Reckless Obsession (The Reckless Rockstar Series)

by Samantha Christy

  She laughs. “He does. I guess it makes him feel better when he knows where I am.”

  I pick up my phone and tap around on it until I find what I’m searching for. Hers vibrates. She reads the message, alerting her to my request. “You want to track my phone, too?”

  “It might make me feel better.” I can just make out the smile on her face.

  “That’s getting dangerously close to girlfriend territory, isn’t it, Chris?”

  “Just accept the damn invitation.”

  “Fine, but it goes both ways. I get to see where you are, too.” She puts down her phone.

  I hand it right back to her. “Text him back.”

  “I’ll do it later.”

  “Do it now.”

  “What’s the big deal?”

  “The big deal is that he’s worried about you, and it’s two in the morning.” I take the phone from her and type a text as if I’m her.

  “You’re worse than he is,” she says, scowling.

  It may be dark in here, but I’m not totally blind. Her robe falls open, and she’s wearing sleep shorts that barely cover her ass. I touch her thigh. “I think we’ve done enough sitting.”

  “So this is a bootie call?”

  “Is that such a bad thing?”

  She shrugs, sinking deeper into the couch. I scoop her into my arms. Moonlight falls across her face, and all I see is Abby. I carry her to the bed and draw the curtains, making it darker. I join her under the covers and will myself to think only of Bria. When I touch her, I close my eyes and picture the brunette she used to be.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Bria

  Crew takes off his clothes before stripping me of what little I’m wearing. I can taste the alcohol when he kisses me. He’s drunker than I’ve ever seen him. It’s not so dark that I can’t see his eyes are closed. This makes me sad, because he’s always looked at me when we’re in bed.

  He crawls down my body, putting his mouth on either breast, then my stomach. He hesitates when he reaches my scar, as always. Sometimes I wonder if it bothers him. Does he somehow see me as damaged?

  He feathers kisses along my inner thighs, puts a finger inside me, and groans when he finds me wet and ready. When his tongue circles my clit, I inhale sharply. My insides coil, and I’m surprised at what I’m allowing. I’m angry at him. I almost pull away, feeling like maybe I shouldn’t be doing this with him when he’s been acting so indifferent lately.

  Indifferent. Yes, that’s it. I couldn’t put my finger on it until now. Maybe he’s trying to figure out how to dump me. “Crew.”

  He doubles his efforts, thinking I’m saying his name because I’m about to come. For the second time in my life, I fake an orgasm. I buck my hips and squeeze his fingers with my walls, hoping he doesn’t see through me.

  Sadness washes over me when I remember the last time I faked it. Am I going down the same road all over again?

  He moves up beside me and passes out. I’m relieved. I’m not sure what I would have done if he’d wanted to make love.

  I get up and collect my sleeping clothes on my way to the bathroom. I close the door and stand at the sink. “Why did you let him touch you?” I ask the girl in the mirror. “He doesn’t even seem to want you anymore.”

  Tears flow as I sit on the toilet and feel sorry for myself. I can’t believe I let this happen again. I shouldn’t have gotten involved. “You’re so stupid,” I say.

  “What’d you say?” I hear from the other side of the door. I quickly dress and splash cold water on my face before opening the door.

  I leave the light in the bathroom on. Crew is sitting on my couch with a beer. He’s wearing only boxers.

  “Didn’t have enough yet?” I ask bitterly.

  “You’re mad at me,” he slurs.

  “You think?”

  “I’m sorry,” he says, rubbing the front of his boxers. “It doesn’t work so well after a dozen shots. I’ll make it up to you later.”

  “I’m not mad because you couldn’t get it up. Relieved is more like it. Just go to bed.”

  The front door handle rattles. Someone is trying to get in. Crew may be drunk, but he flies off the couch and opens the door to Brody, my upstairs neighbor. He stumbles inside, looking unkempt with his straggly beard and wrinkled clothes.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Crew yells.

  Brody looks at Crew, taking in his half-nakedness, then at me. “What are you doing in my apartment?”

  “This isn’t your apartment, Brody. Yours is one floor up.”

  He looks around at my stuff. “Well shit, I did it again.”

  “You know this asshole?” Crew says.

  “No need to call me names, buddy. Honest mistake.”

  “You’re honestly wasted.”

  I snort and say, “Said the pot to the kettle.”

  He flashes me an annoyed look, then shoves Brody into the hall, closes the door, and engages all four locks. “How many times has he mistaken your place for his?”

  “Once or twice.”

  He grabs his beer and drinks. “Shit.” He stumbles over the coffee table, knocking everything off it, including a glass of water. I run to get a towel.

  “Let me,” he says, taking it from me.

  “Fine. I’m going back to bed. Turn off the light when you’re finished.”

  I crawl into bed and hug the pillow tightly against me. He’s quiet, and I wonder if he conked out on the couch. But a few minutes later, he turns off the bathroom light, comes to bed, and spoons me. “I’m sorry.”

  “What are you sorry for?”

  “For whatever I did. The water. The sex. Everything.”

  “Okay. Go to sleep.”

  He breathes evenly in my ear. When I think he’s drifted off, he surprises me by saying, “I think you should move in with me.”

  I stop breathing. “Where did that come from?”

  “Don’t you want to?” he slurs.

  I turn and face him, barely able to see his eyes. “Crew, do you love me?”

  He stiffens. “That’s kind of a loaded question, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe, but it’s an easy one. Either you love me or you don’t.”

  He rolls onto his back. “I told you, Bria, I’m fucked up. I’m not even sure I’m capable of that.”

  “Capable of love? Or capable of commitment? Because moving in together seems like one hell of a commitment.” I get up and pace. “What’s going on here? One minute you can’t look at me and the next you’re asking me to cohabit. Yeah, that’s all kinds of fucked up, if you ask me. What’s come over you lately? I thought earlier you might want out of this relationship, or whatever it is we have, and now you throw this at me?” I go to my fridge and get a bottle of water. “I just faked an orgasm. Do you want to know why? Because I didn’t know if you liked me anymore, and I’m so confused that instead of pushing you away, I faked it. Who does that? Not to mention you’re so drunk you answered the door in your skivvies.” Realization dawns, and I lean against the kitchen counter. “We shouldn’t be having this conversation, considering the state you’re in. You won’t remember it in the morning. Just go to sleep.”

  He doesn’t respond.

  “Crew?”

  I go closer and hear him snoring.

  I sit beside him, half hoping he’ll wake up so we can clear the air. I poke him but he doesn’t move. “Just great.”

  I cross to the sink and stub my toe on the coffee table because Crew put it back the wrong way. Sitting on the couch, I rub my toe. My phone pings with a text. It’s Brett, thanking me for replying. It lights up the coffee table, and that’s when I see Crew’s notebook, and it’s open. Did he leave it that way on purpose or did it happen when the table fell over?

  I close my eyes and bite my lip. Don’t do it.

  Really, though, is it my fault he left it like that, open for anyone to read? If I look but don’t touch it, am I breaking the rules?

  I hesitantly pic
k up my phone and turn on the flashlight, looking back at Crew to make sure he’s still sleeping. Then I scoot to the edge of the couch and look. As soon as I see the title at the top of the page, ‘Right to Die,’ I know I’m going to read it. I take a deep breath.

  I’m alone with my bottle

  Searching for a friend

  Looking for my heart

  Coming up empty again

  (chorus)

  I have no right to die, or I’d have gone long ago

  I’m living as a dead man—no hope, no soul

  Never knew it’d hurt this hard.

  Limb by limb being pulled apart

  My heart jumps when I hear a sound. I turn the flashlight off and glance at the bed. After my eyes adjust to the darkness, I see he’s turned over. I turn the light back on.

  Give me blue, brown, or clear

  Don’t care if it’s plastic or glass

  I’ll drink until it’s empty

  Drive until I’m out of gas

  The pain becomes too much

  It’s blinding and complete

  I know what I have to do

  I have to die so we can meet

  There’s one more verse, but I can’t read it through my tears. I close the notebook, knowing I’ve violated his privacy by reading his most intimate thoughts. He wants to die? I open it again. The song is near the beginning, so it’s old. Does he still feel this way? He has to die to be with her?

  I sink back into the couch, two thoughts clouding my head: one—Abby’s dead? How awful for Crew, that must have been horrible; and two—Abby’s dead. How do I compete with a ghost?

  Chapter Thirty

  Crew

  Seven years ago

  I am horrorstruck as police cordon off Abby’s car and the surrounding area. An officer says to Mom and me, “We’d like you to come to the station to give a statement.”

  “Right away.” Mom starts to her car, then pauses. “Chris, you coming?”

  I hear her, but I can’t move. My feet are cemented to the ground as a cop places a numbered piece of plastic next to Abby’s phone and then takes fifty pictures of it. I’ve seen this a million times on TV. They think this is evidence, but of what? My stomach flips again, but there’s nothing left to bring up.

  I feel Mom’s hand on my shoulder. “Chris?”

  I look at her and then back at Abby’s car. I don’t want to leave. I feel if I go, I’ll never see Abby again.

  “Folks, we need you to clear the area,” a cop says.

  Mom tugs on my arm. “They need us at the police station.”

  As we walk away, I see the police talking to some of the employees I spoke with inside the restaurant. One of them points to me.

  Mom drives us to the police station across town. My phone blows up with texts. After glancing at a few of them, I realize word has spread. I can’t look at it anymore. I shut it off and put it in the cup holder.

  At the station, we’re escorted down a hall. We pass a room with a glass door. Abby’s parents are inside. They look up and see me, their terrified expressions matching mine.

  Mom is introduced to Officer Hanley, who will take her statement at a desk in a room with other desks. I am taken into a private room by Detective Abrahms. We sit at a table across from one another. Behind him is what is probably a two-way mirror, and I wonder if anyone is watching me.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  He puts a pad of paper and a pen on the table. “Your full name?”

  “Chris Rewey. Uh, Christopher.”

  “Mind if I have a look at your driver’s license?”

  I take it out of my wallet and hand it to him. “Sir, can you please tell me what’s happening?”

  “Your relationship to Ms. Evans?”

  “Boyfriend.”

  He makes notes and hands me back the license.

  There is a notch in the table. A notch where one might hook handcuffs to keep someone restrained. “Am I in some kind of trouble?”

  “That’s what I’m here to determine.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Don’t you have to read me my rights or something if you’re going to question me?”

  “Do I need to read you your rights?” he asks, features hard.

  “No. Of course not.”

  “I’ll start by getting your statement then. You are welcome to have a lawyer present when I take it.”

  “Why would I need a lawyer? I told everything to one of the officers at the restaurant.”

  He flips through the pad. “You said you were looking for Miss Evans because she didn’t show up at a concert?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Is there anyone who can corroborate your attendance at the event in the hours leading up to Miss Evans’s disappearance?”

  “Only about three hundred people. I’m the lead singer for one of the bands that performed. I was there all afternoon leading up to the concert. Listen, if you think I had anything to do with whatever happened to her, I don’t. I’m her boyfriend. I love her.”

  He raises his eyebrows at me.

  I draw back. “And the boyfriend is always the chief suspect, huh?”

  “You catch on quickly, son.”

  He gets a call on his phone, stands up, and paces while listening, staring at me the entire time. Putting his phone down, he gazes at me with sympathy.

  “What? Will someone please tell me what’s going on?”

  “I just got word that you aren’t a person of interest in this case.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you don’t need a lawyer, and we’re not going to detain you.”

  I stand. “Then I can leave.”

  “Yes, but I’d appreciate it if you stayed. If you’re as close to Miss Evans as you say you are, you may have information pertinent to the case.”

  “There’s a case?”

  “We’ve confirmed she’s missing. It’s my job to determine if it’s voluntary or not.”

  “As in she threw all the shit from her purse on the ground, left her car, and took off?”

  He shrugs. “It happens more often than you think.”

  “That’s not what happened.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  I contemplate not telling him, but I’m scared shitless and protecting our secret is the least of my worries. “Because she’s pregnant.”

  “How far along?”

  “Almost six months, but no one knows except the two of us and my mother.”

  He makes more notes on the pad. “Who’s the father?”

  “Who do you think? I am.”

  He gives me a hard stare. “Are you sure about that?”

  “Yes. She’s never been with anyone else.”

  “You’re certain there isn’t another man?”

  My jaw clenches. “I’m positive.”

  “What about a male family member? Are you aware of any history of abuse?”

  “Abuse? No. That’s crazy.”

  “So there’s no possibility she was sexually assaulted, which led to a pregnancy she’s trying to cover up? No possibility someone could have hurt her?”

  “Why would anyone want to hurt—” Bile rises in my throat, and I swallow convulsively. “Oh, shit.”

  “What is it?”

  “There’s a man Abby used to work with. He’s older than we are. He liked her to the point of being stalkerish. He got fired but still came to the restaurant to talk to her. I was there when he came in last week. I confronted him and told him to fuck off. He was pissed, but he left.” The blood leaves my face. “You think he could have taken her?”

  “His name?”

  “Rob. I don’t know his last name. He’s in his thirties, I think. He works at a gas station now. Her manager can tell you his full name.” I groan. “This is all my fault, isn’t it?”

  “How could it be your fault, son?”

  “Because I told him to fuck off. I told him if he ever came near her again, I would hunt him down and” —I scru
b my hand across my face— “…kill him.”

  He lets out a sigh.

  “Am I in trouble now?”

  “No. Wait here a minute.”

  He leaves the room. While he’s gone, I sit again, and the tears I suppressed when he was here finally fall. What did I do to her? I look at the clock. More than four hours have passed since she went missing. Part of me hopes the detective is right about people wanting to disappear. Maybe her dad found out she was pregnant and threatened to make her give up the baby, so she ran away. It almost makes sense. She’d only have to hide for a week. But would she really go so far as to fake an abduction? No, she’d have told me, and she’d have skipped work if there was trouble at home.

  Detective Abrahms returns and sits. “We’ve issued a BOLO for Robert Vargas. He’ll be brought in for questioning.” He gets out his notepad. “I want you to tell me everything about Abby Evans, from the moment you met her.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Bria

  I knock on the door, worried that I’m crossing a line, but I don’t know what else to do.

  The door opens, and Mrs. Rewey pales, like she’s seen a ghost. She blinks a lot and doesn’t speak.

  “What’s going on?” I ask. “You’re looking at me the same way Crew does lately.” I sink against the doorframe. “He’s going to break up with me, isn’t he? I knew it. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

  Before I can escape, she hauls me into her apartment. “There’s something you need to see.”

  She takes a picture off the wall and hands it to me. It’s a photo of Crew when he was younger and thinner, standing next to a girl. A girl whose hair looks exactly like mine. They’re singing into the same microphone. He’s gazing at her the same way he looks at me when we sing. Or the way he did until recently.

  “This is Abby?” I say.

  “He hasn’t told you about her?”

  “I’m confused. He started to act strange after I got my hair done. It’s not like he was altogether normal before that, but this last week has been horrible. I have to know, just who is she?”