across her face and she leans in toward the screen. “Look, Ever. Taking into account that song, along with everything that’s been happening the last few days, I think it’s best you cut the rest of your vacation short. I want you back in L.A. so you can start recording the new album.”

  Panic flares. This isn’t what I expected her to say at all. I don’t have enough songs for a new album yet—how can she expect us to start recording? “I need more time.”

  She tilts her head, squinting at something I can’t see. “Looks like the earliest I can get the studio and the engineers here is...”

  I hold my breath. There are a ton of people who go into making a record, and I know the label has specific people they want working with Toxicity. It’s summer—hopefully a few of those people are on vacations of their own, vacations they can’t cut short—

  “Thursday.”

  I gape at the screen. “Thursday? But...today’s Monday.”

  She nods. “That’s more than enough time for Somer to get you back here in one piece.” She smiles a broad, self-satisfied smile and I know she’s getting ready to end the conversation. “We’ll see you back here in the sunshine of California before week’s end. I’m glad you called, Ever.”

  She ends the call, and I’m left staring at my reflection in a blank screen.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Everett

  I’m pretty sure if I waited another minute before bringing Somer’
s phone back to him, he would’ve died of a heart attack. When I find him in his room, he’s ripped all the blankets and sheets off his bed and the mattress is askew. He’s digging through his suitcase, a mad look in his eye, when I push open the door.

  “Looking for this?” I hold the phone toward him and he snatches it from my hand almost before I get the whole question out.

  “You took my phone?” He asks it like it’s the worst possible betrayal. “Why would you do that?” He studies the device closely as if for evidence of tampering or defilement.

  “I called Rena.”

  Somer gapes, looking horrified. “You what?”

  “I played ‘Invigorating Hope’ for her,” I say, ignoring his expression. “She wants the band in the studio on Thursday. Incidentally, you might wanna change your passcode every once in a while. It only took me two tries to guess it.”

  Somer stares a beat longer before blowing out a breath and running a hand through his still-wet hair. “I’ll make the arrangements.”

  “Could you maybe try not flying us out until, like, Wednesday?” I don’t say it, but I can tell from the look on Somer’s face he knows my reason for wanting to stay as long as possible.

  “I’ll see what I can do.” He brushes past me on his way into the hallway.

  I survey his room. It’s a complete disaster. “Aren’t you gonna pick up in here?”

  He places his hand on the banister and looks over his shoulder. “Why? I’ll just have the girl do it.”

  It takes me a second to realize he’s talking about Ashlyn. “She’s the groundskeeper, not the housekeeper.”

  Somer holds my gaze a beat longer before shaking his head and starting down the stairs. “Regardless, Ever. Face it: You’re sleeping with the help.”

  ***

  Somer’s words echo in my head all afternoon. Can’t he see Ash is so much more than the girl who cuts the grass or stocks the fridge? This is her job, not her identity. If all a person looks at is Ash’s jobs—bartender, groundskeeper—he’d miss her sense of humor, her attention to detail, her ability to create intricate pieces of art out of disregarded objects. Ignoring those things means a person would never really know her.

  I pass the hours on the deck, partly to be away from Somer and Chase, but mostly to see Ash as she passes by. I pause in whatever I’m doing—writing down lyric ideas or strumming my guitar—and watch as she bends over the flower beds surrounding the trees at the edge of the property, or as she wields the string trimmer. She catches me at it and, without words, we turn it into a game. I try to snap pictures of her ass when she’s bent over, and when she thinks I’m not paying attention, she tugs her shirt down, giving me a glimpse of cleavage. She doesn’t end up washing the boat, but it doesn’t matter—my mind is still filled with images of her from our shower this morning.

  Lyrics enter my mind and I scribble them down before they can escape. I trapped sunshine in a frame / with my camera and your eyes. A thrum of excitement fills me as I commit the words to paper. I can feel this song already—like I could when I was writing “Invigorating Hope.” I know, without knowing all the words or the melody line, that this tune will be good—really good.

  Ashlyn’s duties have taken her out of my line of sight, so I open the photo app on my phone and scroll through the pictures I’ve snapped throughout the day. Mostly, they’re of her back side, and once I caught a flash of her stomach as she reached up high for something, but there’s one that makes me stop. I don’t even remember taking it—but since I’ve snapped probably a hundred pictures of her today, I guess it’s not that hard to believe. I zoomed in for the picture, so the quality isn’t great, but besides that, it couldn’t be more perfect: It’s Ashlyn’s face in about three-quarter profile, and there’s a small smile playing about the corners of her mouth. Her eyes are cast downward, and the sunlight catches her eyelashes in a way that accentuates them.

  I trapped sunshine in a frame / with my camera and your eyes. / It warms me up when I need it, / a spot of gold in graying skies.

  They tell you time is fleeting, / Turns out that it’s true...

  Is it true? Somer said he’d try not to fly me out until Wednesday, but even if he manages that, it leaves the rest of today, tomorrow, and then I’m gone. It’s not enough time.

  So I stowed summer away / not knowing what else I could do.

  But I do know what else I can do. I grab my guitar and notebook and take them inside with me. Chase is sprawled out on the couch, watching something loud on the television. He nods as I enter, but his eyes don’t leave the screen. I can hear Somer’s voice down the hall that leads to my bedroom, but I don’t turn to investigate. Instead, I move into the kitchen and start culling necessities—beer, of course, plus some fruit salad. There’s ice cream in the freezer. A bit of poking yields some surprising finds and I wonder if Somer requested them special for me or if the choices were all Ashlyn’s doing.

  I end up filling two canvas grocery bags before heading out the front door to the garage and Ashlyn’s apartment. She’s nowhere in sight as I make my way over, and I hope she’s still working—this will go so much better as a surprise.

  I let myself into her apartment and lean my guitar against the wall before setting down the bags and laying out my ingredients.

  For the next hour, I chop, mince, and sauté, the way Marta taught me. When the food is almost done, I start to panic. I don’t know when Ash will be done, and I don’t want everything to be either cold or overcooked when she shows up. But then I hear some banging around in the garage and poke my head out the apartment door. “Hey, get your ass up here!”

  Ash looks to her left and right before finally finding me in her doorway. “Everett?”

  “Are you done with all your stuff?”

  She nods. “Pretty much. What are you doing in my apartment?”

  I don’t answer. Leaving the door open, I head back to the stove to check on my pans.

  When she finally arrives, Ashlyn lets out a long, low whistle. I throw a grin over my shoulder before returning to the job of mashing together the baked potatoes and roasted garlic. I pour in a measure of milk and plop in some butter before mashing some more. She moves behind me, pressing her front against my back and slipping her hands up onto my chest. “Everett Anderson, you are the sexiest man who has ever lived.”

  I smile and am surprised when heat rises in my cheeks. “That’s not exactly news. People said that months ago.”

  “No—I don’t mean you’re a sexy man. I mean there has never been nor will there ever be a man sexier than you are in this moment.” She sighs, taking a step back. “I, on the other hand—I’m all covered in sweat and grass clippings. Let me take a quick shower—”

  I reach for her wrist before she can make it to the bathroom and tug her back against my chest. “You’re beautiful,” I murmur. And I mean it. She opens her mouth to protest, but I cover it with mine and she surrenders to the kiss.

  I pull away before I want to, acutely aware that there’s still food on the stove. Ash follows me and claps excitedly. “Are those scallops?”

  I snort. “She says like she’s surprised. You’re the one who bought them and put them in my fridge.”

  “Well, yeah. But I didn’t expect to be the one eating them. Ooh—and steak?”

  I grin, plating the scallops. “I thought a little surf ’n’ turf would be nice. You like?”

  “Um, I believe the phrase ‘sexiest man who has ever lived’ has been bandied about.”

  I turn and smack her rear end. “Okay—make yourself useful and pick out some beer for us.”

  She salutes before setting herself to the task. I finish with the rest of the food, plating the steak and cutting it, turning off the burner under the steaming vegetables, salting and peppering the garlic mashed potatoes. By the time she’s selected the beer and poured the bottles into pint glasses, I’ve filled our plates with food and brought them to her tiny two-person table.

  We sit and I lift my glass
to her. She hesitates a beat before clinking hers to mine. “Are we celebrating something?”

  I hope so. I clear my throat. “I talked to one of the label execs today—played the song for her.”

  Ash pauses in cutting her scallop. “And?”

  I take a bite of steak to stall for time. I’ve replayed this scene over a million times as I cooked, but I’m still not entirely sure how I’m going to ask the question. And I certainly don’t know how she’ll react. “She didn’t say anything specifically about the song, but she must be excited because she wants to cut my songwriting vacation short.”

  She pauses in chewing, her eyes widening. Then, she chews a couple more times and swallows hastily, water filling the corners of her eyes. “That’s good, right?”

  I nod. “She wants the band back in the studio. On Thursday.”

  “Thursday? That’s quick.”

  I nod again, feeling like one of those bobble head dogs on someone’s dashboard. Now would be the perfect time to ask—the perfect in—but the words don’t come. I chicken out, taking another bite for something to do.

  Ashlyn takes a sip of her beer before returning to her food. I can tell she wants to say something, and I give her the space to say it in her own time.

  I’m working on my last bite of steak when she finally speaks. “Is that what this is? A goodbye dinner? I mean—are you leaving tomorrow?”

  I choke down my bite, holding my hand out to her. “No—I mean, I told Somer to try to schedule the flight for Wednesday.” It’s not much comfort and I know it. I settle my hand on top of hers, and she lifts her gaze to meet mine. Her eyes are clouded, sad. I could kick myself for the hurt I see in those eyes. I need to tell her—to ask her. “The thing is, I don’t want to go. I have to. I’d much rather stay here. I can think here—I can write. I wish there was a way I could, you know, take a bit of this place with me.”

  I’m rambling like an idiot, but Ash nods like she understands what I’m trying to say. “I get it. It must be a big change, being here, without all the craziness of L.A. Maybe I can get you—you know—like, a t-shirt or something—”