by Tracy Wolff
He didn’t answer and she didn’t push. Instead, she walked to the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of eggs, some fruit, and some cheese. “I’m not a very good cook,” she told him as she started rummaging around the cupboards for a bowl. “But even I can make an omelet without too much trouble.”
“You don’t have to cook for me.” His voice sounded rusty, and when she glanced over her shoulder at him, he was watching her with a look so intense it took her breath away.
“I know I don’t have to,” she told him. “I want to. Besides, I’m hungry. An earth-shattering orgasm will do that to a girl.”
“I wouldn’t know,” he answered, sounding glib. “Not having had an earth-shaking orgasm of my own.”
She laughed. “Eat some eggs and we’ll see about remedying that.”
“Food, with the promise of sex after? Has any guy, ever, turned that combination down?”
“Nice to know rock gods are the same as any other guy underneath,” she told him as she began cracking eggs into a bowl.
“Is that your way of calling me basic?” he asked, brow raised.
“I’m pretty sure rock gods, by definition, can’t be basic. Not to mention it’s probably in your contract.”
His smile faded. “Yeah, well, a lot of things are in my contract.”
“Including the fact that Bill Germaine can’t bully you into quitting the band. The guys checked.” And so had she, but she couldn’t tell him that, not if she was going to keep her cover as social media director.
A quick flicker of his eyes was the only indication he’d even heard her and she decided not to pursue it. At least not yet…
The next few minutes passed in a companionable silence as Poppy cleaned and sliced up some fruit before setting a platter of it in front of Wyatt. “Eat,” she urged as he looked at the plate like he’d never seen such a thing before. “You need the vitamins.”
“I’m a grown man. Drug and alcohol addiction aside, I do know how to take care of myself, you know.”
Yeah, because she’d seen so much evidence of that in the time she’d been in Austin. No wonder Caleb had sent her down here—Wyatt totally needed a keeper. Not that she said that to him, though. Instead, she just nodded at the plate, telling him, “So prove it.”
He rolled his eyes at her, but as she slapped a slice of butter in a pan and set it on the stove to melt, she noticed that he was dutifully popping a strawberry in his mouth.
Once the butter was melted, she got the eggs and cheese in the pan and within minutes was sliding a slightly lopsided but completely edible omelet onto a plate, along with a couple of slices of whole wheat toast. But when she went to hand said plate to Wyatt, surprise flashed across his face for just a moment.
“Now is not the time to tell me you don’t like cheese omelets,” she informed him as she poured more eggs in the skillet for her own dinner.
“Definitely not what I was going to say,” he answered, and for the first time she realized that there was a red tinge to his cheekbones. She had no idea what she’d said or done to embarrass him, but she kept an eye on him as she cooked—and it was only partly because the slight blush somehow made him even more attractive.
He ate the fruit, but kept looking at the omelet she’d set in front of him like it was an alien life form. And she noticed that he definitely didn’t touch it.
“I was just joking, you know,” she said as she slid a second omelet onto her own plate. “I can totally make you something else if you don’t like eggs.”
“No!” Wyatt all but shouted, then lowered his voice at her look of alarm. “No, no, I like omelets just fine. It’s just…except for Jamison, no one’s ever cooked for me before. Thank you.”
“No one?” she asked curiously.
“Well, my mom, when I was little I guess. But not since I was six.”
She didn’t know what to say to that, didn’t know what she could say that wouldn’t sound like she pitied him. Especially since she did have a ton of empathy for him—and the small boy he’d once been. Bill Germaine might be a bastard, but he’d always made sure she and Caleb were well cared for. It hurt her that Wyatt obviously hadn’t had the same experience.
As if he sensed that he’d turned the whole conversation into a downer, Wyatt concentrated on keeping the rest of dinner light. He told a couple of really funny stories from before things had gone to hell on the last tour, and even filled her in on why Quinn’s favorite Harley was now a hot pink, bedazzled mess (the answer being because Elise was diabolical and—according to Wyatt—the only woman who had ever been able to handle Quinn).
By the time he moved on to stories about Jamison and Ryder—and how Jared had definitely not taken that whole relationship well—her sides hurt from laughing. She was totally charmed by this new side of Wyatt. He was wry, sarcastic, witty, but somehow also really kind and understanding of his friends’ foibles, and she loved it.
Loved listening to the way his voice changed when he talked about them.
Loved even more the way his eyes turned a soft, swirly, happy blue with no darkness or angst in sight.
It was a rare enough occurrence that she found herself studying him, trying to memorize every detail of this version of Wyatt. Happy Wyatt. She wanted to tuck this picture of him away, wanted to hold it deep inside of herself for the rainy days she knew were coming.
But eventually the food ran out and so did the stories. She could see Wyatt kind of come back to himself, could see the moment he remembered he’d quit the band and would no longer have access to all the funny little things that happened between them. It was like the light inside him had been extinguished and his whole being plunged back into darkness.
And though she knew it was exactly the wrong thing to do, she couldn’t help resting a hand on his knee as she asked, “Are you okay?”
Those three words were all it took for his eyes to go dull and his face to close completely up. Not that she was surprised—every time she’d tried to have any kind of meaningful conversation with him at all, Wyatt had used sex to distract her. And himself.
And much as she’d like to take him into the bedroom and let him have his way with her—or have her way with him (she was flexible like that)—she couldn’t just ignore what had happened today. Couldn’t just let it go, not when it was obviously still bothering him. And not when she was terrified her father’s bullshit would set him right back to using.
She might be terrified of him and the feelings that were growing between them despite her best intentions, but she was even more terrified for him.
“I’m fine,” he said, pulling away from her both physically and emotionally. As he did, she realized for the first time just how much he’d let her in since their first meeting. It left her feeling bereft, though she knew it was stupid. After all, she’d known him less than a week.
But she’d known of him a lot longer than that, had been emotionally invested in him pretty much from the moment she’d first discovered Shaken Dirty. Now that she actually knew him—knew how hurt and how strong he was—she was a million times more invested. Which was why she had to keep pushing.
“You sure?” she asked, wrapping her hand around his bicep and holding him in place as he went to get up. “I know Germaine was awful today. I’m sorry.”
“I already told you, you don’t have to apologize for him. Besides, he didn’t say anything that wasn’t true. I’m not good for the band.”
“Will you stop with that?” she demanded, pulling at his arm until he turned to face her again. “Do you have problems? Yes. Does everyone have problems? Yes. Shaken Dirty wouldn’t be the same without you, and you know it.”
He opened his mouth, and for a second he looked like he was actually going to say something real. She braced herself for it, but in the end he just shrugged off her hand and headed for the front door. The asshole.
“You don’t get to do that,” she said, rushing to stand in front of him. “You don’t get to spend the afternoon worrying a
ll of us, then barge in here and make me come, and then just get the hell out the second things turn uncomfortable for you. That’s not how this shit works.”
“That’s exactly how it works. If you don’t believe me, just ask the others. It’s what I’ve been doing for years—I mean, not the making them come part obviously, but the show up, fuck things up and then disappear thing…yeah. That’s pretty much my modus operandi. If you don’t like it, then you’re welcome to go running back to the label.”
“What do you care what I do, considering you’re no longer part of the band or the label?”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “You don’t actually think that reverse psychology bullshit is going to work on me, do you?”
“Honestly, I don’t know what’s going to work on you! You’re so busy seeing yourself as the villain that you don’t see the man everybody else does. Have you made mistakes? Yes. Are you the only person on the planet to make mistakes? Not even close. So stop beating yourself up about it and get your shit together. Because Shaken Dirty is going on tour in a few weeks, and you know as well as I that they won’t do it without you.”
“Don’t you get it? That’s the whole point! That’s why I have to be the one to walk away. Because they are so blindly, stupidly loyal, that they won’t. And it’s just a matter of time before I fuck up again! I already cost them nine million dollars and a huge hit to their careers. I don’t want to be responsible for anything else happening to them, and I sure as shit don’t want them in the crossfire when I mess up.”
“You think they’re the only stupidly loyal people in this band? You’re the one willing to quit preemptively, just so you don’t hurt them anymore. If that’s not loyalty, I don’t know what is.”
“Better I quit now than fuck up again and ruin everything.”
“You know, you’re an addict. You’re not Satan. And if you want to protect them, don’t do drugs again. Don’t drink. Make the choice not to put them in this position again. It really is that simple.”
For long seconds, he didn’t say anything. He just stared at her as he processed what she’d said. As she waited for him to speak, she prayed that she’d gotten through to him. Prayed that he would acknowledge, for one second, how valuable he was to this band. Because if he did that, if he was willing to believe that, maybe she had a chance of convincing him how valuable he was as a person.
She didn’t know what he’d gone through in the past, before Shaken Dirty started to blow up. All she knew was that it was bad. Based on what Quinn had said, and how fucked up Wyatt’s self-esteem was, she knew it couldn’t be anything but. Which was why she’d spent the hours since Quinn left scouring the internet, trying to figure out just what had happened to him.
She hadn’t found it yet, but she would. She was determined to. She had to if she was going to fight to get through to him, going to fight for him. Every instinct she had told her Wyatt hadn’t had enough people in his life willing to do that.
Eventually, he threw himself out of the chair, his face a mask of torment and self-doubt as he crossed to the sliding glass door that led to a balcony that overlooked downtown Austin. “You make it sound so easy,” he said, as he stared out at the cars fighting their way through the streets.
“Of course it isn’t easy. If it were, you wouldn’t be in this position to begin with. But you think your bandmates deserve everything they’ve got, right?”
“Of course they do.” His voice was firm, without doubt. “They’ve worked their asses off for everything we have.”
“Well, then, if you can’t or won’t fight for yourself right now, fight for them. And keep fighting, every day, so that Jared and Quinn and Ryder get everything that you think they deserve.”
He shook his head, and she could tell he was going to refute what she’d told him. Could tell he was going to come up with another reason as to why he wasn’t good enough. Why he couldn’t be trusted. And it made her crazy.
Before she could think better of it, before she could even try to choose her words with care, she exploded. “Jesus, Wyatt. Wake up and look around you. You’ve got a really good chance here to turn your life around, and everyone—with the exception of the label douchebags—is behind you. You should be ready to take on the world. Or at least not so hell-bent on cataloging your sins that you’re hiding from it. Can’t you see—”
“I went to a bar today,” he interrupted. “I ordered a tequila.”
For a moment, just a moment, it felt like the whole world had frozen, as all her hopes and fears came crashing down around her at the same time.
She tried to think of what she was supposed to say to that, of how she was supposed to convince him to try yet again. But then she looked at him, really looked at him, and she knew.
“You might have ordered that tequila,” she whispered, “but you didn’t drink it.”
Chapter Fifteen
For a second, he couldn’t believe that he’d heard Poppy correctly.
He’d just told her that he had ordered a drink. And her response was to have faith in him. To believe that he hadn’t taken a drink. That he hadn’t fucked up his sobriety.
The fact that she was right, that he had left that bar completely stone-cold sober and headed straight here, mattered less than the look on her face. Less than the fact that she believed in him when she had no reason to.
For a moment, the little baggie of heroin in his pocket weighed heavy on him. Much, much heavier than the three grams it was measured out to be. He hadn’t touched the stuff since Rollo had handed it to him. Hadn’t even gone looking for a head shop to buy needles and a new kit.
Oh, he’d thought about it. Of course he’d thought about it.
He’d thought about the anticipation he felt when he was heating the powder on the spoon.
He’d thought about the sharp prick of the needle in his vein.
He sure as hell had thought about the sweet lassitude that came after he shot up, the slow burn followed by the bliss that came from nodding out. He’d thought about that a lot.
But in the end, he’d shoved the bag deep in his pocket and driven in the opposite direction from his apartment. He’d driven here, to the label’s apartment, because his need to hold Poppy, to kiss her and feel her come, was even greater than his need for the drugs.
From one addiction to another, he thought wryly. And how ironic was it that her name was Poppy, when for years that little red flower had been the biggest nemesis in his life. And now there was her. Somehow, after only a few days, what she thought of him—how she looked at him—was more important than being numb.
He didn’t get it, would probably never get it, but for now he was going with it. It was so much better than the alternative, after all.
“How’d you know?” he asked hoarsely, his hand shoved deep in his pocket where he could feel the cool plastic of the heroin baggie. “I could have chewed gum before I got here.”
“Because I’m getting to know you,” she answered, crossing the room until she was only a few scant inches from him. “And no matter what you tell yourself, no matter how bad the cravings get, I know you’re so much stronger than that.”
“Just because you believe that doesn’t make it true.”
“Sure it does. That’s the power of positive thinking.” She reached for him then, wrapped her arms around his waist and pulled his body flush against hers. “Besides, it’s not whether I believe it that matters. It’s whether you believe it.”
Her hand slipped under his T-shirt, her fingers dancing lightly up his spine as she pressed her breasts against his chest, her sex against his thigh.
And just that easily, she had him. Just that easily, the edges dulled on the craving that had been riding him hard ever since he’d woken up that morning, replaced by the desperate need for her currently pounding through his blood. Through his brain.
Through his dick.
“Fuck,” he told her on a groan. “You feel good.”
“So do you,” she said, her
voice just a little breathier than it had been mere moments before. “So, so good.”
She slid a hand into his hair, pulled his face down to hers. And then her mouth was on his, her tongue licking its way along the seam of his lips. He opened to her because he had to, because he couldn’t not let her in when she was holding him so carefully. Kissing him so tenderly. Making him feel so much—and so good—when earlier all he’d wanted was to be numb.
But standing here with her right now—breathing in the sweet strawberry scent of her breath, feeling the way her soft breasts rose with each jagged inhalation, hearing the broken little cries she made as her body strained against his—he wouldn’t trade this feeling for all the numbness in the world. Wouldn’t trade Poppy in his arms for any amount of heroin.
It was a terrifying thought—and a tantalizing one. This idea that with her he could find surcease from the torment that had ridden him for far too long.
With a groan, he pulled her closer. Held her tighter. Kissed her harder, until she was moaning, too, her hands clutching desperately at his hair as she nipped and sucked and licked at his lips, his tongue, the corner of his mouth.
“Fuck.” It was as much a prayer as it was a curse as he slid his hands down her long, slender back to cup her ass. And then he was lifting her against him, wrapping her legs around his waist as he turned them around and pressed her up against the sliding glass door that led to the balcony.
Below her, Austin’s lights glittered like stars and for a second—just a second—he was spellbound by the beauty of them. Of her. Of this moment, when for so long he’d been unable to appreciate the beauty in anything.
He shuddered at the realization, buried his face in the curve where her neck met her shoulder. And breathed. Just breathed.
She held him for long seconds, her arms and legs wrapped tightly around him as she whispered soft words in his ear, loving words that somehow made it both easier and harder for him to breathe. To think. To just be.
