by Misti Murphy
Silence.
Turning around, I collapse against her door and slide to a crouch on the carpet. My chest is heaving, I’m so worked up. I should go down and get hotel security. Or call the cops. They’d be able to evict him from my suite. But what would I say when he told them he’s my husband? He hasn’t done anything other than annoy me. There’s probably nothing the police can do without a court order. Which leaves my family lawyer, the same lawyer that orchestrated my parent’s divorce and my mother’s subsequent splits from husbands two through four before she retired from the husband games. I pull out my phone and make the call.
“Nine months? Are you freaking kidding me?” I’m not yelling, but my voice is strained as I plop onto my butt in the hallway. I can’t begin to wrap my mind around being stuck with this guy for nine months, which is what my lawyer is suggesting might be the case if Nox Casey refuses to do the decent thing.
“Ms. McClain, can I suggest you calm yourself? That’s only one scenario. It could take less or more, but without the other party’s consent it will take time. If you could somehow convince him to agree, you would be looking at a more favorable timeline.”
“How long?” I stare at the black ballet flat with miniature cherries on my right foot, and the navy and white striped flat on my left. This was meant to be easy.
“Six weeks, more or less. Sometimes these things can take up to three months, but since there’s no assets to divide, no family home, or children it’s a fairly straight forward process.”
“And you are certain I can’t get a judge to declare this marriage invalid?”
“It’s always a possibility with the right judge, but you might not be that lucky, and again, it would take time. If you’re serious about dealing with this as quickly and efficiently as possible I would suggest you find a way to convince your husband that he wants this as much as you do.”
“Thanks.” I hang up on him, dropping my hand holding my phone to the floor beside me. I’m screwed. In hot water. Stuck with this jackass for who knows how long. Maybe not that long... My stomach flips. No, the curse is bullshit. I wouldn’t even be thinking about it if Liv hadn’t bought it up.
My phone rings. Liv’s name comes up on the screen. I drag it to my ear. “Liv, thank God. I need your help. Where are you?”
“Out for the night,” she says. “What’s the matter? Date not going well?”
“It’s not a date.”
“Damn girl, no need to scream in my ear.”
“He’s refusing to end it. He won’t leave. He’s probably fast asleep on my bed right now.”
“And where are you?”
“In the hallway.” I lower my voice. “In front of your door.”
“Oh sweetie.” She clucks. “I’m not coming back tonight.”
“Oh. I was hoping I could stay in your room until I work out how to kick him out. Maybe I could ask the concierge to let me in?”
“Maybe,” she says tentatively, like she’s holding something back. “But I’d rather you didn’t. Besides that isn’t going to solve your problem.”
“What? Did you have something to do with this?” What am I asking? Liv isn’t involved in this. She knows how much I hate this situation. I slump even lower, curl my knees up to my chest. “I’m sorry. Of course you wouldn’t.”
“Oh no, I would,” she says. “If I thought it would do you any good.”
“Very funny.” I stare at the long strip of white ceiling above me.
“Look, I think you should march right back into your own room and deal with the problem. Perhaps sleep with it. Might make things appear better in the morning.”
“Sleep with him? That’s your advice?”
“Well that’s your wifely right. It would be a shame to waste it,” she teases. “Seriously though, have you called the cops?”
“I called my lawyer.”
“And what did he say?”
“I’m screwed.” I rub my hand across my face vigorously. This isn’t me. I’m not one to let a problem hold me down. Time to pull myself together. “I’m stuck with him until we’re divorced. And that will take longer with him refusing to get on board.”
“Then you need to get him on board. Did he say what he wanted? Is he after money or anything?”
“I don’t think so. I told him I had none.”
“Is it possible he likes you?”
“Oh come on, Liv, we’re practically strangers.”
“You’re right. That’s a ridiculous notion, isn’t it? Beckett McClain would never be enticing to the opposite sex for more than a quick romp.”
“When you put it that way...no, that’s not the point. What do I do?”
“Beats me. How about we talk it over when I get back tomorrow morning?”
“Thanks.” Not that it helps right now, while he’s stretched out in my bed, and I have nowhere to sleep. “I guess I’ll go back in. Settle on the sofa. Perhaps I might even get some work done, since I doubt I’ll be able to sleep knowing he’s there.”
“That a girl,” she encourages. “We’ll work out how to fix this. I promise.”
I pour another glass of wine. It’s dry and tastes like oak and it’s doing a surprisingly good job of getting me drunk. My laptop is open on the coffee table, the blue light from the screen illuminating the room. Writing an article on electropop circa 1980 isn’t holding my attention the way it usually would. Not while there’s a man asleep in my bed. How am I supposed to get rid of him?
Getting up, I stumble and stub my toe on the leg of the table. “Motherfreakingfucksticks.” Wine sloshes on the carpet and my shorts as I yank my throbbing foot into the air and lean on the arm of the couch until the pain starts to subside.
Then I freeze, waiting in anticipation. He couldn’t have slept through my cussing at the top of my lungs, surely. For a few minutes I stare at the door to the bedroom, but he doesn’t emerge. It would be silly of me not to check that he’s still asleep. I hobble over and lean in the door. It’s completely dark, except for the numbers on the clock by the bed. There’s nothing to see, no movement, no sound.
A crazy spark lit up between us when he touched me. If circumstances were different I’d probably be in bed with him right now. If I’d never met him before he’d probably have me pushed up against the wall while shoving his tongue in my mouth. If he wasn’t the biggest mistake of my life I’d most likely be watching him fuck me in the huge mirrors on the closet.
If circumstances were different I would have let him take this crazy electricity between us and... there’s no point letting my imagination wander any further. Whatever it is about him that gives me this weird sensation inside it’s still only base chemicals, like dopamine, oxytocin, and serotonin.
I stare into the depths of my wine as I head back to the couch. Not even those chemicals. Those ones make happiness. This is more like...a good dosing of testosterone and estrogen. Putting the glass down on the table I sit down and drag my laptop closer. I halve the size of my post and open up a new window to the women’s magazine I sometimes work for. I’m not one who believes in winning a man over in two weeks, or getting him to pop the question in thirteen steps or less. And I don’t need eight tips for achieving the best orgasm of my life, although that last one might hold some substance. But there are some articles I worked on... A section called Anti-Cupid that readers have flocked to over the last year.
I scroll through those posts now, searching for one in particular. A piece on pushing a man to his limits so he’ll show his true colors. It was so popular it spawned a monthly post with tips like: tell him you’re a fan of the smooth scrotum look while holding your flat iron. And ask him 100 times a day to tell you again and again and again why he loves you. Some of them are ridiculous or plain stupid, but in amongst them were some pearls.
I pick up my glass and raise it in salute to the sleeping man in my bedroom. You made the wrong move deciding to make this difficult, husband. I am going to screw you so hard. All the way to signing the damn pa
perwork that will finish this marriage.
CHAPTER FIVE
It’s holy matrimony, baby!
Hellish even.
But, you’ll make me half a million dollars.
And I’ll make you the best husband you’ll ever have.
NOX
It must be near dawn. Five a.m. if the digital clock on the nightstand is correct. Stretching, it takes me a moment to recall where I am. Not the cabin, and not Dean’s place. This isn’t patio furniture either. But it’s the best night’s sleep I’ve had in almost as long as I can remember. I reach under my hip and pull out a big bit of flattened metal. Circular and an inch thick. I pop the metal bangle onto the nightstand. Beck Casey is used to other people cleaning up after her, I’d bet my last dollar on it. Her hotel room is a mess.
Sitting up, I rub my jaw, glance around. There’s the glow of a screen coming from the other room. Perhaps she left the TV on, or she couldn’t sleep. Not surprising she didn’t join me in the bedroom. Didn’t expect her to. Especially after her reaction. I grin. Well, maybe not her reaction. There’s an attraction between us, a sexual tension that caught me by surprise last night as much as it did the first time I met her. I could sense how much her body wanted to mold to mine when we were touching each other. Wanted it.
That’s not the point. There are half a million points to be made, but that isn’t one of them. I climb off the bed and stumble to the bathroom. Need to piss.
Bladder empty, I tuck myself in, do up my pants, and wander into the living space. She’s asleep on the sofa, bare feet sticking out from under the white waffle weave robe she’s draped over herself. Her laptop is open on the coffee table. Two windows divide the screen. One’s an essay on some electropop group I’ve never heard of. The other is a blog titled Dear Anti-Cupid. The post is about how to push a guy until he cracks so you can find out if he’s a keeper, and her name is the byline.
I snort and shake my head. Make a note to have a look at this blog of hers later. She might hate me after all, but if she thinks I’m going to let go of half a million dollars and the chance to see if there’s something more here, she’s going to be shocked at my staying power. I quietly tuck the end of the robe around her feet before letting myself out the door. Three months of playing house with Beck Casey might be the answer to my problems, but I still have to go to work.
While I ride the elevator down, I text Jack. He’s probably still asleep, and if not, too busy to respond, but I need him to put me in touch with Liv again. If I’m going to keep up my end of the deal, I’m going to need a key.
Started feeling guilty while I was delivering lumber. Half a million dollars isn’t a good enough reason to make someone uncomfortable. And Beck doesn’t deserve it. The only thing she did wrong was marry me. God knows why. Probably because we were drunk. No hidden agenda, no deeper meaning like her friend thinks.
I was fucked up that night. Hating on everything but booze. Lena made sure of it. I wouldn’t be in this mess without her. Beck wouldn’t be involved either.
I pull into the empty lot behind the old building. Damn kids have been throwing rocks and smashing windows again. Tagged more of the building too. The steel records that used to decorate the space over the front door are faded and broken. A couple of the discs are missing altogether. Above them on the roof the Casey Record sign is a grimy, broken mess. God, this place used to be something. Rock royalty used to walk through these doors on a regular basis. They’d come stay at the cabin and make their records here. Couldn’t get them to come now. Dad would never have let it fall apart like this. All that’s left is a pile of bricks with no soul and no life.
My chest aches. Dad must be turning in his grave. His legacy lying in ruins like this.
Gravel crunches under the tires as I park the truck. Still keep messing up. Can’t get it right.
Jumping out of the cab, I find the key on my fob. We loaded all the equipment—the instruments and mixers and rack mounts and anything else that wasn’t glued down—into my truck and moved it to Mayhem to store it when we thought we were going to have to let the building go. Now it’s just a shell. The power’s cut off, and there’s probably glass everywhere from the broken windows, so there’s no point in going inside. I just like knowing that I can. That no matter how hard Lena tried she didn’t manage to take it all from me. That as much as she did manage to take, she couldn’t take this. At least when I come out here there’s some hope that I can undo the damage, bring the bands back, rebuild the label to what it once was because we still have the building my father built into a rock landmark.
Thank God he didn’t leave it all to me alone. He had foresight where I had none. Though I very nearly ruined that too. Marrying Lena would have resulted in her having a right to half the studio. Instead, I married Beck. She doesn’t even know how she saved me that night. I didn’t know. Not until later when I couldn’t see any other way out but to give Lena what she wanted. Dad had mortgaged the studio and the cabin to help me get back on my feet and the debt still needed to be cleared. I had to sell my house because Lena’s name was on the title. Couldn’t see any other way out but to sell the studio to the developers Lena worked for.
Until I was sitting with the paperwork in front of me and dad’s estate lawyer asked me about my marital status. Such a tiny detail, but the impact was huge. A simple clause in dad’s will transferred half of the estate into Beck’s ownership the moment we married. To sell it I had to have her signature, and I had no idea where she was. There was not a damn thing Lena could do. God, she was angry. Still enjoy revisiting that moment. Her face... thought she was going to go nuclear.
But it’s been two years and I can’t make a dent in the mess. Haven’t managed to do a damn thing to get this place back to what it should be. Haven’t been able to pay my siblings back for helping me keep everything afloat. It’s been long enough.
This is why you’re going to stick like glue to the girl. For Finn, and Dean, and Jack. And for Lou. And for dad, because I have to fix this. That’s what he would want. He was always telling me that there were too many songs still to be sung, guitars to be strummed. We Caseys don’t quit what we start.
Can’t let an opportunity like the one Liv’s giving me slip through my fingers because Beck doesn’t deserve to be caught in the middle. Already put her there when I married her. Maybe after things are turned around I can make it up to her. Maybe give her a once in a lifetime interview with the ghost of a rockstar. Or call in a favor from Sophie Valentine. Beck would probably like that.
Something glints at the corner of the building. Diamond bright. What the hell? I stalk in that direction, stop when I get to the steps to the darkened front doors. Beck Casey is taking pictures with her Nikon. Stuffing it back into her tan leather tote bag, she tries the door. The chunky chain padlocked around the handles rattles. Her curvy ass bounces inside that cute, stretchy aqua skirt. And then she pulls a bobby pin from the base of her ponytail.
I clear my throat. “Need help?”
“I-uh.” She jumps and spins around, her hands behind her back. “No, I don’t. What are you doing here?”
“Casey Records.” Jogging up the steps to meet her on the fat bit of concrete between the top four and bottom four, I point at the faded and cracked sign suspended on top of the building, before pushing my thumb into my chest. “Nox Casey.”
“You?” Her eyebrows arch into two perfect peaks. “You’re related to Dalton Casey?”
“He was my dad.”
“Oh.” She comes toward me. “I’m so sorry. He was a great man. From what I’ve read.”
“He was better in person.” Our conversation tapers off the way it does whenever this subject is broached by people who didn’t know him. We both stand around awkwardly staring at the building, her biting her thumb nail, and me with my arms crossed.
“You grew up here?”
Can’t blame her for wanting to change the topic, even slightly. Don’t know what to say myself. “I did.”
“This place must have been amazing in its heyday.” She glances around the empty lot.
“It was.”
“I heard Sophie Valentine had her first kiss in this parking lot.” She shields her eyes with her hand as she twists at the hips like she’s surveying her kingdom.
“Yeah, I remember.” Standing beside her, I point at an uninteresting spot in the yard. Memories overlap the rubble and littered glass from windows and broken bottles, tinting it golden. It’s like looking through dust motes or dirt streaked windowpanes at a perfect summer’s day. “Um, it happened right over there.”
She gazes out to where I pointed, and then her nose crinkles and she turns to me. “Was it with you? Did you and Sophie—”
“Oh. No. Not me.” I grimace. Sophie and I shared a lot of moments, but they were all platonic.
“But you were there.” She nods to herself, most likely slotting images into place in her head. She lifts her Nikon and takes a few photos of the area. “Will you tell me about it?”
“It’s not really my story to tell.” Crossing my arms, I rock back on my heels. Boy, it was a story though. We thought it would be an epic. But time teaches reality, doesn’t it? Sometimes, I wish...
“Please. It’ll be completely off the record. It’s just I’ve always wondered.”
“Well, since you’re my wife I suppose I can tell you.” I owe her at least this much.
“Hmmm,” she says, but she doesn’t argue. I guess at this point she just wants me to tell her the story.
“Sophie was having a bad day. A real shit show. She’d been in the booth for hours, but the song wouldn’t come together. They’d run through it so many times that my dad suggested it might be better if she came in the next day. It wasn’t a big deal. We’d grown up together, so she’d always had unlimited access to the booth. It was sort of unspoken that she was a star.”
“Really?” Beck whispers, as though she doesn’t want to interrupt the story.