Collide (Worlds Collide Book 1)

by Quinn Nolan

  “Ash.” I shake my head. “I don’t want a t-shirt. I want—” I stop short. Why is it so hard to tell her that I want her—that I need her? That I might love her? “Will you come with me? To L.A.?” The words tumble out before I have a chance to stop them and I hold my breath, waiting for her response.

  She opens her mouth but closes it again. Beneath mine, her hand shifts, but she doesn’t pull away. “Everett, I...” With her free hand, she picks up her beer and takes a few long gulps. When she looks at me again, the sadness is gone, but it’s replaced by confusion, maybe fear. “Can I think about it?”

  The air rushes from my lungs. I feel like she just landed a punch in my stomach. I want to kick myself. In all my imagined scenarios of asking her this question, I never considered she might say anything but yes. How could I have been so stupid? She has a life here—family, friends. How could I expect her to say yes without any reservations? Is it possible she doesn’t feel for me what I feel for her? She’s still staring at me and I realize I haven’t given her an answer. I force my lips to curl in one of my practiced smiles. “Of course. Of course—take your time and think about it.” I squeeze out a laugh. “What, did you think I expected you to answer right away?”

  Some of the tension drains from her face and she sighs, smiling. “I guess not.” Clearly more relaxed, she starts in on her meal again.

  She doesn’t bring it up for the rest of the night, so neither do I. But it lingers in the back of my mind as we shower together again, as she watches me work on the song I started on the deck, as we curl up on her couch and watch another episode of Soul Shift. It’s not until much later, as our bodies move together on her bed, our mouths meshing, our hands roving, that I wonder if she’s been thinking about her answer even half as much as I have.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Ashlyn

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  It’s Tuesday morning and I still haven’t given Everett an answer. He’s been completely wonderful about it and hasn’t pressed me once. He didn’t even bat an eye during breakfast when I told him I had plans with Reagan and Teresa—which, of course, I didn’t until that moment. Now I’m lying sprawled out across Reagan’s couch, my head in Teresa’s lap. She runs her fingers through the hair at my temples, something that usually calms me. But today, there is no calm.

  The phone interview with Trina Winters was hours ago—before Everett got out of bed—but I still feel sick. I keep trying to tell myself I didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t say anything about Everett—not directly. I confirmed that on the night the pictures were taken through the lake house’s windows, I was still technically with Graham. Trina tried to get me to talk about Everett, but I wouldn’t. When she didn’t relent, I hung up.

  Still, I can’t rid myself of the knot of guilt in my stomach.

  Reagan returns from her kitchen and I hear glass clinking against her coffee table.

  Teresa sighs. “Seriously? It’s not even noon. You really think shots are the answer?”

  Reagan points a finger at Teresa. “Quiet, you.” She pours a generous measure of whiskey in each shot glass before handing one to each of us. “Our girl is in crisis and she needs a bit of chatter in her head to die down. Am I right?”

  In response, I sit up and down the shot. Reagan does likewise, but Teresa just holds hers.

  “I just don’t get it. Your super-hot rock god lover wants you to come to L.A. with him. Why are we in crisis mode here? The answer is yes.”

  Reagan points at Teresa’s shot until Teresa rolls her eyes and downs it. While she’s occupied, Reagan locks her eyes on mine, telegraphing a single idea: She gets it—she understands where I’m coming from. Of course she does. Reagan, who left her home and everyone she knew right out of high school to move in with a guy she’d met face-to-face only once. We don’t talk about what happened in Chicago, but based on the fact that she came back, it can’t have ended well.

  I tap my shot glass and Reagan refills it. “It’s not that I don’t want to go.” I down the shot, letting the heat settle in my stomach before I go on. “I mean, Teresa’s right—I’d be crazy to not want to go. It’s just...” I throw up my hands. “I barely know him. So, what—I go to L.A. with him and...live in his house? What happens when he’s in the recording studio all day? Do I just watch TV until he gets home? And how about when he goes on tour? Does he want me to go with him? Is that even allowed? What happens when I start to get on his nerves? I mean, sure, he likes me now, but what if after we spend another couple weeks together, he realizes he can’t stand me? Or what if I can’t stand him?”

  “So far as not being able to stand each other, I don’t see it happening. You guys connected the second you met. Don’t forget, I was witness to your very first make-out session.” Reagan waggles her eyebrows before sobering. “And as for the rest—have you asked him?”

  My shoulders droop. “No,” I admit. “When he asked, I just kind of...freaked out. And I didn’t bring it up again and neither did he.” I set the shot glass on the coffee table and lean back against the couch cushions. “What happens if it doesn’t work out? I’ll have to quit my jobs to move out there. If things end with him, I won’t have anything—I won’t be able to support myself.”

  Teresa pats my hand. “Ash, is this you talking, or is it your mom?”

  I squeeze my eyes closed. As much as I’d love to say she’s right, that I’m just parroting the worries my mom espouses, I can’t. These concerns are mine. I have a bit of savings still from when I was teaching and living at home, but it’s not enough to get me very far. I could get a plane ticket home, but then what? Move back in with my mom? Admit to her I should have listened, should have stayed on the safe path?

  Reagan squeezes herself on the couch beside me. “The real question isn’t what happens if you go and it ends. It’s what happens if you don’t go at all. If you can honestly say you won’t regret telling him no, then tell him no. But if the ‘what ifs’ will eat away at you, then don’t let the possibility of failure stop you.” She holds my gaze, the corner of her mouth pulling back. “Besides, if you ever need to, you’re welcome to crash here.” She holds her hands out wide as I survey the space: Besides the two-seater couch we’re all squeezed on, the only other furniture in the living room is the TV and the coffee table. Her bedroom has barely enough room for her bed.

  I can’t help laughing. “Thanks, Rae.”

  She smiles, pulling me into a hug. “Any time.”

  ***

  By the time I get back to the lake house, I still haven’t made a decision, but I am ready to talk about his offer. I need to know what his expectations are of me—does he expect me to get a job? To hang out at the recording studio and fawn over him or bring him bottles of spring water? To remain chained to his bed at all times? And would he need me to leave tomorrow when he does? I have more than a few loose ends to tie up around here—if I decide to go—and I’d feel guilty just taking off without dealing with them.

  He’s not in my apartment, not that I really expected him to be. I could just wait—it’s possible he’ll show up once he notices I’m back—but since he’s leaving tomorrow, time is really of the essence. I’ve avoided the lake house since Somer and Chase arrived, but I know I can’t any more. In addition to needing to find Everett, the fact is if I decide to go with him, I’ll probably have to deal with his manager and bandmate at some point anyway. Since they’re likely to be part of the deal, I may as well know what I’m getting myself into before I make a decision.

  I check my hair and makeup in the bathroom before heading toward the main house. Although Somer and Chase have certainly already formed first impressions about me—what with the tabloid coverage and all—I want to undo what damage I can. I walk toward the house with purpose. Maybe I’ll be lucky and find Everett right away and not even have to deal with anyone else. That’d be nice.

  I knock at the front door and wait, but the door doesn’t open. I peer through the windows, but all I can
see is the neck of a guitar. Someone’s inside, playing. When I strain my ears, I can just make out a tune. I smile when I recognize it—“Invigorating Hope.” Everett.

  The front door is unlocked and I let myself in. Acoustic guitar fills the air and I relax with each step I take. Everett said I inspired this song. While it’s true he hasn’t come out and told me how he feels about me, the words of this song paired with his desire for me to follow him to L.A. paints a pretty clear picture.

  A voice starts in on the bridge and I freeze. That’s not Everett’s voice. I’d know the sound anywhere—even before the last couple weeks, before his private concerts for only me. I edge closer to the great room. It’s Chase singing the song—I can tell without seeing him. But that doesn’t make sense. Why would he be singing a song he told Everett he didn’t like?

  The singing and strumming cut off abruptly and I freeze. Suddenly, the room is filled with music again. It’s the same song, but this time, Everett’s singing. Only he’s not in the room singing. There’s a thin quality to the sound—a recording on a phone. Chase recorded Everett singing it and is now trying to learn it himself?

  The sound of Everett singing cuts off and before I have time to react, Chase swings the guitar off his lap and stands. Suddenly, we’re staring at each other. Chase’s eyes are wide, surprised. I can only imagine the guilty look that must be on my face.

  After everything with Everett, seeing another famous musician in front of me shouldn’t be a big deal, but I can’t help the star-struck feeling that washes over me. Maybe it’s because in his time here, Everett has never looked the part of Ever Anders. Chase, on the other hand, looks every inch the rock star, like he just stepped off the cover of a magazine, from the tousled quality of his hair to the skin-tight jeans.

  Chase recovers first. “You must be Ashlyn.”

  I nod. “Yeah. And you’re Chase. Nice to meet you.”

  He raises his chin in response.

  “I’m looking for Everett.” I could slap myself. Obviously I’m looking for Everett. Who else would I be here to see?

  He leans his head toward the back of the house, toward the lake. “Somer actually trusted him to take him out on that boat.” He tilts his head to the side, eyes locked on me. “You’re welcome to wait here. Or I could just send Ever back to your place when he gets back.”

  “Oh.” This whole exchange has me feeling off-kilter. This should be an easy decision to make. “I think I’ll head back to the apartment,” I manage after a beat. “I wouldn’t want to disturb your practicing.” It’s none of my business, why Chase was singing Everett’s song. It’s band stuff. I should keep my nose out of it. But I can’t help myself. “I heard you—I mean, of course I did. That was ‘Invigorating Hope,’ right?” I don’t wait for him to confirm—I’d know the song anywhere. “I was just surprised to hear you playing it since Everett said you didn’t really like it.”

  Chase’s mouth twitches before he manages a small smile. “In the end, it doesn’t really matter what I like. I’m just a guitarist who does backup vocals. I do what they tell me.”

  I think I detect a hint of bitterness in his tone, but before I can be sure, his demeanor changes. His posture relaxes and his smile turns genuine. “I’ll let Ever know you’re at your place when he gets back.”

  I leave the house and head back to my apartment as fast as I can. Chase’s explanation makes total sense. Everett said the label exec got so excited after hearing “Invigorating Hope” that she cut his vacation short so the band could start recording. If the exec wants the song on the record, then it doesn’t matter what Chase thinks about the song.

  Still, I can’t help feeling there’s something else going on.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Everett

  I don’t bother knocking on Ashlyn’s apartment door. It’s strange how natural and ordinary things can become after such a short time. I enter the apartment as confidently as if it were my own space. She’s on the dilapidated couch beyond the kitchen, brow creased as she studies something on her laptop screen. When I close the door behind me, her eyes snap up and an odd mix of emotions wash over her face—relief and anxiety, confusion and guilt. As much as I’ve been looking forward to seeing her—especially after a grueling and nearly fatal excursion on the water with Somer—suddenly my stomach knots.

  Is she about to tell me no?

  It’s been my fear since last night, since she didn’t automatically agree to come with me to L.A. I’ve been trying to put it out of my head, to remember that she’s told me she’s not typically as impulsive as she’s been under my influence. She’s a planner, and that’s okay. But what if she’s decided her plans won’t be including me?

  She shuts the laptop and sets it on the floor beside the couch before offering a smile and patting the cushion beside her. That has to be a good sign, right?

  She waits until I’m seated to speak. “So, word has it you took the boat out.”

  I grimace. “Fairly certain I didn’t do any major damage to it. Somer insisted he wasn’t getting that close to the water and a boat and not taking a ride.”

  She scrunches her eyebrows. “Isn’t L.A. by the water?”

  “Well, yeah. But it’s not the same.” I shrug, not entirely sure how to explain. I could leave it at that, but something urges me to press on. My dad always told me that more important that actually being confident is appearing confident. If you want something to happen, will it into being. “You’ll see when you get there.”

  The tightness in Ashlyn’s face does nothing to ease my discomfort, my fear. She’s about to blow me off. I can count on one hand how many times it’s happened, yet I can identify the signs as easily as I can play scales on my guitar.

  I scoot away from her. Have I really been reading everything that incorrectly? Maybe she was expecting this thing between us to just be a short-term fling. Really, it’s all this should have been to me. What was going on in my head that I thought it could be something more? “I see.”

  She tugs on my arm, scooting closer to me. “No, Everett, you don’t. There are some things I need to figure out—”

  “You don’t need to explain,” I say, cutting her off. I don’t know if I can handle the “it’s not you, it’s me” speech—or worse, “we can still be friends.” Shaking off her hand, I stand, starting for the door. “I should get back to the house and pack. The flight Somer booked leaves at two in the afternoon, so—”

  “Everett.” She grabs a handful of my shirt, pulling it tight enough to make me stop. When I don’t turn, she positions herself between me and the door. “You need to understand that this is a hard decision for me—harder than standing up to my mom at lunch, harder than quitting my job—my career—the thing I worked my whole life for. So forgive me if I need you to answer some questions before I’m comfortable saying yes.”

  I stop trying to edge past her and freeze, my eyes locking on hers. The corners of her mouth quirk upward, but before she can fully smile, my lips cover hers, crushing them. She gives a muffled yelp of surprise before her hands find their way to the back of my neck. My fingers skate down her back, over her ass, and back up before I wrap my arms around her. She’s coming with me. Nothing else matters.

  As my fingers inch the hem of her shirt upward, she finally pulls away, stilling my hands. Her breathing is ragged and despite the hungry look in her eyes, she takes a few steps backward. “None of that. I told you, I have some questions for you to answer.”

  She’s trying hard not to smile and her face is flushed. My body is on fire, wanting her. I take a step forward, reaching out a hand, but she swats it away. “Seriously, Everett. There are things I need to know.”

  There are things I need, too, but I don’t tell her that. I can already tell it’s taking all her self control not to let me pull her back to me. I can answer her questions now and we can pick up where we left off later. If she comes with me, we’ll have plenty of time.

  I stride back to the couch, sitting on the
far end from where she was when I walked in. She approaches warily, as if expecting me to lunge for her like a snake. When she finally sits opposite me, she pushes her hair back from her face and reaches for a notebook on the small end table to her right. She pulls a mechanical pencil out of the metal spiral and taps at the open page.

  “Wait,” I say before she can begin. “Did you make a list?” I do my best not to smile, but despite my effort, the corners of my mouth curl.

  She points the pencil at me, eraser first. “Don’t mock me, Everett Anderson.”

  I hold my hands up. “I’d never dream of it.”

  She sticks out her tongue before returning to her list. Her face goes serious and her eyes lock on the page. “Now, when you say you want me to go to L.A. with you, does that mean you want me to move out there and...get my own place...so I’m close to you?”

  She doesn’t look up and a blush creeps up into her cheeks. I’m surprised by the question, although maybe I shouldn’t be. I wasn’t specific last night when I asked. I can see how she would want to be sure. “I have a huge house. I want you in it.”

  I figure this answer will get her to look at me, but her eyes remain downcast, although I think I detect a smile on her face. “I’d have to get a job so I could help with the bills—”

  “Ash, I’m not looking for a roommate to help me pay the bills. At the risk of sounding kind of douchey right now, I have a shit ton of money. You can work, if you want, or you could not work. It doesn’t matter to me.”

  She shakes her head like the idea of not working is incomprehensible. “If you don’t need help with the bills, then I could cook or clean or do something—”

  “I have a maid who cooks if I need her to.”

  She lays the notebook across her lap, rubbing her palms on her legs, still not looking up. “Well, I want to do something. I don’t want to just be some mooch—”