by Reese Ryan
How the hell does she know about Raine being Beau Montgomery?
“You’re making a huge mistake, one as big as I made when I...when I ruined things for us. Don’t make a rash choice you’ll regret later. Please.” His red-rimmed eyes implore me.
“I won’t,” I say calmly. “That’s why you’re going to sleep this off right here on the couch, and I’m going into my bedroom and lock the door.”
He pouts, his head in his hands.
“You’ve had way too much to drink tonight, Jaxson,” I say. “Don’t worry. You probably won’t even remember any of this in the morning. Just try and get some sleep.”
He stands, agitated. “You think I’m only saying this because I’m drunk? Well, you’re wrong. Deep down, you know I mean every word.”
I don’t reply. I stare at the floor and massage my throbbing temples.
“I love you and I know you still love me.” He reaches for me, but I edge a few steps backward. He’s unable to keep up with my sudden movement.
“What we had is in the past. It’s over. Done.” I look at him intently, my voice firm. “I’m glad we crossed paths again. I needed to let go of all of the anger and resentment, and I have. I’m glad we can be friends and go out for a cup of coffee. But that’s all I can offer you. I’m with someone else now.”
Jaxson sits down on the couch, holding his head in his hands again. He doesn’t say anything for a minute. Then he looks at me. “Do you love him?”
“My relationship with Raine isn’t your business.” I walk over to the window and look into the dark, cold streets. The neon lights from a few restaurants and bars glow on the wet pavement. A noisy group of people makes its way toward a bar.
“How can you trust this guy anymore? If he wouldn’t even tell you his real name, who the hell knows what else he’s hiding?”
My stomach burns. I wonder if I’m developing an ulcer. “My love life isn’t your concern. Stay out of it.”
“Not if there’s a chance you still care about me, about us,” he insists.
“There isn’t.” I look him squarely in the eye, standing with my spine straighter than a steel rod. I cross my arms and inch closer to him. “You say things are different now and you’re right. You’re a better man than you were when we were together. But friendship is the extent of our relationship. If you can’t respect that, it would be better if we didn’t see each other anymore.”
“Okay, fine,” he concedes, eyes downcast. He forces his words out through clenched teeth. “You’re with Beau Montgomery now. I have to respect that.”
“Thank you.” I ignore the Beau reference. “Now, let’s make up your bed.”
Jax stands and unfolds the blanket. “Thank you for letting me crash here. I shouldn’t have put you in this position.”
“No, you shouldn’t have.” I help him arrange the covers. “But everyone’s entitled to a mistake or two. Just don’t make it a habit.”
“You don’t have to worry about that.” He grabs his head. “Can’t hold my liquor so well anymore.”
“That’s a good thing,” I say. “Believe me.”
Jax tosses the pillow onto the sofa. He eases onto the couch, still nursing his head. “I’ll be out of here before you wake up.”
After wishing him good night, I tell Jax to lock up when he leaves. I go back to my bedroom alone and try to get some sleep, amid memories of Raine.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Sunlight spills through the curtains and warms my face. I roll over and look at the clock. It’s a little after nine. I stretch, staring at the ceiling. Then I remember. Jax is on my couch.
Maybe if I lie here a bit longer he’ll be gone and I won’t have to deal with this anymore. I’ve got enough going on: a long-distance boyfriend with a dual identity and a family of famous, drugged-out attention whores. The last thing I need is a blast from my past trying to rekindle a love affair that’d probably send me to a padded room in a straitjacket this time around.
I sit up against the headboard, hugging my knees to my chest. I’ve gone from zero love life to one complicated enough to land me on a soap opera.
How could I let Jax kiss me? I cringe. My stomach churns to think of it, but I still have feelings for him.
“He isn’t good enough for you, Melanie. He never was.” I hear Mimi’s voice echoing in my ears. She was right then. But Jax isn’t the same person anymore. He’s responsible, considerate, a doting father. All the things my mother said he could never be.
I slide my feet into my slippers and shuffle into the bathroom to brush my teeth.
Jaxson isn’t an issue, once I get him off my couch. My concern is Raine. We need to sort this out. I’ll call him as soon as it’s a decent hour in San Francisco. Thankful for the time difference, I practice what I’ll say in my head. Then I head down the hall to get rid of Jaxson.
The sheets and blanket are folded with the pillow sitting on top. Jax is gone. Thank goodness!
“Hey, stranger,” a familiar voice croons.
A man wearing a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches stands in the corner, looking out the window. But it isn’t Jaxson.
“Raine?”
He turns and gives me a slight smile. Inching toward me cautiously, he runs a hand over his shaved head. “What do you think? Is it me?”
“What are you doing here? And what happened to—”
“Jaxson? He was on his way out when I arrived.”
“Actually, I was going to ask what happened to your hair.” I edge a few steps closer. “And about Jaxson, I know how this must look, but it isn’t what you think.”
Raine crosses the living room and takes my hands in his. His warm, gray eyes lock with mine. “You don’t have to explain.”
“I want to,” I insist. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about me and him. I know he keeps popping up, but there’s nothing going on between us. He was out-of-his-head drunk last night and he needed a place to crash. That’s all.”
“I know.” Raine nods. “He told me.”
“And you believed him? The story sounds ridiculous, even to me. And I was there.”
Raine smiles feebly. There is sadness in his eyes. I’ve never seen him like this. “Life’s crazy,” he says. “It’s the stories that are too neat and perfect you can’t trust.”
“Yeah, I guess.” I shift uncomfortably. “Can I get you something? Coffee maybe?” I take a step back, gently pulling my hand from his. “There isn’t a hell of a lot in here, but I could make us some French toast or something.”
“Sure, coffee and French toast sound good.”
“Great.” I’m thankful for something to do. Now I won’t have to sit idly, with no way to hide the expression on my face as he tells me the secret he’s been hiding. The one I thought I wanted to hear.
Raine follows me into the kitchen. He stands between me and the refrigerator. “I’ve missed you.” His voice is soft and low. “How’ve you been?”
“Okay,” I say. “Better now. I’ve missed you, too.”
Raine takes me in his arms and hugs me. I try not to hug him, but the heat from his body envelops me like an electric blanket. His warmth comforts me. His scent fills my nostrils. I relax in his arms, wrapping mine around his waist, underneath his jacket.
It’s been less than a week since I felt his heartbeat against mine. But right now there seems to be so much time and distance between us.
“Does this mean you don’t hate me?” Raine pulls back, his eyes searching mine. I’m reluctant to be separated, yet to get my fill of his warmth and scent.
“I don’t hate you. I’m hurt because you didn’t trust me enough to tell me the truth.”
He cringes, cheeks flushed, and lowers his head without response.
“You said I could tell you any
thing. And I did. Why couldn’t you trust me the way I trusted you?” My voice rises, something I didn’t expect. I hoped I was past the initial anger.
Raine takes my hand and leads me to the couch, where we sit. He holds both my hands in his. “I never meant to hurt you and it’s not that I didn’t trust you. It’s just...I am Raine Mason, the man you know and care for. I was afraid you wouldn’t want me if you knew I was some washed-up teen ‘heartthrob.’ Part of the crazy Montgomery family. I’ve spent the last two decades getting past the reputation I had back then. I didn’t want anything to drag me back there. And I didn’t want my past to wreck my future with you.”
“Were you ever going to tell me?”
“I wanted to, so many times. But I needed to know that you felt as strongly about me as I do about you. Then I figured, no matter what, we’d get through it.”
“That’s not fair—who says you get to make all the decisions in this relationship?”
His shoulders fall, eyes cast downward for a moment before returning his gaze to mine. “I was wrong and I apologize. I hope you can forgive me, that we can move past this.”
“I want to. I do. But you have to tell me the truth. About everything. Can you do that?”
Raine closes his eyes and nods. “Ask me anything.”
“Okay. So, let’s start with, why’d you do it?”
“Change my name and go into hiding? Or cut my hair?” Raine laughs uncomfortably.
“Both, I guess.”
Raine walks over to the row of windows and stares down on the street, his back to me. He doesn’t say anything for a while, and neither do I. I let the silence hang between us like a thick fog, waiting for him to speak when he’s ready.
He turns around and walks back to the love seat across from me and sits down, creating an uncomfortable space that scares me. Raine leans forward, his elbows on his knees. “I was born Rainbeau Mason Montgomery. My parents are Marshall and Liza Montgomery of Skye Records,” he says, his words almost an apology.
I nod, encouraging him to continue.
“Autumn, Summer and Skye Montgomery are my siblings. We started out with absolutely nothing. But we were a family and we were happy. There was always music in our house. Impromptu jam sessions. Sing-alongs. My parents were quintessential hippies.” An involuntary smile turns up the corner of his mouth. “After my dad started Skye Records, everything changed. By the time I was in my late teens, I spent most of my time partying, smoking and sleeping with just about any pretty girl I met.” He pauses, reluctant to continue. He waits for my reaction.
I’m silent. I’d expected as much. Once I knew who he was, I remembered the stories about him basically being a man-whore. Most of his conquests were teenage celebrities or children of celebrities. The occasional commoner would also make it on the list. A waitress in a restaurant. A girl who worked at a ski shop in Aspen. A celeb-obsessed groupie.
Though we’ve always practiced safe sex, the thought of all those women before me is disturbing. I try not to react to the news that I’m probably the 275th woman in his life. I bite my lip and nod.
“Back then my face was all over the tabloids for everything from wrecking my Porsche to OD’ing.”
“I remember that.” I scoot toward the edge of my seat. “They found you in a hotel room. You were barely alive.”
He fiddles with his shirt cuff. “My shithead friends left me there, not wanting the heat. They called nine-one-one anonymously. Guess I should at least thank them for that.” Raine runs his hand over his head. He seems uncomfortable with the unfamiliar draft against his scalp.
“How old were you then?”
“Eighteen,” he says. “Even nearly dying didn’t make me stop. I got the phoenix on my back, convinced I was all but invincible, and went right back to the same friends, same lifestyle. My parents’ advice was to buy from someone they trusted. They hooked me up with the guy they’d been using for years.”
I shudder, imagining parents whose drug message is to use higher quality drugs from a more “reliable” source. I try not to show my disdain. “It must have been tough not to fall into that lifestyle.”
“It was. But it’s no excuse. We don’t accept it from poor kids selling crack on the corner in the projects. Why should it be acceptable from children of wealthy families?” He shakes his head. “It’s a bullshit excuse.”
“So what made you give up the partying, the drugs?”
Raine bites his lip, closes his eyes and buries his face in his hands. He takes a deep breath then sits up. The corners of his eyes are damp. He forces his eyes to meet mine. “When I was twenty I picked up this girl, Farrah Rose, at a club. We were both completely trashed. Weed, coke, Jack. Neither of us should have been walking, let alone driving. So, I’m taking her back to my place and the music is blaring and we’re messing around in the car.” He closes his eyes and swallows hard.
My shoulders tense. I told Raine he could tell me anything. But I’m afraid of what he’ll say next. Afraid I won’t be able to get past it.
“I was speeding, high, distracted. I looked away from the road. When I looked back I’d crossed the median and we were in the path of a tractor trailer. I overcorrected, sent the car careening down a ravine. We were ejected from the car. I landed in a patch of shrubs. Farrah wasn’t as lucky. She was thrown into a rock formation. She...she died instantly. Right there. On the side of the road, down a hill.” Raine puts his head in his hands again.
“Oh my God.” I cover my mouth with one hand. The man I adore because he’s trying to save the world—is also responsible for this girl’s death. He never intended to kill that girl, but he did, just the same.
Raine puts his head in his hands, racked with the guilt he’s carried nearly half his life. I have an overwhelming desire to take him in my arms and comfort him. Another part of me envisions a scarlet letter emblazoned on his chest. M for murderer, written in the blood of the girl who only wanted to go back home and brag to her friends that she’d fucked a celebrity.
“You probably haven’t eaten anything today. Let me make you something.” He acknowledges my offer with a grateful nod. Wiping the corner of his eye with the back of his hand, he sinks into the couch. Reliving that awful night leaves him visibly shaken, a lifetime of regret etches deep furrows across his forehead.
I go into the kitchen, open the fridge and take out milk, eggs and butter. Then I rummage through the cabinets for coffee, bread, cinnamon, nutmeg, sugar and maple syrup.
I put on a pot of coffee, then start to beat the eggs.
Raine moves to a stool at the breakfast bar. He pinches the bridge of his nose, his eyes squeezed shut.
Silently, I focus on the task before me. I add milk to the bowl, pick up the whisk and begin beating the mixture.
“Say something, anything,” he says finally.
My eyes meet his for a moment before focusing on my mixing again. “I don’t really know what to say.” I shrug and begin adding the other ingredients. Cinnamon, nutmeg, sugar. Whisk, whisk, whisk.
“I know it’s hard for you to hear this. That I’m responsible for this girl’s death. It kills me a little every day. But you wanted to know. You deserve to know.”
I nod, not looking at him. Then I put a cast-iron frying pan on the stove. I slice two pats of butter and drop one in the skillet. “So what happened? When you...when the girl died? There had to be consequences.”
“Hmm,” he says, accompanied by a derisive snort. “For everyday people, yes. For people like the Montgomerys...” He says this as if Montgomery blood isn’t coursing through his veins. “People with money and power have a way of averting consequences. Or dealing with them on their terms.”
“So how’d your parents deal with it?” I reach for the bag of bread.
Raine seems more reluctant to answer this question than he was to tell me he
’d killed a girl with his coke addiction and shiny black Porsche.
“The accident happened in a small town in Georgia, outside of Atlanta. I was unconscious. I woke up two days later. My parents’ lawyer had spun a fantastic tale. That it was Farrah behind the wheel, not me. I couldn’t recall much about the accident. Didn’t even remember—” he takes a breath and looks away, “—I didn’t even remember her name. I just kept seeing her face and the emerald green sequined tank top she was wearing, the contrast between it and her short crop of flaming red hair.”
“So your parents put the blame on a dead girl who couldn’t defend herself. And you let them?” Hoping he’ll deny it, my eyes search his.
He rests his forehead in his palms, leaving me to stare at the top of his newly bald head.
“How could you?” I toss two pieces of French toast into the pan. It sizzles.
“I was still in a fog about the accident. My parents and their lawyer spent three days convincing me that’s how it happened. I’d let girls drive my car before, so it wasn’t that far-fetched.”
I stare at him with my arms crossed and one eyebrow raised.
Raine sighs and drags his hand down his face. “And I was scared shitless. I didn’t wanna go to jail.”
“Her parents didn’t put up a fight?” I slide the spatula under a piece of toast, checking to see if it’s ready.
“My parents offered them half a million dollars to refrain from talking to the media.”
“And they took it?”
“Mr. Rose talked them up to two point five mill. He upgraded his family from a little trailer in a sleepy Georgia town to a nice lakefront property. Then he bought a little hardware store and put her sisters and brothers through college,” Raine says. “Her father said she’d always been trouble. But at least in death, she could do something worthwhile. Make a better life for her family.”
I’m stunned. Raine’s parents were only concerned that the end of Farrah’s life wouldn’t be the end of his. Farrah’s parents’ only concern was living a better life, financed by their daughter’s death. My stomach wretches. The smell of the eggs. The loss of my fairy tale. It’s more than I can take right now.