She shrugged, turning to look out into the dark water. The moonlight glittered across the waves. “Lots of late nights. Not much sleeping. The Internet offered an escape.”
“You, like, cyber-stalked me?” I couldn’t keep the shock from my voice.
She fidgeted, sitting up. “I joined your mailing list and found a few old interviews.”
I gripped my hands around my knees, rocking back and forth. “And just what else did you find out about me in your stalking?” Oh, this was too good to pass up.
She looked down at her fingers, dragged them through the sand. “Mmm. This is very uncomfortable for me.”
“I’m not the stalker.”
“It was completely harmless. It’s not like I walked up to your table in a bar.”
“I thought— Never mind.” No way I could tell her what I’d really thought. Not even on this night of honesty.
“What?”
I kept my eyes on hers, hoping she’d understand now what I couldn’t say when she was seventeen. I’d been too old for her then. “I’ve never forgotten you, Dahlia.”
“Puh-lease,” she said, rolling her eyes, unwilling to consider I was serious. But I was. I always had been about her.
“I regretted for years you were Doug’s girl.”
Her eyes snapped to mine. She forced a smile and looked down at the sand. I missed those bright gray eyes focused on me. I gazed out into Puget Sound.
“Favorite song?” I asked, needing to break the tension.
“‘Sweet Solace.’”
“That’s not what I would’ve guessed. That one almost didn’t end up on the album because it was so different from what we were doing then.”
“I’m glad it did. That song lets me know that you’ve experienced pain and loss. ‘Sweet solace in the dreams that can never be . . . You left too soon and I’m struggling to see . . . The beauty in a life without your smile.’“
She would be drawn to those words. “Sounds prettier when you say it.”
“Don’t ask me to sing because I won’t.” She bumped me with her hip. “Not when I’m sitting next to a legend.”
“Funny. But you never struck me as someone who’d want to make music. Or perform.”
“I like to listen. I’ve never yearned for the limelight.” Her brow furrowed as she weighed her words. “Those are real emotions in your lyrics, expressing that you know what it’s like to lose someone you love. That song helped me get through those early days and months after Doug died.”
I opened my mouth. Shut it. Cleared my throat as I decided on a partial truth. “I wrote it when my mom got sick. Breast cancer. It ate her up for years before she finally died.”
She touched my cheek, her eyes softening with empathy. I didn’t tell her I’d been thinking about her as much as my mom. That sounded unrequited, and I’d never liked Romeo and Juliette. He should’ve moved on, like I did.
I hung my head, my turn to feign interest in the sand. A long moment slid passed, the only sound the water lapping at the shore as I searched for a safer topic. “You weren’t kidding about connecting with lyrics. Let me guess—you’re a writer.”
“Mmm. Nailed it in one.”
“Anything I’ve heard of?”
“Doubt it.”
“Color me curious.”
“You ever read a romance novel?” Her muscles tensed, probably because of the usual comments about writing smut.
I sang about affairs—mine and my buddies’—I’d heard all the shaming comments. “A couple.”
“Really?”
“Reading. Yes, I do it. There’s not much else to do between stops. I’m shit at Xbox.” I narrowed my eyes. “You don’t love ‘Moonshine Eyes’?” I had to know. “‘Drifting deeper in my dreams,’” I sang, my voice soft and low. Dahlia shuffled closer, her eyes widening as I continued, “‘I swear I never thought you’d leave.’”
Her lips parted, her tongue darting out to touch the center of her bottom lip just as it had that first time I sang this tune.
I dipped my voice lower. “‘I’ve stared so long into those moonshine eyes, sliding further in the calming sea of pleasure and mystery.’”
“Oh, God,” she whispered, her breath a warm puff across my lips.
Yearning was etched deep in her eyes and the way her luscious mouth opened in welcome.
“I do like that song. So much. It’s beautiful,” she said, her voice reverential.
I wanted to pull her close, mold her soft body to mine. “What if I told you I wrote it for you?”
She leaned back enough that her lips were no longer inches from mine, her eyes darkening with pain. “I’d say you were trying to get in my pants, and we have an agreement.”
I was silent for a long moment, wishing I’d reconnected with her sooner. Later. Any time but now when my life was so totally fucked. I picked up a shell and tossed it hand to hand.
“If I wanted to get in your pants, I’d sing you ‘Let’s do it in the Surf.’ You know, to set the mood.”
She laughed, grabbing her stomach, eventually collapsing back onto the sand. “That’s the song that created my daughter,” she gasped between giggles.
“Wait until I tell the guys we get to claim partial credit for your daughter. And critics say our music doesn’t always live up to its potential.”
“For what it’s worth, I was eighteen, looking for adventure, and hyped from your gig. I met Doug on the beach later that night. He wouldn’t come to your concert.” She sobered, her eyes distant, remembering. “The water was so freaking cold. Don’t do that, by the way.”
“What?”
“Try to make love in Puget Sound.” Dahlia shuddered. “That’s hypothermia waiting to happen.”
Silence enveloped us again. Like the dark, it was comforting.
“So you really read romances?” Dahlia asked. I loved how she looked at me. I had her full attention. She cared about my answer.
“Of course. Jessica reads them, goes through them like they’re candy. My mom was more literary, but she had a couple favorite genre authors. One was a romance writer.”
She snorted. “I bet you read a vampire or BDSM series. Something sensational.”
“Neither. My mom told me about Lia Moore’s books when I was going through a bit of a slump. When Mom died, I wanted to connect with her on some level. She, Lia Moore, I mean, is pretty deep.”
Her shoulders tensed, and she glanced at me from the corner of her eye. I wondered . . . There was no way.
“So what do you write? Anything as good as Lia Moore’s books? Last I heard, she was taking some time off to spend with her family.”
She stood, brushing the sand from the back of her jeans.
“She is. And no, I haven’t typed a word worth reading in years.”
I stood, taking her hand in mine. I was going to miss touching her palm, talking to her. We walked up the beach and sat on a bench, swiping off the sand so we could put on our shoes. We didn’t talk as I led her back along the dark sidewalk.
About a block from our cars, she turned toward me. “I know you didn’t ask for my opinion. This is overstepping the limits of friendship.” She took a deep breath and the words tumbled out. “From someone who’s been on the other side of loss, talk to Jessica. You married her for a reason. Love isn’t something to throw away or let slip through your fingers.”
Emotion rippled through me. I stared into her beautiful, earnest eyes, and I couldn’t tell her it was too late for Jessica and me. I’d signed the separation papers months ago and had the divorce proceeding date to prove it. I forced my lips into a smile as I tapped the side of her nose. “Still a romantic even if you aren’t writing about it these days.”
“Writing about love, for me, means believing in it. I hope you still do.”
“Tell you what. I’ll talk to Jessica if you promise to write another book.” I was a dick for not telling Dahlia the truth, but I wanted her to find something she loved again. The way she’d talked about my
lyrics showed how much writing meant to her.
“You don’t even know if I’ve written anything worth reading.” She dug around in her purse until she pulled out a set of keys.
“I know you, Dahlia Dorsey,” I said. “Your words are worth reading.”
She smiled, a bright, happy beacon in the dark, weed-ridden parking lot.
“I hope life leads you back to love,” she said.
I rubbed her hair through my fingers. “Same goes.” Dropping her hair, loss blossomed in my chest.
She opened the door to her SUV and slid inside. So she didn’t have to look at me? “I’ve had my chance at love.”
“I still say you’re too young to have loved properly or to have a teenage daughter.”
“Bye, Asher. I’m glad we met again.”
Dahlia drove away. Her words slithered through my mind, sincerity dripping from her soft voice: Love isn’t something to throw away or let slip through your fingers.
She was right. Problem was, I’d never loved my wife.
I turned and walked back toward where I’d parked. Dahlia’s panic attack had been horrible to watch. Her hesitancy at holding my hand depressed me. I’d always liked holding hands—for the connection, sure, but also for the imprint of the other person’s emotions.
Snuggling palms with Dahlia had been more intimate than most of the sexual encounters I’d had during my twenties. Maybe because I was sober now. Maybe because I craved a partner who saw and loved me, not my stage persona.
The constant need to guard my expression, my thoughts, animate my actions, be “on” . . . I was tired of all that shit. More, I was tired of trying to make sense out of my personal life.
Mason had been sullen and unresponsive when I called earlier. That wasn’t anything new. He was a smart kid and knew something was wrong between Jessica and me. I was lucky my wife and her lover, one of Mason’s friend’s dads, weren’t splashed over every entertainment station, website, and magazine. I figured it was a matter of time, which was why I’d wanted to keep our separation quiet. Mason didn’t deserve to deal with any more drama in his life.
When Mason had handed Jessica back her phone, she’d told me her lover made four times more a month than I did. Owning car washes.
I almost asked her how much Car Wash Dale’s soon-to-be-ex was going to keep, but I didn’t want to give Jessica any more ideas. She was ambitious. I couldn’t blame her, not after I discovered the extremity of the poverty she had grown up in. Like so many others who’d once not had enough to eat, Jessica was fixated on the zeroes in her bank account.
When she had first pushed me to tour more, I agreed. I wanted some of the trappings of success, too. And I liked the screaming fans, the late-night parties.
Over time, I changed my mind about what success meant. I was thankful I was able to do what I loved. That, right there, was worth a shit-ton of money. I was even more thankful I wasn’t working at a car wash all day, no matter how much Dale made. A car wash might be even worse than a soulless gray cubicle.
I headed up the elevator to my place on the tenth floor. I yanked out the key to my crap apartment as I headed down the hall.
Dropping my keys onto the kitchen counter, I pulled out the papers I’d carried around with me for the past few weeks. Jessica’s first salvo in the divorce war—a list of unreasonable demands designed specifically to piss me off.
Over thirty years later, and the family cycle continued. The kid in me wept bitter tears of resentment all over again. I was no better than my father.
“Moonshine Eyes” filled my head along with an image of Dahlia in the moonlight. Love isn’t something to throw away or let slip through your fingers.
I didn’t want my soon-to-be ex-wife. Hadn’t for years. No, Dahlia was the only woman I’d ever yearned for.
I left Cactus Arrow because I didn’t want to fuck up her life. She’d seemed happy with Doug, devoted even. What right did I have to mess with that?
I breathed out. Pulled up the e-mail I’d typed to my lawyer in response to Jessica’s demands.
I didn’t want to fuck up Dahlia’s life now either. But I still wanted her. More after spending the night with her. I pressed Send on the e-mail.
Game on.
3
Dahlia
“How’d it go last night?” Simon asked, his voice laced with suspicion. He slammed back a huge gulp of his drink. Simon always drank his first cup of coffee fast, the way most people took a shot.
“Well, let’s see . . . I cried all over Asher. And I mean snot and near-heaves.”
Simon’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. “You did not.”
“Mmm hmm. Afterward, we went to the beach, and he said he was trying to work through his marital problems with his wife so his kid had a chance at normalcy.”
Simon shook his head, his dark hair the same shade as Doug’s. But Simon wore his longer, shaggier. Like Asher’s. Clearly, the sexy bedhead look was a rock-star thing.
I liked it better on Asher.
“I was surprised you came home last night.” Simon refilled his cup. No cream this time. He only doctored the first cup.
I’d spent my formative high school years in the Northwest, and I liked my coffee to taste, well, like coffee. I raised an eyebrow as I sipped from my own mug. “Seriously? I’m repressed. You know that.”
“You’ll cut loose one of these days. You don’t just stop the sensual daydreams. Ella’s made me read some of your books because she was sure you and Doug had a way better sex life than we do.”
I laughed so hard I spilled my coffee. “I miss feeling that good.”
“TMI, as Abbi would say,” Simon said, but he was grinning.
“You still have each other,” I said, my tone now serious. “Talk about what you want.” I looked down into my mug, thinking about the last few years of Doug’s life.
“You’ve never mentioned how bad the Huntington’s got,” Simon said.
I gripped my mug. He knew I hated talking about Doug’s illness. Remembering was hard. Not just the disease, but Simon didn’t know that. I measured his facial features as my heartbeat ratcheted. Simon’s eyes were concerned, sad.
He didn’t know. He couldn’t. I turned away, struggling against the anger and anxiety.
“He would’ve died much more slowly, and it would’ve been painful for you and Abbi to see that decline,” Simon said.
I fisted my hands so hard my short nails bit into my palms. “So it’s fine that he went skydiving and didn’t open his parachute?”
Simon came around the island and gripped my arm. “You remember how he acted when he couldn’t play his guitar anymore?”
My cheeks burned with embarrassment. “That’s not a day I’m going to forget.”
“He shouldn’t have taken that out on you, Lia.”
“There were lots of things he shouldn’t have done,” I snapped. I sucked my lip in. I’d kept Doug’s—my—secrets this long. I walked to the coffeepot and refilled my cup, pleased to see how steady my hands were despite my rapid heartbeat.
“I know he was upset, but the insurance company accepted it was an accident. Maybe you could, too,” Simon said.
“I still haven’t gotten all the money from them,” I said, pressing my lips together hard to keep them from trembling. I hated feeling this raw. I hated talking about Doug with Simon, the only one who could understand his brother’s needs and mine, too.
Simon turned and dumped his coffee in the sink. “Lia, you can say it: he was a coward.”
I stared at Simon. We’d worked hard to hold it together, to build a relationship based on more than anger and grief.
“I don’t want to be angry any more.”
Simon touched my tense shoulder. “You’ve been angry since Doug got sick and started acting out, and you deserve to feel that way. I’m still angry, too.” He glanced at the clock. “I need to go get El and the kids.”
I grabbed the sponge and wiped the counters. “I’m coming. Be r
eady in ten,” I promised.
Abbi stood next to a boy about her age, twirling her hair the way she did when she was interested in pursuing whatever she’d started. I thrilled. She was so perfect. Her eyes were bright, her hair glossy.
She was healthy. According to the predictive genetic test, Abbi had been spared the indignity of Huntington’s, and I should be more thankful for that. My daughter was worth all the pain of losing Doug, first to the anger of the disease and then to his “accident.”
Abbi laughed. The boy leaned in and wrapped her in a hug. Seeing her smile, I sighed, knowing she was going to be quiet and withdrawn the whole trip back to Rathdrum. Unless she decided to once again lament her forced existence in middle-of-nowheresville.
Sixteen wasn’t the age to explain concerns about crime statistics and traffic congestion so prevalent in big cities. I wasn’t sure if Abbi was upset with living in a small town or if she was angry we hadn’t moved closer to our family after her dad’s death.
I never wanted Abbi to live with the anonymity of moving every year, or every two if I was really, really lucky, like I had done as a teenager until ending up in Seattle. An introvert unable to open up quickly, I’d found my family’s moves hard even though it meant we’d seen parts of the world most other Americans merely dreamed of.
I hugged Ella. “Hey, how was the trip?”
Ella squeezed me tight before stepping back and sliding her hand into Simon’s back pocket. A piece of her flaxen hair drifted across her pixie face. “Nineteen teenagers and a seven-year-old. Just about what you’d expect. My four parent chaperones were a godsend.” She winked one of those bright green eyes at me, and I was charmed, as always, by my sister-in-law’s Britishness.
“Perhaps next time you can offer your time along with your daughter,” she pressed.
“I’m nowhere near as good with the kids as you are, Ella. Abbi and I get along because we’ve grown up together. I’m going to go say hi and meet her latest crush. That way Simon can tattle on me like he’s dying to do.”
Sweet Solace (The Seattle Sound Series Book 1) Page 3
