Redeem

by Rachel Schurig

  “Are we in Los Angeles?” I ask, gaping at him.

  His grin is huge. “We are.”

  “Cash.”

  My mind spins, trying to remember if we had ever talked about this beyond that first night. I come up with nothing. “How’d you remember?”

  He shrugs. “I remember everything you say.”

  Without thinking, I throw my arms around his neck. I can’t believe he would go to this much trouble for me, based solely on a throw away comment I’d made more than a month ago. He had somehow figured out exactly what I needed to feel better after that terrible lunch, without me having to tell him.

  “Does this mean you’re happy?” he asks, his voice close to my ear. It sends little shivers down my neck, him being that close. Something tells me to move back, to get some distance. Because there’s no way I can consider Plan B now, not when he’s been so amazing. It would be too much like using him, and I refuse to do that.

  But then he squeezes me a little tighter, those strong arms I had admired that first night, and a million times since, pulling me closer. I close my eyes, loving the feel too much to let go. I want him to know how much it means to me, that he did this. That he remembered. That he got how devastated I would be after this afternoon. That he didn’t make me talk about it. I want him to feel all of that in my hug.

  And I want to feel the comfort in his. It’s like his arms, strong and sure around me, can take away the pain of this day. Like he’s giving me permission to take a minute and just be soothed—not distracted, not cheered up, just comforted.

  I don’t release him until the flight attendant comes back and tells us we need to buckle up for landing. I think my face is probably red and I chance a glance at him as I fumble for my seatbelt. He’s watching me, his eyes intense and filled with something I can’t quite identify but that makes my heart rate speed up.

  Suddenly I wonder if this trip might present difficulties that I hadn’t thought of. I’ve gotten used to being close with Cash and tamping down the ever-present attraction I feel. But there are usually other people with us, or nearby. His brothers, Daisy, Wyatt. But this weekend we’re on our own, just the two of us.

  Alone with the most gorgeous man I’ve ever met. What could go wrong?

  ***

  A limo is waiting to take us to a hotel when we land. I start to argue again about the expense of all of this but he tells me, again, that it’s an escape for him as well.

  “You really don’t splash your money around?” I ask him once we’re settled in the back seat. “I find that hard to believe.”

  He turns on the long bench so that he’s facing me and hands me a glass of champagne that he’s just poured. “The biggest thing I’ve bought since we signed four years ago is my car.”

  “What about a house?”

  He shakes his head. “Nope. I never stay in one place long enough to have a permanent house.”

  His words hit me like a slap and I have to take a long sip of the champagne. I can’t think about that now, I tell myself. Can’t worry about him leaving, not yet.

  If he noticed my reaction, he doesn’t mention it. “When we’re not on the road I pretty much just rent wherever I’m going to be for a while. That ends up being L.A. usually, because we record here. I have a lease in Santa Monica right now.”

  “Is that where we’re going?”

  A strange expression crosses his face. “No. We’re staying in a hotel.”

  I’m not sure what to make of his reaction, but then he’s talking about his money again. “Most of my dough has found a home in the assortment of bars we’ve visited across the country.”

  He says it like a joke but there’s something else in his voice. Like he’s disappointed by that admission.

  “What about your brothers?” I ask, wanting to erase that note of discomfort in his voice. “Have they bought anything crazy?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Daltrey bought a farmhouse in Tennessee.”

  “Yeah, Daisy mentioned they lived there. Seems like kind of an odd choice for him.”

  “That’s what I said. The kid is twenty-two years old. What in the hell is he doing on a farm in the mountains?”

  “It must make them happy.”

  He says nothing, looking out the window. “Do you guys travel for fun?”

  “Sometimes. We did a big week in Mexico before the last tour, rented out a villa for a bunch of friends. But usually if we’re traveling it’s for work.”

  The decidedly bitter note is ever more present. I’m torn between asking him what’s bothering him and wanting to change the subject. In the end I reach out and squeeze his hand. “Well, I’m glad we have this weekend to get in a little travel.”

  He squeezes my hand back and when he looks up his face is clear, happy. “Me, too. I have big plans.”

  “You care to share any of those plans?”

  He smirks. “Where’s the fun in that? I want you to be surprised and impressed by my thoughtfulness and effort.”

  I laugh. “I already am, believe me.”

  As we drive he points out various landmarks for me. We pass the exit for the studio where the band has recorded their last two albums, and he details for me how that process went, so different from this one.

  As we drive further and further from the airport, I wonder where we might be staying. Based on my very rudimentary knowledge of the geography of L.A., I don’t think that we’re going to the ocean. Off of the freeway at last, I scan the surface roads for any telling hints, finally seeing a sign welcoming us to Beverley Hills. “Ooh,” I tell him. “Fancy.”

  “Not too fancy,” he tells me, winking.

  I was envisioning the marble lobby luxury hotel from Pretty Woman, so I’m pretty surprised when we pull up instead to a building that looks more like a warehouse. I shoot Cash a questioning look, but he merely smiles. “Trust me.”

  A man in a simple uniform of black pants and shirt meets us at the curb, gathering our bags on a trolley and welcoming us to the Cosmo. Cash places a hand at my back to lead me into the lobby and I do my best not to shiver—the closeness of our embrace on the plane has me more aware of his body than usual, the largeness of it, the pure maleness of Cash.

  Much like the exterior, the lobby is completely unexpected. The floor is a polished concrete, the walls a steely grey and covered with flashes of color in the forms of abstract art pieces. The lights overhead are soft, giving off a slight bluish tone. A steady thrum of jazz pulses from unseen speakers.

  “This is really cool,” I say, staring around in amazement. I’m used to staying in chain motels, maybe a Days Inn for a splurge, where everything looks generic and the same, modeled after a corporate example somewhere. I’ve never been in a hotel like this.

  “We stayed here once when we were in town just for the night,” he tells me, walking to the counter. “On tour they usually put us up in one of the five star set-ups downtown, but this trip was kind of last minute so we ended up here. It’s probably my favorite hotel I’ve ever stayed at.”

  I knew that was saying a lot, considering how often he traveled. I couldn’t keep from looking around as he checked us in, finding more and more details that had escaped my attention at first. The half wall aquarium filled with an array of colorful fish. The funky patterned rugs in a small seating area. The shelves of books, many of them dog-eared and well worn, presumably available for guests to borrow.

  “You ready?” he asks, turning to me.

  I nod, following him to the elevators, still looking around at the room as we pass through.

  We stop on the tenth floor, the top floor, and I follow Cash out. “We’re in the same room,” he says, handing me a key. “But there are two bedrooms, so you can forget about taking advantage of me tonight.”

  I laugh but there’s a part of me that flutters at the thought of sleeping next door to Cash. There aren’t many rooms on this floor and when he opens the door to ours I understand why—it’s enormous, probably taking up half of the floor.


  “Wow,” I whisper, stepping over the threshold. The door opens onto a vast living room, the entire far side of the wall made up of windows. The concrete floor has continued up here, but these walls are a deep, vibrant turquoise. The furniture is modern and sparse, the entire focus of the room being the windows. And the view they show is breathtaking.

  “Look at all the lights,” I murmur, walking straight to the glass. “God, Cash, this is amazing.”

  “You think?” he sounds almost nervous. “Daisy helped me book everything and she thought you might like to stay at the Four Seasons or something. We could, you know, if you wanted. We could change our reservations and—”

  “Why would I want to do that?” I turn away from the window to face him. “This place is amazing.”

  His face breaks into a relieved grin. “I think so, too. It’s so different from most of the other places I’ve been.”

  “Come over here,” I tell him, turning back to the view. “Look at this.”

  He joins me at the window, close enough for our shoulders to touch. I reach out, almost cautiously, to take his hand. “I’m really glad you picked this place.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. I can’t imagine any hotel in the city being nicer.”

  I mean it. It matters to me, that he would go over Daisy’s objections to book this. That he wouldn’t assume I would prefer something fancy or extra luxurious. It seems to say something about us, about how well he knows me, that he would rather show me an off-the-wall place that means something to him. I squeeze his hand harder. “Thank you.”

  “You’re more than welcome. But I’m afraid we don’t have much time to admire the view.”

  I turn to face him and my breath catches. The lights of the city are reflected in his face, illuminating the planes of his features, the sharp jawline, the high cheekbones, the darkness of his eyes. He’s beautiful.

  It takes me a moment to realize that he’s eyeing me expectantly and I realize belatedly that he had said something about time. “We don’t?”

  “Nope. Because we’re going to the theater, so you better change.”

  “Hang on. We’re going to the theater?”

  He nods, his eyes dancing in the city light. “We are.”

  My eyebrows go up. “And when you said theater you mean…a concert venue?”

  He shakes his head. “No, I mean a legit theater with actual seats and a stage and actors and actresses singing their heads off.”

  “We’re going to a musical?”

  He nods and I bark out a laugh. “I thought you said that you can’t imagine a worse time than watching a bunch of guys prance around on stage singing.”

  He shrugs, that self-satisfied grin that I love so much dancing on his mouth. “What can I say? It’s good to try new things.”

  Despite all of his protestations that this trip is for both of us, I know he’s doing this, at least, for me alone. I want to hug him again, want to cry a little actually, but I’m afraid if I start I won’t be able to stop. So inside I shake my head, taking a step away from him. “Well, Cash Ransome at a musical. This I have to see.”

  “Then you better hurry up and change so we don’t miss it.”

  He grabs my bag and brings it over to a set of mirrored, silver French doors, gesturing me to go in ahead of him. The full wall windows are in here as well, and I imagine falling asleep to that view. “There should be a remote over there to close the blinds,” he explains, pointing in the direction of the nightstand. I glance at the bed for the first time, tearing my eyes away from the view. It’s huge and incredibly plush looking, a number of multicolored pillows adding vibrancy to the stark white down comforter. I push a hand into the mattress and it sinks several inches.

  “They’re crazy comfortable,” he says, watching my hand. “You’ll get a good night sleep here.”

  I wonder if that’s possible, knowing he’s in the next room over, but I nod. “I better get dressed.”

  He sets my bag on an armchair and walks to the door, pausing and looking back at me. There’s that nervous look again, almost shy. “I’m glad I get to share this place with you.”

  I swallow, again overwhelmed with the urge to go to him and hug him. “Me too.”

  He nods once, and then he’s gone, leaving me alone to marvel at everything he’s done.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Cash

  Okay, so the musical isn’t that bad. I admit this to Sam but only after she promises that she will never tell any of my brothers. The show I take her to is called Wicked, which Paige assured me is incredibly popular. That was the only thing I knew about it, but when I told Sam what it was she freaked out— like, grabbing my arm and squealing, looking much more like Paige than herself.

  “I take it that’s a good one?” I ask.

  “It’s one of my favorites!”

  My stomach dips, imagining her seeing it with Doug or some other guy. “So you’ve seen it?”

  “Oh, no.” She shakes her head, that goofy grin on her face. “I’ve never seen it. I just have the cast album. And I listen to it all the time.”

  We have boxed seats so we sit high above the rest of the crowd. When the lights go down Paige sits up on the edge of her chair and it’s so freaking cute I wish I could kiss her. But I promised her there wouldn’t be any of that this weekend, and I don’t want to ruin it for her just because I’m finding it difficult to keep it in my pants.

  Between lying on that damn bed on the plane, to her hugging me before landing, I can’t get my mind off her body. She felt so good when she threw her arms around me, her smooth cheek pressing against my bare neck. I’d pulled her closer without thinking, only knowing that I wanted more of my skin to feel as great as my neck felt—because anything that Sam touched felt amazing.

  I wondered, just for a minute, if she might kiss me, but then she seemed to melt into the hug a little, and it felt like she was giving up the tension and the pain of the last twelve hours. So I had just held her, enjoying the feel of her in my arms, hoping that she could tell how much this time with her meant to me, how much I wanted her to be happy.

  That damn flight attendant. I would have been happy to have hugged her the entire night. But then I would have missed the look on her face when she saw the hotel, which was pretty damn amazing. I had a feeling that she would like the place as much as I did, that she’d be attracted to the strong colors and the unique artistic touches. I wanted to take her to a place that was special, that she might not ever see were it not for me. And I loved that she seemed to get that.

  The lights in the theater are falling down now and then the singing starts. Right away it’s different than I thought it would be. I had a vague memory of my mom watching Sound of Music on TV when I was a kid, all smiling cheesy grins and overly dramatic solos. But this isn’t like this. There’s a decidedly rock feel to the orchestration, and I find myself leaning forward to try to get a glimpse of the musicians.

  Sam catches my eye, grinning, before she turns back to the stage. And just like that I lose interest in the orchestra—why would I want to focus on anything else when she’s sitting next to me, completely enthralled, her face a window to what’s happening in her mind.

  She’s always like that—incredibly expressive. I can tell when she’s sad or stressed or tired. And right now I can tell that she’s gone back to a place of wide-eyed wonder. She looks almost like a kid. In fact, she looks just like Wyatt, the similarities so extreme it makes my breath catch. She’s watching that stage the way that he watches a soccer ball shooting toward him and God, I’m so glad I brought her to the theater.

  After a few minutes she seems to sense me watching and she turns to me. “Why aren’t you paying attention?”

  “I’m paying attention to you,” I murmur, not caring that it sounds flirtatious. She merely rolls her eyes.

  “You’ll miss it, and then you’ll be sorry.”

  So I turn back to the stage because she asked me to and it’s beco
ming increasingly clear that I’ll do just about anything that this girl asks me to do.

  She’s right—I would have been sorry to miss it, because I end up really liking it. The first thing I notice is how cool the stage is, the scenery really intricate, the lighting dark and moody, fitting the theme. I watch the lead for a moment, her range head-shakingly good. I know that this is a touring company and I wonder how many shows they’re doing a week. Six? Seven? It would take a lot to hit those notes, night after night. I know from experience how difficult it is, performing endless sets on the road, and my admiration for the actors shoot up a notch.

  And then I start to pay attention to the story, something about the Wicked Witch from Wizard of Oz and her backstory. And just like that I’m into it, the story and the music and all the spectacle. By the time the witch jumps on her broomstick and flies high over the stage, I’m pretty sure my mouth is gaping open.

  “That was amazing,” Sam says, when the curtain finally closes on the bowing actors. She’s turned away from me but I’m pretty sure I see her wipe a fingertip under her eye. “Like, seriously amazing.”

  “I’m glad you liked it.”

  She shakes her head, like she’s not quite sure what to make of me. “Liked it doesn’t really come close.”

  We sit there for a moment, the rows and rows of seats below us noisily filing out of the theater. I kind of don’t want to leave, don’t want to break the spell of sitting so close to her while we both had such an emotional reaction to the show. But then she rubs her stomach. “I’m growling.”

  “Let’s get you some food, then.”

  I take her hand to help her up, fully expecting her to release it once she’s on her feet. But she doesn’t release it, not once she’s standing and not once we make our way out of the box and into the crowd of people outside. Instead, she holds on all the way to the limo, only letting go when we reach the restaurant twenty minutes later.