There’s a naked girl next to me and her face is unrecognizable. All I see is a mass of tangled blonde hair. Thank fuck—I can’t take any more brunettes.
I stand and stretch, my head running through what I got into after the show.
A nightclub on top of some hotel.
Snorting blow off some chick’s ass in the bathroom.
I pull on my jeans and shirt, feeling like death warmed over. I have to get the hell out of here.
“Where you going?” says the girl as she props herself up against the headboard, tits hanging out. My stomach turns and I quickly look down as I push my feet into my Chucks.
“I gotta go.”
“It’s still early. Let’s go for breakfast.” She stands, and I do a double take at how tall she is.
Ah, that at least explains why I chose her.
Tall girls, brunettes, girls with green eyes—they’re all Rose in my head.
I take them, because I can’t have her.
She’s shrugging into a silk robe as I dart to the den.
“Wait!” she calls out. “I need your number. Don’t you want to call me when you come back to New York?”
Fuck no. I cringe at the thought.
There’s a straw cowboy hat sitting on the back of the couch. I snatch it up and twirl it around. “Mind if I take this?”
She murmurs an okay but tells me it’s a girls’ hat.
I don’t give a shit; I just don’t want to be recognized.
“Can I see you again?” She runs her hands down my chest as I push the hat low on my head and inch closer to the door.
I ramble off an excuse, saying I’ll be out of the country on tour for the next few months, and then before she can follow me, I mumble a hasty thank you and head out the door.
Instead of waiting for the elevator, I take the stairs. I don’t even know how high up I am, but I don’t care.
I need the burn.
I take the stairs two at a time until I finally burst through the door and into the New York morning. I inhale deeply, finally able to breathe. The streets are mostly quiet because it’s Sunday, and I check the street signs, popping out my phone to see where I am: Bedford Street in the Greenwich Village area.
My half-awake brain figures out I’m near NYU. I pause. Rose is nearby . . . just a few blocks away. I know because she’s living in one of Father’s properties, and I know that because . . . well, I know everything about Rose. Father keeps me updated and I have my own people who check in on her periodically.
I’m not even aware of what my feet are doing . . . not until I’m standing outside her building near Washington Square Park.
I dart inside a Starbucks across the street to get something to drink, and an hour later, I’m sitting on a barstool facing her place when she comes out.
She is . . . everything.
Her face is a piece of art. Her movements like a sweet song.
She cranes her neck and looks down the street as if she’s expecting someone. My eyes dart wildly around . . . and then I see him walking in her direction. He’s waving at her, a wide smile on his handsome face.
Trenton.
I close my eyes so I don’t see them together . . . even though it should come as no surprise. After all, I put her here with him. I created this fucking mess.
I can’t help but open my eyes and watch them.
I need to see it. I need to see if she’s moved on from me.
He reaches her, sweeps her up in his arms, and kisses her soundly.
She wraps her arms around his neck and clings to him.
As for me . . . I die.
I fucking die.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
God.
I hate myself. I hate this life I have without her. I fucking hate everything.
I can’t go on without her. Not anymore. I’ve tried for the past two years. I’ve pretended I’m okay . . . but I can’t do it any longer.
I want to yank her out of Trenton’s arms and make her love me again.
And my heart . . . it knows what I have to do to make that happen.
I have to get clean.
TWO YEARS LATER
Rose
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SEX-AY!” OSCAR SAYS, raising his glass in a toast as we sit inside Bono’s, my favorite Italian bistro and one of the hippest places in Manhattan. I also work here part-time for extra money while I attend graduate school.
I raise my shot glass at him and slam back the tequila. The room spins just a hair as I set the glass back down on the table.
I’m in the mood to celebrate.
It’s September, and both of us graduated from NYU this past May. Oscar, who ended up getting that scholarship he wanted, graduated with a design degree and managed to land a coveted job at Barneys as a sales clerk, with aspirations of being a manager someday. As for me, I’m currently enrolled in the NYU graduate program, working toward my doctorate in psychology.
“If only Trenton didn’t have to work,” Oscar murmurs with a little pout as he straightens his dark hipster-style glasses. “But, no worries. I’ll be your boyfriend tonight and will make sure you get home sober.” He pushes another shot of tequila toward me, and I give him a baleful eye.
“You know what tequila does to me,” I say as I inch it back to him. “I either want to fight or take off my clothes, and I don’t think I’ll be doing either tonight.”
“Fight, fight, fight,” he says, beating his hands on the table.
I laugh as I check my phone to see if Trenton’s called or texted since this morning when we met for coffee. He hasn’t, and it makes me frustrated. He’s been working late almost every night this week.
I sigh, reminding myself how important his new job is to him. He’s a portfolio manager at a small boutique firm; thankfully, his dad knew the partners from college.
“What’s Mr. Businessman doing tonight?” Marge asks as she tosses back another martini. With her curly red hair and dimpled smile, she’s been a good friend to me since I moved to New York four years ago to attend NYU. We still giggle about the night she got me in the bar to see the Vital Rejects.
Yes, Anne—with Robert’s encouragement—agreed to send me to NYU. They have been supportive over the past four years, even allowing Oscar and I to live in one of his buildings.
Since the night of the blow up with Spider, my relationship with Anne shifted. I don’t tolerate her manipulations, and she knows it. She seems to have come a long way, and I appreciate her. She’s always just wanted the best for me; we just didn’t agree on what that was.
Marge waves a hand in front of my face. “Hello? Are you with us?”
“Yes,” I say on a little laugh. “Trenton’s out with some guys from his office. They’re celebrating snagging a big client today. He’s making connections and all that jazz. He’ll probably show up later.”
Oscar arches a brow. He and Trenton have never been great friends, and I read his face like an open book. He thinks Trenton not being here is an asshole move.
“His career’s important to him,” I add.
Oscar shrugs, looking dapper in his slacks and blue button-up shirt with the cuffs rolled up. “He can always catch us at the club, because we are going dancing, baby girl! I’m glad you wore your dancing shoes.”
Axe, the new guy in Oscar’s life, glances down and whistles at my birthday gift to myself, a pair of metallic silver Christian Louboutins—from Barneys, of course.
Oscar sighs and covers his heart. “My ten percent discount is the only reason you love me.”
I slap his arm. “That’s not true—I only love you because you cook like a dream.”
He waggles his eyebrows. “Pancakes tomorrow?”
I throw my arms around him. “I’ll make the eggs—or at least I’ll try.”
He laughs as a text comes in for me, and I rush to look at it, thinking it’s Trenton. It isn’t, but I’m not too disappointed since it’s Lexa wishing me a happy birthday from Atlanta. I show it to Oscar and we take a s
elfie to send to her. She attended Emory University after Claremont and we’ve drifted apart over the years. I still enjoy hearing from her though.
A few minutes later, I leave the table to go to the restroom.
A long rectangular-shaped building, the bulk of Bono’s seating is near the front with a large bar area along the right wall. There’s a restroom in the back along the left side, but the place is packed and I don’t feel like struggling through the Saturday night crowd of singles on the prowl. Instead, I opt to hit the restrooms on the basement level, a part of the restaurant that’s less urban and more comfy, usually reserved for private parties. I once met Reese Witherspoon in this section when she was celebrating wrapping up a movie in New York.
Bono’s is a popular place, especially with celebrities, and considering my resume consisted of Jo’s Diner in Highland Park, I was thrilled to get a position here. Luck seems to follow me everywhere in New York; it’s weird. Maybe it’s because I’m just so damn glad to be out of Highland Park that my positive vibes radiate out around me.
I take the stairs carefully in my heels, and I’m on the last step, just about to turn and head into the ladies’ room, when I come to a complete stop.
Shock hits me, stealing my breath. It’s him.
There’s a fierce jab to my heart . . . first love always cuts the deepest.
Spider looks down at his phone, his thumb scrolling as he turns the corner to the alcove that leads into the restroom.
He hasn’t seen me yet, and my eyes greedily take him in.
His hair is longer than I remember, and I watch as he pushes it off his forehead into his sweptback style, only instead of white or blue, the color is a dark brown with blond highlights. It’s new and different. It’s hot as hell.
My skin warms as I stare at him unabashedly, anxious for any little detail.
Wearing a maroon V-neck cashmere sweater that fits him like a glove and a pair of skinny dress slacks, he’s broader in the shoulders, taller even, although I don’t think that’s possible.
He looks like a guy who breaks hearts every single night with just a strum of his fingers on his guitar—or a girl’s skin.
I stop that kind of thinking.
Just the memory of the girl in Dallas makes me want to vomit.
He puts the phone to his ear as if he’s making a call, and almost unconsciously, I step back into the dark shadow of a corner created by the recess in the staircase.
“Is the flat ready?” I hear him say.
He doesn’t seem to like what he hears because he places his free palm on the wall as if to steady himself, a vulnerable look to his shoulders as he listens to whoever is talking.
“Indeed. You didn’t mention that tidbit before. How the bloody hell do you expect me to stay at the same building she’s—”
He stops abruptly, as if the person on the other end has cut him off. He taps his fingers against the wall as the conversation continues. I shuffle forward, straining to hear, terrified he’ll turn around and see me, but I can’t seem to stop myself, especially when his tone changes to a cajoling one.
I hear snippets.
“Hiya, sweets . . . see you soon . . . love . . .”
He laughs warmly.
“Tell him I’m going to bring you a puppy, love. See how Papa likes that. . . . who’s your favorite big brother, Bella?” he says, plain as day, and my chest constricts.
Bella!
Of course he knows Bella, Robert and Anne’s three-year-old. We both see her now and then—just never at the same time. I’ll show up for Christmas and then Robert will casually mention that Spider is arriving a few days after I leave. It’s weird and bizarre but I guess he just doesn’t want to see me.
“Bye, sweets. I love you. Tell Papa I’ll see him soon, okay? Also, tell him to lighten up on the carrots—you need more chocolate pudding.” He chuckles as he tucks the phone in his pocket, his body turning toward me. I steady myself against the wall, preparing for the moment he finally sees me.
Spider
“I NEED TO HIT THE loo,” I yell to Sebastian over the crowd as he orders another round of drinks from the downstairs bar inside Bono’s. I raise my glass of ginger ale and give him a smirk. Thanks to a damn good therapist, my art, and my father who’s been supportive, I’ve been clean for a while.
We’re celebrating with the crew because next week is our last concert and once the tour is done, Sebastian and I will be jetting off to different locations. Sebastian and company will be heading back to LA, where I used to live but have long since abandoned for a flat in London. It’s less hectic there, and it feels like home.
He gives me a chin nod and I take off, needing some distance from the noise so I can call Father. He’s tried to call me several times today, and this is the first opportunity I’ve had to get back to him.
I call and he tells me the location of my new place in the city. My head spins when he lets me know it’s the same building and the same floor where Rose lives. I’m not prepared yet to see her, but there’s little he can do. He doesn’t have anything else available, and the personal penthouse he owns on Park Avenue is currently being painted. I could get a hotel, but groupies always find a way in, and it’s loud when people walk up and down the halls at all hours of the day and night. I need peace and quiet. I need my own space.
So, I’m stuck in Greenwich Village.
Robert puts Bella on and I chat with her before I go. I tell them both goodbye and hang up the phone. I straighten up, about to head into the loo, when a shadowy female figure catches my eye under the staircase. I narrow my eyes as she ducks her head, a curtain of long auburn hair shadowing her face.
Feeling like I must be blocking the way, I immediately mutter an apology and give her room to pass.
She doesn’t pass.
I look at her again, this time with more discernment, trying to get a read on her features.
Is she a stalker? Reporter? Groupie?
I study her as she takes a tentative step out from the alcove. A sense of familiarity pricks at me.
Ruby red lips.
Long legs.
A short dress.
I swallow, my chest expanding as I inch in closer.
It can’t be. She isn’t supposed to be working tonight. I called earlier and checked with the manager to make sure.
It’s funny why I chose this place for our group tonight. It’s because I want to be where she’s been—without actually seeing her.
“Rose?”
Her name on my lips is like a blow to my heart.
“Spider.” She moves fully out from the shadows and the overhead lighting illuminates her face.
I suck in a sharp breath.
She’s different with the auburn hair. God, I can barely believe it’s her.
But it is . . .
She’s beautiful . . . magnified by a million.
Wearing a short beaded white dress with spaghetti straps, she stands there with a slight tilt to her chin, as if preparing to battle. Green eyes that once read my soul peer up at me. She reaches out to steady herself on the painted white brick of the wall.
I can barely breathe, and I don’t think she’s unaffected by me.
“What are you doing?” I ask. Such a stupid question.
Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out, until finally she clears her throat. “I work here . . . literally I’m a server.” Her breath and voice seem to gather strength as she speaks, her features settling into a cool mask as she composes herself.
Of course, I know this, but I can’t tell her how.
I clutch both my hands in my hair, just to stop myself from reaching out to her. I mean, it’s been my intention since I got clean to get her back, but I’ve been waiting . . . I don’t know what for. God, I’m scared.
I’m fucking terrified she’ll hate me.
I’m fucking terrified she’ll love me and then leave me.
I’m not prepared to see her tonight, and my heart pounds.
“You�
��re real then?”
I ask because there are nights when I think she is with me, nights when I was stoned or high and she was fuzzy image in the background.
“I am.”
I lean my shoulder against the wall, digging deep for some nonchalance. I’m fresh from a performance and feeling edgy; there’s no telling what I might say to her. “I’ve imagined this a thousand times . . . seeing you again.”
She flushes, the red color rising up her cheeks. “Yeah, I bet,” she says dryly. “I came to see you at a concert two years ago. I showed up at the stage door, but you obviously didn’t want to see me. It was a weak moment on my part. It’ll never happen again.” She shrugs. “You never manage to see me at the family holiday dinners either.”
Because it hurts to see what I lost.
Someone brushes past us as they exit the restroom, and I barely look at them.
I bite my lip. “I know. I’m busy. I go home when I can. Bella . . . she’s amazing. I’m crazy about her. She calls me “Spidie”.”
She nods, her lips flattening.
Fuck.
She’s angry with me.
Can you blame her?
She moves her head and a copper curl slides over her shoulder and down into the cleavage of her dress.
“I like your hair.”
Still stupid, Spider.
She swallows. “I . . . need to go. Oscar is upstairs . . .” Her voice trails off as she turns to leave.
I grab her arm. “Wait.”
“What?” She blinks down at my arm and then back up at me, swaying on her feet.
“Are you okay?”
She shakes her head, her eyes bright. “No . . . yes . . . I don’t know. I just didn’t expect to see you.”
My heart hammers. Fuck. She’s so . . . Rose . . . and my head is all over the place. “Are you glad you did?”
“No.”
“Rose!” Someone calls out her name. She turns her head and her face fills with something that looks like relief.
I turn to watch as Trenton approaches, wearing a gray suit, no longer a fresh young boy of seventeen. He kisses her on the cheek before whispering something in her ear that makes her smile.
My heart flops around like a dying fish.
Spider Page 13
