by Wynne Roman
Any man.
As if my emotions are going to give me a choice. Life has taught me better than that. And right now, there is one truth I can’t deny.
Noah and I have something between us. It’s old, it’s deep, and it’s not going away on its own. There’s even a part of me that doesn’t want it to.
Old and deep.
The words matter to my heart. Old and deep and special. It’s all too much too soon, enough so that I don’t really understand it. Not sure I trust it, but maybe that’s the point. We fucked it up before—both of us, I admit it now—and maybe this is a do-over.
Oh, Jesus! I want to laugh at the way my psyche is trying to justify things. Adults don’t get do-overs.
So are we just trying to keep our minds and attention off the rest of the insanity that’s whirling all around us by escaping into sex? Or have we even given it that much thought? I’m pretty sure I haven’t.
The idea of doing that, of staying home to think about the bullshit—my trashed reputation, no place to live, maybe no job, Noah’s never-been girlfriend claiming he knocked her up—makes me feel a little bit sick. Plus, it’s a waste of time, as Noah reminds me, until we can actually do something about it.
I know he’s right, and so the next morning, I go with him to a practice session with the band. London’s there, but Bree’s at class, according to Ajia. It’s her third year at Butler School of Music, Noah says, and they’re all adorably proud of her. Angel’s there, too, playing bass for Zayne, and Ajia’s taking a turn on rhythm guitar.
I sit across the room with London, out of the way, and watch each man tune his instrument. I remember sitting in Noah’s grandparents’ garage, watching him tune his drums, and wondering what the heck he was hearing, because the adjustments he made hardly sounded different at all to me.
I can’t help grinning now. It’s so freaking cool to watch Wycked Obsession in person!
Noah takes a seat behind his drum kit and starts winding some kind of tape—like athletic tape or something—around his fingers. He never did that in high school, and I haven’t noticed it in any concert video.
I want to ask him about it but don’t get the chance before Knox steps into place. He and Ajia have a quick discussion that I can’t hear, but Noah apparently can. He laughs, twirls a drumstick from finger to finger on one hand, while he lightly taps the hi-hat cymbals with the other.
“Don’t Fear the Reaper,” calls out Knox.
“What?” Angel asks the question.
“Don’t Fear the Reaper,” repeats Knox.
“It’s what we always play with a new guy,” says Noah, playing a couple of beats on the snare drum. “We all had to start with it.”
Angel laughs. “Blue Öyster Cult? That’s from—what? The seventies?”
“That’s right.” Funny, Knox almost sounds a little defensive about it. “My mom was born in the seventies, loves that music. Heard Don’t Fear the Reaper and Hotel California like freaking lullabies. You got a problem with that?”
One of Angel’s eyebrows shoots up, and he shakes his head with a curious smile. “Nope. Good to know.”
London smiles faintly. She’s dressed impeccably in a pair of rose-colored slacks and a white lacy spaghetti strap top. She looks beautiful and stylish, while I look so ordinary and plain. I followed Noah’s lead—jeans and a T-shirt—but suddenly I feel totally underdressed.
London acts like she doesn’t even notice the difference.
“I love watching rehearsals,” she admits, but I don’t have a chance to answer when a guitar riff tears through the air.
I grin to myself. I know this song! It isn’t one of my Motown hits; it’s very different from that, but it’s still familiar. Noah comes in on drums, and I lose myself in watching Wycked Obsession play in person.
The day is actually quite fascinating. I see the hard work that rock bands put into making each song perfect. They play certain parts over and over, trying different things, getting it just right. Ajia works with Knox and Angel to get his part down, and as much smack as they talk, there’s also a lot of laughter and encouragement.
Through it all, I can hardly look away from Noah. He’s big and muscular and so freaking hot. Since we’ve had sex, my body stays on edge whenever he’s around. My core hovers on high alert, and physical sensation is in charge.
What does it mean? What do I want it to mean?
What does he want it to mean? Is he even aware of it?
The heavy, sizzling looks he gives me tell me he is. He wants me, and whatever this is between us isn’t going away anytime soon.
Noah and I settle in on his sofa Wednesday evening. This time we’re sitting close, me tucked under his arm, and my laptop is on the coffee table before us. We’re waiting for the video to buffer up on the screen.
The interview.
I’m surprised by how fast this stuff moves. I don’t know what I expected, but Baz assured me it’s the digital age.
“We already wasted days taking the high road.” He scowled at Noah when he said it. “We gotta strike now.”
And so we do.
The video is up on Wycked Obsession’s website, but I heard Baz tell London that a couple of news outlets had offered for it. I think it helped that they got Vanessa Payne to conduct the interview. She’s an up-and-coming entertainment journalist out of L.A., and she has an impeccable reputation. She made it well known that all questions would be her own, and she wouldn’t tiptoe around anybody—least of all some rock star whose dick may or may not have gotten him into trouble.
The band and Noah agreed immediately.
London helped me choose my outfit, and I watch uneasily as Noah and I come up on screen. He’s wearing tan slacks and a blue button-down shirt, which coordinates nicely with the periwinkle blue sheath and beige accessories I have on. She told me we would look great onscreen, and she’s right.
It doesn’t matter, though. I’m still a little freaked out to see myself there, to hear the questions, and marvel at Noah’s honest but restrained answers. What will people think, hearing how he and I reconnected? How I discovered my boyfriend was cheating? How I tried to move on without any more confrontation than necessary, and how Drake harassed and threatened me.
Oh, we didn’t mention him by name, but the implications are clear. He went to the press first, after all, and Noah makes it plain in the interview that we have recordings to prove Drake’s tactics.
The only things Noah refused to discuss were threesomes and our sex life.
I watch now as Noah says politely but firmly, “It’s disrespectful.” He gives me a soft look. “It’s disrespectful to Paige, first, and to other women who have been in my life over the years. Those are private, intimate encounters. Anyone who would try to humiliate others by sharing details or making things up? That’s just disgusting.”
“Would you sue over it?” asks Vanessa.
“Absolutely.” Noah nods decisively. “Under the right circumstances, I wouldn’t hesitate.”
“And what are those circumstances?”
He gives a naughty if flirty little grin. “I’ll tell you when they happen.”
I can’t help myself. I lean forward, pause the video, and look at Noah with all seriousness. “Do you really think this will stop Marlie from going public with her story?”
He sighs. Grabs my hand. Shakes his head.
“I don’t know, sweetness. If she does . . .” He shrugs. “We’ll deal with it.”
“How?”
“Depends on what she’d say. If it’s truth or lies.”
“She lied about stuff in school,” I remind him.
“I shoulda called her on it, then. I didn’t. But I did complain to a couple of my friends. They might remember if it comes to that.”
He shakes his head again, and I watch for that glint of earring. Why does that black, dangling cross turn me on so much?
“But let’s not worry about it unless we need to. We got enough on our plate as it is.”
And that isn’t the only thing.
“I’m not going to come out of this with anything left of my reputation,” I murmur dully.
“Oh, baby.” He leans forward and pulls me into his arms. “One day at a time. That’s all we can do.” He kisses me on the head. “Don’t let this get to you. Don’t let them. That’s how they win.”
I nod, my cheek rubbing against his chest. His strength and warmth radiate through the cotton of his T-shirt, and it feels so damn good.
“You’re right.” I pull in another breath, search for the strength that will see me through—because some icky stuff is still to come. “I know you are. It’s just . . . sometimes it’s still hard.”
“I know.” He kisses my head again. “But we’re in this together. I’ve got you.”
“I . . . okay.”
“Trust me?”
I look up at him, close my eyes long enough to give honest consideration to the question.
“Yes.”
“Whatever happens, we’re in this together.”
“Okay.” I nod, touched, but I don’t quite know what to say about it. “Let’s watch the rest.”
I start the playback again, tuck in against Noah’s side, and feel kind of strange. Safe and relaxed, and yet there’s a tension that isn’t all about sex. There’s just so much crap out there, and I’ve been blindsided too many times over the last week.
Vanessa comes back on the screen, her lovely, perfectly made-up face serious. I remember the moment clearly.
“So,” she says, “let’s talk about Elyssa Ross.”
Noah tensed in the interview, much like he does now. He’s so not a fan of Elyssa or the subject of her. I kept my mouth shut during most of that exchange in the actual interview, but watching now gives me a different perspective.
“All right.” I don’t know if anyone else can hear the grudging tone in his voice, but it’s clear to me.
“She claims to be pregnant with your child.”
“She’s . . . mistaken.”
“Can you be sure?”
He stares at Vanessa without answering, as though daring her to go farther. She does.
“You’ve been with a lot of women, Noah. Without giving any details—” she flicks a quick, almost apologetic glance in my direction “—can you really be sure?”
“Yes.” He doesn’t hesitate. “She gave what she called facts of our supposed time together. They weren’t true.”
“But you didn’t turn your back on her when she came to you with her claim.”
He takes a breath that expands his chest, both on screen and next to me now. I’m not sure if I realized how much he hates this situation until just this second.
“There’s a kid, Vanessa. Not mine, but somebody’s. I take that seriously.”
On the video, he leans forward, like he wants to make a point. “I wanted to avoid this whole media circus, so I agreed to help with her medical costs until she has the baby. We signed an agreement—which she broke, by the way—and when she has the kid, we’ll have a paternity test.”
“Why not do it earlier?”
“It’s supposed to be risky for the baby. I’m not a total asshole—” part of that word is bleeped out “—so I agreed to wait.”
“So you’re just a good guy in all this.” I didn’t notice before the marked sarcasm in Vanessa’s tone or how her eyes had narrowed.
Noah laughs on screen, takes my hand, brings it to his lips. “Nope. Last thing I am is a good guy. Paige can tell you that. But I am honest, and there’s no reason stopping me from claiming this kid if I actually thought it was mine. I just know the truth, and when it’s all over, I don’t want any questions left in anybody’s mind.”
The interview winds down after that, and my relief now twins what I felt in real time. It’s almost over. We put the truth—our truth—out there, and Noah has drawn a line in the sand.
Screw with him, he will respond.
If only it works . . .
“So, what can we expect in the future from you?” Vanessa asks coyly.
“From me or from Wycked Obsession?”
“Both.”
“The band is writing new stuff, rehearsing, putting together our next album and next tour. I don’t have any specifics for you, but you’ll be the first to know.” His smile is all charm.
She smiles back. “And personally?”
Noah raises our twined hands to his mouth, drops a quick but very deliberate kiss on my knuckles. “You’ll have to wait and see.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Paige
Fridays apparently aren’t my day anymore. A week ago I spent the day hung over, and today I have an HR interview at The Bridge. A preliminary interview, Irene had called it when she phoned me. It’s a part of the investigation into whether I’m eligible to retain my position.
Retain my position?
I don’t know how I feel about that. I mean, I understand that the incident on Monday caused problems, and I know the rumors about me might have been embarrassing for my employer. Even so, I didn’t actually say or do anything.
Did they just have to automatically put me on unpaid leave? Couldn’t they have listened to my side of the story?
It isn’t like I’ve been accused of doing anything immoral or illegal.
Or have I?
Is Drake’s accusation about kinky sex between consenting adults immoral? On the other hand, is it anybody else’s business?
Noah insists it’s private, between just the two of us—and he said it with a lot of kisses while his hands roamed my body at will. I want to smile about it, but I don’t. I can’t do anything like that now. I’m waiting outside of Walter’s office, and I don’t want to give any indication that I take this whole fiasco less than seriously.
I do wish that Noah were here with me right now instead of off rehearsing with the band. Or, more honestly, I’d rather be at the practice space with him.
“Miss Hamilton.”
Walter’s prissy middle-aged secretary Maggie calls my name. She’s so repressed, everything about her is tight. I’ve never heard her call anyone by their first name, not even Walter. I can’t let that go unchallenged.
“Thank you, Maggie.”
I stand, smooth my damp hands over my navy blue pencil skirt, and tug at the cuffs of my white, long-sleeved button-down blouse. My hair is pulled back in a more elaborate twist than I normally wear to work, but my usual tight ponytail seems too casual for today.
Walter likes things to be professional. The rest of us call it stuffy and old-fashioned, but that doesn’t change the fact that I know very well I need to look my best.
Walter and Irene are waiting for me in his office. Neither stands when I enter, nor do they offer to shake my hand. He merely gestures to a chair, and so I sit.
“Now, Paige,” he starts pompously, and I swallow a groan.
I knew this was going to be formal and awkward, that I was pretty much going to hate every minute of it, but some tiny flicker of hope never quite died. How could I have been so reckless when I know that’s how Walter always acts?
“Yes?” I ask when he doesn’t continue. I pretend as though I’m confused, or at least uncertain. And, yeah, that much is true.
But really, I just want to screw with him.
Is this me being contrary, or is Noah’s irreverent personality rubbing off on me? We’ve been following everybody else’s rules so carefully, I’m just getting a little sick of it.
I notice Irene is taking notes, although I can’t quite see what she has to write down when we’ve only exchanged greetings. Maybe she’s observing, Paige is impertinent.
I swallow a grin.
“We’
re investigating the little . . . ruckus of the other day—”
Irene holds up a finger, and he pauses. “Yes?”
“We must be specific, Walter.”
“Ah, yes.”
I blink so I don’t roll my eyes. What is this BS? Why are we making such a big deal about it? We could have spent twenty minutes discussing it the day it happened, and it should have been done.
But that isn’t the point. Not at all. The more I’ve thought about it, the more I’ve come to realize that they’re really hoping this will be the reason they’ve been looking for to fire me. Termination for cause, Irene would call it, but the end result is the same.
Me, without a job.
From the very beginning, neither has ever made a secret of the fact that they didn’t like putting me in the position of Activities Coordinator. That’s why they made it an interim position, called it an acting role, and gave me six months to prove myself. They had already decided I was too young, too inexperienced, but for some reason, they’d felt they had few options and promoted me.
Yes, I knew all that going in, suspected they were pretty closed minded about it, but I took it as a challenge. I’d been so sure I could win them over. I see now just how naïve I was.
Three months later—halfway through my probationary period—and they’ve never gotten over a certain bitterness about it.
And me? I’m beginning to wonder if I even want to keep trying.
Walter and Irene have been exchanging some kind of silent communication while I’ve been thinking, and I don’t even care to guess what they’re planning. I simply wait until he takes a breath and says, “All right. We’re investigating the incident from Monday, where reporters and a mob—”
“Crowd,” Irene interrupts.
“Crowd,” Walter amends, “of gawkers . . .” He looks at Irene for approval. She nods, and he continues. “Congregated in front of the facility.
“Yes?” I ask.
Walter blinks. “Well? What can you tell us about that?”
“Not much, I’m afraid.” I give them both a distant frown. “I had no knowledge of it until I noticed the crowd—” I add a little naughty emphasis “—on my way to the Alzheimer’s unit.”