by Kate Stewart
He slowly nodded. “I know.”
“But you can’t say the same, can you?” I wanted to pull my tongue out. I didn’t know why I was bringing up old hurts. It wasn’t going to fix anything. “Forget I asked,” I said before I brushed past him and damn near hit my knees. That scent of him brought it all back, the smiles he gave to only me, the taste of him, the warmth that only he could give. I was, freezing, aching, and dying for just one burn from his fingertips. I felt my sensibilities start to flee and was grappling for them. And then the panic set in.
“You should go,” I said as I snatched a glass from my cabinet and stuck it under my faucet, putting the counter between us. I was at a safe distance. He watched me as I took a long sip.
“Want some?”
“No thanks.”
“Something stronger, maybe, so, you know, you can call me after you leave here and tell me why you were on my porch in the first place.”
“Because you’re making it so easy to talk to you now?” Another smirk.
“Stop,” I said, my heart inching itself away, trying to make a leap around the corner.
“Stop smiling?”
“Yes. Vodka or whiskey?”
“Neither.”
“Egg-fucking-nog?” I asked, exasperated.
He full on laughed as I wilted inside.
“I’ve missed you,” he whispered, “so fucking much.” He rounded the counter, and I put my hand up.
“Well, awesome, send me a postcard from California.”
Another laugh only made me more furious. Fire burned around my throat and I started to itch. I unzipped my robe, trying to ward off the unbearable heat.
I downed another glass of water and felt the sweat gather on my forehead. Ripping at the robe, I pulled it up and over my head and threw it on the floor, leaving me in boy shorts and a tank top.
“You need to go.”
“Not before I say what I came to say,” he said as he cruised my body, pausing at all of his favorite stops.
“Okay then, we’re drinking.”
“Nothing for me,” he said sternly. I popped the top off the vodka in my freezer, and he batted it out of my hand. The bottle bounced into my sink.
“Don’t drink that,” he snapped.
“Why?”
“Just don’t.”
“Cutting down?”
“Yeah, I am, and you’re a lousy drunk,” he said as he closed the space between us. “I’ve been fucking up a lot, especially when it comes to you.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does. And I’m sorry.”
“You said that.”
“Never sober,” he said, drawing my chin from the floor with his fingertips, so we connected soul to soul. It was like a switch.
“Please don’t touch me,” I said with trembling lips.
He pulled his hand away. “And I’m still on my knees,” he muttered under his breath, “unbelievable.”
“Just say it, please, whatever you came to say and go.” My whole body was shaking and I was sure he could see it.
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m fine.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You did what you had to do,” I said, lowering my eyes.
“I was in rehab, Stella. From the minute I signed that contract until ten a.m. this morning.”
Of all the reasons I could think of, that was the last. “What?”
“Crazy, right? What musician goes to rehab before his career takes off?” He took a step back and slid the beanie off his silky dark locks, which scattered around his face. I drank him in, and for a brief second, we were back in his apartment, my heart on my sleeve, his eyes tearing into my soul.
“Why?”
“I needed to get my head straight. I was becoming like my parents. I didn’t want that. I wanted to be better.”
“You are better,” I said in a breathless whisper. “You’ve always been better.”
“Still my eternal cheerleader?” he asked with another smirk. He took a step forward and faltered when he saw I wasn’t receptive to any of it.
“You kept your promise, that’s all that matters,” I said truthfully. “And now, God. Sony, Reid.”
“Crazy,” he said with a small smile before he looked at me point blank. “And it was you who changed every fucking thing.”
“Don’t. I just wrote about a band I believed in.” Reid took inventory of my apartment and shook his head. I knew exactly what he was thinking about: the day I moved in.
“You’ll be okay, you know that, right? Deep down you know exactly what you want, how you want this to play out. You don’t have to be a cliché. You don’t have to live that life. The music is what matters most. Your beautiful music, Reid. You can do this.”
“Yeah,” he said thoughtfully. “Another pep talk,” he said without a smirk, worry clear in his features.
“Yeah, yeah, look at me,” I said the same way I had months before. Jade clouds brewed between us. “Believe me.”
“I don’t believe anyone anymore, Stella, but you.” He moved toward me again, and I flinched, too afraid of myself. Of us.
“Reid, I can’t—”
“Here Without You” by 3 doors down sang out from the TV feet away as my brain scrambled for some semblance of the woman I was minutes before he showed up to my door.
“Okay,” he relented, frustration rolling off his shoulders.
“Nate’s a good man. You would really like him. He’s good to me. He doesn’t make me—”
“Doesn’t make you what?” he said softly as I counted his slow steps toward me.
“Reid, goddamn you,” I rasped out.
“I am damned,” he whispered between us. “Look at me.” I shook my head as he gripped the sides of my face. Hot tears pooled and slipped down my cheeks. I was burning up, on the verge of losing myself. The reinforced wall I’d built shook down to the foundation. Everything I felt for him came brimming up to the surface. My heart pounding wildly as he searched for and saw everything in my eyes. And then the warmth hit, the feeling of it spread from my chest throughout my limbs.
“Stella,” he whispered before his lips pressed to mine. The agony of missing him leaked from my every pore. I threw every ounce of pain into that kiss, all the love that I felt escaped in a sob he captured with his lips. Softly, he pressed in, and I wrapped my arms around his neck as he slid his arms around my body, pulling me tightly to him. He kept our mouths sealed while he held me, our lips pressed together, and I felt his hesitance to let go when I pulled my lips away. He dropped his forehead to mine.
“Happy New Year, Stella. I’m glad you’re happy. That’s all I came to see.”
“Happy?” I scoffed. “I guess now you can put that guilty conscience to rest,” I said in a ruined puddle under the weight of him.
“Hate me if you need to,” he said softly, as he let me go and stuffed his cap in his jeans.
I hated the way it felt, the distance. I scrambled for words.
“Reid?” I whispered. Shoulders slumped, his eyes found mine. “What in the hell kind of rehab let’s someone out on New Year’s Eve?”
We laughed. It was our special skill, one we created together when things couldn’t get any worse. Our smiles faded as he looked me over and opened the door.
“I’ll see you, Grenade,” he whispered before he closed it behind him. I went after him and stopped him on the sidewalk.
“I’ll be the one to watch it happen,” I shouted at his back.
Slowly, he turned to face me, his eyes closed with the memory of my words, his lips twisted. “Say it.”
I smiled through my free-falling tears. “I told you so.”
He gave me one last breath-stealing smile, got into his truck, and left me without his warmth, once again in the cold.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Ex-Factor: Ms. Lauryn Hill
Three Years Later
“Miss Emerson, I’d like to see you in my office,” Nate sounded through my newl
y installed phone in my newly gifted office. I pushed his extension as I searched my notes on my laptop. “Nate, everyone here knows we have sex on the regular. You can call me Stella,” I said with a tone that matched his.
“Miss Emerson, I have Roger Morris in my office for a meeting,” Nate snapped as laughter echoed out beside him.
I leapt from my desk and stared at the phone.
Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.
We would be fighting over this one later. Face flaming, my tail between my legs, I walked into his office, failing to meet Nate’s eyes and apologizing profusely to Roger Morris, who was one of the biggest agents in the music industry. He had a stellar reputation and carried some of the most sought-after talent under his management company. It took all my Latina courage to shoot an apologetic glance at Nate.
The scold, colored deep blue, told me it may be a nasty fight. Still, I couldn’t help the little high I got from knowing he still wanted to be inside me while simultaneously strangling me. I gave him a sly Love you, honey smile.
“I’m truly sorry,” I went on to Mr. Morris, a tall man with a New York complexion and red carpet attire. He had sharp eyes that let you know he held the secrets of many but a genuine smile that made him more approachable. “That was highly unprofessional, and it’s definitely not—”
“Stella, may I call you, Stella, though we’re not having sex on the regular?” He coughed out a laugh as Nate drilled holes into my skull. We were at that comfortable stage of our relationship where we bared all and had no issue arguing, and it wasn’t detrimental to our relationship. We lived together, worked together. In every aspect of our lives, we were together. And it was bliss, well, for the most part. Except for when I played my music too loud while he was writing, or that time I ran over his expensive golf clubs, or sometimes spoke—case in point, the situation I was attempting to charm my way out of. At twenty-four, I had finished my bachelor’s degree and enrolled for my master’s. I had a future at Austin Speak, not to mention a semi-successful podcast, something I started for myself despite my focus on the growing paper and the man who owned it.
Life was good, better than good.
“Of course, yes, call me Stella.”
“Truth be told,” he said, addressing Nate, probably to offset my upcoming ass lashing, “That’s probably the mildest thing I’ve ever heard as a rock ‘n’ roll manager.”
I nodded as Nate’s jawed ticked, probably in contemplation of his words and my punishment when he got me alone. I was almost giddy with anticipation. Fighting always lead to epic fucking. Nate and I legitimately had the best sex on earth. We competed with ourselves. It was our thing. I mouthed a quick “I love you” which granted me soft eyes as Nate cleared his throat. “Stella,” he said, laced with a hint of prejudice, because we did have that epic sex on the regular. “Roger manages that band Dead Sergeants. It was one of the first articles you published.”
All traces of humor vanished from my face, replaced by a plastic smile.
“I remember. They’ve done well for themselves,” I added, waiting for the punchline. I’d never told Nate about Reid. And I never had a single reason to feel guilty about it until that moment. Since the minute Reid left my apartment three years ago, I never had a reason to tell him. I hadn’t spoken to Reid. The Sergeants had recorded their first album when they landed in California and that went double platinum. That success led them on a yearlong US tour. Speculation that they were recording last fall had already been confirmed in the press but no release date had been announced. Fans were chomping at the bit.
“Indeed, they have,” Mr. Morris agreed. “The group would like to give you an exclusive for both your podcast and for the paper. Both stories could launch at once, of course.”
“We can make that work,” Nate agreed with a nod. I could practically see him salivating. Dead Sergeants were well on their way to being the next stadium rock band.
“Mr. Morris, I appreciate the offer, but I’m afraid I have no time. My sister is getting married this weekend.”
“What?” Nate snapped as Roger looked at me with a smirk and quick rebuttal.
“The band is willing to work around your schedule due to the fact that it was your article that got them signed with Sony.”
“I didn’t know that,” Nate said with probing eyes in my direction.
Hello, guilt, it’s been a while.
I shrugged. “That’s because it’s not true.” I stood, grabbing a cup of water from Nate’s cooler and resumed my seat across from him sipping slowly.
Mr. Morris went on, ignoring the building animosity. “The band disagrees, Miss Emerson. And they have an announcement of an upcoming overseas tour for their album releasing next month. In addition, one of the members has recently gotten engaged,” Roger said while I began to choke. I cleared my throat.
“Which one?”
“Rye,” Roger said with a smile. “Typically, we don’t like to delve too deep into the relationship status for fear it may hurt the band’s relationship with the fairer sex, but it seems like more and more the media is seeking just those kinds of stories to draw readers in.”
That was the truth and one of the reasons my podcast was getting weekly views. When I was lucky enough to get an exclusive, I asked the most intrusive questions, and the audience ate it up. With the success of reality TV, things were getting far more personal in media. And Dead Sergeants were the last band I wanted to get personal with.
I felt Nate’s expectant and enthusiastic yes across his desk and kept my eyes on the same expectant gaze of Roger Morris. “It’s appreciated, but I must regretfully decline. I have last minute fittings and a rehearsal dinner a few hours away. I’m sure you can understand how daunting these things can be.”
“Stella,” Nate hissed. I snapped my gaze to his in warning.
“I’m sure JJ can cover it,” I chimed in with a smile between them, a quick solution.
“They are insistent that you conduct the interview. The band is at the hotel now and have freed up their evening for you, so this shouldn’t interfere with any of your weekend plans.”
“Wonderful,” I said as Roger stood. “I can squeeze it in around five.”
“She’ll be there within the hour,” Nate grit out as he tried to decide what to do with my body.
Roger’s eyes told me he knew exactly why I was hesitating and he’d been well prepped.
Ben. I’m going to kill him.
Lexi still wasn’t over their inevitable break up. Though true to his word, Ben hadn’t been the one to stray. Lexi had. Ben was crushed by it, but the way he went about his backlash was cruel punishment, not to mention national news. Some pictures can never be erased, especially with the newest it girl, a Hollywood starlet half-naked in his lap. Those pictures circulated for months, slowly stripping the life away from Lexi. Ben was too blind to see she was too wrapped up in him, too desperate, too lonely. I, in no way, agreed with her actions, but saw she was human in her love and her insecurity when it came to him, and their relationship made her sick. I understood it all too well. Neither one of us got our rock ‘n’ rock fairytale.
I was content.
And proud of Lexi. She was doing her best to bounce back, and it had nothing to do with men. She’d enrolled in her first year of college. “Better late than never,” she’d said, and I agreed. She’d also gotten a job on the set as a stylist for a DIY show that was filmed locally. Lexi had put up videos on YouTube when it launched and gained a lot of attention. It inspired me to start my podcasts. I’d run the marathon in Austin as far as the paper was concerned. I knew every step of city pavement. I no longer served beers at Maggie Mae’s due to the newly thriving budget of Speak, but it never kept me from doing the work. I knew every club manager and often got tipped off when some of the bigger names rolled into town. And in doing that, I scored exclusives by my reputation. Austin Speak had the most followed entertainment segments in the city and was getting national recognition with some of my freelance publicati
ons. And this all happened within the time that Dead Sergeants hit the rock ‘n’ roll lottery with three, number one billboard singles with their self-titled first album. I watched the guys take the stage after winning two Grammys for Best New Artist and Song of the Year. On stage, Reid stood in the back, mute, while the rest of the guys rambled on. Even with their success, Reid remained tight-lipped and out of the spotlight. As Roger Morris shut the door after a brief handshake with Nate and I, I decided I would light Reid Crowne’s ass on fire with questions if he were the one responsible for dragging me into their hotel.
My plans for revenge were cut short by the sight of Nate, hunched over his desk, his thick fingers splayed on the top of it. “What in the hell were you thinking?”
“Be more specific,” I said, sinking back into my seat with a sigh. “And you know I already regret the phone thing.”
“The phone thing? Oh, you mean when you announced to the entire building that you and I have sex on the regular?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, I buzzed your office.”
Shit. “Didn’t I?
“You didn’t hear the applause?”
Shit.
“Stella,” he said with his hands in his pockets. “Come on, baby, you know better. Where is your head lately?”
“I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m tired, okay? I’m working my ass off here, school, and my sister is driving me ape-shit about the difference between two types of green pastels. I don’t have time for an interview of this proportion. I’m not prepared.”
“That’s bullshit. You’re always ready,” he said, his arms crossed. He looked down at me. Nate Butler got better looking with age. It wasn’t a biased opinion. It was a fact. I still pinched myself mentally every day that he was mine.
“I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry. I’ll send out an apology email.” Nate nodded, and I looked at him, and my breath hitched. “I love you.”
He walked around and pulled me to stand and into his arms. “Hang in there, baby. Once we get this issue out, I’ll get us out of here. Anywhere you want to go.”
“Bed,” I said with a lifted brow.