Collide (Worlds Collide Book 1)

by Quinn Nolan

  “No.” Graham’s eyes snap to me and I cross my arm over my chest. “I’m not here to help you strategize about how to generate buzz for your album. I want you to stop playing up our relationship—I want you to tell the truth. We went on a handful of dates.” Details connect in my mind, like they’ve been waiting to fall into place. “You knew who he was, didn’t you? Everett. When did you figure it out? That first night? Or not until you saw him at the lake house?” I shake my head, not needing him to confirm my suspicions. It’s so obvious. Why didn’t I see it before? “You’re the one who leaked his location to the press, aren’t you?”

  Graham’s eyes widen and his jaw drops, like he’s scandalized I would ever entertain such thoughts. But he can’t hold the look for long, and after a beat, a smile curls the edges of his mouth. “When you didn’t return any of my texts that day, I figured the two of you might be together. But I didn’t expect them to get front-row tickets to the main event. Is it the tattoos that spread your legs? Because you were always kind of a prim princess with me.”

  I fight the urge to smack his face. “It wasn’t the tats. Everett, he never felt the need to make himself sound more important than he was. Since that’s all you do, I couldn’t help thinking you were compensating for something.” I drop my gaze to his crotch and color rises in his cheeks.

  His hands go to the fly on his shorts. “I’ve got nothing to compensate for—”

  I spring up from the couch, afraid he might actually feel compelled to prove it. Holding my hand out to block any unwanted sights, I shake my head. “Look, I don’t care—I don’t care about any of this. I don’t want fame or my name in tabloids. I just want people to know the truth. You’ve gotta come clean—tell everyone we really weren’t that serious. And tell the truth about the picture in the parking lot—that you kissed me and I pushed you away.” I pause, shoulders dropping. “I’m not even going to ask if you knew the photographer was there. I’m beginning to think I know the answer.”

  Graham’s head tilts and he squints, like he’s trying to figure something out. “I don’t get it. If you don’t want your name in the tabloids, why do you want me to come clean about everything? If I do, you’ll start getting calls for interviews and people showing up at the brewpub again and...” He shakes his head, letting out a laugh like a bark. “Oh, hell. You can’t be serious. No—this is too good.”

  Heat rises in my cheeks. “What?”

  He shakes with suppressed laughter, not able to keep a mocking grin off his face. “You think it was all real. You think Ever Anders really wanted to settle down with you. Are you kidding me? Guy could have any girl he wants and you think he’d give that up—for you?”

  He’s full-out laughing now, hands on his stomach. My fingers twitch and I take a step back to keep from punching his face. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know Everett asked me to come to L.A. with him, didn’t see the elation on his face when I told him I’d go. I was more than a vacation fling to Everett, I know it. But of course Graham can’t see that.

  I spin on my heel and head for the door, Graham’s laughter echoing in my ears. He won’t help me. I don’t know why I thought he would.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Everett

  After Somer gave the band the new music to learn, we were given three days off from recording to get a handle on it before heading back into the studio. But after only one day in my empty house, trying to learn songs that aren’t mine, I start feeling edgy, wound up. Like my skin’s too tight.

  I can’t get Ashlyn out of my head.

  She’s like a ghost, haunting me. Although she never actually stepped foot into my place, I already imagined her there. I fabricated moments and situations we would find ourselves in, ones I hoped to create once she arrived. But now, they’ll never happen.

  I pull into the parking lot of the studio and grab my guitar case out of the back seat before heading to the door. There’s got to be at least one empty room with an amp for me to plug in to. Maybe it’ll be easier to get my head into the music and the music in my head if I’m in a place where music happens.

  Somewhere I never pictured Ashlyn being.

  When I enter the building, I turn right instinctively, heading toward the room Toxicity’s been recording in. I don’t need a room that big, but I’m pretty sure there are some smaller session rooms down there, too.

  My eyes skim over the various album cover artwork on the walls. There was a time when seeing the images inspired me, made me think of how amazing it would be to have my band’s cover among them. But it’s hard to me to get excited about recording this record. The words, the music—none of it will ring true. Like my image, my name, my band, my music will now be manufactured. I’m no longer an artist, I’m a product.

  I pass the door leading to the sound booth Stan sat in days earlier. I feel a twinge of guilt, knowing he was pulled from his vacation to record an album that’s currently not being recorded. I hope Somer and the label are making this worth his time.

  My fingers curl around the doorknob to what I think is a session room when I hear a mechanical click behind me.

  “I’m gonna hit the head.”

  I freeze. That sounds a lot like Stan. I press into the doorway, trying to make myself as inconspicuous as possible. What would he be doing here? Is he recording something else on his downtime?

  Stan steps out into the hallway, hand resting on his expansive stomach. He takes a step before spinning back toward the door, his long, thin brown pony tail caught briefly in flight. “No, you don’t need to wait for me. Just hit that button there. No, not that one. No. That—Somer, not that one.”

  Stan disappears back into the room and my heartbeat kicks up a notch. Somer? What’s he doing here? Maybe he’s listening to some of the tracks we’ve recorded so far, seeing if they can be salvaged. Curiosity piqued, I take a couple steps closer to the sound booth. If Somer’s planning to keep the tunes we recorded already and cut some of the ones he sent, I should find out which.

  The door opens again and Stan exits, rubbing his gray-streaked goatee as he starts toward the bathroom. He must have turned the track on for Somer because music pours out the open door. It’s familiar—too familiar—but before I can be positive of what I’m hearing, the door clicks closed.

  My heart is hammering now and a rushing sound fills my ears. The song—it can’t be what I think it is. Probably just a similar chord progression, that’s all. But I have to know, to be sure. Slipping the strap of my guitar case off my shoulder, I lean it against the wall before tiptoeing toward the sound booth. I probably look ridiculous, and the tiptoeing is probably unnecessary—Stan is already in the bathroom and the booth is soundproof—but I can’t turn off my body’s automatic stealth mode. My breath catches as I near the door, and I hold it as my fingers close over the knob. I twist it as slowly as I can, releasing the breath just as slowly, and I crack open the door.

  “It heals me, frees, and steels me / And proves that hope was all around. / I want hope / to bring to light / the things that I need now. / I need hope / to invigorate / and make it real somehow.”

  The words—my words—reach my ears, but it’s not my voice singing them. There’s no doubt the song I’m hearing is “Invigorating Hope,” but lead vocals of the fully orchestrated track are being sung by Chase.

  Chase is singing my song. The song he said he didn’t like. The song Somer rejected, that he said the label rejected.

  I shove open the door so quickly it bangs against the adjacent wall. Somer and Chase turn, identical looks of horror stretched across their faces. Somer jams at the buttons and sliders on the sound board, but it takes several tries before the music cuts off.

  Chase recovers first. “Ever! Didn’t expect you in here today, buddy—”

  I cut him off with a glare. “What the hell is going on here?”

  Somer holds out a placating hand, his eyes still wider than usual. “It’s not what you think.”

  My suspicion kicks into high gear
. While I didn’t have a firm idea what was going on a second ago, now my mind gropes for the worst possible scenario. Because when someone tells you it’s not what you think, it’s typically exponentially worse. “I’m not sure what to think, Somer. I seem to remember you telling me this song was too sappy and that the label didn’t have plans to record it. Then why the hell are you and Chase here, on the band’s day off, recording it?”

  He waves his hand like my question is completely silly. But he opens and closes his mouth a few times before finally managing to speak. “Rena Adair,” he says finally, looking relieved to have finally come up with something. “You were right—she did like the song, but she knows it’s not something that’s really going to sell. She wanted a copy just for herself to listen to. I figured asking you to record it would just be dumping salt in your wounds, so—”

  “Bullshit.” His lie doesn’t even make sense. Rena Adair isn’t sentimental enough to request such a thing. And she’s far too business-minded to waste money doing an all-out recording of one song that only she will ever hear. There’s something more going on here. I heard Chase’s voice in the playback—he was good, like he was really feeling the words and the music. I’ve heard him sing enough to know he only sounds like that when the song’s really moving him. But when I first played it for him, he acted completely underwhelmed. And maybe that’s just it—he acted.

  They’re both lying to me. Not just about this—they’ve been lying to me. A quick survey of the studio beyond the soundproof glass tells me Logan and Tristan aren’t here. The drums are set up for a left-handed player, and the guitar on the stand isn’t one of Tristan’s—they used session musicians on the track. They brought in a whole new band.

  “Fuck me. That’s it, isn’t it?” My hand goes to my face, covering my lips, fingers grazing the stubble I’ve been cultivating. I should feel more surprised than I am, but it all makes sense. Somer is an opportunistic businessman; Chase has always resented not being Toxicity’s front man. I knew those songs were good, that they could be wildly successful—but Somer and the label were too afraid to allow Toxicity to stray too far from the sound of its first record. But the songs were perfect for a brand new band with a new lead singer. “You were gonna steal my songs. Make me sign a contract to give up all my rights to them and record them as your own.”

  Chase rubs the back of his neck. “It’s not personal, man. Isn’t that what you told me when Somer picked you over me? I’d’ve walked away then—I had no interest being in your damn shadow—but Somer convinced me to wait it out, to wait for the right time to branch out on my own.”

  I gape from Chase to Somer and back again. I trusted these two—thought they both had my back. Have they really been plotting behind me since before the band even got started? “And, what? You were just gonna take the chance I wouldn’t look too closely at the language of the contract about the songs?”

  Chase snorts. “Not much of a gamble. You’ve had your head basically up your ass since we got back, mooning over that housekeeper in Michigan.” He shakes his head. “You can barely manage a simple chord change. I almost wish Somer would’ve let her come—you’d probably be just as distracted but not quite as shit at music.”

  Irritation flares, but it’s quickly snuffed out by confusion. “Let her come?” Somer didn’t stop her—it was my decision to leave without her...after I saw the picture of her and Graham kissing. The picture Somer showed me. The one I didn’t let Ash explain. “You faked that picture, didn’t you?”

  Somer crosses his arms, looking affronted. “Please. I would never sink to that level. The picture was real.”

  He’s holding something back, and I venture a guess. “Who tipped you off to the picture? I looked online and never found it.” I shake my head. It doesn’t matter, and I don’t really care.

  The door behind me opens, light from the hallway spilling into the dim booth. Stan clears his throat. “Ah, Ever. Wasn’t expecting you today.”

  I reach for the door, holding it open. “Whatever else these assholes want you to record, don’t do it. Those are my songs and I’m not signing over the rights. Chase is gonna have to have someone else write his music for him.”

  Stan’s brow furrows in confusion, but I ignore him, stepping out into the hall.

  Somer follows. “Everett, wait. I’m sure there’s some agreement we can come to. I can get the royalty clause reinstated—maybe even a larger slice than for the songs on—”

  I flip him off, not turning. “Not interested, Somer.”

  He releases an exasperated sigh. “Just stop walking for a minute. Where are you going, anyway?”

  I stop and turn. He’s so surprised, he stops, too.

  “I think you know where.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Ashlyn

  My phone’s ring tone sounds and I reach for it without looking. My fingers collide with a mason jar and tip it over. The resulting cascade of water is enough to make me sit up and tear my eyes from the TV screen.

  By some miracle, I’m alone in Reagan’s apartment. Reagan is at work and I managed to convince Teresa I didn’t require a babysitter. I knew she’d be an easy mark today, because yesterday she mentioned a casting call for extras in some movie being filmed downtown. To celebrate my precious hours without my well-meaning friends buzzing around, I watch some episodes of Soul Shift, skipping the few Everett and I watched together.

  Braden Crowe flips his hair on the screen as I pluck my cell from the path of the water. I grab a dirty t-shirt from the floor and throw it over the puddle as I glance at the phone. I’m almost too surprised to answer it when I read the name on the caller ID: Leo.

  I manage to tap the screen to accept the call before it goes to voice mail. “Hello?”

  “Ashlyn?” There’s an edge of nervousness in Leo’s tone, like he’s afraid of how this call might be received. While it’s true that Reagan, Teresa, and I spent a decent amount of time cursing him and all his ancestors right after he fired me, I don’t actually hold any animosity toward him. He did what he had to do to avoid being sued. It’s a small consolation. “Is this a good time? I’m not catching you in the middle of something, am I?”

  I snort as my eyes slide back to the TV screen, where Braden Crowe stares broodingly at his love interest as she walks away hand-in-hand with another man. I grab the remote and hit the power button. “No—it’s a fine time. What’s up?”

  He clears his throat. “I... Uh... Do you think you could swing by the lake house?”

  I tense. Since Reagan and Teresa helped me move out my meager belongings, I’ve done my best to avoid going near the place. Besides bringing on a wave of shame, making me go over everything in my head again to figure out if there’s anything I could’ve done to keep things from ending up how they did, the lake house also makes me think of Everett, and thinking of Everett makes me hurt.

  The only thing that hurts worse is not thinking about him.

  “Um, maybe.” I look at Reagan’s cable box to check the time. Still hours before she’s home from her shift. If I have to go there, I’m going to want reinforcements. Why did Leo have to call during virtually the only time I’ve been alone in weeks? “Could I swing by in a couple hours?”

  “In a couple hours? Um—no. It’ll have to be sooner than that.”

  My shoulders drop. What could be so important that he needs me to come there right away? “Leo, I’m not sure—”

  “It’s your sculpture,” he says quickly. “The one in the tree? Well, the tree’s gotta come down—it’s got some kind of...rot. And the tree cutter’s coming by today to chop it down. So, if you want that sculpture, you’ll have to come get it. I can’t mess with it myself. The back, you know.”

  I run my free hand over my hair. Odo. Of all the pieces I created around the property, that one is my favorite. Despite the fact that it will make me think of Everett—of our day out on the water, of our first night together—I want it.

  “Okay, Leo. I’m on my way. If
the tree cutter gets there before me, stall him.”

  “I’ll do my best. Just—hurry.”

  I end the call and peel myself off the sofa. I haven’t showered yet today and, although it’s afternoon, I’m still in my pajamas. I intended to at least get dressed today—even promised Reagan I would before she left—but I just haven’t managed to yet.

  But now, if I want to save my sculpture, I need to get ready quickly. I dig through the duffle bag stuffed beside the TV stand, coming up with a clean tank top and shorts. It’s nothing spectacular, but as it’s just Leo and I’ll probably get dirty removing the sculpture, I’m not really concerned. After a quick stop in the bathroom to wash my face, brush my teeth, and pull my hair back into the world’s messiest pony tail, I head out the door.

  Tension knots my stomach as I drive up Jefferson to the lake house. I don’t want to talk to Leo about what happened, don’t want for him to fumble through an apology. It wasn’t his fault, really. In fact, I’m sure if the decision had been his, he wouldn’t have fired me at all. But hearing him say that won’t make anything better. Neither will small talk about whether I’ve found a new job or a new place to live. If I’m lucky, he’ll just let me go about my business and leave with the bare minimum communication. He owes me that.

  When I pull into the driveway, for a moment, I can’t breathe. Tears prickle my eyes and I blink rapidly to keep them at bay. No tears here. If I need to cry, I’ll do it later on Reagan’s couch.

  It’s a struggle. I take in deep, measured breaths as I cut the ignition and climb out of the car. Leo is nowhere in sight, for which I’m grateful.