The Other Side of Wrong

by Christi Barth

  At the red light to turn onto his street, Jake glanced at the text that had just come in.

  Jones. As usual. He texted all the time. Made it feel like he was just turning his head in their tour bus to talk to Jake across the aisle. It was probably supposed to make him feel good, make him feel missed.

  It made him miserable. Miserable with longing for everything he’d given up.

  Jones: We’re at a Christmas resort—don’t even ask. But I’ve got a PSA for you: if you wear a wreath of marshmallows on your dick during sex, it will melt. PSA #2: be sure you’ve planned ahead to make sure your date isn’t allergic to marshmallows. PSA #3: it doesn’t matter if the EMT is hotter than me, cuz I’m a fucking rock star!

  That almost, almost made him smile.

  Almost made him reach for the phone to text back.

  Nah. It was easier to go cold turkey. Another thing good ole Vic had told him. Talking to Jones would just get him, well, jonesing to be back on the road with his band. With his best friends.

  God, it seemed like he spent all day, every day, thinking about the things he couldn’t do anymore, the things he couldn’t have. Jake’s jaw was already clenched tight when he turned into his driveway…and immediately slammed on the brakes. Because there was a woman leaning against the garage door, feet and arms crossed all casual-like.

  Talk about the top of the list of things he couldn’t do. Five feet, four inches of sleek sexpot that Jake, to his great sadness, had never had. Long, dark hair that curtained around a heart-shaped face and eyes the color of New Orleans’s famous café au lait. America’s Pop Princess, the tabloids called her.

  Jake called her trouble.

  Why the hell was Cassidy waiting for him?

  CHAPTER TWO

  Naked, burning curiosity almost had Jake yanking on the e-brake and jumping out of his dad’s Beemer. But showing that much interest would give Cassidy the upper hand. So he hit the remote for the garage door. As it slid up, she was forced to stumble forward on high wedge sandals to catch her balance.

  Good. Now they were even.

  He parked. Considered hefting the grocery bags and walking inside without saying a word.

  That would require more self-control than he could muster. It’d be like presenting a naked supermodel as a present at a bar mitzvah and expecting the teenager to not blow his wad in his pants just from looking at her.

  Jake slammed the door with a flat palm, and then left it there. Touching the car kept him from jumping forward.

  From jumping her.

  “Hey, Jake,” she said in a low, throaty purr that was totally at odds with her wide, innocent eyes and delicate bone structure.

  It was the first thing she’d said to him since that night, six long years ago. Jake had heard her voice countless times on the radio, in videos, in movies, and commercials, and restaurants. But hearing it aimed at him specifically was a visceral punch to his dick.

  Cassidy was The One Who Got Away. Or, more accurately, The One He Pushed Away.

  Looking past her to the giant elm tree that anchored his parents’ front yard, Jake asked in a flat tone, “What are you doing here, Cassidy?”

  “Don’t you want to observe some societal niceties first?”

  “Like what?” They weren’t friends. Or even colleagues. They were two people who’d orbited each other for three heady nights at a music festival. Talking. Singing. Laughing. Touching.

  Cassidy sashayed a few steps closer. Every twitch of her hips looked like it might ride that white bandage of a dress high enough up her things to reveal her panties. “Maybe we could catch up? Swap tour stories? Talk about the fight on the red carpet at the award show last week? I know you weren’t there, but pretty much everyone’s taken sides. Wanna dish the dirt?”

  She was warm, friendly, relaxed.

  Jake wanted her with a ferocity that stunned him.

  “You want to chat?” He threw out his arm to point down the street. “Pretty sure Mrs. Gerstein’s three daughters would love to hang with you by the pool. Or hell, even the postman would probably beg for a selfie and shoot the breeze.”

  “I don’t want to talk to them. I came here to talk to you.” And for the first time, Jake glimpsed a flicker in her eyes. He just didn’t know of what.

  “Why? Why the hell would you track me down in fucking Jersey to talk to me? We haven’t spoken since...that night.”

  That flicker turned into a flare, a flash of temper that tightened her lips before she hurled words at him. “You mean the night you refused to have sex with me? The night you had me naked and writhing and begging for you?”

  That was one version. All technically true.

  But context was everything.

  Jake pushed off the car. “I mean the night I found out you were jailbait. The night we almost hooked up, I only took things so far because I didn't know who you were, how old you really weren't. Damn it, Cassidy, you could've gotten me in real trouble.”

  “I wasn’t jailbait. I was eighteen, almost nineteen.”

  “Only eighteen. I was twenty-four. I gave you beers, for Chrissake. You took them without saying a word. I could’ve gone to jail for all of it.” He stuck his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. Guess they were doing this now.

  So much for social niceties.

  They were jumping right to airing dirty laundry. Fighting about whose fault it was that they never got to finish what they’d started out in the desert under the stars.

  She windmilled one arm in a wide semi-circle. “Everyone knew who I was. That’s not an inflated ego talking. My album was number one. I was headlining the festival. I was the hottest new star on the scene. How was I to know you didn’t recognize me?”

  “Common sense? Riptide had been on a worldwide tour for ten months. We didn’t know what time zone we were in, let alone who’d managed to climb to the top of the charts when we were in Asia and Africa.”

  “I wasn’t thinking, Jake. I was caught up in the moment. You made all the noise, all the crowds, everything, go away. I was enjoying being with you, living a fantasy.”

  He threw up his hands. Cassidy had brought them back to the exact moment it all went to shit. “I know. That’s what gave it away, remember? When you told me you’d danced to All the Want at your prom and pretended that I was singing it to you.”

  It sounded like a compliment. But yeah, context was a bitch. Because Riptide had only released All the Want three months before that moment they were groping and kissing, and she’d just finished stripping for him. Cassidy admitting she’d heard it at prom gave her away. Marked her as jailbait. Even if not technically, then at least morally.

  Jake had stumbled as far away from her as the luxury tent walls allowed. Thrown clothes at her. Alternated between apologizing and yelling at her for hiding her age from him for three days. Because he wasn’t one of those creeps who got off on teenagers. He felt like shit for not seeing past the heavy stage makeup and nearly naked costumes that she wore.

  Had he liked her? Yeah. They’d clicked from the instant they both sang along while in line for drinks. When they gave up on the drinks and just danced together for the whole rest of the set, grooving and grinding in the desert sand, oblivious to the sweat and sun.

  Had he wanted her? Hell, yeah.

  Had he forgiven himself for not being more careful with her? Not at all.

  When Jake broke out of the cloud of memories, Cassidy was suddenly right there in front of him. “I didn’t set out to entrap you, Jake. There was no plan to sell photos of us to the paparazzi, or use your fame to catapult myself even higher.”

  “Jesus, I never thought any of that.” He rubbed his hand across his face. Stubble scraped his palm. Chances were good he hadn’t shaved in three, four days. No need to bother.

  “Good.” Then she tilted her head to the side just a little and asked in a much smaller voice, “You sure?”

  He had to make it crystal clear that he’d only ever thought Cassidy to be a horny, reckless t
eenager, not a scheming bitch. “You were just a kid. I didn’t think you had any endgame to us being together besides, you know, being together.”

  “The word is ‘sex’, Jake.” Cassidy used her index finger to draw the word on his chest. Amazing how just that tip seared through the cotton of his ancient Linkin Park shirt like she’d stroked each letter with a flaming sword. “It wouldn’t have been wrong if we’d had it back then, and it isn’t wrong for you to say it now.”

  “It felt wrong.” He waved his hand in the air between them. “I don’t give a shit that you were ‘technically’ no longer a minor. You were fresh out of high school. I was a grown man. It was all kinds of wrong. Maybe you didn’t know it then, but you’re an adult, so you sure as hell know it now.”

  There was silence in the garage while she stared at him. Her arm fell limply to her side. “What—I’m supposed to thank you for breaking my heart? For embarrassing, no, humiliating me?”

  Jake almost lashed out with a whip-snapped fuck, yes. To force Cassidy to admit, with the power of hindsight, that he’d done the right—if near impossible—thing when he’d left that tent with the worst blue balls of his life. That he’d done her a favor.

  But nobody gave out awards for doing the right thing. Jake knew that for a fact.

  He had a whole shelf back at his apartment of awards for his songwriting, for his band, for their videos. But there wasn’t anything gold and shiny up there for not seducing an innocent kid. For not ruining her reputation and taking advantage of her.

  Just like there wasn’t one for being a self-sacrificing son trying to save his family business by giving up his own life.

  He cracked his neck, side to side, and then marshaled a much calmer tone. “I’m saying that only one of us deserves to be mad. That’s me. All you get to be is damned grateful that I stopped it before we crossed too many lines.”

  There was a moment where Cassidy looked like she was absorbing his words. A tiny dip of her head that seemed to acknowledge his truth.

  That moment quickly passed. She planted her hand on her hip, fingers splayed over the tight curve of her ass. The position popped her breasts out even more. Not that Jake needed the reminder of her curves. Not like he had stopped noticing them, all rounding out the top of her dress, for even a second since she’d entered the garage.

  Lips glossed a soft pink puckered up and held that position long enough to send a throb of want and “what if” straight to his dick. “Crossed lines…you mean had sex? Why can’t you say that word to me, Jake? Does it bring the memory rushing back? Does it make you think about the things we almost did?”

  “Yeah,” he admitted. Because what was the point in lying? “Just because it was wrong doesn’t mean it wouldn’t have been fantastic.”

  “I like to imagine that. To imagine all the ways you would have rocked my world. And wonder about the things you’d do that I haven’t imagined.”

  “The point is that sex with you would have been wrong. No matter what you imagine, that fact doesn’t change.”

  “The past can’t change.” Cassidy sidled closer again. Her thighs brushed his. “The present, though…that’s a whole new window of opportunity.”

  What was she saying? Was Cassidy coming on to him in his garage after six years of zero contact? Or did he just want her so badly he was reading more into it? Was he so off his game? Cautiously, Jake asked, “What are you saying?”

  “I knew what I wanted then. I know it now. The only thing that's changed is the age on my license.” Her palm stroked languidly up his belly and then over his nipple to land on his shoulder. “Oh, and the level of my experience.”

  If this was the big conversation where they officially cleared the air, Jake damn well needed her to clarify. “It was wrong to put me in that position.”

  “I can think of so many positions that would be right.” Her hand now drifted down his biceps, past the crook of his elbow to follow the big vein on his forearm.

  Jake grabbed her wrist. “Damn it, you owe me an apology.”

  “You're right. I do. Let me make it up to you." Cassidy broke out of his grip and hitched herself up to sit on the hood of the car. “I came here to offer you a job.”

  “Thanks, but I’ve already got one that I’ve blown off for weeks. Not really in the market for another.”

  “I want to join Riptide on a mini-tour. Do some joint concerts. I’ve already put the offer to Cam and Jones. They said they’re in, as long as you agree.”

  He’d thought nothing could shock him more than the sight of her in his driveway.

  He’d been wrong.

  The first thing that kindled in his gut was excitement. Jake hadn’t felt excitement since the last time he’d been on stage with Riptide, nine weeks ago. His go-to emotions pretty much swung like a pendulum between guilt and bitterness. With a little worry sprinkled on top.

  Excitement was…interesting.

  But the very familiar disappointment snuffed it out faster than a candle dipped wick-down into frosting. “No.”

  “You can’t just say no.”

  “Ask my bandmates. It’s the only thing I say nowadays.”

  “Jake.” Cassidy snagged his hand to tug him around the front of the car. “Think about it. You need attention—major attention, major buzz—to get a worthwhile label to take a chance on you. It’s no secret you guys got dumped after the disaster that was Triangulation.”

  It wasn’t a secret. But it still stung every time he thought about it. “Gee, you sure know how to butter up a guy into doing what you want.”

  “This is business. I’m always deadly serious about business.”

  “Me, too.” So many musicians weren’t. They left everything up to their business managers and agents and accountants. Jake read every line of every contract and considered the business of the band every bit as much his responsibility as the music. It was probably part of why Riptide had flourished for a dozen years.

  Until Cam went and ruined everything.

  “You fucked up,” Cassidy said, as calmly as if reading a diner menu aloud. “Your attempt at a new sound tanked, the album sucked, and nobody bought it. You went from being a powerhouse group to a joke.”

  Yeah, yeah. Enough with beating the dead horse. “If that’s all true, why do you want to even be seen with us?”

  “Don’t play coy. Everyone knows you wrote a new album. In secret, by yourselves. Different, but hearkening back to all the music that made you stars. Word on the street is that it’s your best stuff yet. Bootleg video from your concerts is the hottest thing on YouTube. People who are lucky enough to squeeze into the clubs you’re playing all come out raving.”

  Jake knew that in his gut. They’d been tracking on social media, in addition to just paying attention to the reactions to every song, every venue, every city. It was nice to hear that word was spreading organically, though.

  “We’re doing okay. Going back to basics. The road trips to small clubs lets us get a good read on fan reaction.”

  “I know you want to sign with a new label. I know you need to impress the hell out of a new label to get them to take a chance on you.” Cassidy tapped her chest. “Pairing up with me will get you more attention.”

  “You didn’t answer my question. What do you get out of it? Why us?”

  “I started out as a pop princess. Which was fine when I was a teenager. Now I want to crossover. Do harder rock, some alternative things. Basically, I don’t want to be pigeonholed anymore.”

  He was intrigued. And damn impressed by her forward thinking. “Are you writing your own music?”

  “Yes. I’ve written enough to fill two new albums. But I need to convince people outside my fan base to pay attention. To take a chance on me. To not dismiss me as bubblegum pop. If I get in front of your rock fans, it’ll expand my reach.”

  Jake didn’t need time to consider angles, or weigh options. What she was offering was flat-out good business sense. It had worked for decades, starting with Elvis
teaming up with Frank Sinatra, Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers, and Al Green and Annie Lennox.

  Riptide would be good for Cassidy, and vice versa.

  “I ran this idea past my label. They’re intrigued. And possibly willing to make Riptide an offer it his works.”

  Jake had to work to keep his jaw from dropping. “That’s…amazing.” It was what they’d been working toward all summer. Their shot at redemption. At making a new album they were actually proud of, believed the fans would scream themselves hoarse over.

  It wasn’t about the accolades or the money. At its core, Riptide was about three friends making music. Period.

  With a knowing smile, Cassidy asked, “Is that a yes?”

  “Look, my life is complicated right now. I’ve been on hiatus from Riptide for a while. I’m going back for the next three shows, to finish out this tour we scraped together. After that, well, it’s up in the air.”

  Jake hadn’t yet told his bandmates that he was probably quitting. He sure as hell couldn’t tell Cassidy that.

  Mostly because he still couldn’t come to grips with it himself.

  Cassidy planted her feet wide apart on the bumper. Jake couldn’t risk looking down, because he was pretty damned sure he’d catch a glimpse of panty if he did. She leaned forward to grab his tee with both hands.

  “Do you remember when we sang together all those years ago? When we walked away from the festival crowds and tents into the desert, until there was nothing but darkness? Our voices echoed off the boulders in harmony, and I felt the vibrations inside me. Singing with you, without instruments or fans or microphones, was one of the best experiences of my life.”

  His mouth dry, his dick hard, Jake murmured, “I remember.”

  “I want that again. Sure, there are a couple of other bands as big as Riptide that would suit my purposes. But I don’t want that. I want you. I want to sing with you again. I want to feel that connection again. I want you, Jake. I’ve wanted you for six years. I’ve never stopped wanting you.”

  Fuck.

  He was only human. And he’d felt the same way. Wanting her for six years. Hating himself for it, but wanting her anyway. Now here she was, offering up music—his favorite thing—and if he wasn’t mistaken, offering up his second favorite thing, too.