by Tara Leigh
After ambushing Dax at his house, after running into Jack at J.J.’s—and even after reading over “Bombshell Rebel”—I’d been relieved to finally get back in the studio this morning. To focus on singing instead of flailing about in my own mind.
My relief lasted about two hours. One hundred and eighty blessed minutes alone inside my sound booth bubble. Until Dax Hughes opened the door and popped it.
“Nope. I don’t like doughnuts.”
He lifted a brow at the lie. “That’s too bad. Because I heard about this place just east of here, where they make them right in front of you. And they have this apple cider slushie that would feel really good going down after you’ve been singing for a few hours.”
My mouth watered just thinking about it. Doughnuts and a slushie. It was after noon and I hadn’t eaten anything yet. And my throat was parched. “Where did you say it was again? You know, in case I know anyone who’s interested.”
Dax pressed his palm against the small of my back, his thumb pushing just beneath the hem of my shirt to swipe at the bare skin beneath. “I’m interested,” he said in a gritty whisper, low and close to my ear, that didn’t evoke any of the trepidation I’d felt with him in the past. The nerves that trembled from Dax’s touch weren’t because I still believed he would hurt me.
I let him propel me through the exit and toward his car. The back parking lot was gated, not a single photographer lying in wait.
Doughnuts and Dax…How was I supposed to resist an offer like that?
He opened his passenger door and I slid right in. “You were really good in there,” he said, starting the engine.
I waved a hand in front of my face. “You mean, for a pop star.”
He shifted into gear but didn’t take his foot off the brake. “For anyone.”
My lashes fluttered as I looked at Dax, trying to decide if he was being sincere. His attitude today had been a complete one-eighty from the last time we were together, at his house. Finally, I buckled my seatbelt and folded my hands in my lap. “Drive, rock star. I’m hungry.”
Dax
I still wasn’t sure what had possessed me to drag Verity out of the studio an hour ago. All I knew was that I wasn’t ready to let her go.
Doughnut eaten, clutching a sweating plastic cup with her half-drunk slushie, she didn’t seem in any rush to part company either. “How’d you find this place? I’m down here all the time and I’ve never heard of it.”
“My sister visits during school breaks. Apparently she read about it in some top-ten list of things to do in L.A.”
Verity bit down on her straw, dimples carving into her cheeks as she took a pull from it. “And did you do everything on the list?”
I grinned. “Of course. I’m a very accommodating host.”
She lifted a skeptical brow, throwing shade. “Accommodating isn’t the first word I’d use to describe you, Dax.”
I feigned offense. “I’m accommodating. I’m accommodating as fuck, actually.”
“Okay, then. If I told you one of my favorite shops was around the corner, would you go with me?”
The question Verity should really be asking was whether there was a chance in hell I could resist the teasing sound to her voice right now. Or the genuine grin that had replaced the saccharine-sweet one she’d worn in the studio. The answer was, No. Nada. Zilch.
But I had to at least make an attempt at playing it cool, so I offered a nonchalant shrug. “Sure.”
A few minutes later, I was looking up at a painted sign that read ART DISTRICT CO-OP, which meant less than nothing to me. “What is this place?”
“It’s a flea market,” Verity responded, grabbing my hand and dragging me inside.
I could spend hours wandering through anyplace that carried vintage Les Pauls or rare vinyl albums, but the enormous warehouse Verity had brought me to looked like the contents of an entire shopping mall had been ripped up in a tornado and then blown into the building. Children’s toys were strewn across an old surfboard, Christmas ornaments displayed beside a wedding dress. A vintage Harley was decorated with dozens of candles.
And a fat bulldog lay on the cement floor, furiously scratching himself. “Uh, I think that description might be entirely too appropriate.”
Verity merely rolled her eyes and linked her arm though mine. “This place is so much better than anything you’d find on Madison Avenue or Rodeo Drive.”
We passed a display of bug-eyed troll figurines carved from reclaimed wood. “If you say so.”
After a few minutes the jumble started to make sense, the pure enormity of all that was available under one roof becoming less overwhelming. “What are you looking for?”
“Champagne glasses.”
“To toast your new album?”
“Maybe.” She fingered a knitted afghan, then the beaded necklace lying beside it. “At this point I’ll celebrate just finding the glasses I’m looking for.”
Craning my neck, I spotted a display of crystal at the end of an aisle. “Let’s go look over there.”
Her steps outpaced mine, but after a quick glance inside the stuffed armoire, she backed away. “Not there.”
“You barely looked.”
She only shook her head, a disappointed frown trekking across her forehead. “I would know them in a heartbeat.”
Now I was curious. “What do they look like?”
“They have hollow stems, kind of old-fashioned looking. And the crystal has an amber tint to it.”
“You can’t remember where you saw them originally?”
Pain streaked across her face, her smile faltering. “They were my grandmother’s. She passed away about ten years ago, now. My mother didn’t bother keeping anything. I’ve always hoped that one day I would find a set just like them.”
“Ten years ago you would have been what, fourteen? And you were drinking with your family?”
She released a small giggle that made my blood feel as light and buoyant as the champagne we were talking about. “No. Sparkling cider only. But when I was having a bad day, she would pull out those special glasses. I swear, things always seemed better after we clinked rim—”
“Verity Moore!”
I spun around, instinctively bracing my arms to protect Verity from what turned out to be a trio of teenaged girls wearing identical awestruck expressions and openmouthed grins.
“Oh my god, can we get your autograph?”
“And a selfie?”
“Can you sing the theme song of The Show so I can save it as my ringtone?”
Backing away a few feet, I took a sudden interest in a towering display of hemp soaps and lotions, averting my face while still keeping one eye on Verity as she graciously handled the first two requests but gently declined the third.
For me, the worst part about being a member of Nothing but Trouble was the fame that came along with it. But fame was a necessary evil, and in this town, the most valuable of commodities. Fame had bought my home, my cars, my collection of guitars.
Talented musicians could be found working at restaurants all over town—waiting on the famous ones.
Verity was stepping back into the spotlight, not as part of a band, but as a solo artist. There was a big difference. She may have played a part on The Show. But onstage, she would be the show.
And right now she was soaking up the girls’ adoration like a desert flower in a rainstorm.
Gorgeous and glowing.
Fucking breathtaking.
Even more so than she’d been in the studio. I had purposely hung around as everyone else was packing up and saying their goodbyes. Hunched over my guitar, pretending to adjust the strings, my ears strained for every sound that fell from Verity’s lips. From the way she deflected every bit of praise aimed her way, to the respectful tone she used to address everyone in the room.
She had no entourage, no attitude. She was just herself. And goddamn it, I fucking liked her.
Verity Moore—disgraced pop princess—was a pretty cool gi
rl.
I hadn’t planned on spending the day with her. Just the opposite. At first I’d been counting the minutes until I could get the hell away. But only the first few minutes.
After that I didn’t notice anything else but Verity herself.
Listening to her bringing my song—a song I’d written about her—to life. It was almost surreal.
Fuck. It was surreal. Like the best kind of dream.
Me and my guitar. A gorgeous girl with an even more beautiful voice. Making music together.
It didn’t get much better.
Not with clothes on, anyway.
Too bad it wouldn’t last.
Things that were too good to be true never did.
Chapter Twelve
Verity
I didn’t understand Dax. And I definitely didn’t understand myself when I was with Dax.
He had the strangest ability to make all the doors in my body, the doors in my mind—especially those I had closed, locked, and bolted shut—spring open as if he had a master key.
Dax made me feel like one of the teenagers who had come running up to me—excited and energized, their bright eyes looking at the world as if it was theirs for the taking. Their expressions radiating an eager confidence, a certainty that anything—everything—was possible.
Not at all like me. I wasn’t a starry-eyed girl anymore…if I’d ever been. I knew exactly how ruthlessly this town could chew me up and spit me out. Because it had. I was a jaded Hollywood flame-out who had come crawling back, begging for a second chance.
As a fellow musician, Dax was both a mentor and a role model.
But as a man—he was a threat. To my motivation. My reputation. Turning this situation into a powder keg primed to explode.
I should be running from him right now. But instead, I was strolling at Dax’s side, walking from the flea market back toward the doughnut shop. As if we’d been friends for ages. As if the occasional brush of his arm against mine wasn’t sending electricity racing through my bones.
We could walk all the way to the ocean and I’d probably be wearing the same stupid grin when my feet hit the sand.
“So…your voice. Where’d you learn to sing like that?”
My grin faltered. “I don’t really remember learning to sing. It was just something I used to do. Singing made everyone around me smile. So I kept doing it. At home, in church. Eventually, on auditions. It’s always been a part of me.”
His eyes crinkled at their corners when he gave me a sideways glance. “I get that.”
“How about you? Where did you learn to play guitar like that?”
Dax’s hearty laugh boomed off the gritty sidewalk. “Believe it or not, onstage. The first time I ever picked up a guitar was the night I met Shane, Dax, and Jett. But I practically grew up with a violin in my hands, so it wasn’t a big deal.”
I came to a stop in the middle of the block, looking at him incredulously. “No big deal? Are you kidding me? I don’t have to know how to play a single instrument to know that’s not normal.”
Dax shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels. “You should meet my family.”
I started walking again, Dax’s long-legged stride matching my pace. “I have more than enough issues with my own, thank you very much.”
“Lemme guess. You come from one of those big Sound of Music, sing-for-your-supper type families.”
I had never known my father, and I was willing to bet my mother wasn’t quite sure who he was, either. “Ha. Nope, although I did audition for a show like that once. It’s just me and my momager. Picture Kris Jenner with only one Kardashian kid to manage.” He laughed again. A seductive rumble that made the air inside my lungs feel lighter, buoyant. “You have a nice laugh, you know. You should consider letting it out more often.”
“Then I guess we’ll have to hang out more often.” It was a casual response, almost a throwaway comment. Reverberating in the air like a bolt of lightning.
My neck swiveled his way so sharply, I lost my balance and tripped over a crack in the sidewalk. I pitched forward, my hands going up automatically to protect myself from the impending fall.
Dax’s firm grip wrapped around my wrist, steadying me with barely any effort. My gaze dropped to his long, elegant fingers. The same ones that had stroked his guitar like a lover, pulling the most beautiful song from her strings. If he wanted to, I had no doubt he could play my body just as skillfully, just as masterfully.
My pulse was a frantic thing, erratically stuttering and then surging to tap out a beat beneath Dax’s hand. Maybe an SOS.
With a determination I didn’t know I possessed, I casually shrugged off his touch like it wasn’t burning me. But it was. Another second and I’d be permanently branded. Property of Dax Hughes.
I cleared my throat to find my voice. “You know, we passed your car a few blocks ago.”
His hand still hovered in the air, as if he hadn’t realized I’d pulled mine away. “Yeah, I know. I thought we could grab a drink. Or some dinner.” Dax gave me a sheepish look. “Unless…unless there’s somewhere you need to be.”
Dax
“I haven’t met Landon yet. Have you spoken to him lately? Is he okay with me opening for you guys?”
We were in the corner booth of a Mexican restaurant, a margarita in front of each of us. The remainder of the pitcher sat on the table, along with guacamole and a few other plates to share. I pushed out a sigh and leaned forward. “I wouldn’t worry about Landon. He’s got his own shit to deal with right now.”
A nervous frown pushed its way between Verity’s brows. “That sounds kind of…ominous.”
“Nothing I can say about it right now. He’ll be fine. I know it.” Landon had been through so much in his life, and his latest fuck-up was finally big enough to knock some sense into him. Took long enough. “How about you? A world tour isn’t like showing up on the same studio set every day.”
“I know. Or, rather, I don’t know—but yeah, I imagine it’s different.” She took a shaky sip from her glass. “That’s exactly what I’m hoping for.”
The tentatively hopeful tone of her voice scraped away yet another of my preconceived notions. “Ah. A fellow runaway. You know what, Verity? I think you’re going to fit right in.”
She tilted her head to the side, her expression a mix of confused and curious. “Runaway? Is that what you call cabbing to the airport with a plane ticket in one hand and your Juilliard diploma in the other?”
I groaned a denial. “Not exactly.”
“Okay, fine. You road-tripped cross-country, then.”
“No. You were right about the plane ticket. But I never did get my diploma.” The admission scraped the inside of my throat. It was something that still bothered me. All of that time studying, playing, practicing, and not even a year left before graduation. I gave it all up to chase after Amelia. In the grand scheme of things, that piece of paper didn’t matter—but it was just one more thing I’d forfeited for a love that was nothing but a lie.
I shook my head to clear it, and when I looked at Verity again, she was brushing salt from the corner of her lips, sucking on the pad of her thumb. “What were you running from?”
“It’s the reverse, actually. I was running toward something. Someone.” I took a hearty gulp from my glass, the burn of tequila oddly soothing. “It didn’t work out. How about you? What’s in your rearview mirror?”
She closed her eyes for a moment, an involuntary shudder shaking her delicate shoulders. “Honestly, I’d rather not look behind me. Although I can tell you what isn’t there—a diploma. I never even graduated from high school.”
I would have liked to erase the bitterness clinging to Verity’s voice, soothe the shame wrinkling her forehead. “You wish you hadn’t left?”
“Left?” She dismissed the suggestion. “No. According to my mother, once school wasn’t legally required, it became a luxury. One we couldn’t afford. I needed to work.” I stayed silent, watchin
g Verity worry at her tantalizingly plump lower lip as she swirled her straw in her drink, ice cubes rattling. “I can’t complain though. I missed too many days to make any real friends or to learn much of anything. I’m sure it was for the best.”
“The best for who?” The question came out of nowhere and felt almost too personal. I probably should have taken it back. But I didn’t.
Verity looked up from her drink. “Is everything in your life so cut-and-dried? Best or worst, black or white, wrong or right?”
Her penetrating stare launched an arrow of lust. It hit dead center, exploding on impact. “Pretty much.”
“I envy you, then. So far I’ve only jumped from one bad situation into another. Each choice I make is connected to one I’ve made. And every time I try to draw a line in the sand, a wave sweeps it away.”
“Hiring Travis. Coming on our tour. They seem like pretty good choices.”
“They are. I think they are, anyway. But hiring Travis is going to wind up destroying my relationship with my mother. Not that it’s a good one, but she’s the only family I have. As for joining the tour…Well, it means we’re going to be spending a lot more time together.”
I refilled her glass, then my own. “Is that good or bad?”
“See, there you go again. Why does it have to be one or the other? What if it’s a mix of both?”
I licked the salt from my mouth, wishing I was doing something much better with my tongue. Jesus. “Because mixing business with pleasure is just bad. That’s a fact. I told you before. I did it once and it blew up in my face.”
“That’s not a fact,” Verity shot back. “That’s your opinion based on a tired cliché and a bad breakup.”
Amelia and I didn’t break up. She walked out on me. But I popped a chip in my mouth instead of arguing a moot point. “Fine. Explain your mixed-bag theory to me.”
“Performing with you, getting behind a microphone again, challenging myself musically—those are all good things. But if anyone sees us hanging out like this after the tour is announced, or while we’re on the road, they’re going to assume I screwed my way onto the tour. And then my reputation won’t be any better than it is now.” The smile she offered was sad, no trace of her dimples. “So, there. A mix of good and bad and sad. Because this has been really nice. I’ve never had a day I’ve enjoyed as much as this one…And it can’t ever happen again.”