music. He could be the child’s godfather, if they’d allow it. And maybe Dawn would like to have a baby of her own. Their sons or daughters could grow up together. Kellen cringed inwardly. What was he thinking? The woman didn’t have time to be a mother at this juncture in her career. Hell, she barely had time to be a girlfriend. And if she signed that contract with Everlong—he was pretty sure she wouldn’t be able to refuse it once she had time to consider the opportunity—she would be traveling the world for her inspiration to write more songs. He doubted she’d need him at all. Pushing thoughts of future babies aside—he had no business considering children when his own career was so rocky at the moment—he couldn’t help but grin as Owen completely missed Caitlyn’s pissed-as-hell and jealous cues. Kellen might have come to terms with Owen becoming a father, but his new girlfriend was obviously still struggling with the idea.
“Excuse me,” Caitlyn said, giving Owen a pointed look he didn’t understand. “I need to use the bathroom.” When he didn’t respond, she added, “Upstairs.”
Kellen feared his friend was in big trouble.
Owen blinked at Caitlyn like a clueless idiot. Kellen stifled a laugh as Caitlyn glared at Owen so hard, he was surprised the poor guy could remain standing. Apparently giving up on Owen reading her mind—or her very clear body language—Caitlyn dried her hands and stormed out of the room with a frustrated snarl.
“You’re supposed to go after her,” Kellen advised as she tromped up the stairs like she was performing the stomp dance his grandfather had taught him.
Owen crinkled his nose. “No thanks. What she does in that bathroom is her business.”
Lord, was he clueless. “Trust me,” Kellen said. “You need to go after her.”
Owen didn’t seem too keen on following her upstairs. Every interaction Kellen had had with Caitlyn, she’d come across as even-tempered and easy-going. He doubted she was planning to take off Owen’s head at the neck, but she was pissed. She probably just wanted him to put up a few barriers around himself when it came to Lindsey. Lindsey was obviously trying to court his favor, and she did have the added pull of a baby on the way. And now that Kellen was onboard with helping, Owen would likely get behind the idea of becoming a father even more.
Owen shrugged, but before he could go upstairs to get his deserved tongue lashing from Caitlyn, his phone rang. He looked visibly relieved when he answered it.
“Hey, Mom, we just fin—” His body stilled as he listened to whatever his mother was saying on the other end of the line.
His lips trembled when he asked, “What’s wrong?” Owen visibly paled. “I’ll be right there.”
Before Kellen could ask what had happened, Owen dashed out of the house at a full run, not even bothering to shut the front door.
Kellen took off after him, watching him race down the sidewalk toward his parents’ house. “Owen, what is it?” he called, but Owen didn’t miss a step.
A hand grabbed Kellen’s arm. “Where’s he going so fast?”
Kellen didn’t even bother to look at Lindsey when he said, “Something’s wrong.”
“Do you think it’s Joan?”
He didn’t even want to consider the possibility. The woman was a mother to him. Owen’s parents meant far more to Kellen than his own parents ever had. They’d given him the family he’d craved when his own had been worthless. As Kellen started up the sidewalk, his hurried steps hastened until he too was running. “Wait,” Lindsey hollered. “I can’t keep up with you.”
He wanted to race after Owen, but slowed to give Lindsey time to catch up and then took her hand, urging her to waddle as fast as she could.
When Owen yanked open the gate of his parents’ front yard, Kellen tried to get Lindsey to move faster. Owen didn’t slow down as he bounded up the porch steps and tore into the house. Kellen left Lindsey at the gate and raced after him. He stopped short in the foyer. Joan’s broken voice came from the living room, but he couldn’t understand her words. Kellen hurried in that direction and paused in the doorway. The sight of Joan crumpled on the floor, tears streaming down her face as she told Owen things that Kellen couldn’t comprehend, tore him to shreds. He didn’t go to her to offer comfort, knowing she’d rather lean on her real son, not the wannabe watching her fall apart from the doorway. The numbness in Kellen’s throat spread through his chest, down his arms, and all the way to his fingertips as what she was saying began to sink in.
Chad—Owen’s older brother, the older brother of Kellen’s heart—was finally coming back from war. He wasn’t returning in a coffin—by some miracle—but he’d been injured. Grievously injured. A loud buzz filled Kellen’s head. There was no air in the room. He couldn’t breathe. Choking on emotion, he turned from the sight of Owen trying to comfort his distraught mother and stumbled to the front porch. He gasped for breath, surprised there was no air outside either. James’s familiar car roared up the driveway and into the garage off the side of the house. Kellen closed his eyes, glad he wouldn’t have to see James’s face when he heard the news about his eldest son. Kellen bit his lip, fighting the pain that threatened to suffocate him.
He wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing there when he heard footsteps stop behind him.
He turned to find Owen, face white with shock, standing on the porch. His stunned expression blurred as the tears Kellen had been fighting flooded his eyes. He grabbed onto Owen, not sure if he was trying to comfort or be comforted, but he needed something to keep him standing. Emotions warred within him as he pulled Owen closer. And Kellen had no idea what possessed him when Owen tilted his head back to look up at him. Kellen leaned closer—wanting Owen to stop looking so sad, wanting him to smile again, wanting something . . . something more.
Kellen kissed him, wishing Owen resisted, wishing Owen didn’t feel so right against him, wishing—some part of him wishing—that Owen was his. The feelings Kellen felt as he deepened the kiss were even more confusing than the all-encompassing lust that slammed into his lower gut. Desire heated his blood, and the kiss, which had started as a way to comfort, burned through him so hot, he was completely out of his mind.
When he tugged away gently, the need to tell Owen what had been building inside him for years outweighed his need to continue kissing him. “I want you,” Kellen said. He wanted him in every capacity of that word. Not just physically, but on every level.
Owen blinked—awakening from his stupor. “You want me?”
God, yes, why had he been denying it so long? “I want you.”
Owen’s face crumpled with anguish, and Kellen was so shocked by his reaction that Owen slipped from his grasp. And then Owen was running. Running away. Not returning Kellen’s newly realized feelings. Running. Running so hard he crashed into the front gate and struggled to get it open before he stumbled onto the sidewalk and then jetted toward home.
“Owen,” Kellen called after him, tripping down the porch steps. He covered his mouth with one hand, the feel of Owen’s lips still on his own.
“What have I done?” he said into his hand.
That had actually happened. He hadn’t imagined it while tied up and on the verge of orgasm. Kellen had kissed Owen, and while their mouths had been pressed together and Owen had gone submissive in his arms, Kellen had convinced himself that what he’d done had been natural. That it had been right.
But there was nothing right about that kiss except the way it had made him feel at the time. But not the way he felt now. He’d taken advantage of Owen’s grief to take something from him.
“Owen,” he called again, though Owen was much too far away to hear him now.
“He wants you too,” Lindsey said from behind him. “I saw it in you both that night on the bus.”
Lindsey was the absolute last person Kellen wanted validation from. He didn’t say a word to her as he walked toward the gate. And then he was trotting, then jogging, then running as fast as his legs would carry him.
When he reached Owen’s front door, he tried t
o open it, but found it locked. He rang the doorbell, knocked, banged on the polished mahogany surface until his entire arm ached, but no one answered his summons.
“Owen, please, we need to talk. I didn’t mean—” He cut off his own lie. He had meant it. Maybe not at first, but once their lips had met, he’d meant every caress, every shred of lust swirling through his body. What he hadn’t meant to do was hurt Owen, not in any way. “I’m sorry. Please, just . . . We need to talk.”
The door opened, but it wasn’t Owen who faced him. It was Caitlyn. He wasn’t sure what to expect from Owen’s new girlfriend. Would she be furious? Upset? Hurt? Strangely, she seemed sad. Was his ability to read people slipping?
“Bad timing, Kellen,” she said. “He’s devastated over his brother, and you pick that moment to finally be honest with him?” She shook her head. “I think you should leave. He might forgive you later, but right now? He feels betrayed.”
“He told you?” And why wouldn’t he? Owen hadn’t done anything but accept Kellen’s advance until he’d come to his senses enough to push him away. “I want to talk to him. Apologize. I didn’t mean for that to happen.”
“I don’t think he’ll talk to you right now. He’s got a whole lot of anger brewing inside him over Chad, and you gave him something to direct that anger at.”
“That’s fine. He can kick my ass if that’s what he needs to do, but I couldn’t stand it if we leave this as it is. If he shuts me out.”
“I’ll talk to him on your behalf,” she said, but Kellen wasn’t sure if she’d say the things that needed to be said. What if she made the situation worse? Right. How could anything she said be worse than what he’d done?
“I—” Kellen licked his lips, searching for words. He should apologize. Not just to Owen, but to Caitlyn. And to Dawn. Oh God . . . Dawn. What was he going to tell Dawn?
“Just so you know, I’m not letting you have him,” Caitlyn said, and before her words had sunk in, she shut the door in his face.
Chapter Seventeen
Prague had always been one of Dawn’s favorite cities. The red rooftops and countless spires puncturing the skyline were pleasing to the eye, and the Czech people were kind and patient—if not perpetually amused—as she struggled to communicate in their language. She’d always been better at understanding foreign languages than speaking them, so while she caught most of what was said to her, she was pretty sure she’d told the taxi driver that her cat liked yellow pillows. Dawn didn’t even have a cat.
Though she adored the local beer—in her experience, the best pilsner on the planet—touring the mix of ancient attractions and the art nouveau buildings of downtown, and gawking at the amazing workings of the astronomical clock for an hour or two, what really cemented Dawn’s link to the city was the music. String quartets accompanied by flutes often entertained passersby right on the street. Live classical music could be heard in ordinary bars as well as more formal venues. The entire area had a healthy obsession with Mozart. Every time she visited, she felt she’d found the city of her heart. Well, that title was a toss-up between Prague and Warsaw. She loved both cities dearly. She’d been in Prague just a month ago for the Spring International Music Festival, but had jumped at the chance at a repeat performance. She wished Kellen had come. Even though he was a rock musician, she felt that every music lover should experience Prague at least once in their life. If this had been a leisure trip, she’d have taken in several concerts, an opera or two, and maybe even a ballet, but she was short on time and still not sure if she was signing that contract to compose for Hollywood. If she was, she’d have to be in Venice by the end of the week. Would she even have time to sneak in a few days in Texas to comfort Kellen about his band breaking up?
She’d never meant for her stint in Hollywood to become permanent. Truthfully, she wanted to compose the type of symphonies that musicians would still be playing in Prague and around the world a hundred years in the future. But the money Hollywood offered was hard to pass up. No starving musician truly wanted to starve; she was proud to be able to wring out a living with her creative work. Then again, no musician wanted to be a sellout either. As she browsed a farmers’ market for lunch, her mind churned her worries into a hot mess. How could she follow her head or her heart when neither part knew what it wanted, much less what she wanted?
Her walking and sightseeing did a lot to clear her head, easing her into the right frame of mind to perform that evening. If she’d cloistered herself in her hotel suite all day, she’d have become a pacing basket case; she’d learned that the hard way long ago. Dawn was accustomed to being alone before her shows, so it was probably a good thing that Kellen wasn’t with her. He would have undoubtedly destroyed her focus, and focus was truly what she needed before a performance. She arrived at the concert hall a few hours early to give herself time to get to know the piano she’d be playing.
“Miss O’Reilly, we have refreshments for you in the green room,” said a helpful staff member who spoke perfect English. “My name is Bridget. I am here to offer any assistance you require.”
Refreshments would be nice, but Dawn wanted to get in a practice run of her set list before concertgoers arrived. Now that she was at the venue, her belly was aflutter with nerves. She doubted she could keep a cracker down.
“I’d like to check my instrument before the performance.”
Bridget stiffened slightly, as if Dawn’s comment was a personal affront to her ability to properly do her job. “The tuner just left and assured us that the piano is ready to go.”
Dawn smiled, figuring her nervousness was coming across as haughtiness. She was sure it wasn’t the easiest job in the world to deal with demanding virtuosos on a regular basis.
“I’ve no doubt of that,” Dawn said. “I know it sounds odd, but I like to become acquainted with an instrument before I perform on it.” She leaned in closer and whispered, “I also want to make sure I remember how to play.”
Bridget laughed, her tense expression melting into a smile. “Of course, Miss O’Reilly. This way.”
Dawn followed her to the backstage area and into the wings of the elaborate stage surrounded by gleaming wood carvings and lavish golden curtains. A magnificent mahogany grand piano set center stage, and Dawn felt an instant connection with the gorgeous instrument. She was pleased to recognize the same piano she’d played the month before. It had a beautiful, resonating sound. They played well together.
“I’ll get someone to turn up the lights,” Bridgett said.
“It’s fine. I like to play in the dark.”
The stage wasn’t completely dark. The dim lighting added to the subdued mood she’d soon banish from the theater—from pit to rafters. She would bring the place alive with sound.
“Won’t you need lights to see the scores?” Bridgett asked.
Dawn shook her head. “I don’t need printed scores. I know my set list by heart.” Including the less familiar concertos someone had selected for her to play.
Dawn crossed the stage, her worn tennis shoes silent on the floorboards, and took a seat on the bench. She put her feet on the pedals and squirmed around—a luxury she wouldn’t have when the crowd had congregated—until she found a comfortable position. She scooted the bench over to the right and back a few inches and tested the comfort again. Satisfied with the position of the bench, she lifted the fallboard. She played a few scales, paying attention to the way her wrists, elbows, and shoulders felt. Her set list was long and the pieces challenging. She didn’t want to wind up with kinks in her muscles halfway through her performance. She’d been in that position more than once and had ended her set list in agony. She repositioned the bench yet again, and took several deep breaths. Starting with her first piece for the evening—from Chopin’s Piano Concerto no. 1—she played the stirring excerpt from beginning to end. She didn’t miss a note, but didn’t feel settled enough into her zone—damn her real-life issues, anyway—so she started over and played it again. About halfway through her seco
nd attempt, she found her stride. Every thought melted from her mind. She wasn’t even thinking about the music anymore. It poured from her soul as if glad to finally be free from its cage inside her. Without more than a few seconds pause, she segued into her second piece of the evening—Chopin’s Nocturne 20—one of her all-time favorites. By the time she concluded her entire set list an hour later, she felt rejuvenated, free, and grateful to Chopin for writing music that touched, inspired, and evoked so many moods.
No, she would not be giving up her performances to become a full-time composer. Composing was frustrating. It took long hours, and while the final product did give her that rush she craved, it might take months to get to that point. She needed to perform to get her musician’s high. And while playing alone on a near-dark stage fulfilled a need within her, she knew it in no way compared to have an entire audience holding their breath, least the sound of their own airflow interfere with their enjoyment of her playing.
“Play ‘Freebird’!” a familiar voice called from the dark stage-left wing.
“Wes?” She squinted toward the wings, and her agent emerged from the shadows, clapping as he approached her bench.
“Phenomenal as always,” he said.
“What are you doing here?” Attending one of her overseas performances was not normal behavior for him.
“I’m supposed to put the squeeze on you. Steinberg and Everlong want an answer.”
“I’m still not ready to give it,” she said.
“Are you going to let this opportunity pass you by? Isn’t it what you’ve always wanted? I don’t understand your hesitation. Talk to me, kiddo.”
Dawn pushed her fingers into her hair, shifting the heavy mass of curls from her shoulders, and sighed. “I still want to perform. I need it in my life.”
“Okay. And that’s fine. There is no conflict of interest in that. But that can’t be the reason you’re hesitating. We already know you can handle both.”
She cringed. He’d never seen her try to write before. Never witnessed the turmoil. The anxiety. The frustration. He never had to sit on a hard piano bench for hours on end and hear nothing, feel nothing, but silence. Wes just got the end product as if it magically fell out of her ass or something.
“I don’t want to go to Venice,” she said, hoping that was enough of a reason to put them off.
“I thought you loved Venice.”
“I do, but I’m not prepared to pack up my life and move to a foreign city for months on end.”
Wes cocked a brow at her. It was hard to read his expression in
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