by Carian Cole
“You better not.”
Stay right where you are. In our bedroom. In my head. In my heart. Living in my veins. Just like this. Don’t ever leave.
“Em? The past few weeks have been so good. Talking to you every night. Hearing you laugh. Teasing each other. I don’t want this to end when I get back. I don’t want this to just be a phone thing.”
“It won’t. I’m happy, Asher. And I want you to be too.”
“I am.”
“Will you sing the new song for me? I want to hear you say the words if they’re for me.”
“They’re only for you, Em. I wrote every word thinking about you, missing you, wanting you, and loving you.”
“Let me hear them,” she asks softly. “Sing them to me like you used to.”
“You…over there…with the green eyes.
Yeah, you, I think you stole my heart,
And I don’t ever want it back.
I’ve been lookin’ for you, darlin’
Since the day you went away.
But here you are. Have you been here from the start?
I see you, over there, but come a little closer.
I’ve been waiting so long, can’t wait anymore.
Just let me touch your face, let me crawl inside your heart.
‘Cuz I’ve been dying every day, just dying for your kiss.
I don’t wanna go another day. I can’t live another moment
Without you here in my arms, right where you belong.
You, over there, with the green eyes, come over here
Where you belong, where you shoulda been all along.
Just let me touch your sweet face, let me crawl inside your heart.
‘Cuz I’ve been dying every day, just dying for your kiss.”
“It’s beautiful,” she says when I finish. “And I can’t wait for that kiss.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
Boston.
So close to home.
Our last show, and the place is packed. Word must’ve gotten out that we were dropping in to play tonight with special guest Evan Von Bleu.
“What’s up, Boston?” I yell into the mic. “We saved the best show for last!”
The crowd screams—a sound I never get tired of hearing.
“Thank you! We’ve got a surprise for you guys tonight. My good friend Evan Von Bleu, legendary vocalist and kick-ass fuckin’ guitarist!” A spotlight shines down on Evan to my right. “And my very own baby bro, Talon Valentine, is gonna sing some of our favorites with us. Do we call that a trio?” I shrug as another spotlight shines on my brother to my left. “Whatever the fuck it is, we’re gonna rock the roof off this place!”
The walls shake as the crowd screams even louder when the rest of the band lights up. Drums and bass pounding. Dueling guitar riffs shrieking.
I feel it all—the rush and power—vibrating through every molecule. It’s this untouchable high, this connection to everyone on stage and in the room, that’s so indescribably addicting.
It’s musical meth—a delicious, all-consuming drug that fuels us, exhausts us, wraps us up in its grasp, and refuses to let go.
Belting out the lyrics to “Dying for Your Kiss,” I scan the audience, absorbing their wild energy, their fist pumps, their wide, intoxicated eyes. It’s my favorite part—witnessing them get lost in the words and the beat, swaying, sobbing, begging for eye contact, a touch.
A connection.
A memory.
With us. With each other.
A chick in the back catches my attention. So far back she’s practically made herself part of the wall. Her slim arms raised above her head as she dances, mouthing the lyrics perfectly with me, eyes closed. I’m mesmerized by the lights reflecting off her long, glossy, dark hair like the moon over a shimmering lake.
She’s alone, but she’s not. She’s with me, singing like she wrote the lyrics herself. Not a fan, but a mistress of the song. Loving it, wanting it, craving it, letting it touch her. Move her. Own her.
A kindred spirit.
It’s been twenty-three years since my eyes lingered on another woman, but there’s something about her. It’s not just that she’s beautiful—the room is full of beautiful people. She’s got an aura about her, like she’s lit up from the inside.
Ripping my gaze from her, a sudden sense of vertigo and déjà vu disorients me, and I almost forget my lyrics. Brushing it off, I move to the center of the stage. I’ve never felt a connection to a woman other than Ember before, and the fact that I just did—especially while singing a song I wrote for my wife—stirs intense guilt and fear in my gut.
Why now? Why some random person? Why is it making me feel like I should look again—give in and capture her eyes with mine?
No. Big fucking no.
No fucking way.
I refuse to look at her again, but I can still feel her, undulating with the pulsing beat, echoing lyrics with me for the next three songs, and it’s unnerving me. At the end of the set, I can’t help myself. I’m pulled like a magnet, powerless to resist. I search the back of the club for a glimpse of that silky, dark hair, the leather jacket, the tiny diamond in her nose, unable to abandon the odd, intense pull I felt to her.
But she’s gone.
Good.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Is it because I haven’t been able to see Ember—her eyes and her smile—for two months? Am I starving for some kind of chemistry?
That must be it.
After the show, there’s a small, private celebration backstage. The tour reminded us why we sold our souls to make music in the first place—not for money, but for the fans and for ourselves. None of us give a fuck that we didn’t make a dime off any of these shows.
The success is in the smiles.
My phone pings in my back pocket with a text.
Ember: Hi… how was your night?
Me: It was killer. One of the best of the tour. I can’t wait to get home and see you, though.
Ember: I have a surprise for you. ;-)
Me: Really?
Ember: I rented us an Airbnb for tonight. Just a few miles from the club. I thought we could spend tonight together and drive home tomorrow? If you can’t, it’s okay. I can just go home.
Holy shit. I can’t believe she even knows what an Airbnb is, and she drove in to Boston to see me a day sooner.
My fingers fly across the phone keyboard.
Me: Are you kidding? Of course I can. Where are you? I just have to say goodbye, get my stuff, and get an Uber.
She texts me the address, and I schedule a driver to pick me up. I mingle for a few more minutes before I say goodbye and make a fast exit, signing a few autographs on my way to the bus to take a quick shower and grab a few things.
The driver’s right on time, waiting for me in the parking lot. I toss my suitcase and duffel bag in the back seat and text Ember.
Me: On my way, baby. xo
Ember: I can’t wait to see you. It’s apartment 4A—the fourth floor. Just go left off the elevator. I’ll leave the door unlocked. xo
Leaning back, I take a deep breath and stretch my back. Exhausted as I am from performing all night, a new burst of adrenaline is surging through me as we move through traffic, getting closer to the only place I want to be right now.
Ember came for me. All on her own.
Just like she used to.
It’s been a long time since my life has felt so good. Finally, things are looking up, moving out of the limbo we’ve been suspended in.
The driver drops me off in front of a four-story, historical warehouse transformed into “luxurious apartments” according to the sign out front. We’ve stayed in places like this before, and the unique architecture has always intrigued me.
Does she remember?
Me: I’m here. Getting on the elevator. Beautiful place, baby. xo
I take the elevator up to the fourth floor, excitement mounting as I approach the door of apartment 4A and let myself inside.
<
br /> The lights have been dimmed, the scent of vanilla cinnamon wafting from a lit candle placed in the center of the marble island in the small kitchen.
The space is all brick and exposed beams, with half a brick wall separating the living room from the king-sized bed. It’s my favorite blend of industrial and rustic, cozy where it needs to be.
“Em?” I step farther inside, and she comes around the corner of the kitchen like something out of a dream—a thin, translucent white, thigh-length robe billowing around her, revealing matching white lace bra and panties hugging her curves.
Woah.
Dropping my stuff with a thud on the floor, I blink as she comes closer…because something’s not right.
Something’s totally wrong.
I squint as she nears, wondering if someone slipped something into my soda back at the club and I’m now tripping out.
The woman coming toward me isn’t my wife.
It’s not Ember.
It’s the girl from the club—the one in the back whose presence captivated me. The one I shouldn’t have been looking at and didn’t want to look at.
And I sure as fuck don’t want to be looking at her now, half naked in an apartment my wife rented for us.
What the fuck is happening?
I want to look away as she slowly walks closer, but I can’t. I’m frozen.
Transfixed.
Long, dark hair, flowing just past her full breasts.
Painfully perfect curves.
Tattoos sprinkled over smooth, pale, flesh.
Dazzling absinthe green eyes.
Those eyes.
My heart thunders, radiating pain throughout my chest, threatening to explode. My blood goes ice cold, then searing hot. “What did you…?”
Utterly silent, she finally stops just two feet in front of me and stares up into my eyes. Her chest moves up and down with each breath. The skeleton key hangs on its chain at the top of her cleavage.
I want to rip it from her neck. Demand she give it back.
It’s ours. Mine and Ember’s.
“Asher…” she says softly, reaching for my hand.
Recoiling from her touch, I back away, still reeling with confusion and denial.
Her voice is undeniably Ember’s, but it’s not her face. Not her recent body.
It’s not her.
But it is.
“What the fuck did you do?” I yell, slamming my fist into the credenza next to me. The wood top cracks and splinters, cutting into my hand.
She jumps back, tears springing from her eyes.
“Ash,” she sobs. “Let me—”
“What did you do?” I seethe, my breath coming in heaves. Then I’m roaring. “What the hell did you do?”
Ember’s gone.
She took my wife’s face away from me.
Holy fuck.
Cautiously, she edges closer and talks to me like I’m a wild animal in a corner. “Asher… I know it’s a shock, but just let me explain. Please.”
I stare at her, trying to reconcile the familiar voice with the unfamiliar face. An image of me tearing this new face off of her, bringing back her real face, flashes through my mind, and the thought immediately sickens me.
I’d never hurt her. That’s not me. Or us. But…this isn’t her.
This can’t be happening. This has got to be a nightmare.
“This is me,” she says tearfully. “This is how I see myself. I read the journals. I always hated my nose. I wanted it fixed but was afraid it would change my voice. I always wanted dark hair—you loved it this way too—but Kenzi liked my hair blonde like hers when she was young.” She talks faster, desperate to get it all out. “I wanted more tattoos, but I was afraid of needles. I’m not anymore. This is me. The new me. I worked my ass off to gain weight and muscle, to not look sick, to cover up the scars, so you’d see me. So I’d see me.
“Not the past, not the things that hurt you. Not the comatose me. I’m stronger physically and mentally. These parts of me were always there, Asher. I know that you know that. I love myself now. And I love you.” She sucks in a deep breath. “But I need you to love me. The woman standing in front of you now. The woman your wife has grown into. I don’t know how else we can move forward. I can’t live with her ghost between us.”
I’ve been sucked into a tornado of mental confusion. Gram would call me confuzzled if she could see me now. I hear Ember’s words, but they’re bouncing around in my head in a jumble of incoherency like someone threw a Scrabble board into my brain. I can’t process this stranger in front of me, speaking in my wife’s voice, talking like she’s my wife, about my wife.
What the fuck?
“How the hell could you do this?”
“I—”
“You had no fucking right to do this,” I growl, pacing the small foyer, my confusion morphing into rage and blame. “Behind my back…without even talking to me. This is why you hid yourself from me. Why you talked me into the tour. It all makes sense now, doesn’t it? You wanted me out of the way.” I jab my finger at her. “So you could do this.”
Her eyes widen. Beautiful green eyes that could only belong to Ember. “It’s my face! My body. My life. I needed to do this for myself. You would’ve talked me out of it.”
I glare at her, seeing red. “You’re damn right I would’ve.” Devastation and bewilderment continue to build up in me, and I feel nauseated from it all. “You took the last part of her I had left.”
Her chin quivers. “You’ve said it yourself, Ash. There is no her. There’s just me! I’m right in front of you!” She smacks her fists into my chest. “Wake up! I may have forgotten my life, but I’m not dead! I’m just different. As much as I want to remember my past, I don’t have a choice. I have to move forward. And I like who I am right now!”
“I gotta get outta here,” I rasp, putting my hand up in front of her and shaking my head—hoping to get this imposter who’s tricked me and taken my wife—out of my vision.
It doesn’t work. The beautiful girl with the strange face is still staring at me, pleading with eyes I’ve never been able to resist. But this time, I’m going to. “I need to get the hell away from you. You’ve completely destroyed me. I don’t know who the fuck you are anymore.”
Her mouth falls open, her bottom lip trembles, and big tears fall onto her cheeks. The devastation in her eyes is killing me as I reach for the doorknob.
Grabbing on to my arm at the last minute, she begs, “Asher, please, don’t leave…talk to me. Please.”
I wrench my arm from her grip so hard, she stumbles into the foyer table, knocking a ceramic vase onto the floor. More tears stream down her cheeks as she rights herself and pulls the thin robe around herself—which does absolutely nothing to cover her body. I fight off the urge to comfort her, ask her if she’s okay, apologize to her.
I can’t touch her. I can’t look at her. I can’t even be near her.
“Stay away from me,” I say through clenched teeth, looking down at the floor. “Don’t follow me. Don’t call me.” I pull the door open. “Just…just let me go.”
Her gasping sobs follow me as I walk toward the elevator. It takes all my strength to ignore her cries as I press the down arrow, relieved when the doors open right away so I can escape.
Another second more, and I think I would’ve crumbled right there in the hall. I’m shaking with fury, gutted with devastation, overcome with grief.
As the elevator descends, I feel like I’m plunging into a new hell. My heart being split down the middle, my mind hijacked by a stranger masquerading with my wife’s voice.
She took Ember away from me.
I’ll never get her back. I’ll never see her sweet face again. I’ve lost her forever.
What she did can’t be undone. It can never be fixed.
Chapter Forty-Eight
As soon as I get out of the apartment building, I head directly to the nearest convenience store and buy a pack of Marlboro Reds. I light one up with a match t
he second I get outside—then stand, staring blankly up the street, with no idea what to do with myself. My stuff is at the Airbnb, and I’m sure the tour bus has left by now.
A gust of cold air whips around me, slightly snapping me out of the stupor I’m in. Two hours ago, I was standing on a stage with screaming fans—on top of the world. Now I’m standing alone on a dark street corner, taking up bad habits, unsure of where to go or where I’ll be sleeping tonight.
I could call an Uber and go home, or I could get a hotel nearby and crash. Not that I’ll be able to rest with all this crazy shit running circles through my head.
What kind of person runs off and gets plastic surgery to change their face without talking to her husband first? It’s not like she just redecorated the house—she completely redecorated herself.
I wish she’d talked to me first. Or let me be part of her decision if I couldn’t talk her out of it. Which I definitely would have fought like hell to do. Just thinking about her having anesthesia and going through surgery on her face just months after coming out of a coma is scaring the hell out of me.
How—why—did she do this?
I can’t wrap my head around any of it.
Taking a long drag off my cigarette, I’m struck with a wave of fear that her behavior might be the result of long-lasting brain damage. Or maybe she’s having a mental breakdown.
Maybe we both are.
I wander down an alley to get away from the street traffic, and lean against the cold brick to check my cell phone, which has been going off nonstop since I left the Airbnb.
Six missed calls from Ember.
Two missed calls from Tor.
One missed call from Kenzi.
And a slew of text messages from all of them—none of which I read.
Ember must’ve called Kenzi after I left.
Fucking great.
I can’t talk to my daughter until I process all the feelings battling inside my head, and there’s no way I can talk to Ember without going off on her again—which I don’t want to do. Enough damage has been done already. I need to calm down.
