by Cari Quinn
He typed the address into his phone and cross-referenced it with her name. Yep. Bingo.
So she was honest sometimes and lied at others. Then again, according to what he’d put down, his phone number was 666-666-6666, so maybe they’d thought they were being funny.
Whatever they’d had to drink should be outlawed.
But hell, he had an address. Now he just needed to convince her that being married to him was not a horrible thing. That maybe it might even be beneficial to them. Okay, maybe just beneficial to him, as he’d worked out in between naps on the plane ride home.
His rep was in tatters, what with the senator’s fiancée thing. What better way to seem like less of a homewrecker than to be happily married?
True, that wasn’t giving her much out of the deal. But surely they could work out an arrangement. They had chemistry in spades. The value of good sex could never be discounted.
Next time, he might even get to remember it.
After pulling on jeans and a T-shirt, he added a hoodie and a pair of aviator glasses just in case. From the state of his email and texts, his recent joyous event had broken in the news in a big way, so it wasn’t unreasonable to assume there might be a few members of the paparazzi outside.
He unlocked his door and peeked out, only to see his hallway full of people who were not the mailman or the UPS dude. No solicitors either. Just jerks with cameras and microphones and greedy expressions.
Holy shit.
He slammed the door and pressed his back to the wood. What now? And shit, was Chloe dealing with this too? If so, she must hate him.
Hate him more, since she hadn’t really seemed too keen on him after their lovely union.
Digging out his phone, he quickly called Josh, his neighbor down the hall.
“Jesus, Michael, is this all for you? What the heck did you do? I know the heat’s been up on you lately, but this is beyond.”
“I got married.” Michael rolled his shoulders. “Hey, is Davey home?”
“Yeah, why?”
“I need you guys to do me a favor. If you do it, I’ll give you whatever you want. Not my Viper,” he added. “Anything but my car.”
“What do you want us to do?”
Michael outlined the plan for his friend, and luckily, Josh—and Davey—were onboard. It wasn’t exactly complicated, and he wasn’t even sure it would work. But luckily, Davey had a similar build to Michael’s, and he’d given him a Warning Sign hoodie just last week.
Long shots at least had a chance, right?
Fifteen minutes later, after Davey had so considerately caused the paparazzi to chase after him in their misguided pursuit, Michael raced down the blissfully cleared out hallway. He headed for the service elevator that would allow him to exit in the alley behind his building.
Another fifteen minutes after that, he was in his Viper and programming the drive to Carson into his GPS.
If the paps were hassling him, that probably meant they were bothering her too. She didn’t deserve that. So he’d just have to get to her place and try to convince her that maybe she would be better off staying with him until the furor died down.
And her son. Couldn’t forget the kid. God, they’d have to babyproof his apartment. Kids liked to stick their body parts into outlets, right? Plus, they tried to drink chemicals and chew on the carpet—
“Dude, she has a baby, not a Chihuahua. Chill.” He exhaled and gripped the wheel.
Yes, he’d been reduced to speaking out loud to calm himself down. Whatever it took. If he didn’t practice some serious Zen and fast, he was probably going to lose his shit.
To soothe himself, he turned on his satellite radio and tuned it to one of the coffeehouse stations. Last thing he needed was his usual head-banging stuff. Today, he’d try something more mellow.
He’d gone less than a mile on his lengthy journey to find Chloe when “In Your Arms” came on. Confused, he stared at the station information and saw it was called the exclusive “House of Blues mix.”
What the hell was that? Had Lila worked her magic to get a single out from the show? “All Night Long” had basically had its run, but still, they normally promoted their asses off for a new single, with radio interviews and articles online and lots of screen time at events. All the usual stuff that came with a big media push.
And his stepmother was no dummy. If the press was rabid over all things Warning Sign at the moment, she’d do whatever she had to in order to get the focus back on their music. Of course she’d had to select the song he would now forever associate with Chloe.
He tapped the side of his fist on the steering wheel and flicked screens back to his GPS. He still had roughly five hundred million miles to go.
Damn, where did his new wife live?
Turned out she did live in a suburb of LA, but it was pretty much on the opposite side from his own place in Malibu. He also might have understated the impoverished area consideration.
The more he drove, the more concerned he became. No one was eyeing his extremely conspicuous Viper in an alarming way, or even acknowledging his presence at all. But Christ, there were numerous boarded-up homes in Chloe’s neighborhood. She shouldn’t be in a place like this. Of course he knew people did what they had to do to get by. He’d just never really seen this kind of struggle up close.
He knew he’d been lucky financially. His father’s money had ensured his lifestyle growing up was as cushy as could be, and yes, he’d taken some of that for granted. Too much. Paying his own way while working in a rock band—even a fledgling one—didn’t compare with what people in Carson did to make ends meet.
After a weekend in Vegas, Chloe had come home to this. She dealt with this life day in and out. So much for him having problems.
He didn’t even have the right to say the word.
It was just past three when he pulled up down the block from the address she’d written on the marriage license. Way down the block, because the street directly outside her home was clogged with media trucks and cars.
Damn, he’d been too late again. As usual.
Better look fast, dude.
From what he could see at this distance, she appeared to live in a two-family house with flowers poking up around the weeds in the yard. Hers was the only place he could see that didn’t have chipped paint or any broken-out windows, at least not in the front. He craned his neck, taking in the sagging porch and the mailbox hanging sideways on the wall.
Overall, the place was cute, if small. The houses on either side were as well, but they’d lost any redeeming features years before.
He drummed his fingers on the wheel and fought the urge to turn the car around and go back home. She didn’t want him to bother her. Hadn’t she made that clear? His presence had created all this chaos. Those reporters had to be making her life hell.
Added to that, he was so out of his depth he felt like he was drowning. He’d been given all kinds of breaks in life, ones he didn’t deserve. So much had been handed to him. Sitting here in this particular car, staring at all the houses in decline, he felt so fucking guilty he couldn’t stand himself.
How was he supposed to go see her and talk rationally about them figuring out how to proceed when all he wanted to do was grab her and take her back to his place?
Not just her. She has a little boy too.
The kid too, of course. That made it even worse.
Lila had intimated Nick was helping Chloe financially. If so, he must not have done much or on any regular basis. How could he let her live there? She was so young and beautiful, and she was on her own with a child. It couldn’t be safe.
Maybe it was now, because no one could try anything with a camera crew outside her front door. But back before the paparazzi had flocked to her neighborhood, what had she done when she needed to run to the store for a quart of milk? She’d probably gone to that crappy place on the opposite corner that appeared to have bullet holes in some of the windows.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Michael was still sitting there, waiting for inspiration to hit about how the hell he was going to get close enough to talk to her—and also, how to get her to leave with him—when someone rapped on his window. Swallowing hard, he rolled it down. A woman with hair like steel wool and a shopping cart full of cans stood on the other side. “Um, hi. Can I help you?”
“You’re parked on the wrong part of the street. Red on the curb means no stopping. You’re going to get towed.”
“Oh, yeah, right. Sorry. Thanks for telling me. I’ll move.” And go where, he had no idea.
“You’ll want a spot that’s unpainted or gray. The other curb colors have rules.”
“Uh, okay. Thanks.”
She nodded and smiled at him with a mouthful of perfect teeth. Just as she was about to turn away, he touched her arm. “Hey, can you help me?”
“Help you?” Her laughter was rich and warm. “I’d think you wouldn’t need any help at all, fancy car like this one. What’d this set you back? One hundred grand?”
He averted his gaze. “About that, yeah.”
“Nice ride. Better keep it moving. This neighborhood, someone might try to help themselves.”
“I’m only passing through.” Maybe. He honestly wasn’t sure.
If Chloe refused to leave with him—which all indications seemed to point to—then what? He couldn’t just take off. But he had no choice. She was a grown woman, and she had every right to make her own choices.
He was a virtual stranger, and he had no business trying to take over her life. His help was self-serving anyway, wasn’t it? He wanted to save his rep, so of course he wanted his new faux missus stationed at his home to help make the story more convincing.
Except it so wasn’t only about that. Not anymore.
“What did you need help with then? If it’s trying to get past that tangle up there, sorry, no can do. They’re here morning and night nowadays. The girl in that house? She got married over the weekend to a rockstar. It’s the biggest news story around here since those three Carson boys made good.”
Michael frowned. “Which Carson boys?”
“Deacon, Simon and Nick.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “They were the best of friends around here, then went off to be rockstars. Guessing that’s how she met her fella. I enjoy rock music myself.” She patted the battered boom box-style radio in her cart and his chest lurched. “She’s a regular Pretty Woman, our Chloe. Got herself saved by her own Richard Gere.”
“I’m no Richard Gere.” And Chloe was no prostitute. She did have the gorgeous red hair like Julia Roberts though.
Fuck.
“No, but you do all right.” The older woman smiled at him, and he realized she’d known he was the rockstar all along.
“I’m sorry,” he said, not knowing what he was apologizing for.
That she’d had to struggle so much while he sat in an expensive car? That Chloe obviously did too while she was raising a little boy? He didn’t know.
All he knew was he wanted inside that little house to see Chloe again. More than anything.
“Nothing to be sorry for. You married that girl. She works herself to the bone to provide for her baby. When she is home, she’s with that child.” She cocked her head. “I bet you have a really nice place.”
“Yes, I do, ma’am.”
“So she should be there with you.”
He swallowed hard. “Yes. She should.”
Wanting her to live with him probably made about as much sense as any of the rest of this. She’d claim he felt sorry for her, but God, it wasn’t that. He was growing more impressed with how she lived her life and who she was by the second.
He’d seen her with her kid. She loved him to pieces. If his own mother had been half as conscientious, he would have been lucky.
“I need to see her, but I can’t get near her house. Do you have any ideas? I could just push my way past them and get inside, but they’d just bother her even more. I don’t want that.”
“You’re lucky none of them have noticed your flashy car yet. Handy, you being parked this far up the street.”
“Yeah, I kind of suck at subterfuge.”
She laughed. “Just leave it to me to get you inside, but you’ll have to move fast. Can’t leave the car here though.”
“Parking, right.”
“Park around the block, pull up your sweatshirt and keep watch.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you. But don’t get yourself in any trouble on my account—”
She was already gone, shuffling up the street.
He reversed the car into a cracked and weedy driveway, then did a U-turn and zipped down a side street. After a quick study of the curb, he discovered he’d picked the wrong side again, so he drove down the street until he found an unmarked area.
If it wasn’t valet parking, he was clueless.
He rounded the corner on foot and saw that there was a brief pause in the swell of foot traffic around Chloe’s house. It looked like a random shopping cart had hit the side of one of the TV stations shiny maroon vans. Not only that, but the older woman he’d just spoken to was sitting on the ground, wailing loudly while people knelt and assisted her.
Michael shook his head and smiled. Damn, she was some actress. Forget Julia. This lady could’ve gotten an Oscar.
Man, he owed her big time. Before he figured out how to pay her back, he had to get into Chloe’s place.
He jogged up the street, pretending he was out for a casual run. His dark glasses, scruff, and hoodie helped disguise him, and luckily, the crowd seemed to be mostly busy with the lady who’d saved his damn life.
Crossing the lawn at Chloe’s, he paused on the bottom step. What if she wasn’t home? Fuck, he didn’t have time to worry about that.
He knocked on the door he thought—hoped—was hers. When no one answered, he pressed his face against the glass. He couldn’t see through the lacy curtains in the window in the door.
Of course she wasn’t going to answer even if she was home. And she might not answer him anyway.
Out of options, he knocked on her neighbor’s door, praying under his breath as the voices in the street got louder and louder. The elderly lady was doing her best, but she wouldn’t be able to hold the paps off for long.
When the door swung open, he pushed his way inside and slammed it shut with his foot.
The woman whose house he’d just invaded shrieked. Actually shrieked.
“Shh, shh, I’m not a burglar.” He slipped off his glasses and gave her a sheepish smile. “I’m actually, well, a rockstar.”
“Do you have ID?” she squealed.
Rockstar ID? That was a new one. “I can show you my driver’s license, if you want to look me up.”
She nodded hurriedly and he pulled out his wallet, showing her his info.
“You’re Chloe’s new husband. Why didn’t you say so?” Her dark eyes widened and she peered up at him as if he was Jason Statham or something. “You’re beautiful.”
“Oh, thank you. Listen, I need to see Chloe. Like…now. Is she home? Can you let me into her apartment?”
“No, she’s at work. But her baby is here.” The young brunette woman smiled. “I’m Lori. So nice to meet you. You can stay here while we wait for Chloe to come home from work. She had the lunch shift today.”
“Great, thanks. Nice to meet you too.” He tucked his wallet and his glasses in his sweatshirt pockets and yanked back the hood. “Will Chloe be much longer?”
“About another hour. Axl’s still asleep, but you’re welcome to say hello to him. From the doorway, of course. He was fussy today and didn’t want to take a nap.”
“Axl.” Now that she said it, he was pretty sure he’d heard them mention the kid’s name before. “Like the guy from Guns ‘n Roses?”
Shit, he was already hot for Chloe, and now this? Her baby had a rockstar name. Damn.
“Yes. Her and her fiancé were big fans.”
“Nice.” He scratched the back of his ne
ck. Yeah, the kid’s father had passed. Rough for him, and for Chloe too.
Neither of them had gotten many breaks from what he could tell.
“He’s up in the room at the top of the stairs, if you want to take a peek.” Then she bit her lip. “Maybe I should call Chloe first. We’re friends, but she really didn’t want to say much about you, even when I asked. Your whirlwind courtship has been all over the news, but she told me you have actually known each other for years.”
Alas, known of and known were two very different things. He understood why Chloe had indicated they had prior history. The whole married in a weekend thing—not so kosher.
He wasn’t even sure they knew each other in the Biblical sense, for fuck’s sake. Well, he knew her pussy. He’d had his fingers inside her, and she’d been so warm and tight. Her clit had been so swollen and—
Okay, moving on.
“Yes, we’re quite familiar with each other. So, top of the stairs?”
“Right. Maybe I’ll just call her, make sure she’s okay with this.”
“No, please. Keep it secret. I want it to be a surprise I’m here.” He used his winningest smile on Lori, and she nodded reluctantly.
“All right. Go on up. Holler if you need anything or if he fusses. He has his bottle, but his diaper might need a change soon.”
No, no diapers. There was trial by fire and then there was being roasted alive and eaten by poo-flinging ants.
Michael nodded and went up the narrow flight of stairs, then entered the room she’d indicated.
Axl was asleep on the center of a circular rug.
He wore overalls, a blue T-shirt, and red Keds. His hair was almost as red as the shoes, and just as red as Chloe’s. So she didn’t dye it. He’d suspected as much.
Thinking about her pussy while in full view of her son seemed wrong. But he was definitely curious about getting a nice long look.
Ruminating on Chloe’s girlscaping was much more inviting than stepping into the room. He’d started to, then paused half in and half out.
