Tears shimmer at the back of her eyes, and she gingerly smiles. “Can we agree to put the past behind us and start over as friends?”
I press a kiss to her forehead, breathing deeply. “I can agree to that once you agree not to close your mind to more. I hear you, and I’ll give you time and space, I promise. But don’t shut me out, please.”
“I won’t.” She rests her head on my chest. “I promise.”
CHAPTER 25
Zeta
Ryder is outside grilling steaks while he chats over a beer with Micah and Garrett. Scott, Linda, and their little boy aren’t coming now until tomorrow morning, so it’s only the four of us for dinner tonight. I’ve prepared a green salad, fresh slaw, sweet potato fries, mashed potatoes, and a cheesecake for dessert. Ryder came inside every so often to check if I needed anything, but I shooed him away, telling him to enjoy the sunshine with his buddies.
I feel lighter after our talk, and it’s definitely helped to clear the air. I’m not yet in the place where I can hope for more with him, but the layers around my heart are already melting. It felt so natural to kiss him, to be back in his arms, and I was sorely tempted to let it go all the way, but thankfully, I came to my senses before things escalated.
If I’d had sex with him today, it would be no different than any other encounter, and I don’t want to do that to us. The past I share with Ryder is unique to him and me, and if we find ourselves back in that space again, then I’ll happily let him take me to bed, but I want him to make love to me. We’ve both been using sex as some kind of crutch, and if I’d let him fuck me today, how different would it really have been?
I know he was disappointed, but I believe we need to step back and take things slow. I can’t go charging headfirst into a relationship with him, until I know it’s what I want, and I’m still so messed up over everything. Professing my love is already a big step forward for me, and maybe it wasn’t the smartest decision, but I meant it when I said I wanted to be honest.
We’ve admitted we both still have feelings for one another, but that doesn’t mean anything’s changed or that we’ll end up back together. I know Ryder wants to go there, but one of us has to be level-headed about it, and I guess that task falls to me. For now, I’m happy to have him back in my life as a friend. We’re both different. Older and supposedly wiser. And we’ve a lot to catch one another up on. The most I can hope for right now is renewing our friendship, and that’s what I’m going to concentrate on.
I call Garrett and Micah inside, asking them to help me carry the food and dinnerware to the seated area outside. We’re eating on the ground level at the beautiful patio area, which overlooks the pool and gardens.
When the table is set, Ryder plates the steaks, and we sit down to eat. A soft, balmy breeze wafts around us, and I take a minute to enjoy the view. Ryder’s house is stunning, and the height of luxury, but I’ve been surprised at how homey and comfortable it is. I was expecting a typical bachelor pad with minimal décor, leather furniture, and few personal possessions not comfy couches, brightly colored walls, a beautiful Shaker-style kitchen, and little personal touches everywhere from the hand-designed cushions and throws, to the musical inspired paintings and framed photos on the wall.
Most of the photos are with the guys from the band, some of them are with Rod and his family, and the rest are casual pics taken with other rock stars who are clearly friends. I’d pointed out a picture of Ryder and Garrett with the members from BAD. I’m a massive fan of their stuff, and seeing that photo, with all that combined hotness on display, gave me a little thrill. Ryder explained that Sawyer Weston is a good friend of his, and I’m happy he has good people in his life.
The one glaring absence is personal family photos, but that requires no explanation. It makes my heart ache for him though. I’m lucky Jill welcomed me into her family, or that would be me too.
Over the years, I’ve hated the fact that I had no photos of Ryder and me together. I’m not sure whether it would’ve brought me some comfort or added to my grief, but not having any record of our relationship, except for the permanent scars on my heart, made me unbelievably sad.
“Fuck, this is good,” Garrett mumbles, his mouth full of food.
Micah slaps him across the back of his head. “Have you no manners, you brute?” I smile, taking a sip of my beer. “But he’s right for once in his life. This is fantastic. Where’d you learn to cook like that?”
“I taught myself to cook at an early age because it was either learn how to feed myself or starve,” I truthfully reply.
“Shit. That sounds rough.” Micah’s features soften as he looks across the table at me. “Ryder mentioned he met you in juvie, but he didn’t explain the circumstances.”
Ryder’s fork clangs to the table. “For fuck’s sake, man. I told you that so you wouldn’t ask her anything to make her uncomfortable.”
I place my hand over his, smiling. “It’s okay, honestly.” I turn and face the other two guys. “I’m going to be prying into every aspect of your lives while I’m writing this bio, so it’s only fair you should know whatever you want to know about me.”
“What bra size are you?” Garrett quips, earning him a contemptable look from Ryder.
“Do not answer that,” Ryder says through gritted teeth.
“Relax.” I pat his hand. “He’s only trying to wind you up.” I poke my fork in Garrett’s direction. “Questions of a sexual nature are off-limits.”
“Along with flirting, touching, speaking to or breathing the same air as Zeta,” Ryder adds.
I shake my head, fighting a smile, wondering what it says about me that I love his jealous possessiveness. “Let’s not overreact. I meant what I said earlier.”
Ryder visibly relaxes, and I only realize our fingers are entwined when I spot Micah staring at our linked hands. It’s uncanny how being back in his presence seems so natural. How we reach out for one another without even thinking about it.
With a smile, I remove my hand from Ryder’s and pick up my beer. “While we’re being frank, I just want to let you know that Ryder and I have talked things through, and whatever issues we are dealing with won’t affect the recording of the album. And I’m sorry for all that shit in the limo earlier. It won’t happen again.”
“You don’t need to apologize to us,” Micah says, helping himself to another serving of slaw. “And Ryder already explained. We know you two have special history, and we don’t want to get in the way of that.”
I nod, popping a piece of steak into my mouth.
“Why were you in juvie?” Garrett asks, and for once, there’s no joking quality to his tone.
I’m expecting Ryder to jump in and criticize him, but he doesn’t interfere, and I appreciate that he’s letting me decide what I want to share. It’s not something that usually crops up in conversation, but I have no issue telling the truth. I’ve worked hard to rise above my background, and years of therapy have helped me accept that I did nothing wrong and I have nothing to be ashamed of.
I have their undivided attention as I explain about my mom, my stepdad, and the circumstances which led to my conviction and subsequent release. They tell me a little bit about their pasts, regaling me with stories of their first meeting, after Rod had auditioned for band members to support Ryder, and some censored accounts of their early days on the road.
After we’ve finished eating, Micah and Garrett clean up while Ryder and I take a walk on the beach. Daylight is starting to fade, and the sky is a beautiful dusky pink color as we walk barefoot side by side along the sandy shore.
“You guys seem to have a strong bond,” I say. “Has it always been like that?”
Ryder nods, shoving his hands in his pockets. “After Rod discovered me busking, he whisked me to New York to meet with some top record producers, and I spent a few weeks recording some of my own stuff. When Rod sent the demo out, we got a
lot of interest, but the message was clear—the labels wanted to sign a band, not a solo artist, so Rod talked to me about it, and he organized auditions. I handpicked the guys, and it was as much for their personalities as it was for their musical ability. I knew we’d be living in each other’s pockets, and it was important we all got on.”
“But you didn’t choose Scott from the outset.” I’m aware of the band’s history as it’s been well documented, and even though I’ve steered clear of media accounts of Ryder’s personal life—because looking at him with a succession of beautiful women tore strips off my heart—I’ve avidly followed the band’s career, and I’ve listened to every album they’ve released.
“Yeah, Marwen couldn’t hack life on the road, so he quit after six months and the label sent Scott to us as a temporary solution. I was worried he wouldn’t fit in at first because the rest of us were single and enjoying the, ah, perks of the job”—he runs a hand over the back of his head, looking a little sheepish—”whereas Scott was a few years older, and he was already engaged to Linda, but he’s an easy guy to get along with, and it actually helped that he was more mature. He’s managed to talk us down from some crazy shit over the years.” A knowing grin appears on his face as he pulls me back from the ocean’s edge when water rolls in. “We gelled, and we offered him a permanent place in the band, and here we are.” He shrugs, smiling at me.
“I’m glad you got to live your dream, and no matter how things ended with us, I was always so proud of you.”
Air whooshes out of his mouth as he walks us back a few meters. Plopping down on the sand, he pats the space beside him, and I sit. We both pull our knees up to our chests, staring out at the receding sunlight flickering across the gently lapping waves. “It isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” he says. “Although, I’m not complaining, because it’s an incredible life, but it’s not all rainbows and unicorns.”
My lips twitch at his words. “In what way?”
“Touring is hard. I love playing live, love the roar of the audience, love hearing them sing our songs back to us, but it’s exhausting, and everyone wants a piece of you. This part here is what I truly love best. Writing and recording new material. Having a permanent base for a while.” He hooks his pinky finger in mine. “I’m not overly materialistic, and a lot of times I feel guilty about the money, but I indulged with this place because I wanted someplace special to call home, and I love coming here. I love the privacy and the solitude, and it just speaks to my soul. If I could live here year-round I would, but it’s not practical or possible.”
“Why do you feel guilty about the money? You’ve worked hard for it. And I know you donate a lot to charity.”
His chest inflates and deflates, and his jaw flexes, as he stares out at the ocean. Ryder and I were always comfortable with silence, and I know he’ll talk when he’s ready, so I patiently wait him out.
“It feels wrong,” he says in a low tone a few minutes later. “It feels wrong to have so much when I was responsible for someone losing their life prematurely.”
Pain is etched across his face, and I just want to erase it. I thread my fingers through his and he clasps my hand firmly. “You were only a kid, it was an accident, and you weren’t the only one involved.”
“None of that matters though.” He turns to me with tears in his eyes. “I still relive it all the time, and the guilt never goes away. I don’t think it ever will.”
My eyes search his and I can’t bear to see him hurting, so I fling my arms around him, without any hesitation, holding him tight.
Friends hug friends, right?
He leans his head on my shoulder, and I wrap my arms tighter around him. “Some days, I think all the guilt I’m carrying will eat me alive. Some days, it’s a struggle to get up out of bed. After I lost you, music became my only salvation. I honestly don’t know if I’d still be here if I wasn’t a musician.”
“Don’t say that.” I hug him closer. “I can’t bear to think of a world without you in it.”
“I can say the same of you, and I don’t ever want you to leave, Zeta, but I’m a selfish prick like that.”
“I’m here now.” I press a kiss to the top of his head, and he sighs. “Have you ever thought about seeing a therapist?”
“I’ve seen tons of them over the years. I make some inroads, and then I have to go on tour, and all the progress is undone.”
“A good therapist will give you tools to use when things get too much. And even having them at the end of a phone can help. Maybe you just haven’t found the right one. I can give you my therapist’s details if you like?”
He lifts his head. “You still see a therapist?”
I nod, running my fingers through the soft hairs at the base of his neck. “I go every month, and I think I most likely always will.”
“Because of me?” His features are pinched, his mouth turned down.
“We have discussed you,” I admit, “but it’s mainly my fucked-up childhood and issues with my mom that are my main problems.”
“What about your stepdad?”
“He’s still locked up, thank fuck, and hopefully, they’ve thrown away the key.”
He closes his eyes for a moment. “That feels nice,” he murmurs as I thread my fingers through his hair.
“Lie down,” I suggest, and he repositions himself so his head is in my lap. He’s staring up at me, and I weave my fingers through his hair as we talk. “I mourned your long hair when you cut it, but it suits you short like this too.”
He frowns. “I almost cried the day I had it cut off, but I’d no choice. Some bitch decided it’d be fun to give me a DIY haircut when I was passed out drunk. I woke up looking like something from a horror movie. My hair was all different lengths and hacked to bits at the sides. Gar laughed so hard he pissed himself.”
“That’s what you get for screwing groupies. She probably wanted your hair as a souvenir, or she sold it to the highest bidder on eBay.”
“Oh my fucking God. I never thought of that!”
I continue winding my fingers through his hair as the gentle ebb and flow of the sea echoes in the background. It’s dark now, and we’re the only people on the beach.
“Is my history with women going to be an issue for you?” he asks, tracing the tip of one finger up my arm.
“I won’t lie. Seeing you with so many women has hurt me in the past. And let’s not even get started on the sex tapes.” A look of abject horror appears on his face, and I know why. “I haven’t watched them,” I blurt, shuddering at the thought. “But just knowing they existed was enough to destroy me.”
“I’m sorry, and I wish I could take it back, but by your own admission, you haven’t been a saint either.”
“I know, and I’m not being judgmental. You were single and free to fuck who you wanted, but I hate the groupies that hang around the music scene, because they all have an agenda. They’re trying to trap a rock star with a baby, or they want bragging rights or photo or video footage they can sell to a tabloid. They’re manipulative and taking advantage, and I despise those kind of girls, but I admire girls who take control of their sexuality and aren’t afraid to embrace it,” I add, just so he understands the point I’m trying to make.
“If I said I didn’t disagree, would that make me repulsive in your eyes?”
I shake my head. “You could never be repulsive to me. Never.” A flash of pain flickers in his eyes. “What?”
“Nothing.” He forces a smile, trailing his finger over the ink on my arm. “Do they mean anything in particular?” he asks, pointing to the images painted on my skin.
“They are ancient Chinese graphical depictions meaning strength, wisdom, and courage.”
“And the script on your thigh?”
My eyes pop wide. “When did you notice that?”
“You were wearing those minuscule shorts the day I dro
pped by your apartment, and I saw the ink.”
I think he saw a lot more than that, but I’m not encouraging the direction this conversation appears to be going in. “They’re song lyrics.”
“Yours?” he asks, and I nod. He sits up, his face all excited. “Can I see?”
“I’ll show you sometime,” I say, standing. “But it’s late, and I’d like to get an early start with work in the morning.” I offer him my hand and help him to his feet.
“Nice deflection,” he says without a trace of sarcasm. “But I’m curious about one thing.” We start walking back toward the house. “How did you end up studying journalism when you had your heart set on songwriting?”
I knew he was going to ask me this at some point, and I’ve promised him honesty, but this will only add to the considerable guilt he carries around with him, so I’m deliberately vague on purpose, hoping he’ll drop it. “I was accepted into the program at USC, but I transferred to the journalism course majoring in music my first week on campus.”
He frowns. “Why? You’re so fucking talented, and I know it’s what you wanted to do.”
I look over at his beautiful face, hating what I have to say next. “Songwriting had become something we did together, and I couldn’t disassociate it from you.”
He stops walking, hurt flashing across his face. “You switched courses because of me?”
I nod, kicking at the sand under my foot. “I didn’t write any songs for years. I couldn’t. I had the worst case of writer’s block.”
He scrubs a hand over his chin, starting to walk again. “Man, I really fucked everything up, didn’t I?”
“We’re not doing this, remember?”
He shoves his hands in his pockets, looking deeply unhappy.
“I started writing again two years ago, and lately, I’ve been thinking about doing something about it. I love my job, but maybe I could sell some songs on the side.” I shrug, feeling a little foolish telling one of the US’s best songwriters my silly little plans.
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