by Quinn Nolan
I slide across the cushion between us and still her hands. “Hey.” I wait until she brings her eyes to meet mine before continuing. “I don’t want you to come back with me so you can pay bills or cook or clean. I want you to come because I—” Because I love you. The words are there on the tip of my tongue, but somehow I can’t say them. “I need you. I need you there with me.”
The corners of her mouth quiver but don’t manage to curl. Her eyes drop back to the notebook. “What if it doesn’t work?”
The question isn’t on her list, but I can tell by her inflection it’s the only one that really matters. And she’s got a fair point—more than fair. For the first time, I realize just how scary what I’m asking her to do really is. If she quits her jobs, moves out of her home, gives up her life for me, what happens if things don’t work? What happens if she can’t deal with the life I live? Or if she gets sick of me? But I can tell by the look in her eyes that it’s not her getting sick of me that has her worried—she’s afraid of what would happen to her, alone in a strange city, if I were to end things with her. “What if it does?”
She stares for a long moment, expression inscrutable. Finally, she nods. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
A smile breaks across her face, bright as a sunrise. “Yeah, okay. I mean, I have to get some things in order here—give my two weeks at the brewpub, and tell Leo he’ll need to find someone to take over here. And I’ll have to pack up all my stuff and—” She shrugs. “Storage? Yard sale? I mean, I doubt you want me to bring this couch, and you’ve probably got a whole kitchen of top-of-the-line appliances.”
I’m smiling now, too. She’s saying yes. She’s coming with me. “My bed’s nicer, too. Bigger and a lot more comfortable.”
The smile slides off her face and I’m afraid I’ve said something wrong. Shit. When I said I had a big house... I thought I was being clear, but is she thinking I want her as a roommate?
Her eyebrows hike upward. “You don’t think my bed is comfortable?”
“I’m just saying that mine is really comfortable—like, memory foam and pillow top and—”
But now she’s smiling, fingers tugging at the hem of my shirt. “Good thing we don’t need a bed for what I wanna do to you.”
And then my shirt is off and she’s straddling my legs and I lose the thread of the conversation.
***
Ashlyn falls asleep on the couch, a lazy, satisfied smile curving her lips, and as much as I’d like to stay pressed against her, I fight the urge to nap and find my clothes instead. My shirt is crumpled on the floor halfway between the couch and her bed and my shorts over by the TV. My boxer briefs are wedged in the couch cushions. Once I’m dressed, I head down to the garage and out onto the grounds.
Somer will be pissed when I make my request—I know he will be. But a few more days won’t make or break the record. He and Chase can go back to L.A. and the band can even start recording without me. They can bring in a session guitarist on a couple tracks until I get back and I’ll add in vocals later. We had to do the same thing on the first album when Chase got food poisoning in the final days of recording. We were down to the wire and honestly couldn’t wait for him to recover. He ended up doing all his background vocals for the final two tracks in one epic twenty-hour day. So I know it can be done. I just need to convince Somer to do it.
In my head, when I asked Ash to come with me, I figured she’d say yes and I’d tell Somer to book an extra ticket and that would be that. I forgot about all the regular-person stuff she’d have to deal with. Now it seems kind of a dick move to have her pack up and move things on her own. I’ll stay for a few days and help her before heading back to L.A. Sure, she probably won’t follow for at least another week, but what’s one week against the backdrop of, well, years?
The TV in the great room is on—something with a lot of explosions, so I assume it’s Chase. I swing by the kitchen for a beer before heading into the room, planning on asking Chase whether or not Somer has turned in for the night. But when I enter, my question dies in my throat: Somer is on the couch, noise-canceling headphones over his ears, staring at something on his tablet. It’s hard to tell from my angle, but it doesn’t look like he’s watching a movie.
Before I can say anything, Chase mutes his movie. “Hey, man.”
I hitch an eyebrow at him. It’s completely unlike Chase to turn down a movie for any reason. I can’t count the number of nights I slept with earplugs on the tour bus because of his late-night movie marathons.
“Somer.” Chase waves a hand in our manager’s direction. “Somer!” When his raised voice doesn’t get Somer’s attention, Chase flings a throw pillow at his head.
Somer rips the headphones off his ears, an irritated look on his face, but the look disappears when he follows Chase’s pointed finger. “Ah. Ever. I was hoping we’d see you tonight.”
I blow out a breath, holding up a hand to stop him before he can start. “I know, the flight is tomorrow and I’m not packed yet—but that’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about. I asked Ash to come back to L.A. with me, and she’s agreed.” I can’t help smiling. Saying it out loud, telling other people—it makes it more real. “I was hoping I could stay a few more days—maybe come back on Monday instead? I know it’s not ideal, but we’ve managed it before. Remember when Chase—”
“Ever, stop.” Somer’s face is serious but not upset or irritated like it gets when one of us starts asking for outlandish things—like the time Logan insisted he needed to figure out how to get a hot tub on our tour bus, or when Tristan demanded a particularly hilarious video of him drunk-dancing to a Spice Girls song be obliterated from existence. He looks almost sad, his eyes not quite meeting mine. “Look, I was hoping I wouldn’t have to tell you this—that you’d get back to your real life in L.A. and forget all about this girl, but...” He sighs, running a hand through his hair, allowing it to rest on his neck.
I cross my arms, eyes narrowing. “Look, I know you think she’s the help or whatever, but she’s not. She’s not a groupie or one of Chase’s flings.” At this, Chase snorts but says nothing. “I really care about her.”
“I know you do,” Somer says quickly. “That’s what makes this so hard.”
“Makes what so hard?” I don’t know why Somer is getting so worked up about Ash coming back to L.A. with me. While I understand it can be better publicity when someone like me is single and not attached—more opportunities to be voted Sexiest Bachelor or whatever—it’s not like being available is part of my contract. Hell, Chase typically has a different girl on his arm every month or so. And if it’s publicity Somer’s concerned about, I can figure out a way to spin my relationship with Ash as something to get attention on the band. Everybody loves a Cinderella story, right? The unknown girl being lifted from obscurity to fame. We can totally play up that angle.
“Just...show him the picture.” Chase’s voice is quiet and his eyes haven’t strayed back to his movie even once. Maybe this isn’t just Somer thinking about my image or the band’s future—maybe it’s something bigger.
“What picture?” I ask, even though I’m not sure I want to know.
Somer hesitates before tapping on his tablet screen a few times. He lifts it from his lap and holds it out. A beat passes before I reach for it. What could it be a picture of to make Somer and Chase act this way? And if it’s really such a big deal, is it something I want to see?
I flip the tablet so the screen faces upward and it takes a second before the image registers in my head. It’s a parking lot, a dark one, and the two figures stand by a car, lit from above, although the source of the light is not in the frame. It’s a man and a woman standing by the passenger side of the car. The girl has blonde hair, and the guy has a beard that glints red, even in the harsh light.
It’s Ash. Ash and Graham. Kissing. My first instinct is to drop the tablet—or maybe throw it across the room. It takes a second to identify the emotion coursing through my veins—jealousy. I
tamp it down, taking in a breath. This isn’t news. Hell, I helped her get with him to begin with. It’s not a surprise they kissed at some point. Except, why would someone take a picture of them? No one knew who Ashlyn was before the pictures of us leaked, and she broke things off with Graham after that. “When was this taken?”
Somer stands and squeezes beside me before double-tapping the screen, causing it to zoom on a spot in the upper left corner of the image. There’s a sign across the street from where Ash and Graham stand—one of those electric ones with a bright red digital readout. I noticed it the night I drove to the brewpub. It cycles between the temperature and the date and time. When this image was snapped, the date and time were showing. The numbers are fuzzy, but clear enough to read. “That was two days ago.” I do the math in my head. Two days ago was Sunday night. No matter how I slice it, Ash and I were together then, and she and Graham were done. “I don’t understand.”
Somer takes the tablet and taps on it a few more times before holding it up again. There’s no picture this time, just words. An article, I guess. I can’t make myself read it. “Did she tell you she did an interview?”
The words seep in through every pore of my body and weigh it down like lead. Unable to stand, I let myself sink to the couch. “No. When?”
“Yesterday, it looks like. All about her relationship with some guy named Graham Jordan and how she never meant to hurt him but you swept her off her feet, blah, blah, blah. The rest of the article’s about how Graham is channeling his emotions into his music and how he’s in negotiations with an indie label to record his debut album.” He locks the screen and the words disappear. He settles beside me, patting my knee twice. “I’m sorry you had to find out like this, Everett. It looks like she and this Graham person played you. She saw a way to get some publicity for her boyfriend and you got caught in the crossfire.”
I rub my hands over my face. It can’t be true. There has to be another explanation. Except I can’t think of one. Everything fits. Ashlyn would’ve known in advance someone famous was going to be here—she would’ve had to sign an NDA to ensure the press wouldn’t find me. And the only reason I went out to Graham’s band’s gig that first night was because she left a flyer for me to find. She looked so sad that night—so forgotten and alone. Could she have been acting that whole time? Just hoping I’d notice her? It’s a pretty big gamble, but I guess it worked.
Holy shit. I got played.
But no—she said she’ll come to L.A. with me. That has to mean something, doesn’t it? Unless she never intends to come and she’s just telling me what I want to hear. Or maybe she is planning to come—but only to figure out more ways to help Graham. Maybe their plan is for her to bide her time until his record is ready to be released and then—what? Publicly dump me for him? To boost his sales?
Is that really the kind of person she is?
I don’t want to believe it, but how can I not?
I take in a breath, straightening. “Somer, can you get me a hotel room by the airport? I don’t want to stay here tonight.” And I never want to see Ashlyn again.
Chapter Thirty
Ashlyn
When I wake on my couch, dusk has fallen. My bare skin breaks into gooseflesh like my body just realized the temperature has dropped. I squint as I peer into the semidarkness of the apartment. My clothes are still strewn around the room from earlier, but one thing is conspicuously absent.
Everett.
I flip on the nearest light and select a pair of pajamas, trying not to feel too disappointed. Everett’s leaving tomorrow. He probably has to pack up and get some things settled with his manager or his band or label. Most likely, he’ll make an appearance back here before too long. We haven’t said our goodbyes.
No, no goodbyes. A surge of nervous energy courses through me. We’re not saying goodbye because I’m following him. I agreed to go to L.A. with him.
There are so many things I have to get in order before I leave. I pick up my cell from its spot on the kitchen counter and check the time. It’s after nine. I could call Leo, but he’ll jump to the conclusion it’s an emergency. I already feel bad enough that my leaving will make him have to find someone else to do this job. Instead, like the chicken I am, I send a text asking if we can meet at his place tomorrow. He responds back faster than I anticipated, indicating I should be at his place at nine in the morning.
I tick off an item on my mental checklist. After I talk to Leo, I’ll go to the brewpub and put in my notice. After that, I’m not sure.
I sit on the couch and grab the notebook from before. Turning to a fresh page, I start writing out a list of tasks that need to be accomplished before I go to L.A. Because I’m going to L.A.
I’m so giddy, my mind keeps wandering. Before I know it, my laptop is open and on my lap and I’m researching everything California-related—the weather, the cost of living, the must-see sights. I even poke around a bit looking at want ads. I might be able to get a job tending bar or even tutoring. Everett said I didn’t have to work, but I might feel better if I don’t have to rely on him for everything. I mean, I can’t exactly expect to show up and demand an allowance, can I?
It’s well after midnight when my bleary eyes can’t take the laptop’s glare any longer. Everett still hasn’t shown up and I tamp down a wave of disappointment. Soon, we’ll have more than enough time together.
And it’s with that thought floating in my mind that I drift off to sleep.
***
When I shower in the morning, I try to ignore the fact that I’m doing so alone.
I expected to wake up with Everett beside me, but the empty half of my bed was just that: empty. Probably his manager wants to keep tabs on him today, make sure he gets to the airport on time.
I hope things with Leo go relatively quickly. Everett’s flight is at two o’clock, and with how long it takes to drive down to Metro plus the time to get through the security checkpoints and boarding, it cuts it close for me to get in much more than a quick goodbye. And there’s still so much for us to figure out—a proposed move-in date, a way to keep in touch while he’s gone. I still don’t have his number.
It’s these things that buzz in my head as I drive up Jefferson to Leo’s house. With how large and fancy the lake house is, I originally expected Leo to live in a place equally spectacular. The first time I stopped by his place, I was shocked to learn he lives in a modest one-story house with a basement. When I asked, he said it was more than enough room for him and his wife, plus there was a spare bedroom and a playroom downstairs for when his grandkids came to visit.
His place is a few blocks in from Jefferson, barely a half mile off the water. The neighborhood was clearly built in stages, with two runs of three or four houses built in exactly the same fashion. The sidewalk doesn’t extend through some properties, and half the houses on the block have a ditch out front where storm water runs. Several people are out already, enjoying the cooler hours before the heat and humidity of the day hits. Two women sitting on a front porch wave as I drive past, and a man out mowing the lawn nods and smiles as I park on the street in front of Leo’s house.
I cut the ignition and climb out of my car, still not entirely sure what I’m going to say. Part of me wants to see if Leo will hold my job for maybe a month, just in case things in L.A. don’t pan out. But it’s a bit selfish, I know, to put him in the position of trying to find someone to move in for something that might be short-term—or, worse, force Leo to have to do the work himself. There’s still a decent amount of the summer left, and he mentioned back when I first got the job that he already has a couple tenants booked for the early fall. It might be too much to ask—to hope—that he can hold the job and the apartment for me.
I shake my head as I climb the porch steps. It doesn’t matter if he can’t hold the job. Things with Everett will work out. I have to believe that—otherwise we’re over before we can even begin.
I knock on the screen door and peer into the house beyond. Leo’s w
ife, Deb, is standing in the kitchen and spots me first. She murmurs something to someone—probably letting Leo know I’m here—before heading to the door. She smiles as she swings open the screen door, but her eyes are distracted.
“You’d better get in there, dear,” she murmurs, letting herself out the door. “If Leo asks, I’ll be weeding in the garden.”
My stomach tightens. This isn’t at all like Deb. Usually, she chats with me for at least five or ten minutes before Leo can get a word in edgewise. Does Leo already know what I’m going to say? Is he upset? When I took the job back in January, I told him it was my plan to be long-term—a couple years at least. I wouldn’t blame him for being irritated that I won’t be keeping my word.
I cross the cream-colored carpet that stretches between the door and the cool brown tile of the kitchen. The table, I know, is obscured by the wall, so I can’t see Leo until my foot touches the tile. I try to smile. “Hey, Leo.”
He stands, nodding toward the other side of the table. “Ashlyn. Have you met Somer Jennings?”
I freeze, eyes following Leo’s gaze. What could he be doing here? After a beat, I stretch out my hand. “You’re Everett’s manager, right?”
Somer cocks his head but doesn’t take my hand. I drop it, shifting uncomfortably on the spot until Leo pulls out the chair in front of me.
Leo waits until we’re both seated before clearing his throat. “Mr. Jennings wanted to talk to me—to both of us—about the experience Mr. Anders had at the lake house.”
I try to nod but am not sure my head actually moves. My whole body is stiff. Leo is being very formal and it’s throwing me off. He’s decidedly a salt-of-the-earth type guy, much more at home doing physical labor than attending a business meeting. Yet the straight line of his back and the set of his jaw tell me that’s exactly what this is: business.
Somer places his forearms on the table, interlacing his fingers. “Before Mr. Anders arrived at the lake house, the band’s lawyer sent over a non-disclosure agreement to be signed by Mr. Connors and yourself, is that correct?”