“My point is,” she continued, “don’t let time pass you by. If you like Paige, which you do, and want to see if something more is there, don’t wait. It’ll only lead to disappointment.”
“Got it, Mom.”
“Now.” She slapped the table with the palm of her hand. “I think I’m ready for a nap.”
I stood as she did and said, “I’ll help you.”
“No, no.” She waved me off. “Joe is in the study. I’ll call him if I need help. But I think I can do it. Now that the pneumonia is gone, I’m feeling much stronger.”
“I’ll… see you later then.”
I watched her make her way slowly down the hallway, using her walker to steady herself.
While I hadn’t played much since coming home, I felt the need to work out some things and music was what always helped me. I walked out to the rehearsal space Mom convinced Dad to build me when I was twelve and showed an interest in learning an instrument. She said it was the best of both worlds because I’d have somewhere I could do what I wanted, but they wouldn’t have to hear it. I’d been pretty bad in the beginning. Honestly, though, I took the “do what I wanted” part a little far sometimes because this was where I could bring a girl and not have the watchful parent eyes.
Most people would’ve thought the building was a large garage, but inside was the perfect rehearsal space. Or it used to be. When I stepped in, I found that the building had been renovated into what looked like a guesthouse. Like the kitchenette that used to sit in the corner so my friends and I wouldn’t have to go up to the house to get a drink had been completely redone into a full kitchen. The loft had always been a sleeping area. I’d spent many a night up there. But the main living area, complete with a couch and a large television, had been split to include another bed.
Well, that sucked, but it’d still do.
I tinkered with my old bass for a bit, then grabbed my acoustic guitar to pluck out a few thoughts I’d been having. Mom had called me a jack of all trades when it came to music. Once I learned one instrument it was like a switch was flipped. I first mastered the guitar but after that, there wasn’t an instrument I couldn’t pick up pretty quickly. Well, one I hadn’t found yet. But the bass had felt like the natural fit.
I tinkered around with my instruments until I heard a car pull up in front of the house. Mom and Dad hadn’t gone anywhere which meant Paige must’ve finally gotten home.
Sure enough, I peeked out the front window and watched as she climbed out of her car, retrieved a bag from the trunk, and then looked around before going into the house. What was she looking for?
After giving her enough time to get inside and possibly even into her room, I shut everything down in the guesthouse—I guessed that was what I was calling it now—then left.
It wasn’t late. It was barely dinner time when I reentered the house. Mom and Dad were watching some sappy movie in the living room.
“Hey,” I said when I got to Mom. She paused the movie and looked up, giving me that slightly crooked smile. “I’m going out for a bit but might not be back before you go to bed,” I said. “Wanted to say goodnight.”
“OK. Are you going out alone?”
I shrugged. “We’ll see.” Mom gave me a knowing smile and a quick nod.
Then I made a beeline for Paige’s room and knocked before I could talk myself out of it.
“Come in,” she called out, so I pushed through the door. “Hey,” she said, giving me a genuine smile.
“Hey. How was your day?”
“Good. Just got out of the house to do some shopping.” She turned in front of the full-length mirror in the corner while looking over her shoulder. “What do you think of this skirt?”
“I don’t think you want me to answer that.” I shoved my hands into my jean pockets and bit my lips together tightly to keep from telling her how fucking amazing that skirt was on her.
“I bought it because I thought I liked it, but now I’m not sure. It’s too short. I’m so not an impulse buyer. On the rare occasions I buy something I hadn’t planned on, I always second guess when I get home.” Then she stopped and turned to look at me. “What do you mean, I don’t want you to answer?”
I chuckled quietly at the idea that she’d entertain the idea that the skirt didn’t look amazing on her. It showed a lot of leg, not too much, but it made me want to run my hands up her thighs to an area I hadn’t come close to yet. “It definitely does not look bad, Paige. Keep the skirt.” She scrunched up her face as if she were thinking about what I’d said, then nodded. “Why are you a bad impulse buyer?” I asked.
She shrugged and pretended to busy herself with the bag on her bed. “I didn’t grow up with money, so spending it now on something that’s not a necessity isn’t easy for me. Makes me think I should’ve left the thirty dollars I spent on this in the bank in case my car breaks down.”
I furrowed my brows because I’d been fairly certain my parents paid her well, though I had no idea what her actual salary was.
“Don’t look like that,” she said before I could respond. “Your dad pays well. He’s not using me as slave labor. It’s a hang-up of mine.” She sighed. “I’m working on it.”
Now I just wanted to buy the fucking skirt for her. She wouldn’t want that, but I still wanted to do it. That or hold her so tightly, she’d forget about the rest of the shit leftover from her childhood.
“Would you get dinner with me tonight?” I asked instead of acting on any other instinct I had.
“Oh, I filled up on a burger the size of my head at the mall then topped it off with soft pretzels about an hour ago. They’re so bad for you, but so delicious.”
I wet my lips and took a deep breath. She wasn’t going to make things easy for me. “How about a drink then?”
“I don’t drink,” she said quickly, though the way she said it didn’t sound like an excuse. It came off real and like there was more to that story.
“Then we don’t have to drink. I know the perfect place,” I said instead of asking.
She thought for a moment. “OK. Yeah. That sounds good. Just let me change.”
I nodded but added, “Wear the skirt, though.”
I left Paige’s room to the sound of her giggling. I hated shutting the door and cutting off the light sound of her laughter. I could listen to it all day and it made my chest swell that maybe something I did made her happy.
Chapter Ten
Paige
I probably should’ve said no to going out with Booker at all, but I just couldn’t pass up the opportunity when he pressed the issue. I hadn’t been lying when I’d told him I didn’t drink. Too many bad experiences with the worst foster father I’d ever had. Drinking was a no from me. I didn’t mind if others enjoyed a couple of cocktails, but I knew I’d never be able to be with someone who was a heavy drinker, who got drunk regularly, and possibly I couldn’t even be with anyone who got drunk at all.
Part of me almost wished Booker was a heavy drinker. It’d be something to make him repulsive to me. Or at least unattractive.
Booker didn’t give me an estimated time to leave, so I took my time getting ready. Just because I wasn’t going to be dating Booker didn’t mean I couldn’t look great for him. I kept the skirt since he’d obviously appreciated it and after some careful contemplation I’d decided it wasn’t as short as I’d thought. It fell halfway to my knees. I paired it with a cute sparkly tank top and ballet flats, then redid my bun. Though I’d started wearing the bun for work reasons, putting my hair up had become a habit. A haircut might’ve been a better solution, but my hair fell in waves past the middle of my back and the idea of chopping that all off made me sad. I liked it long and thought it was beautiful. Then decided I’d start to wear it loose more but not tonight. Booker seemed to enjoy that as well.
On the way out of my room, I grabbed a hoodie just in case and sent Booker a text.
On my way out.
He replied almost right away. Meet me out front.
When I stepped out onto the porch, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Booker was leaning against a motorcycle in jeans and a black T-shirt. His hair was messy, but a purposeful messy. Those tattoos called me like a beacon. He was sexy as hell.
“What is that?” I asked, pointing at the motorcycle nearby.
“A motorcycle,” he said.
I rolled my eyes. “I’m not riding on that.”
“Sure you are.”
“Uh, no. I’m wearing a skirt.”
“Well, that’s just fun for the people we pass.”
“Booker.”
“Paige.” He chuckled. “I’m just kidding. It’s mostly back roads and your skirt unfortunately covers everything. I’m fairly certain the helmet will fit over your bun. So let’s go.”
I really liked playful Booker. Seriously, Booker was intense and hot, but I loved the way he looked at me when being playful. I’d give in. Of course I’d give in. Riding on the back of his motorcycle, which I’d had no idea he owned, meant I’d get to hold on to him tightly.
“Fine,” I finally said with a roll of my eyes. “You know emergency room people call these things donor cycles?”
“I did not.” He slipped the helmet on my head and aside from slightly pressing my bun into my head, it fit perfectly after he got the buckle done up. “But, Paige.” He tilted my head up so I’d look him in the eyes. “I’d never do anything that put you in danger.”
We held each other’s gazes for longer than we should’ve—until he let go of me and turned, throwing a leg over the bike. I did my best to figure out how to get on the thing without flashing my goodies to the wilderness. Finally, though I tried to leave a little distance between us, I slid all the way forward as if the shape of the seat had forced me to grind right into the back of him.
At first I gently laid my hands on his hips, but he reached back and wrapped my arms around him.
“Have to hold on tightly,” he called back to me. Booker put his own helmet on and got the bike moving.
I’d ridden a motorcycle only one time before and the experience hadn’t been nearly as enjoyable as it was with Booker. I could’ve done this all day. Unfortunately, much too soon, he slowed and made a couple of turns, then pulled into a parking lot.
The place didn’t look like a bar at all and was called Lukewarm.
“What is this place?” I asked as I slid off the bike while maintaining some modesty.
“You’ll see.” He grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the entrance.
Inside, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The entire decor reminded me of something I’d seen in Star Wars, but it was a coffee shop. The colors and layout reminded me of Dex’s Diner with the red booths and 1950s setup. I didn’t know if it was on purpose or not but I immediately fell in love with the place and the warm feelings it reminded me of.
“How did you find this place?” I asked with a huge grin. “I didn’t even know this was here but it’s fantastic.”
“How long have you lived here, Paige?”
“Just since I started working for your parents.”
“That’s why you didn’t know.” He tugged on my hand to lead me to a table where the waitress came over and took our order. “Very retro and I’ve asked. They didn’t have anything specific in mind when they designed the place. It’s a happy accident.”
“Ben would’ve loved this place.”
“Best foster father?” he asked.
I nodded as the waitress dropped off our coffee. I got decaf because as a general rule I didn’t do too much caffeine, but I loved the taste of coffee. It was delicious.
Suddenly, the waitress came back. We both looked over at her expectantly because we hadn’t called for her.
“So, um, a few of the customers have realized that you’re here,” she said to Booker. “Like that you’re here and I don’t think they’ll go crazy, but the manager wanted to make you aware. Oh, and we have a little open mic thing where people can do their poetry or perform something if you’re interested. No pressure.”
Then she walked away without waiting for a reply.
“Sorry,” Booker said, shaking his head.
“Not a problem.”
We were able to drink our coffee and talk about a lot of different topics, for a good forty-five minutes before the first person other than the waitress approached Booker. He smiled and signed the autograph when she asked. He smiled and took the pic. No complaints.
Then we had ten more minutes before another woman who looked to be about twenty or so slid in beside him, practically onto his lap. I raised my eyebrows at him and cocked my head to the side. It didn’t exactly bother me that she’d done it. What bothered me was how uncomfortable Booker looked with what she was doing.
“You see that I’m sitting right here?” I asked the woman.
“Yeah,” she said, yet didn’t look at me. “But according the Paris Speaks, he doesn’t have a girlfriend.”
I rolled my eyes. Paris Speaks was one of the more popular gossip blogs that even regular news sometimes quoted. As if a gossip blog was always accurate about everything but this woman seemed to think it was.
“Well, it’s awfully rude of you to climb onto his lap without an invitation. Slide over,” I said, giving her my best foster-care-don’t-fuck-with-me glare.
She turned to me to argue, then saw the look on my face and put just enough space between her and Booker for light to shine through. If there’d been light shining from behind them, that was. Booker took the pic, she didn’t ask for an autograph, then he thanked her for stopping by as a way to dismiss her.
“Sorry,” I told him as soon as she left.
“For what?”
“I made it sound like I’m your jealous girlfriend and who knows what she’ll post on social media or what the gossip sites will pick up from that.”
“First, I don’t mind people thinking you’re my girlfriend. Especially if it means they’ll keep a little distance. Second, I don’t give a fuck what gossip sites say. We’re good.”
I grinned over at him. For a split second I’d thought I might’ve crossed a line. Extremely glad I was wrong.
“So, you going to play something?” I nodded toward the performance area. No one had been up since we’d arrived.
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
“You should.”
“Why’s that?” he asked, leaning in across the table.
I shrugged. “I’ve never seen you play. I’d like to.” I took a quick sip of my latte. “Obviously, I have to get tickets the next time you guys come to Michigan, but haven’t seen Courting Chaos live. With any bassist.”
He had this small grin on his face as he watched me. “What’s your favorite song?”
“It used to be Take Your Time.”
He groaned. “That seems to be everyone’s favorite. Wait. What do you mean, ‘used to be’?”
“For the longest time it was. But I actually prefer You’re Not Alone now. I don’t know why. There’s just something about it and I know it’s newer, like a special bonus song that you haven’t actually recorded yet but the live version is on my streaming service. They haven’t had a new album in a while. Or I guess you haven’t.”
“We’ve been on tour.” Then he gave me this huge grin.
“I know. Why are you smiling at me like that?”
“Like what?” he asked back.
“Something akin to a serial killer.”
His body shook with a silent laugh. Then he said, “I helped Cross with that one.”
“You did?”
“Yeah, he’d started it a while ago but got stuck, so we worked on it together. I rearranged some of the lyrics and added some of my own, then we changed up the tempo. Once it was done, we decided to test it out at a few shows.”
I nodded. “Well, it worked. It’s a beautiful song.” What I didn’t say was that it reminded me of when I’d been a teenager in foster care. Other people had friends at school. I’d eaten lunch alone a lot because I switche
d schools a lot. All my foster homes weren’t in the same school district. I’d been alone except for Barrett and the song reminded me of that light at the end of the dark tunnel.
“OK.” He slapped both palms against the table and slid out.
I followed and stayed a few steps behind him until he climbed up on the little stage with an acoustic guitar in his hand.
“I hope you don’t mind, but someone special wants to hear a song, so I’m going to play it.”
Heads all around the coffee shop turned toward him. Eyes grew wide as the entire place erupted in cheers. There may have only been twenty-five or so people in the place, but it was loud as hell once they were all hopping and hollering together.
“Now, I’m not much of a singer,” said Booker, “but I’ll try not to embarrass myself.”
He strummed his fingers over the strings, making a few adjustments, and then I recognized the opening notes to the very song I’d just told him was beautiful. Booker played You’re Not Alone. The entire time, his eyes didn’t waiver from me for even a moment. As if he were singing it just for me. Only he and I existed in those moments, even though we were surrounded by a couple dozen people. When the song ended, I didn’t know what he saw on my face, but whatever it was, his eyes heated up and he wet his lips.
The feeling became so intense that I had to break our connection and glance around the room. Not surprising, at least five people were recording him on their phones.
But then the cheering called his attention. To placate the masses, he played two more songs acoustically, Take Your Time and another that I couldn’t remember the title or lyrics to, before calling it a night. It took him probably five minutes to get through all the people who wanted a pic or to shake his hand and gush about the small set he’d just done.
“You ready to get out of here?” he asked as he grabbed my hand and led me toward the door.
Booker (Courting Chaos Book 3) Page 6
