Collide (Worlds Collide Book 1)

by Quinn Nolan

  Although I only lived here a matter of months, being here feels like coming home. There’s something about the heavy scent of the water, the bowed limbs overhead, the rustle of the leaves. The way the sunlight glints off the glass walls of the lake house. I was happy here—the first time I remember being really happy...ever. Part of it was the freedom of doing what I wanted to do instead of what I felt I had to do, but it would be a lie to say that was all of it. Part of it was Everett. With him, my life felt whole—not just a smattering of disparate pieces.

  I shake away the thought. I can’t fill my mind with him again. I came here to do a job, and I won’t be able to do it if I break down here in the driveway and have a good cry. I’ve cried enough over everything that’s happened. It’s time to move on.

  I start up the driveway in the direction of the tree and the sculpture in question. Whatever rot Leo mentioned must have taken root quickly—I never noticed anything strange about the tree.

  As much as I don’t like the idea of removing the piece, maybe it’s for the best. Maybe I can install it somewhere else. Or, better yet, maybe I can add some pieces to it and make it free-standing, or something decorative for inside. Just like that, possibilities begin spinning through my head—different shapes and materials I could use, different techniques to connect spots together. Everett mentioned once that I could sell my work and I laughed him off, but maybe the idea wasn’t so silly. Maybe while I’m waiting for Kevin to call back, waiting to find another job, I can build some more pieces. At the very least, it would give me something to do besides watching episodes of Soul Shift.

  I round the garage and the tree appears in my line of sight. Someone stands behind it—Leo. He must be inspecting the rot, or maybe trying to figure out how long it will take me to remove the different pieces. I wonder when the tree cutter will be here.

  “Hey, Leo,” I call to the still-obscured figure as I approach. “It shouldn’t take long for me to get that out of there—but I might need to borrow some tools—”

  The man who steps out from behind the tree isn’t Leo. I stop in my tracks, breath catching. It can’t be. He can’t be here. I squeeze my eyes closed, hoping to clear the hallucination, but when I open them again, he’s still there. Standing with his hands in the pockets of his low-slung jeans, muscles of his chest, arms, and shoulders accentuated by the thin material of his gray t-shirt, is Everett.

  His dark eyebrows pull together as he studies me with those blue eyes—the blue eyes girls on MyFeedMe post GIFs of, commenting on their swoon-worthiness, and eyes that have smoldered into mine in the instant before he leans in to kiss me. His expression gives away nothing. Why is he here? Has the label decided getting me fired wasn’t enough? But if they were going to take legal action against me, they would send a lawyer, not Everett. And yet, here he is. He’s here and Leo isn’t.

  “There’s nothing wrong with the tree, is there?” Of all the things I could say in this moment, those are the words that bubble out of my mouth.

  Everett’s lips twitch, but he neither smiles nor frowns. He takes a tentative step forward, but he’s still closer to the tree than me, like he’s afraid he might need its protection. “I didn’t know how to contact you. I got Leo’s information, but he didn’t know where you were staying, either. He offered to just give me your phone number but...I figured you’d just hang up.”

  I consider his assumption. What would I have done if he’d called me? If he’d called when Reagan or Teresa were around, I’m fairly certain I know the kind of things they’d yell as they tried to pull the phone away from me, but I’m not sure what I would have done. Probably be speechless, like I am now.

  “I should’ve asked you. Somer showed me a picture of you and Graham kissing in the brewpub parking lot and... I should’ve asked you about it. But I just... I couldn’t. Suddenly, this thing we had, this thing that was so simple and perfect, was twisted and...too much. It was too much. And I know that’s a chicken shit thing to say, but it’s the truth. I had no idea how to deal with it. So I took Somer at his word and I left.” He squeezes his eyes closed, taking another step forward. His hand stretches out, but still not close enough to touch. “I had no idea he got you fired. I figured we’d just leave and that’d be the end of it.”

  “It’s okay,” I murmur automatically.

  “Dammit, Ash, no it’s not,” Everett growls. “You have every right to hate me for completely abandoning you, for believing the worst.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t hate you.” And it’s true. Despite all the name-calling and burning-in-effigy perpetrated by me and my friends in the last few weeks, I can’t work myself up to hating Everett the way Reagan and Teresa claim to.

  “No?” His face tightens, like he’s steeling himself against something. “If you don’t hate me, then what? How do you feel?”

  My stomach twists. It’s the question I’ve asked myself since everything went down, since I found out Everett left without so much as a goodbye. “I don’t know. I mean, I thought we had something—something real. I was going to leave my whole life to come be with you. And then—” I mime a puff of smoke with my hands. “And now... Now, I’m just...numb.”

  Everett blows out a breath, shoulders slumping. “I shouldn’t’ve come. I’m—I’m sorry. I won’t bother you again.” Head hanging, he starts past me, toward the garage.

  I spin on my heel. “What? That’s it?” Anger bubbles in my stomach, sending waves of heat radiating up into my shoulders, my neck. “All that production to get me here and now you’re leaving? Did I not give the right answer or something?”

  He turns, face blotchy and red. “No, you didn’t give me the right answer. God, Ash—after all this, can you really feel nothing? I’d rather you be pissed as hell—I’d rather you hate me. Because if you feel nothing, it means it wasn’t real—it means you never really cared.”

  “Oh, like you did?” I snap. “If you gave a shit about us, you wouldn’t’ve run away—”

  “I couldn’t face you after seeing that picture. I thought you were playing me from the beginning, and it killed me. So yeah, I left. I left because I couldn’t stand the idea of the woman I love—”

  He stops, jaw slackening, eyes blinking rapidly. I hold my breath, afraid to move, afraid to ask if he just said what I thought he did. The seconds stretch between us, tiny infinities separating us from the moment it sounded like he said— “You love me?”

  He blinks once more, heavily, before fixing his eyes on me. “Yeah.” He says it like a revelation, like he hadn’t considered the possibility before this moment. “Yeah, I do. It’s why I asked you to come with me, why I left when I thought it was a lie—it’s why I’m here now. But since you don’t—”

  “Shut up. Do you have any idea what kind of shit my life has been since you left? I got fired from here, had to move out, I was put on a leave of absence from the brewpub—hell, I’m living on Reagan’s couch. I’ve only had one conversation with my mom, during which she basically told me I’ve completely thrown my life away and insinuated I’m a slut who got what’s coming to her. But you know what? I’d do it all over again—just to be with you one more time. You think because I feel nothing it means I never cared? No—Everett, I feel nothing right now because if I let myself feel, I’ll be crushed. Because I love you.”

  I’m in his arms before I even realize he’s moved. The length of his body presses against mine and his face moves in close, but he doesn’t kiss me. His hand cradling my cheek, he gazes into my eyes, his own smoldering as they take me in. “Say it again.”

  I swallow, feeling dizzy under the weight of his gaze. “I love you, Everett Anderson.”

  He releases a sigh as his lips find mine and all my empty spaces fill up as the cascade of his love washes over me.

  Epilogue

  Everett

  I pull my Porsche up to the wrought iron gates that surround my house and type my pin into the keypad. Within seconds, the gears spring to life and the gate opens. I’m in mo
tion before there’s barely enough clearance for the car. With all the excitement coursing through my veins, it’s hard to be patient. Negotiations with Galaxy 9 Records went better than I anticipated, and I’m brimming with news.

  As I glide up the driveway, I hit the button on the garage door remote. The silver Impala is in its spot and I smile. I was worried it’d be gone and I’d have to wait even longer to share this new development.

  I cut the ignition and head straight through the back door, into the back yard and toward a structure erected less than a month ago: the workshop.

  Before I even open the door, I know I’m right. She’s in there. I don’t bother hiding a smile as I turn the knob. Since it’s been built, Ashlyn’s spent all her spare time in here, working, just like now. I close the door behind me and lean against it, watching her. She wears baggy jeans with a tear by the right back pocket and a heavy dark blue jacket. Her face is obscured by a heavy welding mask. It’s funny: Even looking like this, she’s incredibly sexy.

  She protested long and hard when I pitched the idea of this space, along with all the tools she could need to create her art. It took a considerable amount of prompting on my part to get her to accept it, and even then it was with the stipulation that she would pay me back with the proceeds of her sales—even if it took years. But judging by how many pieces she’s already sold, plus all the pieces people have commissioned, I doubt it’ll take her long to earn what I paid for this.

  The low hiss of the welding torch cuts off and she tips her mask back, leaning forward and squinting at her work. I shift against the door and she jumps, clutching her chest with a gloved hand. “Everett.” She smiles apologetically. “You been there long? I wasn’t sure when you’d be back so I thought I’d get a jump on one of the commissioned pieces—”

  I hold up my hand. “I just got here.” I smile, allowing my eyes to travel the length of her body.

  She blushes, misinterpreting my look. “I know, I look ridiculous.” She tugs off the jacket, revealing a simple blue camisole beneath.

  I shake my head. “You’re beautiful. You’re always beautiful.”

  She throws the jacket onto her work bench before crossing to me, tilting her face up for a kiss. I press my hand to the small of her back as our lips connect, urging her body closer to mine. The feel of her never gets old. She breaks our kiss but doesn’t move away. “How’d the meeting go?”

  Typically I hate when she does this—kiss me and then want to launch into conversation—but today is different. “They loved it.”

  A grin breaks across her face and she kisses me again. “Of course they did! You put together be best demo in the history of demos. They’d be insane not to love it.”

  After learning about Somer and Chase’s deception, I went to the label execs to convince them to let me out of my contract. At first, they tried saying they couldn’t, but when I hired a lawyer of my own and threatened to go public with their complicity in basically stealing my work, they gave in. But the road since hasn’t been easy: Somer and Chase—and, no doubt, some of the execs—wasted no time spreading it around the music community that I’d lost my edge as a musician and was flighty, belligerent, and difficult to work with. For weeks, no one at any label would return my calls. It got to the point where I was seriously considering giving up—and I would have, if not for Ash. She helped me clarify things in my head, reminded me that just because something’s not easy doesn’t mean it’s not worth working for. So I called in a few favors and recorded a six-song demo, including “Invigorating Hope” and “Stowed Summer.” Ash did a ton of research and found a couple dozen labels that might be interested in the direction I wanted to head and one of them, Galaxy 9, contacted me almost immediately.

  “I want to hear all the details.” She squeezes my hands. “Let’s go inside.”

  She leads me out of the workshop and across the lawn, skirting the pool to get to the back door. It’s amazing how comfortable she’s become here. In a way, it’s like she’s always lived here, always been with me. She drops her jeans just inside the door, murmuring something about not wanting to track dirt into the house, but I think she does it just to drive me crazy with the lines of her legs. She heads into the kitchen and I hear the refrigerator door open and bottles clinking. When she returns a minute later, she carries two pint glasses full of amber liquid.

  We settle on the couch, our knees touching, and sip our beers as I give her the details about my meeting. Galaxy 9 is a smaller, independent label with a couple midlist artists in its ranks, and they don’t have nearly the finances or reach as Sonic Thunder, but what they lack in resources and credentials, they more than make up for with enthusiasm, vision, and a desire for authenticity from their artists. If I decide to sign with them, I know it won’t be easy like it was with Toxicity, and I may never have the kind of stardom I had with them, but I have a feeling whatever I accomplish will feel more real.

  “So,” Ash says when I finish, “what’d you tell them? Did you sign with them?”

  I shake my head. “I told them I needed some time to think about it. They were totally cool with it—totally understood when I told them I couldn’t make a decision like that without talking with you.”

  Color rises in her cheeks and her gaze dips. “You don’t have to run this by me.”

  I brush my fingers beneath her chin, bringing her eyes up to meet mine. “I want to.”

  The corners of her mouth curl upward. “I’m glad.”

  I lean back, taking a swig of beer. “You know, if I take this deal, it’ll probably be small potatoes compared to my run with Sonic Thunder. Will you still love me if I can’t afford this house anymore and we have to move into a tiny flat above a pizzeria?”

  She gives my shoulder a playful shove. “I’m really not seeing the downside of that arrangement.”

  “You will when I’m three hundred pounds from eating pizza for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

  She bites her lower lip. “You’re a sexy man, Everett, but I don’t know if even you are sexy enough to pull off rock-god status at three hundred pounds.”

  I can’t suppress a laugh. “Well, maybe a flat above a pizza place isn’t the best idea. Maybe one over a furniture store or something like that—something I can’t eat.”

  She catches my wrist as I raise my glass back to my lips. Her blue eyes lock on mine. “I will love you no matter where we live, and no matter how famous you are. I love you, Everett Anderson. Not the image your old label created.”

  I pull her into a kiss so quickly she squeals against my mouth. I reach toward the end table to set down my beer before wrapping both arms around her. And pulling her up with me as I stand. Her legs wrapped around my hips, I carry her through the living room, past the kitchen, and down the hall to my bedroom. Our bedroom. I believe her when she tells me these things because I know they’re true. She would be just as happy living in the tiny apartment above the garage at Leo’s lake house, so long as I was there. It’s exactly the reassurance I needed. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring for my career. And if I’m never Ever Anders, internationally known rock star again, it’ll be okay, because I’ll still have Ash.

  I lower her onto the bed and she giggles, tugging at the hem of my shirt. She loves me, no strings attached, and I love her. With each other, we’ve finally found just where each of us belongs.

  ###

  If you enjoyed Collide, please leave a review—reviews are critical in helping a book succeed. Please let other readers know what they can expect from Ashlyn and Everett’s story!

  Romance is in the air…

  Ashlyn and may have found love, but her friends are still looking!

  Sign up to be notified when Reagan’s book becomes available! As a special gift, you’ll also receive an exclusive first look at the first chapter of Challenge, Worlds Collide #2.

  (http://eepurl.com/bWMA11)

  />