It's Holy Matrimony, Baby_The Casey Brothers Series

by Misti Murphy

  Her ass hits the chair. The glass in her hand clinks on the table. “Oh my God, what is that?”

  I shrug. “Casey special.”

  She coughs and clears her throat a couple times. “I doubt I’m going to be able to sleep for a week. So much coffee.”

  “That’s the whole point. It was made to get you through the next shift, or show, or tour stop.”

  “I can’t believe you suggested I have one of these.” She tucks her chin in and arches her neck. “I can’t believe your sister would make me one and not warn me.”

  “I can’t believe you rearranged my house without asking me.”

  She snaps her mouth shut and glances at the stage. Drags a stray bit of blonde hair behind her ear while she watches the band. “I didn’t expect you to be so furious about it.”

  “Yes, you did.” She’s toying with me. Playing as though we’re at war. We probably are at war in her head. Girl has a real case of commitment phobia. But she isn’t trying to take everything from me. She’s trying to find a way out of a situation that’s uncomfortable for her.

  “Okay, I did. I hoped it would make you want to sign.”

  “I read those articles you’ve been using as your playbook.” Read them, ha! Know them backwards and forwards. Once I saw that byline, her byline, with my last name, I soaked up every single article. The first one was my favorite, not that I plan on telling her that.

  Those pretty eyes focus back on me and she takes another sip of her drink. Sticks her tongue out, makes a face like she can barely stand the taste. “This is truly terrible.”

  “You’ll grow used to it. After a while. Like beer.” I tip my pint in her direction and polish off the pale liquid.

  “That’s not going to happen.” She turns her nose up and pushes her empty glass away.

  “Those articles. You wrote them.” It’s not a question. Our first night together was her starting point for the series.

  “I did.”

  “Is that how you usually handle your problems, babe?” I sit up and lift her glass up, squeezing my fingers close over the top when I catch Lou’s eye. My sister gives a slight nod that she got the message.

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” Beck says.

  I lean in, resting my arms on the table. “You’re trying to leave me with no option but to do what you want.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s what I’ve done.”

  “Now, I’m going to tell you something.” I take her hand. It’s small and warm between my own. That stray tendril of hair flops forward again and I smooth it back for her. Going to tell her this plan of hers isn’t going to work. There’s nothing in her playbook that’s going to make me sign those papers. Too close to fixing my mistakes and making my siblings’ lives easier. Can’t quit on them. She tilts her face to my hand. My fingers graze her cheek and it’s like a shock to the heart. “I don’t want to let you go.”

  “Please don’t,” she whispers, dropping her gaze to the table. Her voice is cut off by the noise of the band, but the words her lips make are clear. Their meaning, though... could be anything. Please don’t tell me that. Please don’t let me go. Please don’t expect me to drink another one of these awful drinks. But I get a split second, one flash of the hurt and sadness in her eyes before she shuts it away. Don’t know what put it there but I want to ease it or erase it or destroy it. Want to see her smile again. If I can.

  We’re both quiet as Lou puts fresh drinks on the table between us. She pauses and squeezes my shoulder before she walks back to the bar. Beck’s hand stays in mine as I lean in even closer. She doesn’t pull away. I wait for her to. Expect it.

  The band wraps up their set and leaves the stage. My beer disappears. Half her drink too. The crowd heads for the exits. Lou shouts that it’s last call. An eternity seems to pass between us, before she comes back to me. Beck glances at our hands with a strange uncertain expression. “You really won’t let it go, will you? I could take everything from you.”

  “You could.” My chest tightens uncomfortably. It’s hard to breathe. I force my lungs to fill with oxygen. Push it out. There’s not much to take. My family. My dad’s name. Hollander. Everything else I’ve already let slip through my fingers. My music career. The studio. All of it gone because of my careless decisions. Only marrying her, being with her doesn’t feel careless and for the first time in years there’s a spark inside me that gives me hope. “But you won’t.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “No, I don’t.” All I have is a hunch. And some hard-earned experience. “But there’s only one thing you could take from me now that would mean anything.”

  “What’s that?”

  I chuckle as I climb to my feet, pulling her up with me. Lift her chin with my fingers. “Would it be smart of me to tell you that?”

  “No, probably not.” She winces and chews on her bottom lip. Her chin juts out a little and she stares at me as she takes her hand from mine and folds her arms under her tits. “But it doesn’t matter. It’s only a matter of time before you realize I’m right and you’re wrong.”

  “Don’t be so sure of that.” Her tenacity brings out the ox in me. If she can be stubborn then so can I. Especially when I’m almost certain that none of the crazy things she’s done so far have been to actually hurt me. Only to push me away. And she’s ignored the easiest way out of this situation from day one. Surely she’s considered leaving. “Why are you still here, Beck?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re still here. With me. You moved into my house. You say you want me to sign the papers, but you act like you’re scared, and you just want me to hold you tight.”

  Her eyes grow round, the blue popping under thick lashes. Soft lips part as she gasps. Her gaze sweeps to my arms and my chest and up again to my face. There’s a galaxy of thoughts in her irises. Shock. Fear. An awareness that wasn’t there before. She swallows and the little triangle at the base of her throat becomes more prominent. Spinning on her heel, she sprints for an exit.

  The crowd is clearing, heading off in different directions as I leave Mayhem. Her short little skirt makes a swish sound with every step she takes. Her heels click on the pavement. I married this crazy lunatic. I married a girl who asked me to hold onto her for better or worse, and I let her down. I let her run and hide. Because I didn’t know her. Didn’t understand what she needed from me. Because I’m fucking good at letting people down. I have a knack for it. Damn near a talent.

  I catch up to her as she hops the gutter on the far side of the road. Grab her hand and pull her back to me. Wind both arms around her waist and crush her to my chest.

  “Let me go.” She thumps a hand against my bicep. She’s breathing shakily. Her whole body is vibrating with tension.

  “Tell me why you’re still here. It doesn’t add up, Beck. It doesn’t make sense. You don’t need me to absolve this marriage. You could do it from anywhere.”

  “It’ll take too long,” she cries.

  I drop my arms to my side and take a step back. For her to be in such a rush there has to be a reason. Is she planning on marrying someone else? I don’t like the idea. It’s bitter and prickly and as irritating as a badly strung guitar. And it doesn’t make sense. Not with the girl in front of me who can’t manage to even say the words that come with relationships. “Why? It’s been almost two years.”

  “Twenty-one months and two weeks,” she says.

  “Fine. Why now?”

  “You won’t understand.” She shakes her head. “Trust me. It’s better if we don’t talk about it.”

  “You might be surprised at how much I can understand if you open up to me. Together we might even be able to make this situation easier.”

  She laughs. It’s high pitched. A little cracked. “Are you superstitious at all?”

  “If you’re asking me if I believe black cats are evil, and walking under ladders will bring you bad luck, no.” I shrug. “But I own a lucky pair of jeans that I wore the day my band
was signed. And I had routines I ran through before gigs. Would have sworn by them at the time like a footballer swears by his lucky jockstrap.”

  “What?” She frowns. Purses those pretty lips in a way that distracts me.

  “You don’t know what a jockstrap is?”

  “Of course I do.” She flutters her hands between us like she’s swatting mosquitoes. “That’s not the point. You were in a band? You went on tour? You’re Dalton Casey’s son. How do I not know this? Music is what I do. How do I not know about you?”

  “How about we walk and talk?” I take her elbow, turn her around. “The truck is back this way.”

  “Will you tell me?”

  “Tit for tat. You tell me why you’re so damn pushy about getting me to sign those papers. I’ll give you a lesson in ancient history.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Everything is. Just give it a try.”

  We walk the length of the block and turn down the side street beside Mayhem before she speaks. “Okay.” Furrowing her brow, she takes a deep breath and hugs herself tighter. “We McClains have bad luck. Like ridiculously bad luck when it comes to relationships. Including marriage.”

  “Is that what you’re scared of?” I take out my keys as we approach the truck. “That this will fail. So you’re trying to make it impossible from the get go.”

  “No.” She shakes her head fervently. “You don’t understand. I’m not trying to make it impossible. It is impossible. We don’t work. And we can’t. Even if I believed in...”

  “Feelings?” I unlock the truck and open the door for her.

  “Yes, that will do. Even if I did, which I don’t, that would only make it worse. My grandmother calls it a curse. She says we’re cursed.”

  “And you believe that.”

  “I...” she glances at the ground beside her, “...don’t. There’s plenty of scientific reasoning as to why relationships don’t work. Thousands of articles on the internet and in medical and science journals.”

  “But?”

  “Two years seems to be the length that any McClain relationship lasts.” She exhales and scrapes those same loose strands of hair back behind her ear. “I probably sound crazy. Or like I’m making this up. But I’m not. I’m trying to save us both from wasting our time.”

  She’s so damn sincere. And Liv’s three month offer slips right into that timeline. Like Beck’s friend is desperately hoping I can prove to her that this belief she has isn’t real. And I want to prove it to her. I want to catch her up and not let go. The same way I wanted to when I married her. I meant it inside Mayhem when I told her I won’t let go.

  Getting close to her, I take her hand, find her pulse with my thumb and finger. It echoes in my own chest. Doesn’t feel like science to me. Doesn’t feel like a bad thing either. “We’re not cursed, Beck.”

  “You still don’t understand.” She stares up at me with sadness. “My mother was married multiple times. Even my own parents were only together for eighteen months. My brother. Dash. He’s the only one in my family who got married and made it to two years. His wife died on the anniversary of their first date. Wanna know how long they had together? Two years, literally. Okay, and a few minutes if you want to be pedantic. But that’s not the point.”

  “Christ.” No wonder she’s freaked out. No wonder she chooses to hide behind statistics and science. It would be easy to string these incidences together and label them as a curse. And if her whole family is set on believing it’s so... “I’m sorry.”

  “Now you get it?” Hope shines in her gaze. “You understand why you should sign.”

  I shake my head as I tug her into my chest, cradle her in my arms, and nuzzle the top of her head. I understand exactly why I shouldn’t do what she wants. And it’s not just about the money and the studio, though it should be. Without the cash Liv’s promised me, I’m letting my family down. My dad. Myself. Screwing up yet again. Without it I have nothing to offer her. “Angel, don’t waste your time, because I am never going to sign them. Understand?”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Commitment is like rock and roll

  You have to rock the boat

  Roll with the punches

  And pray you make it through the storm

  BECK

  He swallows me up in his arms, enveloping me with strength and comfort. His heart beats steadily against my ear, full of life and promise. His lips graze my hair. I sink into his touch. Want it. Need it.

  I’ve tried to push him away. Tried to frustrate him to the point that he gives up. Told him the truth. Well, most of it. Some of it. The stuff that is important and he should be aware of. None of it makes a difference. He’s immovable. Rock solid. Frustrating. Almost making me believe in things that can’t possibly be.

  “Come on. We should go.” He guides me into the truck and closes the door behind me. A moment later he climbs in behind the wheel and turns the vehicle toward home. With one hand on the steering wheel he settles the other on my knee. Long sturdy fingers grip my flesh, the rough pads creating hot sparks where they touch. Supporting me, comforting me, owning me. Turning me on. The chemicals in my body are going haywire, confusing me. If they could last... Would this turn into more? Could it be something more than the sum of its parts? Could it be a forever kind of thing?

  Or is this all there is? My body reacting to his in a way that makes my heart race and my insides tingle, and my mind lose touch with the reality of life. Playwrights developed the happy ending in the 1800s to give people hope. But that’s all it is. A device to make us want more than what nature intended. And still I want to give into his belief that I’m wrong about our limited time.

  We turn toward the cabin. Drive up the bumpy old road. He pulls the truck into the driveway, leaves it idling while we sit in silence. He’s pensive, his mouth drawn into a straight line as he stares out the windshield.

  “Midnight Echo,” he says.

  I jump when he finally speaks, not expecting it. “What about them?”

  “You know the band?” He shifts about and pulls his phone out of his pocket.

  “Uh, everyone does. They were huge when I was a teenager.”

  He taps on his phone screen. “Massive. Code Porter was born to the keys. Eli James could play an axe like it was an extension of his body.”

  “Jasper Hagen could do things to a drum set...” A wisp of a smile forms on his lips as I talk. I wanted so badly to see them perform live. I never got the chance. “Girls went wild for him.”

  “That they did.” He glances at me. His gaze is sharp, a little uncomfortable. His fingers bite into my knee. “Did you go wild for him?”

  “For the music.” I shrug. “Who didn’t?”

  “Yeah.” He exhales. His grip loosens. “That’s true.”

  “It was such a shame they broke up.” Though the hole they left was quickly filled with other bands. Groups that wanted to be them or had a sound we were still craving. Omega Blue. Heady Rembrandt. Bordello Sunrise. Bands that formed the trajectory of my career in music journalism. Bands that made us forget.

  “It’s been what? Eight years since they broke up.”

  “Yeah, that’s about right.” I remember how upset I was when the foursome called it quits. Everyone was. Girls and boys alike wore black like they were in mourning. I didn’t have the chance. I lost time. Weeks. My uniform a hospital gown. They were old news by the time I was discharged. And I had other things to deal with. Like healing. Inside as well as outside.

  “What about Jase Hunt?” I twist in my seat. I’d been obsessed with the guitarist slash singer slash songwriter, as much as any teen could. His lyrics held so much heart. And pain. He’d had such a sexy voice. God, he’d been hot too. I used to stare at his poster next to my mirror. Those haunted blue eyes, gaunt cheekbones, and sinful lips hung on so many girls’ bedroom walls. A god in tight leather pants.

  Nox grimaces and blows out a breath. “He’s the reason they broke up, you know.”

  �
��Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They said it was mutual. They had other projects. Solo careers to chase.” There was a press release. An announcement. Jase had been noticeably absent, but they’d said he was in the studio working on something special. It never came, now that I think about it.

  “They were good friends. Even after...” He takes a deep breath. “Christ. I fucked it all up.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He hands me his phone, and I stare at the photo on the screen. Four guys crowd the picture, arms slung around each other, vying to be closest to the camera. I instantly recognize them though the photo is kind of blurry. They’re younger here too than they were in the posters that still hang on my walls at my mother’s house. Jase Hunt actually looks happy. His lopsided grin is accentuated by his shaggy, unkempt hair. He’s not gaunt and his blue eyes sparkle much brighter than they do in the later photos of the band. And he’s wearing a familiar pair of tight, ripped jeans. They’re standing out front of Nox’s dad’s studio, though it’s much different from what it is now.

  “You were Jase Hunt?” I hand his phone back to him. It’s almost unfathomable that I could be sitting in a truck with a rock legend. A boy I’d had fantasies about in my teenage years, grown into a man who refuses to let me go. I study his face in a way I haven’t before. Morphing the image of a boy who was becoming a man into the man beside me. Chiselled masculinity replaced the fineness of his gaunt features. His gangly thinness gone in favor of muscle. The difference between who he was and the man he is, is vast. “Why didn’t you use your real name?”

  “We didn’t want the hand up. Wanted our music to speak for us because it was good and not because of who my father was. It was something we all agreed to very early on. Thought it would be better that way. Turned out we were right.”

  “What happened? Why did you stop?”

  “Uh.” He grimaces as he scratches his jaw, eyes glazing over like he’s getting sucked into a place far away from me. It stretches over his features, hardening them, making him appear older, more worn. “I let myself get carried away.”