Best Friends Forever_A Marriage Pact Romance

by Jess Bentley

  Merrill claps me on the shoulder with an approving look as he and Rose filter out, talking about the notes they have for the mixing and the order of the tracks. That’s all stuff for them to take care of. I just make the music. What they do with it afterward is not my problem or concern.

  “So, that went well,” Chelsea says, rocking on her heels.

  “Yeah,” I say, still thinking about how soon this is going to be over.

  “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow?” She sounds hesitant and I know this is my opportunity. I gotta step up now and take it.

  “You could come back to my place and we can work on the new song. My brain’s been working on that melody all day and I might just have something.”

  Her mouth opens, like she’s shocked at the very idea of me inviting her to my house. I know what she’s thinking, and she’s not wrong, but if she doesn’t want anything more than songwriting that’s where we’ll stop.

  “I’m not going to hurt you, Chelsea. We have work to do, is all.”

  She shrugs, trying to play off the hesitation, but I already saw it for what it was and it leaves me with a bitter taste.

  “Sure, I guess we should really hammer that out with this tight schedule.”

  “Cool, I’ll send you the address,” I say, heading out of the studio before I can lash out. That wariness in her eyes hurt. Like she really thinks after all the time we’ve spent together that I’d try to get her to my place to take advantage of her.

  Fuck her crazy? Yes.

  Take advantage of her? Never.

  Whatever happens between Chelsea and me will be completely, undeniably consensual. Though after that look, I’m not sure there’s any danger of anything at all happening.

  Chapter 8

  Chelsea

  I can’t believe I’m doing this. I can’t believe I’m being stupid enough to go to Ian’s house alone. It’s not that I’m worried about him doing something I don’t want… It’s that I do want it, and I definitely shouldn’t.

  Singing with Ian is like foreplay. He knows all the right notes to hit, all the right buttons to press, and it never fails to make me weak in the knees.

  I’m pretty sure no one else noticed the way every look from him made my body flush. And I’m praying that no one noticed how his smiles nearly made me forget my own damn lyrics.

  But I did. So I should know better. And here I am, on my way to his damn house. Apparently, no matter how much I tell myself that Ian Monroe is off-limits, my body refuses to listen, pulling me toward him like we’re two magnets, unable to resist the connection between us.

  I need a little extra time to give myself a pep talk, so I stop at my favorite sandwich place and grab us both subs. I don’t really know what he likes, but my experience with guys like him is that they’ll eat just about anything you put in front of them, so I’m not too worried. Besides, now he won’t have one-upped me with coffee and donuts.

  I have to admit, that was a pretty big factor in me agreeing to go to his place. He paid enough attention to me yesterday to notice how I made my coffee and as silly as it sounds, it was really sweet. And remembering the hungry look in his eyes as I licked sugar off my fingers definitely contributed to me agreeing to meet him. Which is pretty much the opposite of what it should do, but even thinking about it now has me squirming and squeezing my thighs together to ward off the sudden rush of arousal.

  That man is basically walking sex, and by all accounts, he wants me. That kind of attention is intoxicating, especially because I know with Ian it’s not just about my fame and money. With Ian, I know it’s the music that gets us both going, the way we work together so perfectly in the studio only makes us think we’d work together equally well in the bedroom.

  But that is not why I’m going to his house. I’m going to his house because I had a ton of fun with him in the studio today and I’m not quite ready for it to be over. I’m going because we still have this song we need to finish and an album that might be done before we manage it.

  So there are lots of reasons to be going to Ian’s house. Not sex.

  I pull up to his address and nearly leave again. This is not really a house. This is a freaking mansion. There’s a big wrought-iron gate at the end of the drive, guitars made out of the swirls of metal, and I just shake my head. Leave it to a rockstar. There’s a button at the gate and I press it, expecting someone to ask me who I am and why I’m here, but the gates just swing open. Trees line the long drive up to the front of his house and huge columns flank the big double door. The place has kind of a modern Mediterranean vibe with ivy growing up the walls and wrought-iron balconies hanging from the upper levels. It’s definitely ostentatious, but it’s nice. A lot nicer than what I’d expect from someone with a drug addiction.

  That’s because he’s clean, a little voice whispers.

  You don’t know that for sure, my other, more reasonable voice snaps back. I thought Eric was clean too, and look how that turned out.

  I park in front of the steps and the doors swing open to let Ian out.

  “Glad you made it. I was starting to worry you’d got lost.”

  “I brought lunch,” I say, walking around to the other side to grab the sandwiches. “I hope you’re cool with a ham and turkey club?” I wave the wrapped sub at him and he takes it without a second’s pause.

  “Shit, and here I thought I was going to have to make a frozen pizza. You’re an angel.”

  He’s already tearing into the paper and shoving the sandwich into his mouth as he turns and waves for me to follow. Just as well, I don’t want him to see the embarrassing blush that’s burning my cheeks right now. In my line of work I get plenty of compliments. Unending praise. But none of it ever feels as genuine as that one little comment from Ian, and that makes it mean so much more.

  The front doors of the house spill into a huge three-story atrium with a skylight that makes the black marble floors glitter. Out past the living room and a wall of windows, I see a picture-perfect pool sparkling in the sun. I have a brief thought of jumping in to cool off from this heat that Ian’s ignited, but then the thought of him shirtless and me in a bikini only makes that heat worse.

  “Studio’s in the basement,” he says through a mouthful of sandwich, turning down a spiral staircase.

  “This is a really nice house,” I say absently. The basement is completely finished and probably nicer than the studio we recorded in this morning. The walls are covered with thick sound-dampening foam and there’s a comfortable-looking arrangement of sofas and armchairs along with a mini fridge and a pair of TVs. But the thing that catches my eye is the mixing board. It’s twice as big as any I’ve ever seen and has more flashing lights than a Vegas nightclub.

  “Pretty, isn’t she? I barely know how to use half her features, but I couldn’t pass her up when someone offered.”

  My fingers trail over the boards, just needing to touch something so pretty, but then I remember why I’m here.

  “So, you’re done percolating?” I ask, snapping out of it.

  “Close to it,” he says, shrugging. Somehow, he’s managed to inhale the whole sandwich already and he balls up the wrapper, tossing it in a trash can in the corner. “Thanks, that really hit the spot,” he says, going to the fridge and pulling out a bottle of water.

  “Payback for coffee and breakfast.”

  “If you think that was good, you should let me make you a real breakfast sometime.” The casual way he says it tells me that he didn’t mean it to be an overt innuendo, but that’s immediately where my mind goes and I know my face tells the whole story.

  Even Ian seems a little embarrassed by the unintended nature of his comment and he clears his throat, grabbing a guitar from the wall.

  “Anyway, here’s what I’ve got.”

  I sit down and unwrap my sandwich, eating it at a much more reasonable pace while he gives me the melody and the chord progressions. I’m singing along in my head and I realize that one of the lines doesn’t quite work, so I put
the sandwich down, grab my notebook, and scribble a correction.

  Ian looks horrified when I glance up at him.

  “What?”

  “I can’t believe you just scribbled all over that.”

  “What are you talking about? It’s a notebook… I’ve seen yours,” I add with a stern look. His notebooks look like a pen exploded all over them.

  He shakes his head. “Your writing just looks like it should be on display in a gallery or something.”

  I roll my eyes. “It’s not that nice. Besides, I had to spend a ton of time practicing for autographs.”

  “No you didn’t,” he says, taking my pen and scrawling a scribbled line on the paper. “There. Autograph.”

  “Give me a second,” I say, whipping out my phone, “I need to put this on eBay.”

  “Now who’s not being serious,” he teases me. This back-and-forth seems so natural, so comfortable that I almost let myself forget what a bad idea Ian is for me.

  “All right then, let’s play through it all the way,” I say, scooting closer to him so we can both read my lyrics and I can hear the music better. Our legs are touching on the couch and it sends an electric thrill all the way to my toes, making me feel as jittery as the first performance after a long hiatus.

  He strums the first chord, then picks out the melody before putting them together. The moment the words and the music come together, I know we have something amazing. Like, chart-topping, record-breaking amazing. It’s not often that I get that feeling, but once you’ve been in the biz as long as I have, you learn to trust it when you do get it. And boy was I getting it.

  The song’s romantic at first, about falling for someone you know you shouldn’t have, but with his new chord progressions, the second verse is sultry and angsty, a perfect fit for the “you’re bad for me, but so good I can’t quit” feeling of the song. The way our voices meld with the music has my body waking up in a major way. My blood’s pumping hot and fast, sending need pure and strong straight to my core. I can feel myself getting wetter, feel my nipples getting hard as Ian’s suggestive lyrics tease over me like a dirty promise.

  It’s embarrassing, but by the time the song’s over, I’m clenching and needy in a way I’ve never felt before. I’m almost afraid to look at Ian, but when I do, he’s panting and flushed too, his eyes lit up with this wildness I’ve never seen. He felt it too.

  Before either of us can say anything or think better of it, we’re crashing into each other, his lips capturing mine, our tongues warring as I pull him closer to me and practically straddle him. The energy’s still crackling around the room, egging us on, fanning the need for more. His hands slide down my sides, slipping under my ass with a squeeze before his fingers slip under the hem of my dress, dancing up the backs of my thighs.

  It’s like a splash of cold water and I immediately come to my senses, pulling away from him and jumping off the couch like it’s on fire.

  “I need to go,” I say quickly, snatching my notebook and leaving the other half of my sandwich on the table without a look back.

  “Chelsea, don’t,” I hear him say, but I’m already at the door. “Chelsea, wait!” he calls, but I’m already jogging up the spiral staircase and out to my car before I can second-guess myself. I don’t even let myself look back. I don’t want to know if he’s coming after me. I don’t want to think about what that was or how amazing it felt to finally give in to the crazy feelings I’ve had swirling around him since day one. Ian Monroe is trouble, and this little incident only served to prove that even more. I can’t let my guard down around him again.

  As I’m driving away, my lips are still tingling, my skin still burning where he touched me, and all I can think about his how badly I want to turn around and make some very bad decisions with him. But like I told Rosa, I’m a good girl, and good girls don’t get tangled up with bad boys like Ian Monroe. Especially not if they want to keep their reputation intact.

  Chapter 9

  Ian

  Not gonna lie, I definitely considered not showing up this morning. After that little… whatever the hell it was yesterday, part of me doesn’t want to face Chelsea, and the other part is desperate to get some damn answers out of her.

  I’d dreamed of kissing her, of getting my hands on her body, but I never imagined that Chelsea Garten would be the drug that did me in. Her lips are like heaven, her soft, shuddering breaths the best music I’ve ever heard. And I’m dying for more, but there’s no way I’m going to push it until we talk about why she ran out on me.

  I’ve got some ideas of course. A lot of them, in fact. But I learned in rehab that you can’t always just assume the worst and act on that before finding out the truth. That’s a one-way ticket to self-sabotage.

  So I’m at the studio again, bright and early, muttering to myself about getting up at this ridiculous hour just to “prove” something to a girl that probably doesn’t give even a fraction of a damn. I’m empty-handed this morning, not knowing where we stand, not wanting to push it. Of course I’d love to do more with Chelsea, but if this is where she draws the line, I need to know before I make our working relationship unbearably awkward and uncomfortable.

  I’m doing my actual warmups when she walks in, looking as beautiful as ever, even if her eyes do have a hint of purple ringing their undersides. I nod at her, but otherwise don’t stop my warmups or pay her much attention. I know how these things work. The first person to break the silence is the vulnerable one, the one open to rejection. So I’m keeping my mouth shut and focusing on the job.

  By the time Chelsea’s in the recording booth with me, her eyes are narrowed and her mouth is set in a thin line. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see her watching me, her eyes flicking in my direction every so often as another pointed sigh rushes out of her. She can huff and puff all she wants; she’s the one that ran out and she needs to explain herself. I’m not a fucking mind reader. I don’t know what her mixed signals mean. She kisses me, then she runs. Then she looks annoyed that I’m not friendlier with her? Disappointed even? What does she expect? An apology? I didn’t do anything wrong. She kissed me as much as I kissed her. I’m pretty used to taking the blame for shit, but for once, I’m going to stand my ground. She doesn’t just get to have a convenient junkie scapegoat.

  Honestly, it’s probably for the best. She’s been nothing but a distraction from the first moment I saw her. At least now, with this tense silence between us, I can distract myself with being annoyed rather than aroused.

  Small steps, right?

  Chelsea pulls out her phone and frowns at it before flipping it around to me. “Rosa said to start without them; they’ll be here soon. Label business.”

  “Fine,” I say. “‘Twisted Heart’?” I ask, naming one of my songs, the next on the line to be recorded. She nods and I strum the first chords with far more force than necessary, the notes coming out even angrier than usual.

  She comes in on the wrong beat and I stop, and start again, not saying anything though I can see the tension tightening her shoulders.

  The second time we start, the harmony is shit. I’m not sure which one of us is doing it, but it sounds bad and we both abandon it before the first chorus.

  The third attempt isn’t any better because now I’m forgetting the fucking words to a song I’ve been touring with for seven years. It’s ridiculous and we’re both frustrated, but we keep at it, trying again and again, and again without any real success. I’ve lost count of how many attempts we’ve gone through when the lights in the lounge come on to show Merrill and Rosa frowning at us.

  Rosa looks entirely dismayed, like she’s just watched her puppy get caught in traffic without being able to do anything about it. Merrill looks disappointed, which is somehow worse. He’s had so much faith in me when no one else did and now I’m letting him down because some flighty little country star’s gotten under my skin. It’s bullshit.

  “Should we take a break for a few hours? Perhaps we’re moving too quickly on th
is,” Merrill says, and I can see him measuring each word carefully, still earning a shocked look from Rosa, which quickly turns resigned.

  “Maybe he’s right. If this one’s not working, we can’t force it.”

  “How about we come back around three? Enough time to gather your thoughts and some food,” Merrill suggests.

  I nod. “Yeah, sure, whatever.” I shrug, hanging the guitar up on the wall. Chelsea just gives a silent nod and slips out of the studio. I want to go after her, to ask her what’s wrong, to hold her because she looked like she’s on the verge of tears, but I just stay in the studio, casually putting away all the things I’ll just be taking out again in a few hours. It gives me something to do.

  I send an apologetic look to Merrill on the way out and head to my car with no real destination in mind. Whatever this funk is, I need to shake it off. Chelsea’s just another girl. Another person who will expect too much of me, then act like it’s my fault when I can’t ever possibly deliver. She’s a useful tool to repair my image, but beyond that, she’s nothing but headaches. I’m better off forgetting about her.

  Somehow, without thinking about it, I’m at the beach. The sun’s moving higher in the clear sky, the ocean below almost white with sparkling light. I open the car door and the roar and crash of waves hits me immediately. Salty air tickles my nose as I breathe in deep and head for the nearby bench.

  I’ve been here more times than I can count. Maybe it’s weird to some people, but the ocean calms me. The ebb and flow of the waves feels like the pulse of the entire planet. I read once that if you have trouble sleeping you should try to match your breaths to a sleeping person or animal, to slow your heart rate and trick your body into sleeping. It’s kinda like that meditation thing, but I’ve found that the same method works with the ocean instead of a person or animal. Breathing in time with the waves soothes me, it brings me back to the present, clears my mind in a way that nothing else ever has.