Our Secret Song: A sweet brother's best friend, rockstar romance (For Love and Rock Book 1)

by Emily Childs

  “What?” I glance over my shoulder. My friends are watching. Parker especially. “I didn’t give you a space book. Fine, Al. Don’t come. You could’ve been one of the guys for today.”

  “No,” she blurts out, takes the slingshot, and shoves it into her back pocket. “I want to come.”

  “She’s riding on your pegs, Bridge,” Adam says and takes off to race the other guys down the road.

  I huff and roll my eyes. “Well, get on. You gotta hold onto my shoulders.”

  Alexis adjusts so she’s on my makeshift pegs I put on my mountain bike. Her fingernails dig into my shoulders, but it’s better than her choking me so I don’t say anything.

  “You did give me a space book.”

  “If I did give it to you, did you like it?”

  “I like historical books better, but it was pretty cool.”

  “Well, if I ever want to give you a book—which I won’t—it won’t be historical. Those are boring.”

  She snickers, but tries to hide it. We ride in silence for a while until Alexis taps the top of my head. “I saved you, Bridge. Admit it.”

  I can’t really deny it. Everyone saw the truth. “You might’ve gotten a few good shots. So what?”

  “I’m like one of those things under the trapeze. When you fell, I was right there and bam! You were safe.”

  “Do you know anything? They’re called safety nets.”

  “Yeah. That’s me.”

  I pedal faster. Her nails dig deeper. But I grin. “Fine, Al. Sure. You’re like my safety net. Happy?”

  She pauses, but when she speaks it sounds like she’s smiling. “Yeah. But Bridge.”

  “What?”

  “This doesn’t mean I like you.”

  Chapter 5

  Alexis

  Fifteen minutes later, Bridger pulls into a four-car garage, separate from a beautiful adobe brick house on the hill. My hair is wild like a tumbleweed around my face. But I like that Bridger’s is crazy too.

  “Hey, I need to check on the alarms at the front gate,” he tells me and pockets his keys. “I had a notification something might’ve tried to get in.”

  “Creepy how you say something.”

  “Could be a desert tortoise. Maybe a ghost. You never really know.” He winks and my fingertips go numb. “But go on inside. Not the front door because it’s not really the front door.”

  “Then I wonder why you called it the front door at all,” I say.

  He lets out a sigh. “Really? Are we going to argue about the door? Just take the side path, it’ll lead to another gate and alleyway. That’s where you want to go. The code to the real front door—”

  “Side door.”

  “. . . is two, zero, zero, seven.”

  My palms tingle and my heart jolts. “Two thousand seven?”

  Bridger shrugs, a muscle tight in his jaw. “Sort of unforgettable.”

  I’d like to hug him, but hold back. The year his dad died changed Bridger. It’s when he lost himself in his music. It’s when his entire life changed.

  “Al,” Bridger says. “You good?”

  “Yeah,” I say quickly. “Yeah, I can find my way through your booby-trapped yard. Send a search party, though, if I go missing.”

  He gives me a curt nod, then jogs toward the front side of the house. I tug my suitcase by my side, tuck my leather-bound edition of Jane Eyre Bridger so callously insulted under one arm, then proceed to gawk.

  For a few heartbeats I take it all in. Scrutinize every balcony, every aloe plant, every palm. The front is rounded with windows from the rooftop to the ground. The drive curves like a near perfect horseshoe. Earthy, adobe brick, tile slats on the roof. Two side lawns stretch around the back, no doubt where luxury balconies and pools await.

  I balk, a little stunned. I mean, I knew . . .

  Stupid of me to think any differently.

  He’s a star. America’s heartthrob. But I guess sometimes I still imagine Bridger in the three-bedroom rambler with ugly red brick and a tin carport. In my head he still rides his mountain bike with homemade pegs on the back wheel because his mom never bought him a BMX bike.

  I bite my nerves into my bottom lip and begin the hunt for the secret true entrance. He doesn’t want to draw attention to himself, yet he lives in a monstrosity like this. Pfft, makes sense. Who do the neighbors think lives here?

  Cameras on the surrounding gates send a shiver dancing down my spine. Like constant eyes on me at every turn. Twenty paces beyond the garage, the turnoff materializes between a thick barrier of juniper trees. Seriously, Bridger? Cacti? Little spikes with pretty little flowers practically sneer at me and line the narrow path. A dare to enter and come out unscathed.

  Jaw tight, shoulders back, I take the dare. I’m hot, thirsty, and I really want to see inside.

  Barbs pick and tug at my bag. One catches my arm, a white scrape on my onion-dry skin frees a few drops of blood. By the end, my hair sticks to my neck, not only my brow. My bag has a few barbs in the zipper, but I emerge to a covered stairwell. The plop of my suitcase on each stair rattles the silence of the yard. I don’t even notice, all I do is praise the shade, the subtle mist from overhead spouts, and the gentle trickle of a fountain that runs the length of the lower wall.

  The stairs end at a kind of dugout, shaded, concealed up to a wholly normal-looking door.

  Once I’ve broken through the code, inside, gentle air soothes the harsh desert heat off my cheeks. A bit of vanilla and musk teases my nose, a scent I could absolutely get used to. The room is nothing impressive. In truth it reminds me of an office lobby. A few potted plants, a leather upholstered bench, and a front desk.

  With a guy looking at me with crazy angry eyes!

  “Hey!” he shouts. “You can’t be in here!”

  I scurry backward until I smack the door. Man, the guy can move. He’s lunging for me. His big meaty, boxer-ish body makes a sort of cage around me. On instinct I hold up Jane Eyre and take a swing, shrieking.

  “Whoa, hey,” he says. His hands are over his head. He’s in a suit, but the way he moves he might as well have been in a T-shirt and sweats. He’s agile, quick, and in another breath we’re in a tug-of-war over my collector’s edition.

  No one—no one—touches my books.

  “Let her go!” I cry out, as if a human being lives within the pages.

  He grimaces when my flailing nearly hits his nose. “You can’t be in here!”

  “I’m here with Bridger! He knows me.” I let out an uncool, guttural sound, and finagle my book back. I backpedal, my back against the wall, breathless.

  I’m pleased to say macho man is a little out of breath, too. Mess with a librarian and her favorite books and you’re leaving with a bit of damage. He points at the door. “Turn around, miss, and I won’t call the cops.”

  “The cops!” I say incredulously. “Are you not listening to me? Bridger brought me here because my brother texted him because my fiancé married someone else! Do you think I planned this? No, I certainly did not. But I am here with Bridger. He’s checking the gates. Want to call him? You can. He has his phone because, as I said, my brother texted him. How else would I have the code to his underground lair?”

  The guy blinks, I guess he’s a little lost that someone can blurt so much out in two breaths, but he has no idea how long I can go on without stopping.

  Sweat glistens on his bald head and his frown is a perfect upside-down U shape. “Stay right there. I’ll make a call.”

  I roll my eyes, but my pulse won’t stop racing. The front desk Rambo picks up an office phone, glares once at me, then faces away. I drum one hand over my thigh, hum a bit, and pretend my stomach is not tangled up like silly string.

  “Matthews, uh, there’s a woman here. Yeah, broke in the front—”

  “Side entrance. And I didn’t break in.”

  He glances at me, then turns back to the phone. “Yeah. No. Anything strange at the main gates?” The guy pauses, then one brow raises. “Oh, h
e’s there?”

  I cross my arms over my chest, frowning.

  Suit-n-tie Gladiator glances over his shoulder. “Well . . . yes, that is what she said. Matthews, is he laughing?”

  “My goodness, is that Bridger? Let me talk to him.” I stomp toward the desk.

  The guard swats me away with a grunt. “Miss, one moment. Please. Mr. Cole, hello. Yes, she’s armed with a copy of Jane Eyre and a suitcase. Insists, you’re expecting her. Oh, she is?”

  “Ugh! He knows me!” I swear if Bridger did this to tick me off, he’s succeeding.

  The guard holds up a finger to his lips. He nods, mutters agreement under his breath, then hangs up the phone. “Have a seat, miss.”

  He gestures to the leather bench and I oblige. Truth be told, I’m acting tough, but the sting of tears begins behind my eyes. This day could not get any worse. I’m a sweaty, pathetic mess.

  The guard doesn’t return to his seat. Instead, he leans against the desk, ankles and arms crossed, and watches me.

  I narrow my eyes. “I’m not a crazy fan, okay? And I’m not a groupie. You can stop looking at me like that.”

  “I said nothing.”

  “You’re thinking it.”

  “Funny thing, but wouldn’t a crazy fan tell me they weren’t a crazy fan.”

  “Would I know the code to the door?”

  “Possibly. It’s not as if you’re the first person to know the code. This house has known it’s fair share of vindictiveness and women who want to get back at a man with means.”

  Two things: I don’t like talking about vindictive exes of Bridger Cole, and I certainly don’t like the way it convinces me many a woman has probably crossed this threshold over the years.

  I point the corner of my book at him. “We grew up together, okay? My brother is his best friend. Parker Knight? Ring a bell? I’m not a Bridger Cole fan, I’m a . . . librarian.”

  Smooth. Doubtless I’ve intimidated the pants right off him.

  To my astonishment, my bald boxer bodyguard shows a glimmer of a smile. “Parker Knight, you say?”

  “Yes.” I cross my leg and turn away. I’d rather not speak with him anymore.

  “I’ve met Parker and—”

  He doesn’t finish. A hurried beep, beep, beep, beep kills our bonding moment and the door flies open. Bridger rushes in, tears in his eyes. Is he laughing at me? I hold my breath; I’ve really missed that smile and I hate that I admit it. Even to myself.

  I school my face into a tight, utterly guarded expression. “Good of you to show up!”

  “Al, s-sorry,” he says in a little gasp. “I should’ve called ahead.”

  “Sorry?” I free an annoyed chuckle. “Maybe next time you could warn me about the assassin in your basement, or at the very least, tell your friend here not to lunge at women. I didn’t mean to hit him with my book, but it’s really his fault.”

  “Quinn,” Bridger says, his shoulders shuddering. “Are you lunging?”

  “I am,” says the guard. “It is what I’m paid to do.”

  My mouth drops. “There are ways to diffuse situations without lunging!”

  Bridger takes off his hat and drags a hand through his hair, really, really fighting another laugh by the looks of it. “Thanks, Quinn. She’s okay.” Then, he turns to me. “Come on, Al. Let’s go . . . catch up.”

  Chapter 6

  Bridger

  The true entrance, as I call it, is designed so neighbors don’t really know who lives here. As far as everyone is concerned this house is often rented to businessmen or celebrities. My main residence is supposed to be Malibu. The ruse has served me well.

  True, a few rogue fans have found their way to the front door. How they found out this was my house, I don’t know. It’s hard to keep secrets in today’s world. But even with the unexpected, uh, visits, my personal space isn’t in the front part of the house. They never even caught a glimpse of me or my rooms.

  The front security has handled any issues, most without me even being aware. No one has ever figured out the code, or that my lower-level door is the real way inside.

  Honestly, I think Quinn found a bit of satisfaction someone other than me came in. It shook up the monotony a bit.

  I steal a glance at Alexis as I lead us to an alcove with the elevator. Pink cheeks, dark, thoughtful eyes that remind me of Hershey’s Kisses. She’s still the same—book in hand, a little furrow in her brow like she’s always thinking—but she’s different in the same breath. Proud, determined Alexis Knight slumps a bit, like the weight of the world bends her spine. And her mouth is set, absent the little curl of a smirk she always had when she wanted to cause a bit of mischief.

  She has no idea what she’s doing to me.

  I think I hate her for it. I also want to reach out and hold her close.

  I shove my hands into my pockets instead. What’s wrong with me? These unwarranted, misplaced feelings should’ve been let go years before. I thought they were, but the second I saw her on that bench—no—the second Parker told me what that snake did to her today, I saw red.

  “An elevator?” she says, but I think it’s more to herself.

  I grin. “Believe it or not, it was cheaper than a hidden staircase.”

  “Why the bat cave?”

  “Because I’m Batman,” I say in a rough voice before I can stop myself.

  She snorts. There’s a hint of a smile and I’m undone. More like I’m an idiot. Alexis doesn’t like me, and frankly, I don’t like her. I don’t.

  Well, I don’t like most of her.

  We’re opposites and have no reason to be friendly but for Parker’s sake. Besides, she’s not here because she wants to be. She’s here because she’s been hurt and needs someone she can trust. Maybe we’ve been distant for a couple years, maybe we argue over everything, but she can trust me. I’ve never thrown her to the wolves in life; I’ve never tried to make her something she isn’t. We drifted apart for good reason, but trust is still there.

  “I enjoy privacy,” I start to explain, not that I need to, words simply tumble out. “So keeping the entrance concealed allows me to come and go as I please.”

  “I think it’s genius, genius, I tell you!” She’s such a weirdo, adding a maniacal laugh. “It’s really worked? No one has spilled yet?”

  “Not until recently.” I don’t explain more. When the official tell-all releases, I’ll need to beef up security. Maybe move.

  “Huh, I’m going out on a limb and say there’s more to that comment, but you’re a turtle right now, so . . .”

  “Here it goes.” I let out a dramatic sigh. “I am not being a turtle.”

  “You are. Head all cozy and tucked in your shell.”

  “Maybe there are things called private thoughts.”

  “Maybe your private thoughts really aren’t private thoughts, and you use that as a copout because you don’t want to say them to me.”

  “Bingo.”

  She glares at me. I offer an ironic grin in return. Even if she’s right. Vulnerability with Alexis Knight makes me lose my mind and my heart. Better to stay bolted up like a military fort under siege.

  She puckers her lips and scrutinizes me for half a breath before she says, “Fine. Stay in your annoying turtle shell. I’ll crack you open eventually.”

  The scary thing is, if this discomfiting need to be close to her keeps up, she might crack every shell I’ve got. Again.

  No mistake, I try to keep my expression undisturbed, but inside I’m made of knots and heat and want. I need to step cautiously here. Cameras are everywhere outside, and now is not the time to be caught bickering with a woman in public.

  Parker understands, and has apologized in about a dozen texts since he called. He’s made twenty promises as soon as he gets in town, she can come stay with him. But the truth is how could I not go to Al? Relief that she isn’t going to get married this weekend is more potent than any worry about reputation or risk.

  I know. The back and forth between r
ejecting her and wanting her is confusing. I get it. I gave up trying to sort it out long ago.

  The elevator opens to the main floor of the ‘real’ house. It’s much simpler here. More me. I take a bit of pleasure when Alexis chuckles and goes to a long wall table where a hideous clay pot sits on the corner. Painted like the pallet threw up, she holds it up and faces me.

  “You guys were so proud of these.”

  My shoulders relax. “Because they are breathtaking pieces of art.”

  She shakes her head, glances at the scribble of a name underneath, then returns it to the table. “Park still has yours. Right on his kitchen table. It’s the centerpiece.”

  I glance at the pot Parker traded for my oblong attempt at a ceramic bowl when we were in fifth grade. It’s hideous, but I’ve never parted with it.

  “This is nice,” Alexis says, looking around the room. “I can’t believe this is my first time coming here. You still have a no girls allowed policy like the clubhouse, I bet.”

  I grimace. Unfortunately, part of my problem is I had a girls allowed policy. Sometimes too much.

  Alexis takes in my expression and doesn’t ask. She clears her throat and spins around in the center of the room. “I’m a little disappointed there isn’t a firepole or water slide, though. I thought for sure there’d be something like that to get downstairs.”

  “Maybe I’ll remodel.” I open my arm toward the kitchen door. “Want a drink?”

  Her dimple shapes in the corner of her mouth when she smiles. “Still have an impressive supply of lemonade?”

  Strange, but I smile, too. Like I used to. “Always.”

  She follows me, abandoning her suitcase in the living room.

  The moment we shove through the swinging door, we’re attacked.

  Alexis shrieks and covers her face with her hands. I’m desperate to drag the drooling terror off her.

  “Poppy!” I shout. “Hey, get down. No. No. Get down.”

  “Ahh!” Alexis cries out, but then it sounds more like a laugh. “What is it! She’s . . . she’s eating me.”

  I snatch the English Mastiff by the thick leather collar and drag the mammoth canine off her. “Sorry, I didn’t kennel her today and . . . sorry.”