by B. Celeste
Examining himself, the drummer lifts his shoulders. “James Dean.”
I roll my eyes. “Nice.”
Jax gets the tequila bottle open. “People are already on their way. I can’t cancel now. It’ll be small. Promise.”
We all know that’s bullshit. Our gatherings are never small, even if that’s what we intend it to be. People tell their friends who tell their friends, and suddenly the house is overrun by assholes looking for an in.
“You do realize I can get everyone escorted away if I decide not to let them in,” I inform them all, eyeing each of them. “Just because I’ve been able to cut back on some of the security doesn’t mean that there aren’t still potential breeches that can happen, especially if I open my home up to a crowd. We’d practically be inviting the paps in to get a look.”
“It’ll be fine,” Cal promises. “We’ll keep an eye out for people being sketchy. C’mon, man. You never have fun anymore, and it looks like your girl could use some in her life.”
Glancing down, I notice the pale tone to her skin and sigh. “I don’t think you’re interrupting her expression right.”
“Two hours,” Jax reasons.
I look to Manning. “You’re okay with this too, I suppose?” He usually goes along with whatever the majority wants without questioning it, and since I got clean, it’s been them against me on most decisions.
“You haven’t been that involved with us over the past few months. Long before…” His eyes go to Rylee, apology settled into them when they lock eyes. Then they return to me. “With the press badgering all of us to comment on the status of our friendship and stability of the band, it’s hard to convince them we’re fine when we’re barely seen together.”
“Not to mention the cancelled interviews,” Cal adds from across the kitchen where he’s pulling out an unopened bag of pretzels I bought for Rylee when she said they were her favorite.
I point out the obvious. “The media hasn’t said a word about the band since news about Rylee and me have hit online, so that doesn’t even matter. Plus—” I throw a hand toward the front door. “The people loitering on my property probably took pictures of all of you coming in. Problem solved if you’re worried about the rumors starting up.”
Zayne walks over to Cal and takes the pretzels, shoving them back into the cupboard and ignoring the frown he gets from his bandmate. “We could have handled the media without the drastic measures you’ve taken like we’ve done hundreds of times before,” he remarks, eyes roaming to Rylee and then me. “But I get why you did it.”
“Despite that,” Manning intervenes. “It’d just be nice to see the guys together again. Maybe this party isn’t the worst thing. We could use time enjoying ourselves instead of going for each other’s necks like we are in the studio.”
Considering he’s not typically the voice of reason, I don’t find his words that endearing. Especially with everyone besides Zayne nodding along, not shocking since the two guys who started this are determined to make it happen.
The album is almost done with the exception of a few tweaks that we need to make. Reg will get us back in when he needs us to get everything finalized, so we won’t be snapping at each other like the last few recordings have gone.
“No,” I repeat. “We could have done a fucking movie night if you wanted the bonding experience. We haven’t done one in a while.”
It’s Rylee who murmurs, “Garrick…” Ignoring the tools in the room, I turn to face her, head cocked, and brows drawn. “You should have fun and spend time with them. I don’t want to mess any of that up.”
I doubt there’s anything I can say that will convince her otherwise, so I don’t try arguing the fact that I’m content staying in with her. When it’s just Rylee and me, she opens up. Tells me about stories of her Grandma Birdie and their gardening, or her parents taking Sunday drives and stopping to get milkshakes in the summers at their favorite ice cream shop, or all the old recipes she and her Grandpa Al would make in the kitchen together that she still remembers today even without the original recipe cards that were lost in a fire at her grandparents’ home years ago.
There’s a peace to her when she talks about her past, her childhood and family, and it’s ten times better than watching my friends act like idiots around women, and strangers making fools of themselves when they approach us at things like this because they want something.
No matter what she thinks, a night spent here is always going to be better than one at the Lazy Croc. As I get older and grow more comfortable in my situation with her, I realize this is the life I want for myself. Peaceful. Quiet. Something cemented.
“You heard the lady.” Jax clasps my shoulder and pulls out his phone. “Let’s get this shit started. It’s been too long.”
Zayne and I exchange a wary look.
Rylee nibbles her bottom lip.
“It’ll be okay,” I assure her, pressing a kiss to her cheek and making her entire face turn red when the guys all gape at us.
Manning’s lips waver into a smile.
Zayne’s twitch.
Jax grins.
And Cal is too busy bombarding my kitchen for food to care that I can’t seem to stop touching Rylee.
She’s my new addiction.
Two and a half hours into the party and there’s no way it’s going to stop anytime soon. Jax is drunk and dancing with two blondes, Calder is trying to schmooze a group of women who are staring between him and Manning, and Zayne is nowhere to be found.
Rylee escaped upstairs to lock herself in her room, despite me trying to convince her to stay with me, over an hour ago. It leaves me glaring alone at every asshole who knocks something over or pulls out something from their pocket that definitely shouldn’t be around me.
A nail scrapes down the front of my chest, snapping my attention to a girl with black hair giving off fuck-me-vibes that I’m certainly not feeling. Maybe six months ago I’d be tempted, but not tonight, not when there’s someone upstairs I’d rather be with. I peel her hand away and get an offended look from her and the girls behind her clearly cheering her on.
I don’t recognize half the people I pass as I make my way into the kitchen. Most of my cupboards have been raided, leaving no more than plates and glasses in them, and the garbage is overflowing with wrappers, cans, and bottles that I know Yasmin will be yelling at me for since she’s all about recycling and saving the environment after her and my mother joined a stop global warming tree hugging club.
Cursing, I pull my phone out.
Garrick: How are you holding up?
Rylee: Talking to Moffie
Garrick: Want company?
Rylee: Stay with your friends
I don’t know if she noticed before leaving me to the people here, but my friends ditched me as soon as the women arrived. Sans Zayne, who I study the room for. Knocking on the half bath downstairs to make sure he’s not inside doing something he shouldn’t be I press an ear against the door and then turn the knob to see it’s empty.
He held strong for the most part during the first few months of my sobriety, and always hounded the guys if they talked about whatever substance they had while we were on tour. But I know behind closed doors is a different story, a different side of him.
If he really is clean like he told Rylee, then I have nothing to worry about. I know firsthand how easy it can be to crack though, so I want to make sure he has my support the same way I had his.
When I realize the bathroom is clear and the entire downstairs is missing the James Dean drummer, I head outside to see a lone figure sitting on a lounger at the corner of patio furthest from the house.
I drop down in the lounger beside him, easing into the chair. “You didn’t want to come,” I state plainly.
It takes him a few seconds. “Do you blame me? You didn’t even want us here anyway.”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t want to see you.”
We’re quiet, both looking out at the flower garden. In the dark, it’s har
d to see the work Rylee and Yasmin have put into it. The lights don’t reach as far as the wooden beds they installed on their own, but I enjoy seeing the addition, nonetheless.
“Is it hard for you?” It’s a dangerous question to ask, not wanting to open old wounds but not wanting to ignore them either.
He stretches one of his legs out, drawing up the other and resting a beer bottle on top of his bent knee. His fingers twitch around it before he murmurs, “Being here isn’t. Seeing her isn’t. But watching you interact with her? Yeah. Especially doing it sober.”
My eyes go to the beer, which I realize isn’t even open. “She’s upstairs. You can come inside if you want to. The coast is clear if you’re out here to avoid us.”
He doesn’t address my offer. “Was it like that back then?” His eyes find mine, his question pinching my brows. “It’s ironic, I guess. I was too focused on getting high versus paying any attention, and you were busy paying attention, so you didn’t get high. I’ve tried thinking about that night, and I don’t remember anything. I have no clue if you two flirted, if you danced, if you made a move while I was getting fucked up. I gave you shit for not remembering her before marrying her, but I’m a fucking hypocrite.”
Fingers digging into the edges of the armrests on my chair, I shake my head. “You know me better than that. You were there with her, even if you weren’t with her all the time.”
“That answers my question.”
My jaw ticks.
He sighs. “You always did notice a pretty woman when they were around.”
I have nothing to say to that, so I stand and gesture toward the house. “We all had our issues back then. I wouldn’t call you a hypocrite for reacting the way you did because maybe I subconsciously knew exactly who she was when I saw her again.”
Zayne shakes his head, staring at his beer and dropping his head back. “She’s comfortable with you.”
I shrug. “I suppose.”
“She wasn’t with me.”
I don’t say anything other than, “You coming in?”
He contemplates it. “Nah. Think I’ll enjoy the peace for a while longer. Holler when you want help shutting this down.”
I reach a fist out that he bumps. “Will do.”
Walking back inside instantly makes my temples throb when music that I vaguely recognize as some 2000s hit blasts. I roll my eyes and make it through the crowd, trying to keep track of where my mates are and cringing when I see a blonde bobbing her head over Jax’s lap on my couch while another claims his lips.
“Fucking hell,” I grumble, turning my back on the asshole and scouring the room.
“You look lost.” The voice belongs to a soft-spoken woman who can’t be more than twenty when I look down at her short frame.
“Not lost,” is all I say, beginning to walk away before her hand catches my arm.
“Looking for your wife?”
I eye her carefully, the question not settling right.
She steps into me, rising on her tiptoes and whispering, “It’s okay with me if you have one. We can still have some fun if you’re bored.”
I know she isn’t referring to boredom over the party still in full swing. Before I can brush her off, she’s tugging on my shirt with impressive force and taking my lips as soon as I’m bent low enough for her to reach them.
And that’s when I see Rylee standing at the top of the stairs gaping at me. Even with everyone else around, it’s the hurt smacking me straight in the chest that I know belongs to her.
She quickly turns and disappears back down the hall, with me close on her heels after quickly yanking back from the stranger and taking three steps up the stairs at a time until I’m at her bedroom door. “Ry!” I call out, knocking and wiggling the locked knob. “It wasn’t what it looked like.” I cringe at the line, blowing out a breath. “Well, I suppose it was what it looked like, but I did not initiate it.”
Besides the noise from downstairs, I hear nothing else. It doesn’t stop me from knocking more, knowing where the key is to the lock if it comes to that. “Please don’t shut me out, love.”
That’s when I hear, “Don’t call me that.”
Her choppy voice tells me all I need to know without seeing her face. “I’m sorry for what happened. I wasn’t expecting her to do that, it took me by surprise.” My palm rests against the wood. “If you let me in, you can kick me. I bet that’d make you feel better.”
My eyes widen when the lock clicks and the knob starts to turn. I step back when she cracks the door open. “It doesn’t even matter, so just go back downstairs and have fun.”
“You know that isn’t true.”
“We’re not…” She doesn’t have to finish the fading sentence. We’re not a real couple.
That doesn’t mean there aren’t real feelings though. “Can I come in?”
Her eyes turn wary, the light from inside the room showing the glassy gaze that makes me want to kick myself.
“I can brush my teeth first,” I joke, hoping that’ll lighten the mood. She doesn’t so much as crack a smile though, so I sigh and wait until she opens the door further so I can slip inside.
Closing the door behind me, I lean against the wood with my arms crossed over my chest and study the pajamas she’s in. My eyes narrow. “Is that my shirt?”
Her hand quickly goes to the white tee covering her body, looking like a dress on her short figure. “It was in my laundry when I took it out of the dryer and I just…”
I wave it off. “Looks good on you.”
Dodging my eyes, she stares at her bare feet which shift on the carpet. She rarely wears socks around here, which I find interesting considering she admitted to me she’s obsessed with collecting quirky pairs. When she showed me the ones stuffed into a side pocket of her bag, I lost count after thirty, thirty-one after I bought her a pair with kangaroos on them so she had a piece of me in the collection. Then I asked when she was going to unpack. She’d given me a quiet, “I don’t know. When I’m sure.”
I never asked her what she was waiting to be sure about because I didn’t want to know. It wouldn’t be likely that I’d like the answer.
Rylee sits on the edge of the mattress, one of her hands wrapping around the posters of the bed. “Does that happen a lot to you?”
As much as I want to lie, I don’t. “Not as much as it used to, but the women I hung around in the past would go after what they wanted without a single thought. Some don’t think twice before sitting on our laps or making moves like that.”
She doesn’t give me any reaction to that, which is worse than seeing disgust or anger.
“Rylee—”
“We’re not in a relationship,” she tells me, though it sounds more like she’s trying to convince herself.
“We’re married.”
“You know what I mean.”
Dragging a palm down the side of my face, I grip the side of my neck. “What if I told you I wanted that?”
She stares.
“The relationship.”
Her brows rise.
Taking a risk, I walk over to her and stop in front of where she sits. Caution locks her body as those two-tone doe eyes rake up the front of me until they’re settled on my face.
“We’re already married,” I reason, squatting down to be closer to eye level. “Why not give it a shot? We know each other better, have the time, we made a commitment—”
“Our commitment is going to end.”
My jaw ticks. “Who says?”
She gapes. “We did.”
Reaching out, I take both her hands into mine and settle them on her lap. “How about we take it a day at a time? We don’t have to think about next week or next month or next year.”
“Or two years from now?”
“Or then,” I agree.
Staring down at her lap, she lets out a small noise that almost resembles defeat. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve never had a serious relationship.”
Flipping our ha
nds, I trace the lines on her palm with my fingertip and murmur, “How ironic, neither have I. We can pop each other’s cherries.”
The reaction I get makes it hard not to snicker when I see her eyes widen and cheeks deepen red. I’m tempted to ask her what other cherries I can pop, but I hold back from making the comment despite curiosity nipping at me.
Instead, I soak in the way she shivers when I continue tracing her palm. “You’re not going to argue? Tell me why it’s wrong?”
“I think…” Her breath is airy, choppy as she exhales and watches me trail my finger up her sleeve and along the vein of her wrist. “I think neither of us needs to say that aloud to know it’s probably the truth. We’re very different people.”
Humming, I bend and press a kiss on the center of her hand. Then another to the inside of her wrist. “Yet here we are, despite the circumstances. You going to give that up without even trying?”
Another shuddered breath. “No.”
“Mmm. Good. Might make the next two years very frustrating otherwise.” Without warning, I stand and gently lay her back until her eyes widen in sudden fear. It takes one look between us for her to ease as I crawl onto the bed and kneel with her body spread out between my legs. “Relax,” I command lightly, pressing a kiss against one corner of her lips and then the other. Her hands bolt to my chest, resting her shaky palms flat against my racing heart.
One of my free hands trails between us until it settles between her legs, cupping her over the cotton pajama pants she has on. Her body squirms, thighs closing to trap my hand exactly where her body wants me.
“Garrick…” The single word is barely audible, her eyes fluttering as I apply the right amount of pressure. Her head tilts back, giving me perfect access to her neck.
My lips pepper kisses along her skin, stopping at her collarbone and inhaling. When her hips arch into my hand, I know my efforts aren’t in vain. I give her what she needs, feeling the heat through the cotton.
The noises she makes fuels me. I lift her shirt and pay attention to every inch of skin on her torso, trailing my lips up to the valley between her bare breasts and hover over one of the puckered nipples. “I’ve got you, baby girl.”