by Kayti McGee
Want
Ryder Brothers 2
Kayti McGee
Paige Press LLC
Copyright © 2018 by Kayti McGee
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Psst.
1. Jake
2. Marlee
3. Marlee
4. Jake
5. Marlee
6. Jake
7. Jake
8. Marlee
9. Jake
10. Marlee
11. Jake
12. Marlee
13. Jake
14. Marlee
15. Jake
16. Marlee
17. Jake
18. Marlee
19. Jake
20. Marlee
A Sneak Peek of the next Ryder Brother…
Also by Kayti McGee
About the Author
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Chapter One
Jake
Ever try to hold a conversation about your crush while at the same time, not letting anyone know that you’re crushing? It’s a difficult balance of wanting everyone to be on their best behavior but not telling them why.
“Because I’m your brother and I said so,” just doesn’t seem to work.
“So you’re telling me your new roommate is hot, single, and bendy?” My younger brother Nick asks, as he picks up a blue vase from the book shelf. He tosses it to our older brother, Jonas, and I run over to grab it from his hands. I don’t want them to break it. They aren’t normally rough dudes but with all the girly touches that Marlee has added since moving in, the guys look weirdly out of place. Like literal bulls in a china shop. They know how to move on a stage but a living room suddenly full of picture frames, throws, pillows and figurines has got them bumbling and knocking things over at every turn.
“Well, she’s a dancer, so…” I track Jonas as he sniffs around until he finds the scent diffuser, as Marlee calls it. It’s like a little jar-thingy with a pool of tobacco-orange scented oil in the bottom and some sticks coming out the top. A smell teepee, kind of. Marlee said I needed a signature scent, and I liked that one more than the one that was supposed to smell like vanilla.
He dips a finger in and uses some as cologne. Nick sniffs Jonas, then follows suit. I live in a family of animals.
“So you let a stripper move in with you?” Jonas asks. “Bold move.”
I roll my eyes and move my signature scent up another shelf. Being the tallest of us has been helping me rescue my things and maintain a secret cookie stash since we were kids touring the country together as the Ryder Brothers.
“She’s not a stripper. I leave that to the men of Double Diamonds. Marlee’s just someone I worked with, and she needed a place to crash. Temporarily. And my place is big.”
This is true, of course, but also not the whole story.
I was shooting a video in Kansas City, some bonkers idea from my director about adding an authentic jazz backdrop to my then-single, and we met on the set. She was a background dancer, which was my first hint that the director didn’t quite have a cohesive vision. How do jazz and choreographed twerking go together? Frankly, I’d like to find out sometime, but not in my own video.
I was barely out on my own, without the familiar pop sounds written for my brothers and I because our label preferred to work with Swedish hitmakers rather than take a chance on our songwriting.
I wanted to watch the dancers rehearse, just see what the plan was. I didn’t know that once my eyes caught on her, they wouldn’t move again. Something about her energy, her intensity, that booty… So I used the director as an excuse.
“Hi, I’m Jake,” I introduced myself, with a firm handshake that I didn’t release as I continued. “You’re clearly a professional. Tell me what you think about this routine.”
Clearly a professional was the wrong choice of words considering the dance they had been doing was a real bump-and-grind. She slid her small hand back out of my grasp and perched it on her hip.
“I’m not a stripper,” she said emphatically. “But yeah, this routine with that song is probably going to win us some kind of music video Razzie award.”
“That’s what I thought. Oh, to the second part, not the first. I meant that… you’re just a really good dancer, is all.” I’m not used to feeling so off-kilter around girls. Normally they behave a lot differently when they realize they’re talking to a rock star. This one hadn’t even introduced herself before mocking my setup.
“What would you do instead?” I ask, curious.
“Swing.” She doesn’t hesitate. “This is a dance song, but the use of an upright bass combined with the really modern guitar would be perfect to have a good old-fashioned rockabilly vibe for your backdrop.”
She was right. It was brilliant.
“I’m sold. Let’s do it. Can you, like… change this?” I ask.
“I’m not re-choreographing an entire shoot because some PA tells me to,” she scoffed, and walked off. She had no clue who I was. I was in love.
It took delicate negotiations worthy of the state department, but I managed to finagle an extra day on set out of my new label, convince the director that his dance ideas were best saved for another project (as were the glitter and the puppets), and find out that Mysterious Dancer was Marlee Reed who could definitely re-choreograph an entire shoot for the right price.
I’m pretty sure she saved my career. If my debut single had been the Sesame-Street-Goes-To-Burning-Man-But-With-Jazz! Video, that probably would have been my last ever single.
So I took her out after we wrapped, to some little Irish pub, preparing my moment real carefully. She thought I was a PA? Just wait until she sees the rock star treatment I get out in public, I thought to myself with a smirk. I’ll show her.
No one recognized me. We got a shitty table and shittier service.
Then her phone rang and she excused herself to talk to her fiancé. Her fiancé! I tabled trying to impress her for the night. She was impressing me enough herself. This chick could truly care less about my fame. How refreshing. The rest of the evening was spent becoming life-long best friends. We had everything in common from our favorite color (yellow) to our favorite food (all of them) to our favorite song (Mr. Jones by the Counting Crows). During the lulls in conversation I imagined all the ways I could convince her to leave the other guy for me.
I never could figure out exactly how to present it though. Not that night, nor in the thousands of texts and calls we’d had afterwards.
Who knew he’d do it all by himself? Johnathan came out, broke her heart, and drove her right into my arms. Metaphorically. I’m more of an arm-patter than a hugger. And despite my fantasies of an amazing revenge-bang, she was more interested in grueling runs at Griffith alternated with redecorating my house.
She said it was taking the place of a break-up haircut.
I said it was a decent alternative to paying me rent.
I’m pretty sure Nick would say that wasn’t a romantic answer. And Jonas would inquire about her services. He wouldn’t be meaning decoration. And then I’d have to punch him. So I just keep all that inside.
“I hooked her up with my agency, and she’s out auditioning even as you animals paw at her shit. Our shit. Whatever, just…” I hear her key in the loc
k, and shoot them a Look, “behave. She’s midwestern.”
“Ohhhhhhhhh,” Nick says, putting down the throw pillow he was about to launch at me and fluffing it back up instead.
“Nice girl. I should have figured,” Jonas says sadly. Looks like he won’t be after her services after all. Good. I’m pretty sick of discovering every girl in Los Angeles has slept with him. It’s like the Walk of Fame stars on the Boulevard, except his trail is paved with little teardrops and none of the girls have last names.
The front door clicks open and I hear her take her shoes off. Even without the noise, it’s like the whole house sighs in relief when she walks in. The whole vibe changes, relaxes.
I can’t remember ever being so aware of someone’s presence before she moved in.
Finally, she walks in and leans against the door frame. She’s looking more LA than prairie already, with a shirt that hangs off one shoulder and black-and-white striped tight pants. I can’t stop staring at the way they draw taut across her hipbones. I wonder if she’s even wearing anything underneath.
I wish I knew I’d have a chance to find out later. Damn our insta-friendship for making me feel like a dick every time I jerk off to her.
She hasn’t met my brothers, speaking of jerkoffs, but of course she recognizes them. She gives a little familiar smile like she’d been staring at us on posters since she was thirteen. I mean. She has. One night when we were knee-deep in the pink wine shit she likes, she told me she couldn’t keep it in anymore. She’d had a Ryder Brothers-themed birthday party in eighth grade, a sleepover, so that she could show off her brand-new Jake Ryder sleeping bag. The day we met on set, she was just trolling me. I laughed so hard I fell off the couch and spilled her pink shit. She stole mine and told me to fuck off into the Pacific. Did I mention I love her?
But we’d aged out of our boy band once we hit our twenties. I watch my brothers as she saunters over and gives them that big, Missouri-friendly grin that shows off the sparkle in her amber eyes, the slight gap between her front teeth. Jonas raises a single brow, and Nick covertly kicks him.
I introduce her to Nick first. I know for a fact that she loves him because I’ve caught her dancing to his singles like a hundred times in the past few weeks since she’s moved in. Luckily for me, he got married just before Marlee arrived in town. To an actress. A really famous, crazy successful actress. I groan. Why haven’t I brought Marlee over to meet her? I’m not even good at being a best friend.
No wonder we haven’t ruined the friendship yet.
Jonas is probably a little harder to recognize to the average fan these days, since he dropped out of the spotlight altogether. As far as I can tell, his current career is Professional Sexcapade Artist. He crosses to shake her hand but Nick trips him.
I make a mental note to send Nick a case of his favorite expensive wine.
“And this, everyone, is Marlee Reed,” I say. “She’s my roommate. Smells a lot better than my last two.”
“Hey now,” says Nick.
“We smell fantastic,” adds Jonas. “Do you like it? It’s new.”
I roll my eyes at the two of them and then wink at Marlee, who’s laughing at them but the smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. My stomach sinks for her- the audition must not have gone well. And she was so excited about this one, a part she swore up and down had to have been written just for her.
It’s some kind of scripted dancing show, combining her incredible work ethic for movement with her born talent for acting.
She’s been practicing her scene nonstop for a week.
“So, how did it go?” I ask, lowering my voice to talk only to her while my brothers banter about who’s the stinkiest. I’m trying not to stand too close, not to give them any more ammunition, while feeling like this could also be a moment where an arm-pat is needed.
“How did what go?” she asks. She turns that half-smile on me as she flips her hair over her shoulder. I can smell her from across the room. Marlee’s signature scent, she’s informed me, is jasmine tea. It’s delicious.
“How did your mom go? Come on, you know I want to hear all about the audition. I need a full debrief, soldier.”
“It was interesting. I mean, I got a lot of information on how it all works.”
She walks over and curls up on the couch. She pulls her feet up under her and rests against the pillow Nick just fluffed. I have an unreasonable moment of anger that he was the one who made her comfortable, not me. I’m the one who’s been her comfort since the breakup. It’s a role I hadn’t realized I’d gotten so protective of. It’s just that she’s such a nice girl, and this town can be so awful to nice people.
I want to break her fall, all of her falls, and ensure that she doesn’t lose herself trying to make it here.
“It’s fine. It was a stupid part and the show looked terrible. We’ll find you something better,” I say, trying to reassure her, wishing I could use my thumb to smooth the little worried frown on her forehead. She looks up at me in surprise.
“You idiot. I got the part. Take it back!”
“Holy shit,” I say. “The part is an epiphany, and the show is Emmy-bound. Was it the one you wanted?”
“No.” she closes her eyes briefly. “It’s bigger. Secondary lead in the ten-episode series.”
“Holy shit! Nick, Jonas. Go into the kitchen and look for pink shit!” I order. My brothers stare at me. Then Nick gives Jonas a look and they both wander into the kitchen.
“We should celebrate,” Nick calls out over the sounds of rummaging. Yeah, obviously.
I sit down on the couch next to Marlee, the grin on my face stuck at top volume.
“I knew you would get it,” I say. I reach over and touch her leg and the firm muscle of her calf. Her long black eyelashes flash up as she meets my gaze, looks down, and then slowly draws them up my body to my face. I modify, do a little pat, take my hand away.
“There’s still a lot to sort out. I have to wait a month for the producer to finish up his current project before I really get the details, but hey! It’s my very first Hollywood job. I do kind of want to go over some things with you later, though.” she says. The grin falls away as I quickly think of the possibilities for her not-quite-happiness.
I bet they’re lowballing her salary. Just because this will be her debut. Those motherfuckers. Marlee will be the star of the show, regardless of who landed the lead, and they’re going to regret this. I’m already pulling out my phone to text my agent to have some firm words with her agent when my brothers come back in and Marlee cracks up.
“Later,” she says, between cackles.
My idiot, animal brothers have come back with strawberry yogurt, a tub of strawberry protein powder, and a slightly wrinkled beet.
“Not much to party with,” Jonas says. “But this was everything pink we could find.” He sets down his offerings on the coffee table. “Things are different in the Midwest,” he remarks, with the tone of a television anthropologist.
“It’s a wonder any of you survived to adulthood,” Marlee says, “Pink shit is what Jake calls the rosé wine. Don’t you blame the great state of Missouri for your foolishness.”
With that, Nick and Jonas accept her as one of their own, swapping insults and making my heart feel weird and full. But like, not quite warm, because I don’t want Marlee to be one of the bros. I want her to be more. My mind is doing calculations again, engineering a way to show her what I want without telling her, a way to turn tonight into what she deserves.
“Nick, text Nat. We’re going dancing.” I can’t think of a better way to celebrate than by doing the one thing all four of us have in common. You know, plus shots. Marlee looks at me with utter adoration in her eyes, seemingly at peace for the first time since she walked in, and says the worst possible thing.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you. Let’s be best friends forever.”
Chapter Two
Marlee
I’ve learned a lot of things today, not least of wh
ich is that karaoke bars in LA are nothing like in Missouri.
I mean, the songs are the same: Don’t Stop Believin’. Total Eclipse of the Heart. Salt-N-Pepa for the white girls, and there’s always that one guy who thinks he’s creatively ironic when he sings Barbie Girl. But at home when someone chooses Hey Jude, there’s always that totally mortifying moment when the singer drunkenly realizes they only knew the title line, which they sing enthusiastically, and none of the actual lyrics, which they sway and hum to instead.
It’s half the fun of karaoke, watching the trainwrecks.
Not at this bar. Every performance is riveting, from the ones on stage to the ones every patron of the establishment puts on for one another. It’s all very disappointing. I was really looking forward to the shit-show tonight, seeing as my life has become one. My misery wanted company.
On the plus side, it means that I actually do have something to dance to, and tonight, dancing is exactly what I need. Nothing else on earth, not even running, empties my mind and leaves me feeling like a shiny new penny the way dancing does. A shiny, sweaty new penny, I correct, on my way to the bar.
There’s not enough rosé in the thirty-mile zone to calm my racing mind, but between the dancing and the eye candy, I’ll probably survive the night.
Like, Jake is my bestest friend. But he’s also hot as hell. And as he’s talking to the DJ with that little smirk on his face, ideas are running through my mind. Too fast for me to grab, exactly, I just know that the answers to my problems are there.
