by Abby Brooks
“That’s just the thing. You aren’t supposed to pull attention. We don’t want any cameras pointed our way.”
“Don’t worry, Bailey. I got this.” Liam pulls his hat low and links elbows with me, before pushing out the front door.
“Don’t look at them,” I remind him.
“Nope,” he whispers. “If you don’t gawk, they’ll smell blood. Stare at them like you’ve never seen anything more amazing.” And with that, we step outside. I do my best to stare as the crowd rushes forward but damn, my heart’s racing. I swear we’ve got a big neon sign with his name on it flashing over our heads. Most of the photographers look dejected and turn away within seconds, but one or two cover their eyes and squint in our direction.
As we head towards my truck, I keep praying they’ll lose interest but they don’t. They step off the curb and follow us into the parking lot, spurred on by each new furtive glance over my shoulder. I need a way to distract them. To hide his face. To keep anyone from wondering if they might possibly recognize him.
“Don’t look back,” he whispers.
“They’re still following us.”
“That’s because you keep looking back.”
“You told me to look at them,” I hiss.
“Once. You did that. Now let’s focus on getting out of here.”
I lead him to my truck, but the one or two photographers have turned into four or five and more are stepping off the curb and heading our way. Desperate, I grab Liam by the shoulders, spin him so his back is to them, and reaching up on my tiptoes, press my lips to his.
He freezes, his eyes wide open and staring into mine for a few shocked heartbeats. But the shock only lasts a second. Closing his eyes, Liam kisses me so deeply, so fervently, I forget everything. My blood hums through my veins and I sigh into him, my body softening against his. He drops the Walmart bags to the ground, sliding his hands over the curve of my waist, pressing them into my lower back, drawing me close. After a few delicious seconds that might as well be an eternity, I pull back, stunned, and look up at him.
“They were getting close,” I murmur.
“And you thought that would make them stop?”
Flustered, I stammer around an explanation as my cheeks grow hot. “I didn’t have time to think.”
Liam chuckles and bends to grab the bags, artfully positioning himself behind me. I peek at the crowd and thankfully, they seem fooled by our kiss.
Me? I’m not sure what just happened, but we most definitely crossed a line. Hell, we didn’t just cross it. We stomped all over it, tap dancing the thing right out of existence. However long this guy ends up staying with me, I can’t let that happen again. He may be a spoiled ass, but Liam McGuire knows how to work magic with that mouth and I refuse to be one more person caught under his spell.
LIAM
Bailey looks flustered. And the fact that she’s flustered is flustering her even more. Her cheeks have gone pink and her eyes are wide and round. They’re an interesting shade of blue that might be green. I never really noticed them in the harsh light of the hospital, but out here in the sunlight, they’re fascinating.
“Come on, hot lips.” I smile down at her as her cheeks burn past pink and into bright red. “Let’s get out of here before we draw their attention again.”
She grabs the bags I dropped and leads me to the passenger side of a dinosaur of a pickup. Rust spots pepper the body of the truck, but when she hauls open the door, the interior is immaculate.
“I’ve got storage bins in the back. I’ll put your bags in there so they don’t fly out.” She glances at me, barely meeting my eyes before she looks at her feet. “Get in before someone sees you.”
I climb into the passenger seat, trying to get acclimated to the roughness of it all. It smells faintly of gasoline or oil, some heavy smell that I don’t equate with Bailey at all. She’s trying to cover it up with a vanilla air freshener, but it’s not working. It just smells like a girly mechanic in here.
While she climbs into the bed of the truck, hauling up the bags of cheap clothes Brent left for me yesterday, I flip down the sun visor and study my face in the mirror. The doctor took the stitches out today. Told me things were healing nicely and that I was very lucky without ever looking up from the chart in his hands.
I stare at the pink scar, raised and swollen, a vicious gash from my hairline to my chin. The accident is a blur. I remember the squeal of the tires, a crunch of metal, and then the whole world going topsy-turvy. I remember screaming and pain so hot I could see it. I remember smelling blood and fire, and that’s all there was until I woke up in the hospital.
They say I should be dead. That I have every reason to be thankful. I keep thinking they're full of shit. My life is in shambles. My face—the only reason anyone cares about me at all—is ruined. What exactly do they think I should be thankful for? Being alive? What good is living when I’m about to lose everything I’ve spent the last fifteen years working for?
The driver’s side door opens with a groan and Bailey climbs in. “All set?” she asks as she yanks the thing closed and slides the keys into the ignition.
“Your truck stinks.” I flip the visor closed and put on my seatbelt.
She scrunches up her nose. “Thanks?”
“Do you have a boyfriend or something? It smells manly in here.”
Bailey brings the engine to life and yanks the gearshift into reverse. “This truck used to belong to my dad.”
Nothing in her demeanor makes me think that topic is up for further discussion. I watch her maneuver the truck out onto the road. She looks pretty adorable, being as tiny as she is, trying to manhandle a vehicle this big. We drive for a long time and the buildings fade away until they disappear altogether, replaced by long stretches of cornfields and blue sky. If I thought Grayson was small, apparently it’s the big city to her. She lives in an even smaller town about an hour away called Brookside.
Gravel crunches under the tires as she turns into a long driveway. Bailey’s home is old and reminds me of the truck. She’s done her best to take care of it but it's still falling apart around her. The porch is clean and she’s got flowers blooming in the beds, but the paint is chipping and the windows look drafty. The house has the same feeling as the pickup, where she tried to mask the scent of a mechanic, like the former occupants still own the place more than she does.
The front door opens right into the living room with the kitchen directly behind it. To the right is a small den filled with bookshelves and a piano that devours the majority of the space. It’s sitting right under a window that looks out towards the woods in the back.
“Do you play?” I ask, nodding towards the den as we pass.
Bailey shrugs. “A little.”
She points out the bathroom on our way down a short hallway to the bedrooms. And when I say the bathroom I mean the only bathroom. I don’t know how in the world I thought this was ever going to work. When I invited myself to stay here, I imagined a much larger space, more like what I’m used to in LA. In my mind, we would be in our separate areas of the house and would never really have to interact.
“Here we are,” she says, gesturing to a closed door near the end of the short hallway. She stares at it for a split second longer than she needs to and then opens it up to reveal a sparsely decorated room with a twin bed and a desk under the window. I peer into it, grimacing.
“It used to be my brother’s. Michael.” She leans against the doorframe. “He moved out a few years ago. I just haven’t found anything to do with this room since.”
“You used to live with your brother?”
“I grew up in this house. When my parents died, I inherited it. Michael lived with me until he graduated.”
I nod, staring at the bed. And I thought the one at the hospital was uncomfortable.
“Your stuff is in the truck,” she says, pushing off the wall. “Feel free to get it and make yourself at home. Or not. We can talk later about how long you’re actually stayin
g here.” She points to a door across the hall. “That’s my room. You’re welcome everywhere in the house except in there, understood?” And with that, she walks into her room and closes the door, leaving me to stand awkwardly in the hall.
I was right. The bed is worse than awful. I’ve been awake since before sunrise, just hoping that if I pretended to be asleep long enough, I’d finally drift away. No luck. I heard Bailey get up and mess around on the piano. She definitely downplayed her ability yesterday. Her music is beautiful. I almost got up so I could be in the same room to listen, to take more of it in, but that woman just plain doesn’t like me. I guarantee the second she realized I could hear her, she would stop playing.
Now she’s banging around in the kitchen, and the smell of coffee and sausage wafts down the short hallway and into my room. After the last few weeks of hospital food and weak coffee, I am in the mood for something tasty and extra caffeinated. I hop out of bed and stretch, run a hand through my hair, surprised to find it short. Of all the crazy-ass shit I’ve done, this might be the craziest.
I slide open the closet, or at least I try to. The door catches on something and I wrestle it open only to find myself staring at nothing but empty space. Right. I was the one supposed to bring in my clothes yesterday. I suck in my lips and stare at the pile of yesterday’s clothes on the floor near the bed.
Fuck it.
I’m not getting dressed just to get undressed again. I wander down the hall and out into the main room of the house wearing nothing but my boxer briefs. “Morning,” I say to Bailey, lifting a hand as I pass. For as much as she was banging around in the kitchen just moments before, she’s utterly silent now.
“Morning,” she says, just as I walk out the door.
The sun shines down on me from a clear blue sky and the lush grass tickles my bare feet as I cross the yard. I take a deep breath as I hop up into the back of her truck. The air is clean and refreshing, such a change from the smog and pollution back home.
“Just what in the world do you think you’re doing?” Bailey’s standing on the porch with her hands on her hips, a spatula sticking out of one fist.
“Getting my clothes.”
“In your underwear?”
“There’s no one here to see me. And even if there were, I’ve been on billboards in Times Square wearing less than this.”
Bailey scowls and pops a hip. “I’m someone.”
I pull a lid off one of the bins and fish out the bags of clothes hiding inside. “Huh?”
“I’m someone. You said no one is here to see you. But I’m someone. And I’m here. And I see you.”
I straighten and lift my chin. “And you like what you see, don’t you?”
Bailey shakes her head and walks back into the house without a word. I can’t remember the last time someone wasn’t falling over themself to make me happy. It’s either refreshing or a pain in the ass, I haven’t decided yet. I grab the rest of the bags out of the bins, drop them in my room near the bed, and get dressed in a random pair of shorts and a short-sleeved shirt before heading into the kitchen and taking a seat at the table. Bailey’s at the stove with her back to me, her ass looking scrumptious in a tight pair of jean shorts.
“I like my coffee black, my eggs with a three-to-one ratio of whites to yolks, and my sausage in link form. Preferably made out of turkey.”
Bailey turns, her eyebrows raised and her mouth open. “The coffee is over there.” She points to a coffee pot on the counter. “Mugs and plates are there.” She points to a cabinet. “The eggs are fried and the sausage is pork and comes in patty form. Do with it what you will. If you want anything other than what I have here, you’re welcome to call a cab and buy some groceries.” She carries a plate and mug of coffee to the table and sits across from me while I stare at her in shock.
“Right,” I say, biting off the word and pushing my chair away from the table. I can’t remember the last time I served myself, and I make my irritation evident as I fling open cabinets and plop plates and forks on the counter.
“Listen,” says Bailey when I sit back down at the table. “You put me on the spot with your manager and for some reason I rolled with it. You can stay here until you figure out what you’re doing, but you’re on your own. I’m not one of your people.” She takes a drink of her coffee, eyeing me over the rim of her mug. “And I wasn’t kidding about the patio.” She puts the coffee down with a light laugh and shake of her head. “Okay. That’s kind of a lie. I mostly just said the first thing that came to my mind, but the way I see it, you owe me. Big time.”
“I’m not building you a patio.”
“Well, you’re not staying for free. You can either be useful or get the hell out.” She finishes her breakfast, rinses the plate in the sink, and then turns to face me. The sun streams through the window and gleams in her hair. It tugs at a memory, my mom laughing at something I said back before she moved us out to LA. She was always so beautiful when she laughed.
Bailey squints at me, a question in her eyes. “I have to go to work,” she says, ignoring whatever she saw on my face. She levels a finger at me and smiles. “No parties while I’m gone.”
BAILEY
I pull up in front of my house, worn and weary after three days’ worth of twelve-hour shifts. My arms weigh at least one hundred pounds each, my thoughts come burbling up to me as if through thick mud, and the whole world feels itchy, scratching against my senses like the worst kind of wool sweater. All I want to do is get in my house, collapse on the couch, and sleep for at least a year.
The evening air swelters around me, another weight on my tired shoulders, making the climb up the few stairs leading to my porch downright tedious. I slide my key into the lock and swing the door open, sighing at the blast of cool air brushing past the sweat at my temples. It’s a long drive from Grayson to Brookside, especially in a truck without air conditioning.
“Hey.” The voice comes from my left, Liam, prone on my couch, wearing nothing more than a pair of athletic shorts.
All my hopes of a relaxing evening alone come crashing down around me. I don’t know how I forgot that I have a roommate who constantly gets in my way, but I did. So much for sitting around in my underwear, binge-watching Gilmore Girls on Netflix, and eating nothing but a pint of ice cream for dinner.
“Hey.” I drop my purse on the ground and sigh, offering Liam a weak smile.
“Wow.” He pushes himself up on an elbow so he can see me over the back of the couch. “You look rough.”
“Thanks?” I make a face.
He grimaces, looking almost apologetic. “You just look really tired. No need to get all offended. Damn, Bailey. Don’t be so sensitive.”
“Oh, right. Because everyone likes to be told they look like shit.” I walk around to the front of the sofa and make a shooing motion for him to move his legs. “Besides. Do you really have any room to talk?” I ask as I drop onto the seat, letting my head fall back and rest on the back of the couch. “You’re the one laying down in a living room, no lights on or anything, wearing the exact same thing you rolled out of bed in.”
“Whatever. Like you even know what I wear to bed. You’re already gone by the time I get up.” Liam pulls himself up into a sitting position. “Here.” He gestures with his hands. “Pop those feet up here.”
I roll my head along the back of the couch and eye him suspiciously. “Why?”
“Because I give fucking awesome foot rubs, that’s why.”
“Oh, hell no. That ain’t happenin’. I’ve been on my feet all day and just spent an hour in that sauna I call a truck.” I shake my head. “Believe me, you do not want anywhere near these things right now.”
Liam shrugs. “Suit yourself,” he says and gives his attention back to the television. “Have you seen this?” He indicates the documentary he’s got paused on the screen.
I study the faces, looking for anything familiar in the grainy footage from the seventies. “I don’t think so.”
“What Hap
pened, Nina Simone?” Liam stares at me like I should know what the hell he’s talking about.
“Huh?” I am way too tired to think clearly and his question makes zero sense.
“That’s the name of the documentary.” Liam looks at me like I’m an idiot. “Nina Simone? Piano player? Singer?” When I continue to draw a blank, he drops his jaw. “I Put a Spell on You? Feeling Good?”
I blink, trying desperately to understand. “Oh!” I laugh, nodding as my sludge covered brain finally connects the dots. “Those are song titles.”
“There we go. I knew it had to be in there somewhere.” Liam reaches for his phone and I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t take the moment to appreciate the muscles in his arms and back. With effort, I drag my eyes away from him. The last thing I need is for his ego to notice me noticing him.
“Right,” I say, rolling my eyes. “My bad for not immediately recognizing the name of a documentary I’ve never seen about a singer I’ve only barely heard about.”
“She’s amazing.” Liam pulls up YouTube on his phone. “Here,” he says, scooting so close to me his thigh presses against mine. “Just listen to this.”
He selects a video, hits play, and listens—enthralled—as a song that’s more familiar than I realized starts playing.
“Oh, yeah.” I close my eyes and nod my head to the opening riff. “I know this one.”
He pauses the video. “Of course you do. It’s amazing. Now, shhh. Don’t talk. Just listen.” He starts the video over again and closes his eyes as the music moves through him.
I watch him instead of the phone. The tiny smile that plays across his face. The way his breathing deepens, as if he’s breathing the melody into his bones. My mom used to look that way when she played the piano. And I probably look that way when I play, too.
Liam opens his eyes and catches me staring. “What?” He draws his eyebrows together and shifts away, creating space between us. I don’t know if I’m glad he’s not touching me anymore or if I miss the contact. The fact that I’m confused dredges up a little ball of frustration in my stomach.
