by Cari Quinn
All of it rolled around in her brain until she was pretty sure the X-rated kaleidoscope behind her eyelids was burned on the back of her retinas. She was also fairly certain she’d never be able to put it aside.
Ever.
But now she was expected to deal with drama central?
Fuck me running.
She ducked her head out. “Let me grab a quick shower and we can go.”
West gave her a distracted wave. He was already on his phone texting. Or…
“If you Snap about this room, I’ll kick your ass.”
West grinned at her. “This house is Snapchat-worthy in the extreme.”
“As long as it’s not my ass in the frame.”
“Your ass is seriously fine, but you’re not going to be compromised today. As for last night, I can’t make any promises.”
Her fingers gripped the door jamb. Her chest tightened and the nape of her neck prickled. “What?”
“Lots of cameras here last night.”
“I thought it was a private ceremony.”
“Like anything can be private when the bride’s sister is the queen of media. Cameras follow Ava Templeton everywhere.”
She crossed her arms. “Yeah, but I thought we pretty much had a lid on paparazzi.”
As much as any public faction ever did. Welcome to celebrity. She still hadn’t quite come to terms with it.
West stopped tapping on his screen. “Something you should be worried about?”
“No.”
Except that I left the party with two different men. Nothing big.
Of course, it had been late.
Their trip through the garden hadn’t been that late. It hadn’t been early by any means, but the party had still been going on when she’d followed Tris and Sparks down the proverbial primrose path.
She swallowed.
Surely there weren’t any pictures.
West shrugged. “I left pretty early. Skater chick in the food line led me astray.”
“I just bet.”
He slid down to sit correctly in the chair. Well, sort of. He sat cross-legged, tucking his feet into a yoga pose. “She was limber on and off her board.”
“Spare me the details.” She grabbed her weekender and shut the bathroom door behind her.
“She had this tattoo on her…foot.”
“I hate you,” she shouted. She drowned out his laughter with the shower. She soaped up the exfoliating mitt she took with her everywhere. She was used to showers in hotels and busses. Creature comforts kept her sane, especially when she’d also changed addresses six times already this year.
Her go-bag was the only thing that never changed in her life. And because the other women in the band were the bane of her existence with their super long bathroom routines, she could take a seven-minute shower.
This time, she made it six, since drama called. She didn’t bother washing her hair again, just tossed it up in a messy bun.
She hadn’t really brought any clothes for practice, but made do with jeans and a tank. Her hand paused over her bag when she found Tristan’s undershirt mixed in with her clothes.
Before she could analyze it, she pulled the tank over her head. It made for a cute layered look, paired with her own blood-red tank and black jeans. But it was Tristan’s white ribbed shirt that clung to her hips and tits.
At least she could keep his scent on her skin a little longer.
She didn’t have it in her for another half dozen hours in heels, so she tugged on black ballet flats. Then she stuffed the rest of her things in her bag and opened the door.
West looked up. “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
“Hopefully, Mol won’t be on a tear by the time we get there.” West opened the door.
No one was in the hallway as they left.
Her heart kicked harder when she met a few people on the stairs. Not partygoers. Seemed more like the cleaning crew. Everyone else appeared to have left.
Thank God.
She unearthed her phone and winced at the time. Yeah, she’d definitely fallen back asleep for more than a little nap.
“Oh, shit.” Tristan’s number. Fuck. She dropped her bag. “One second.”
“What?”
“I forgot something.”
“Call them and we’ll have them mail it.”
“No.” She started running. “It’ll just take a second.”
West threw his hands up. “You’re killing me, dollface.”
She pounded up the stairs and caught the maid going into her room. “Hi, um, hi.” She held up a finger as she caught her breath. “I forgot something on the…”
The maid nodded toward the desk. She was in her forties with laugh lines bracketing her mouth and crinkles around her eyes. “Perhaps the man’s phone number on the desk?”
Juliet felt the flush race up her neck. “Yeah.”
“It’s still there.”
Juliet retrieved the number and stuffed it in her pocket. “Sorry. Thanks.”
“Must be worth the number.”
Juliet’s lips twitched. “You could say that.”
“Jules!” West bellowed up the stairwell.
“I’m coming.” She rushed down the stairs, the little piece of paper burning against her thigh.
“You’re going to have to answer to Dragon Lady now.”
“Crap,” she muttered.
Dragon Lady was the nickname for Lila Crandall, the band’s rep from their record company, Ripper Records. From what Juliet had been told, the name had originally been devised by two of the members of Oblivion, one of the first bands Lila had managed at the label. Juliet’s brother-in-law, Simon Kagan, was one of the two, as he was Oblivion’s lead singer. The other was Nick Crandall, Oblivion’s lead guitarist, who ended up being Lila’s husband.
Though that had happened after the Dragon Lady nickname had been created. Or so Juliet assumed.
Never knew with musicians. They were all crazy. She should know.
Juliet dropped down on the second to the last stair. “Can we not go?”
“You have a death wish.”
She knew what she was going to walk into. She did not have the mental fortitude for it.
“C’mon.” West held out his hand.
“I don’t wanna.”
He wiggled his fingers. “Pretty much don’t care.”
She slapped her hand into his and let him haul her back to her feet.
“I’ll buy you a Starbucks.”
“You’re all heart.”
“I know.”
She retrieved her bag, but before she could shoulder it, West took it from her. “Gotta keep your strength up for Molly.”
“What a guy.”
“Tell me about it.”
She rolled her eyes and followed him through the vestibule out into the late afternoon sun. She gave one more look over her shoulder. She couldn’t really see the garden from where she was, but the memories followed her.
For once, she didn’t want to shake them off.
Ten
Tristan blotted his hands on the towel hanging from his front pocket. “Kendra, you have the kitchen.”
“Roger that, chef.” As if a light switch had been flicked, Kendra went from easygoing second-in-command to drill sergeant.
God, he loved his sous chef. And he knew The Hollow would be in good hands.
At least twice a week, he tried not to work fifteen hours straight. Tonight, he needed the break. His apartment had been strangely silent for the last few nights, and he’d barely slept. He’d never had a roommate before Sparks—Rand.
Fuck.
Already, Randy’s name had cemented in his head as the bastardized nickname Jules had for him. Just one night to change everything, for fuck’s sake.
He wasn’t even sure if Sparks had come back to the apartment, but it felt empty. His buddy had never been a problem co-hab. In fact, that was one of the reasons Tristan had invited him to stay at his loft when Rand was
n’t on the road. Randy’s room wasn’t that big, but the guy traveled light. Like everything-in-a-rucksack light.
Easiest situation ever.
Except now, nothing was easy.
He’d gotten a text from Jules a few days ago, but it had been vague and basically, just to let him know her information. This morning, however, he’d gotten another.
Tristan glanced down at his phone.
A picture. Her half grin that got him stirred up. Whether it was coming from a magazine candid, or the woman herself across the room. That fucking smile stopped him every damn time.
She’d texted a simple: Miss your face. That was it.
Flirty, but non-invasive. Girl 101 when it came to playing it cool.
Tris didn’t know what the hell to respond. Everything felt off-balance.
Including him.
He waved to his staff, grabbing a Granny Smith apple on his way out of the kitchen. The crisp, tart apple suited his mood and killed the growl in his belly.
Being around food all the time—hell, tasting stuff all the time—made him less likely to actually take a dinner break. When he took a second to breathe, he wanted to be anywhere except around food.
He cut through the back tunnel in the hotel and headed up to the parking area. He tossed the apple core in the trash, then ripped open his chef coat and put on his aviator sunglasses. He preferred colored coats to the traditional white, but man, they were totaled by the end of the night. His navy jacket stunk like onions and the white sauce he’d been splattered with twice. Stupid burners had been on the fritz and hadn’t given him a consistent heat. He’d had to redo half a dozen plates.
Shit, he was beyond done. What he needed was a bottle of wine, a slab of Brie, and some fruit.
It was also a Mumford and Sons kind of night. Some hot tunes and his top down would put him in a much better mood.
He threaded through the parked cars to his designated spot and spotted her. His silver Jag. His first big purchase when he’d been made head chef.
Going convertible with it had considerably added to the expense, but he’d wanted it. No more Chevy beaters for him.
He disengaged the locks and alarm and popped the top as soon as the engine purred to life.
His place near the hills was a bitch to get to in normal traffic, but his schedule gave him a slight advantage. It was still hairy as hell.
The wind broke the gel cage his faux hawk had been wrestled into, the longer pieces ruffling around his face. With each mile, his shoulders eased, and the tension lessened.
He pulled into the small parking structure of his loft apartment as “Dust Bowl Dance” boomed out of his speakers. The parking spot next to his was taken. Rand’s piece of shit Jetta was parked perfectly between the lines.
“Fucking finally.”
Tris got out and peeked in Rand’s backseat window. No bags packed.
Looked like his roommate had finally decided to come home. Remained to be seen if he’d stopped pouting too.
Tris got lucky. The old freight elevator was actually on the bottom level. He was tired enough to battle the rickety gate and slapped the lever for the third floor.
His place was an old converted warehouse with six apartments. The one next to his was currently empty. He’d toyed with buying it out and making the floor into one big space, but he didn’t need that much room.
After all, once Randy moved on, it was just him. He was alone more often than not—especially at home—but never lonely.
At least not much.
Besides, he’d lucked out at getting on the top floor at all. He’d transformed part of the roof into a garden to keep fresh produce on hand at all times. The fact that it had turned into a sort of co-op garden for the entire building had been a plus. Especially since one of the residents—Mrs. Fisher—loved to garden.
Talk about bonus points. He did the pruning and lifting for her, and she took care of the weeds. It was a beautiful relationship.
In fact, tonight, he’d go up and check on the tomato crop. Maybe he’d make some sauce for the next few days.
When he got to his floor, he bypassed his door for the roof access stairs, grabbing an old basket on his way out. Once on the roof, he paused to look out on the hills. He wasn’t making quite enough bank to be high up into the Hollywood Hills, but he enjoyed his spot on the fringes.
He hated Mulholland anyway. It was forever clogged with cars and idiot bicyclists who were determined to break their necks on the winding narrow roads. Like right now.
Dusk was on its way within the hour.
He lingered over the tomatoes, filling the basket with enough for a big pot of sauce. He added onions and peppers for flavor and a bunch of herbs. He snagged a few limes off the tree before heading back inside.
Once he touched food, his mind went into chef mode. As tired as he was, he enjoyed cooking for himself and friends and didn’t get to do it as much anymore. Running the kitchen took him away from the actual plating of meals, unless there were celebrities at The Hollow. Then he was expected to do everything.
Not only expected, but he demanded it.
He shoved his key into the lock, but it was already unlocked. He backed in and kicked the door shut. His loft was wide open, with a direct eye-line to the kitchen, making it easy to find Rand.
His friend was staring into the fridge as if it was going to give him all the answers to the mysteries of life. Since Tristan had been working the last few days, twenty hours each, he was fairly certain there was day-old Chinese, half a wheel of Brie, and a bag of grapes he’d gotten from the farmer’s market.
Certainly, there was nothing worthy of that kind of soul searching.
“Nice of you to show up.”
When Rand only tapped his fingers against the door, Tristan tried again. This time without the needling.
“Lose your way home?”
Nothing.
Rand closed the door and gave a quick start. Sure enough, bright blue earbuds were in his ears. The guy was always listening to something. Podcast, music, NPR—seriously, he never let his busy brain have some downtime. He flicked out one of the headphones. They were specifically made to be molded to his ear, audiophile that he was, so he couldn’t hear a word Tristan said with them in.
“Hey,” Rand said.
“That’s all you have to say?” Tristan set his basket on the large island.
“You’re not my mother.”
“No, but you fucking disappeared after…” What? What the hell was he supposed to call it? Magical Ménage Party USA?
“I figured it would be easier if I split. Let you guys…you know. Whatever.”
“Us…whatever?” Tristan folded his arms.
Rand shoved his hands in his pockets. “Yeah. You know, you guys were hooking up or whatever. I was just there for the fun. Figured I’d give you some space to do…whatever.”
“More whatever. Jesus. What are you, a fourteen-year-old girl?”
Tristan stripped off his jacket and backtracked to the small alcove where he’d hid the stackable washer and dryer. He dumped his jacket into the wash with the other three jackets and turned it on, then gripped the side of the battered white machine.
Getting mad at Randy would only drive him into his room, or back out the door. And for fuck’s sake, now he was sounding like a fourteen-year-old girl.
Tris scrubbed his hand over his overgrown hair and went back to the kitchen. “Look, man, we were doing just fine. Then you left and shit got weird.”
“Not my problem. You guys wanted it to be just a one-time deal. So that’s what it was.” Rand stalked back to the fridge and pulled out a hard cider. He popped up the cap with his keys and took a long swallow, not looking at Tristan.
Fucker was totally getting all wrapped up in his head again. Tris knew it. It was amazing how well he knew the guy after less than a year. He could read Rand even better than he could read Hunter. Quiet and broody meant he was hashing something out.
Killing things
on video games meant working out a problem at work.
Stony and silent meant…well, it meant something else.
“She wanted you there.”
Rand took another deep swallow and said nothing. But the muscle flexing in his jaw and his temple said plenty.
Tris tried again. “I was cool with it.”
Rand’s gaze shot to his, but he still didn’t say a fucking word.
Tristan sighed and went to the sink to wash his hands. He took one of his everyday knives off the magnetic strip, grabbed his board, then turned back to the island. He prepped the tomatoes to be blanched and gently put them in a pot so they wouldn’t get bruised.
“Didn’t you work today?”
Tris shrugged. “I had a yen for some marinara. Maybe pizza.”
Rand opened the drawer beside the fridge. “Mangino’s is usually our go-to pizza.”
“I had a yen,” Tris repeated.
“Want me to cho—”
“Christ, no. You don’t do them uniformly.”
“Snob.”
“Chef Snob, thanks. I wouldn’t say no to wine.”
“That I can handle.” Randy went over to the rack. “Pizza, so red, yeah?”
“You’ve raised yourself from peasant status to possible groundling.”
“Asshole.”
“Melbac would be good. I have a few bottles on the bottom left.”
“Would I like it?”
“Smoky and a little bit of spice.”
“Eh. Maybe.” Rand reached for a couple of glasses and brought the bottle to the island. “So you haven’t seen her?”
Rand was trying to sound casual, so Tris would do the same. “Nah. Work.”
Rand reached above them for the little corkscrew magnetized to the overhead pot rack. “You’ve made room for chicks before.”
“She’s not exactly a chick.”
Rand chewed the inside of his cheek and concentrated on his task. When the cork was freed, he finally nodded. “Truth.” He poured and took a sip.
Tris winced, but didn’t say a word. Training as a sommelier during a summer in Napa left him far more exacting about wine than most of his circle. He didn’t really dig hanging out with pretentious chefs like some of his counterparts, but he didn’t really attract the foodie crowd either.
