by K. Bromberg
“Okay, then . . .”
“Later.”
I hang up and stare out the window, forgetting the act going on around me, because this is real. This is now. And I’m fucking screwed.
“Everything okay?”
I already know what I’m going to do before my feet begin to move. She’s going to hate it and so is he, but I don’t fucking care. She’s using me, and this little charade may be for her own benefit, but I might as well get something out of it too.
A way to release some of the pent-up chaos that phone call just brought. Fuck waiting for the dessert to be done. I want a taste of it right now.
“Grady?” she says seconds before my lips are on hers. Her hands are covered in cannoli cream, and she holds them out to her sides while I frame her face with my hands and do what I want.
Take.
Her kiss.
Her breath.
His patience.
My anger.
All four things are lost when my mouth meets hers. When my tongue darts between those lips. When my thoughts wander to what else I want to taste on her.
Yep. Blue balls, indeed.
“If I were you, I’d make him wait until tomorrow,” Grady says as he rounds the bed and moves to his dresser.
I stare at him from where I stand just inside his bedroom door, hesitant to go any farther in case that invades his space. “But the sooner we work on some songs, the quicker he leaves.”
Grady stops where he is and narrows his eyes. “You can come in, you know. I’m not going to bite you.”
“I know,” I say, but all I can think about is those damn lips of his and how I just might want them all over me. The way he kissed me after he hung up the phone—as if his life depended on it—makes it impossible to deny that Grady Malone knows how to pretend to be model boyfriend material. “I just . . .”
With his body facing mine, Grady takes his shirt off, and the sight of his naked torso steals every last thought from my head. He looks up at the sudden silence to find me staring at him. “What’s wrong? You do know we’re going to have to sleep together, right?”
I choke on air as I think about everything that happened with Wes, and now . . . and now there is Grady standing before me, looking a hundred times more appealing then Wes ever did. How am I . . . if I couldn’t make Wes . . .
“Relax, McCoy. I’m joking, but not really.” He smiles wide, and I notice every movement he makes to pull the pillows from the bed is deliberate so his back, his scars, remain out of my line of sight. “We have to sleep in here if you want to sell this. You can take the bed. I’ll sleep on the floor so that—”
“That’s ridiculous. This is your room. I’ll sleep on the floor.” I hold up my hand to stop him from arguing. “Or we can sleep together in your bed. It isn’t like we can’t do that.” When his grin turns mischievous, I correct myself. “That is if you wear pajamas.”
His laugh is full and genuine. “You’re cramping my style, you know that?”
I remember what his body felt like between my thighs, and I know this is going to be a horrible idea. “I’ll stay on my side of the bed, I promise.”
“I’m a cuddler. I can’t make you any promises.”
Our eyes hold. There’s something about him—the unapologetic truth about himself he can’t entirely hide—that makes him irresistible.
And dangerous.
It was all fun and games when I labeled him as just a firefighter. Keeping him at arm’s length was easy while sleeping in my room at the other end of the hall. But tonight has been like some slow-burn foreplay I know both of us felt.
Either that or Jett being here has made me desperate for anyone who’s nothing like him.
“Thanks for the warning.” I lean my shoulder against the wall as Grady pulls a Sunnyville Fire Department T-shirt over his head. Now that our blatant attraction has been addressed in the only way we know how to deal with it—ignore it or joke about it—my mind fills with everything my Google search brought to light earlier. Every part of me wants to tell him I know about the fire but knows this isn’t the time or place for this conversation with Jett just feet down the hall. Besides, a part of me wants to know he trusts me enough to tell me on his own. It sounds stupid, but it’s the truth. “What are you going to do if I work on lyrics with him?”
“Since I don’t think you’ll be happy if I sit on your lap just to piss him off, I’m going to go work outside for a bit.” He strides toward me and surprises me when he leans in and kisses my cheek. “Don’t stay out too late with the enemy, dear.”
That brush of his lips tells me Grady Malone may be as devastating to my heart as Jett, only in a completely different way.
“What do you think about those?”
I stare at Jett. He’s in the glow of the lamp, his hair is ruffled from his hand running through it in frustration, and his eyes are tired. But when he looks over at me with the guitar across his lap and that soft smile on his lips, I remember why I fell in love with him. That hint of vulnerability behind the stage persona. The Jett I met in Excel Records’ conference room four years ago. He was defiant and cocky. Pissed that he’d been dropped from his label, and his label before that, and frustrated that he had to ask someone else to let him have the chance to do what he was born to do.
He was such an asshole that day, but he’d reined it in enough for Callum, the label’s head executive, to give him one more chance.
I sat and listened to Jett give the song and dance about how he’d made mistakes and wasn’t going to pull any more public stunts like his other labels had sacked him for, but I could see straight through the lies. And I’m sure Callum could too.
The problem was Jett was the one Callum was giving me my chance with. A fledgling songwriter without a hit credited to her name was being tasked to write songs for the uber-talented but equally untamable Jett Kroger. The man who had yet to have a breakout, can’t-get-out-of-your-head hit and who needed someone new to help him get that. A new songwriter.
Me.
I hated him instantly. He was everything I didn’t fall for.
But he was my big shot with the label helping me make a name for myself and break into this tough world. And hopefully calm the hurricane that was Jett in the process.
I felt like I was selling my soul to the devil in those early days. Jett and I would argue over every lyric, every note, even the places we would meet to write.
And then one night it was late and we were loopy tired, and he admitted he was scared. That if this album didn’t hit, he feared his shelf life was over. I had asked him why the antics then, and he’d shrugged with that cocksure smirk of his that told me he was either really smart at playing the part or equally as stupid . . . but a relationship was born.
Between us. Between us and Excel Records. And then when the album had a string of number-one hits, I felt a little more stable while Jett went and spun a bit more out of control.
Callum came to me, believing I could calm Jett down. He was the one who’d coined the phrase the Jett Whisperer. It was me he’d asked time and again to make sure Jett showed up when he needed to with a good attitude and compliant demeanor.
He was at the top of every chart, every sexiest man list, every free pass for wives to their husbands. And somewhere in there, we got caught up in it all and fell in love. Two people pushed together in a fishbowl bubble wrapped in excitement were bound to connect . . . and we did.
But even being with me couldn’t stop the outbursts he’d promised wouldn’t happen from happening . . . the difference was he was making the label serious money with songs—my songs—so it was easier for them to turn a blind eye.
Plus, they had me to center Jett.
The same me who is now stuck keeping a promise and wondering why I had been so willing to do so for the last two years.
Look where that left us. He was constantly apologizing for the bullshit he pulled while loving every second he spent in the spotlight, and I was hurt and upset but fel
t like I could breathe for the first time in forever.
Funny how I didn’t realize I was suffocating until I walked away.
I shake from the memories and force myself to focus on the task at hand. “I think those lyrics fit with the beat,” I murmur.
“You have so much anger in yours though.”
I look over to him and furrow my brows in question. Does he not see the song was about him? How much he hurt me? “Yeah, well, maybe I have a right to be angry.”
“Not this again,” he mutters and reaches out to touch my leg but stops when I glare at his hand. “The song isn’t about you.”
“Every song I write is about me in some way or another,” I counter as exhaustion tugs at the corners of my mind. “And this song is about anger and hurt and everything in between.” There is no hiding my intention behind my words.
“Dylan. You know—”
“Don’t. Just don’t.” I stand from my spot across from him. “I don’t want to hear it anymore. Mistake. No mistake. Neither takes away the shitty things Tara said to me or the trust you broke with me.”
“She didn’t mean them.”
“Don’t you dare defend her!” I grit out as her words swirl in my head and spill from my lips in a mocking tone. “Look at you, Dylan. Why would he choose you over me? Full figure went out years ago. Jett needs a woman he can wear on his arm. Someone he’s proud to be seen with. You’d rather hide in the shadows than be in the limelight. You were good enough when he was up and coming, but he needs someone to fit his status now.” I watch him the entire time I spit her words back into the space between us and mark every flinch he can’t hide.
“You know none of that’s true,” he says as he sets his guitar down and stands.
“No. I don’t. Easy for you to say now, but I sure as hell didn’t hear you stand up for me then, did you? You were too busy taking your condom off and cleaning up the evidence she wore on her thighs like a badge of honor. Just tell me, was she right? Did I not fit your status anymore and that was your way to try to break things off with me? Were you too chicken shit to say it to my face? How long had you two been fucking for her to think that? Because it sure as hell couldn’t have been the only time given all she said to me.” And then that’s when it really hits me. It couldn’t have been the first time they’d fucked. He said the photo at Starbucks was an old one. How old? She knew her way around my house as she ran around collecting her shit. She thought Jett had already chosen her over me.
“Don’t you still love me, Dylan?”
“I can love you all I want, Jett. That’s the hardest part. What I felt for you was real, and yes, I still feel it because I can’t just turn it off . . . but that doesn’t mean you’re winning me back. That doesn’t mean I want to be won back.”
“We’re still a good team.” There is sincerity in his eyes, vulnerability. Resignation.
“I know.” I take a deep breath and do what I need to do. “It’s time for me to turn in.”
“Dylan.”
“We were doing fine until you brought up the past. Don’t you get that’s why I left town and came here? It allowed me to keep us out of this,” I say, motioning to our guitars lying across the mess of notes. “The only relationship left is a professional one, and it needs to stay that way. We need to be able to get through these songs without muddying up the waters. We’re no longer together.”
“Not if I can help it.”
I exhale a frustrated breath and shake my head. “Good night, Jett.”
I walk out of the room and shut the door behind me. I rest my forehead against it and wonder how in a month’s time we got here. I can’t deny the sadness, but I can own my self-esteem and know I deserve better than that.
After I check on Petunia and make sure she has water, I head to Grady’s bedroom. I’m cautious and exhausted all at the same time not to mention more than emotionally overloaded when I enter the room as quietly as possible. It’s dark, save for the moonlight coming through the open blinds, and it takes a minute for my eyes to adjust. When they do, I see Grady on the left side of the bed, his breathing even and deep, and on the right side is a T-shirt and a pair of boxers.
When I slide my eyes to the empty spot beside him, I’m met with a white sheet of paper standing out against the dark blue of the comforter.
Just in case you couldn’t figure out how to wrangle your pajamas from your room without blowing your cover, here are some for you. And yes, Mom. I promise they’re clean. — G
Sometimes it’s the simplest thing that can cause the strongest of walls to crumble. His thoughtfulness. His ability to make my guarded heart swell without splitting open the old wounds that never healed. The way he somehow likes ‘the me’ I continually try to hide from.
I stare at him, and the part of me that was convinced long ago that his profession only breeds selfishness in the men called to do his job, slowly buckles under the weight of the moment. Between “his want to show Jett what he’s missing” to now this, leaving me pajamas, he’s starting to make me see him in a different light.
The kind of light that shouldn’t be anywhere near my thoughts. Neither should reliving the feel of his kiss on my lips, but some things are hard to forget. Kind of like this thoughtful gesture.
Without thinking, I pick the T-shirt up and hold it to my face. It smells like Grady. Like soap and softener, and I hold it there for a moment before I realize what I’m doing and feel silly. I tiptoe to the en suite bathroom to change and brush my teeth before heading back to the bedroom.
Now or never, Dylan.
I slowly slide into bed beside Grady and swallow back the nerves that rattle around, whispering that I’m doing something wrong. I hold my breath and try to be as still as possible. Then, after a good five minutes, I realize how stupid I must look lying here stiff as a board on the very far edge of the mattress as if that will make me forget that Grady’s beside me.
My mind is too alive with everything that has happened over the past few hours for me to fall asleep. So, I turn my head and study him in the darkness. The lines on his face have relaxed. His lips soft. The stubble he has to shave before the start of every shift starting to show. His dark lashes fanned against his cheeks.
He’s definitely not a bad sight to drift off to. But about the time I do, I’m shocked back awake when he reaches over, hooks his hand over my hip, and pulls me against him. He murmurs something dreamily, but I don’t catch it because I’m too busy noticing how our bodies fit together. I’m too busy fighting the urge to press my lips against his chest, which is dangerously near them. I’m too busy telling myself I should remove his hand from where it heats my skin, because it’s causing other parts of me to heat up too.
But I do none of them.
Instead, I close my eyes and let myself enjoy feeling close to someone when I’ve felt nothing but alone since Jett and I broke up.
Coffee.
I need coffee.
Half asleep, I roll out of the empty bed and shuffle toward the bathroom, my head down, my body sluggish from a sleepless night spent pressed against—
Oh.
My . . .
A very hard, very wet chest cuts off my thoughts as Grady opens the bathroom door the same time I put my hand on its knob.
“Whoa,” he says with a laugh as I look down to avert my eyes, only to end up looking right at the bulge in the towel. Flustered, I look up. His eyes are amused. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“Sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.” I pull at his shirt I have on.
“No biggie.” He shrugs. “It’s bound to happen in such close quarters.”
We stare at each other longer than we should. I’m embarrassed but still standing there, and he’s amused, obviously enjoying my mortification.
“Thank you for the clothes last night.”
“It was either that or let you sleep naked. I thought you’d prefer the former.”
“It was very considerate. All of this is. You letting me stay here. Yo
u not telling Jett to get out, even though you should have. You pretending—”
“Not a problem.” He shifts his feet, and his eyes flicker to my T-shirt.
“Are we done here?” For some reason I follow his hand as he holds the towel together. But it isn’t his hand that wins my attention. It’s his dick, which is starting to fly half-mast against the thin piece of terrycloth.
“Yes. Sorry. I’ll let you go.” I snap my eyes up as his chuckle fills the room when he walks around me.
“Tonight I’ll make sure the window stays closed. That way you’re not so, uh, cold in the morning,” he says over his shoulder as he skirts past me and over to his dresser.
Cold?
It’s then that I look down to find my nipples hard and more than pressing against the fabric of his shirt.
With the buzz of coffee in our blood and the fresh air surrounding us, I’ve been able to shove down the tumult that Jett being here has caused and focus solely on the music.
If I keep my head down, if I don’t meet his eyes, if I don’t remember our past, I can keep this professional.
That’s a whole hell of a lot of if I’s and yet it’s what I need right now.
And so far it’s been successful since Jett and I have already powered through our second song of the morning.
It feels just like old times.
And yet nothing like it at all.
“I think we leave that one be, and we’ll polish it up when you come back next month,” Jett says as he flips the page of one of my notebooks and starts a fresh sheet.
“Next month?”
“Yeah. Didn’t Ava tell you?”
“I’m not coming back next month. More like two or three months.” More time away from you. But a call to Ava is needed and an explanation as to why she hasn’t told me any of this herself is required.
“Not going to happen. I told Callum you’d be there for the next scheduled studio time. In fact, he demanded it. It’s on the calendar so you better figure a way to get that cute ass of yours back to LA in time.”