Who was I kidding? I’d plugged the meter for two hours. I’d planned to linger.
I got a coffee and sat at the bar along the window, where I happened to have a perfect view of the faded red-and-yellow awning of the grocery store.
I drank my coffee and looked through my phone halfheartedly, all the while keeping an eye on the street. For a while, I managed to convince myself that I was here to work.
I returned a few messages, deleted a bunch of others. They popped up from every app, my social media accounts, my email. I probably never actually read ninety percent of them.
I had a virtual assistant now, this dude who worked for me part-time and I’d never even met, whose job was basically to help filter all the fucking correspondence. My management company had found him for me after suggesting I hire one, like every time I failed to return their messages because I didn’t even see them.
I also had rented muscle now. My first personal bodyguard. Not full-time or anything, just on-call. That was new.
The last few years, I hadn’t exactly realized how famous I’d gotten or that I needed personal security, because when I was on tour, we had security, and when I wasn’t on tour, I was with Dylan and his security covered us. It only became clear to me after he’d left on this tour, almost five months ago, without me, that I was really on my own now. And I probably shouldn’t be anymore.
Jude was the one who found Haz for me. Hayden, or Hazard, as his brothers in the West Coast Kings Motorcycle Club called him, was a biker, like so many of Dirty’s security guys. Jude, also a King, often pulled his MC brothers to work on Dirty’s security crew. Haz had been interested, but Dirty had enough guys for the tour, so Jude had thrown him a bone and sent him to work for me.
Whenever I needed Haz, he was available to me.
Like right now, sitting in this cafe… I should’ve probably had him with me. Jude had recommended that I call him whenever I was “in public.”
I still wasn’t totally comfortable with that, though.
Haz was cool. We’d become friends. He didn’t cramp my style when we went out at night; that was key. The girls liked him, for sure. I really didn’t mind having him around, in theory.
But I figured if I could keep a decently low profile on my own—like sitting here by myself, on my phone, with my cap pulled low over my eyes—I didn’t need him babysitting me. If I planned on drawing attention to myself, or getting drunk and letting my guard down, I’d call him in.
Interesting enough, it wasn’t even my own management company who’d been concerned about my security and suggested the bodyguard thing. They’d never really had my back like that.
It was Dirty’s manager, Brody Mason.
Now that my band had broken up, I didn’t even know where I stood with my management company anymore, or how long I’d be able to pay for everything. My accountant assured me I was solid, that I didn’t need to worry so much, and I’d seen the numbers. But growing up in a shack with my deadbeat dad, where the electricity and water were always getting shut off and he was always selling my shit out from under me to pay for food or smokes, had left me with an uncomfortable association with money.
Even when I had it, I didn’t exactly trust it wouldn’t up and disappear.
Money.
Love.
Security.
Elusive shit.
No matter how solid my finances were right now, I didn’t feel secure. Which meant I needed to look ahead, at how I was gonna make a living in the future.
And make some killer music.
On that point, I knew it was time for a complete overhaul of my professional network. Starting with the breakup of my band—check. Then meeting with management and discussing what the future looked like—to be completed at some future date when I pulled my head out of my ass.
Hours passed as I fucked around on my phone, not really accomplishing anything at all. Two, to be exact, before I completely lost the ability to kid myself that I was sitting in this cafe to work. Sure, they had Wi-Fi and I could’ve kept busy all day returning messages if I had any desire to do that.
The only desire I really had at the moment was to figure out who the hell Danny was, why I couldn’t stop wondering about her… and what it would feel like to meet her again, sober.
Since that didn’t seem like much of a possibility, I finally called it a day. My parking meter had probably expired anyway.
I told myself that even if lightning struck a third time and I saw her again—unlikely as shit—it probably wouldn’t matter anyway.
She’d jetted on me. Twice.
After the whole Dylan/Amber thing, I’d fucking sworn to myself that I was never getting involved with anyone who didn’t really want me, ever again. Been there, done that, way too many times.
Hence all the breakup parties.
And this girl? She didn’t want me four years ago, and clearly, she didn’t want me now.
Dead end.
Waste of time.
So why was I so willing to waste it for her?
I went back to my truck and drove home, where I manned up and called my management company, set up an in-person meeting for later this week. Like the professional I was supposed to be.
When I got off the phone, I looked around my empty, silent condo.
Wondered which would be worse: hanging on the island, alone, or hanging here, alone.
Then I called up Brad, Dylan’s brother-in-law, and went to meet him for beers.
* * *
I did it again the next day.
This time, on foot. Sometime around noon, I dragged my ass out of bed and walked from my place in Coal Harbour through Gastown and into Chinatown, and got a coffee at the same cafe. Sat at the window in virtually the same seat.
And watched women walk by outside.
If they were blondish, I looked closer.
But none of them were her.
It had rained this morning, and I watched for the yellow boots. The tan raincoat. The clear umbrella.
No dice.
I worked on my phone a bit, but that was mostly just killing time.
Dylan had messaged me from Germany at some point, told me he’d landed, asked what I was doing.
Working on some music, I told him, which was technically about one-percent true. I’d had an idea for a song on the way over, about obsessing over a chick, a la “Every Breath You Take.” The Police got away with it, so why couldn’t I?
Well, congratulations, asshole. You’re a bona fide stalker now.
Jesus Christ. Was I really this bored?
This averse to getting the fuck on with my life?
Posting the classified ad was cute, maybe. Swinging by the grocery store—once—in hopes of catching a glimpse of her? Romantic, possibly. But this was just sad. The kind of thing some pathetic dude who lived in his grandma’s basement would do before going home and, what? Fixing dinner for his RealDoll?
You’re losing it.
Yup. I was bored. That was a fucking fact.
With my band done and Dylan gone and nothing to work on, nothing to really look forward to but an endless string of parties, one-night stands and hangovers, I was aching for something to give a fuck about.
Even if it was just a fucking fantasy.
That’s why people believed in destiny, right? In fate?
That’s why my grandmother believed. Why she told me all those things she did after my mom left. That there was some reason. Some purpose to it all. Some greater good yet to be discovered.
Even if I couldn’t see what it was.
She told me, many times, that we all had a destiny that couldn’t be altered, even by heartbreak or the worst bad luck.
But that was all bullshit. Just stuff old ladies told themselves so they could sleep at night after horrendous things happened.
Because if you believed you had a destiny, it gave you hope. Faith that there was a purpose, a method in the madness.
That even if you were destined for a whole lo
t of bad shit, surely you were destined for something good, too. Right?
Wrong.
Bad shit happened.
Good shit happened.
Random shit happened.
It meant whatever you wanted it to mean, and that was about it.
Destiny is bullshit.
I was pretty sure about that.
And the only reason I was even pondering all this shit and wondering about this Danny girl was because I was straight-up avoiding getting on with my life and dealing with real issues—like my band breaking up and my career potentially heading down the shitter.
Yeah. That was about it.
I was fucking terrified, if I was honest with myself, that my career was over.
Fuck.
Music was my life. There was literally nothing else I wanted to do with my life like I wanted to make music. But the thought of having to put together a new band from scratch, alone, felt like fucking torture.
Depressing torture.
My heart wasn’t in it, so that was one problem.
The other problem… Fuck if I knew. Maybe my biggest problem, these days, was that I couldn’t figure out what the fuck my problem was.
The fear of failure thing, yes. There was that.
But the breakup party was supposed to help with that. It was supposed to be a reset. Full system reboot, start fresh the next day. Or whenever the hangover ended.
I’d always sworn by my breakup parties. Had a lot of them over the years, and they always did the trick.
Until now.
A week ago, Summer had told me exactly what my problem was—the night of Zane and Maggie’s dry wedding reception, when she and I hung out and I wasn’t drunk for once, and we had a heart-to-heart about a bunch of stuff. According to Summer, I kept falling in love with the wrong people.
Interesting to hear that from her, since I probably fell in love with her the most.
But if the people I’d loved the most—Summer and Dylan—and the ones I’d started to fall for—Amber and Elle—were all wrong for me, then who was right?
Who the fuck knew.
Not me.
But stalking some random chick I’d made out with at a party, four fucking years ago? Not good.
Not fucking good at all.
I got up to leave, swearing a solemn oath to myself to stop stalking this Danny chick right here and now. Then I headed out of the cafe feeling like an asshole, and not just the usual, tongue-in-cheek sort of asshole my friends said I was. A legit asshole. Because who does this shit?
A hopeless romantic?
A hopeless idiot?
“Ohmygod…” The chick walking into the cafe as I walked out actually tripped a little when she saw my face.
Yeah; I got that reaction a lot.
“You’re Ashley Player,” she gushed.
“That’s me,” I said, slowing down a bit.
“Wow.” Her eyes went wide. “Did the Pushers really break up?”
“Yeah. Sorry, babe.” What else was I supposed to say?
“What are you gonna do?” she asked quickly, probably sensing I was slipping away. I was backing away from the cafe while she stood there, holding the door open. “Are you gonna play with Coop anymore?”
Ah. So she was an Andy Cooper fangirl. My bassist would be thrilled to hear that.
My former bassist.
I looked her over. She was pretty cute. Petite Asian girl, probably right up his alley. She looked like a student, maybe, backpack and all, but legal. Early twenties.
“He’s on Instagram,” I informed her, evading her question. “And I’ll tell him I ran into you…”
“Sandra,” she said, her eyes going wider.
“Sandra,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”
Then I kept walking. I meant what I’d said; I’d tell Coop to keep an eye out for her. Maybe he would, if she actually messaged him. She was probably about a six on my personal scale of hotness, but I was pretty sure she’d be at least an eight on his. We had different tastes, but you figured this kind of shit out about a guy after traveling the globe with him for nine years.
She seemed nice, too. Coop liked the nice ones.
I liked nice fans, too. Who wouldn’t? Reminded me that someone actually gave a shit if I kept making music or not. I especially liked them when they didn’t try to take a selfie with me when I was in a shit mood.
But women…? Nice wasn’t super high on my priority list.
Wicked hot, yes. Passionate. Sweet, maybe, in a dick-hardening sort of way.
But “nice” I could give a fuck about.
Maybe that was part of my problem?
I walked over to the intersection and stood to wait for the light to change. While I waited, I looked across at the grocery store, halfway up the block in front of me—because apparently, I was a glutton for punishment.
As it turned out, though, destiny really was a thing.
And it was powerful as fuck.
Because she was right there. Yellow rain boots and all.
Every hair on my body stood on end.
It’s not destiny, a tiny voice inside me said. You stalk someone enough, eventually you find them.
I told that voice to shut right the fuck up as I stared at her.
She had no umbrella this time. It wasn’t raining anymore. But it was definitely her. She wore a fitted cream-colored dress, knee-length, with a little slit up the side. Bare legs underneath, and yes, the yellow boots. Her hair was in a high ponytail and she was carrying another one of those light-blue bakery boxes—and struggling to pull open a tall, heavy door on an old building right across from the Chinese grocery store.
I would’ve helped her, if there weren’t about ten moving vehicles and half a block between us.
I punched the button on the crosswalk about a thousand times as I watched her disappear into the building.
When the light changed and the traffic finally stopped, I crossed the street, but I did it slow. I stopped on the curb in front of the building and stared.
The brick outside was old and crumbling, but the inside, according to the giant, newer windows, was renovated.
On the front window next to the door, it said, in big, fancy letters: Voilà.
Chapter Five
Danica
When I arrived at work on Wednesday morning, just before nine o’clock, the office door was unlocked and the reception area smelled of freshly-brewed coffee. That Cake song “Short Skirt/Long Jacket” was playing. Which meant my cousin, Jolie, was in.
I could hear her running water in the kitchen up the hall, probably watering the plants. She always watered the plants on Wednesday.
I deposited the fresh bouquet of pink Gerbera daisies I’d bought for her in the empty vase on her reception desk. This was kinda one of my things: gifting people flowers. I called it “random acts of flowers.”
“Good morning!” I called out, and I heard Jolie call out some answering greeting as I headed for my office. It was the smallest one, but at least I had walls. And a window that looked into reception, if not a window that looked outside. The reception area was flooded with light from the big front windows, so I got some indirect sunlight.
When Voilà Interiors moved into this space three years ago, decorating it was a family affair. The office was sparse, modern, and now mostly white, which my aunt Madeleine preferred, with pops of soft color, which I preferred. And like my apartment, it was furnished with carefully curated antiques.
My office featured a gorgeous French desk and two Queen Anne chairs upholstered in butter-yellow. Every time I walked in the door, this room made me smile. I’d turn on the light and prop the door open, put on some music if Jolie didn’t already have some on. Then I’d unpack my laptop and set it up to start organizing my day.
Not today.
Today, I shut the door behind myself, and when I sat down and opened my laptop, I went straight online—and image searched Ashley Player.
Like some addict in need of a hit.
Damn. Still gorgeous.
I scrolled guiltily through the images. So far, I wasn’t doing so well with the whole forgetting-about-him thing.
Kinda hard to do, when the grocery store where I’d met him was right across the street from my office. Every time I went in there—like I’d done just now to buy Jolie’s flowers—or even just walked by, it reminded me of him. And before I knew it, I’d tripped into another daydream featuring that look he’d given me on Saturday night.
Technically, he was giving that look to my sister, since he thought I was her.
But still.
I’d felt that look, all the way to my bones.
I could still see him standing there, right in front of me…
He was wet, and I could smell the leather of his black jacket. His hands were in his pockets and he had no umbrella, no hat. Rain was dripping off his short black hair. His angsty black if-James-Dean-were-a-rock-star eyebrows were drawn together over his blue, blue eyes, and holy hell, were they intense on me.
I knew his father was Italian—because I had an internet connection, and yes, I’d Wikipedia’d him—and you could guess it, maybe, if not for those extreme blue eyes and his sharp nose. He had a lot of sharp angles to his face, and those killer cheekbones… but his lips were all soft and flushed.
He had a small earring in each ear with a black stone in it, a piercing in his left eyebrow, and one, according to the internet, in his tongue. I’d glimpsed it when he licked his lip while we spoke… and spent the rest of the night wondering what it would feel like in my mouth.
I realized he thought I was my sister. And I knew she’d ghosted him.
So I did the same.
I gave him the slip, because in the moment, I really didn’t know what else to do.
I should’ve stayed, maybe. Explained who I was?
That I wasn’t her.
But he was so… drunk.
And I was so embarrassed.
That he thought I was her.
That she was such a bitch to him.
I just wanted him to stop looking at me and thinking I was someone I wasn’t.
I’d never felt more… uneasy… about that look in someone’s eyes—the one that told me they’d mistaken me for my twin sister.
Hot Mess: A Players Rockstar Romance (Players #1) Page 6
