by Lily Harlem
“You sent me a ticket.” I paused. “And a backstage pass.”
One side of his mouth tilted into a grin and his cheek dimpled in a familiar way. “I didn’t think you’d use it.”
“Which, the ticket or the pass?”
“Either.” He stood, scraping back the legs of his chair on the hard floor. “But I’m glad you did. Come on, join us.”
“I, er, I don’t know. I thought maybe there was just something you wanted to say and then…” I glanced at the doorway. “And then I’ll get on my way.”
Robbie smiled. “Of course I’ve got something to say. But eat first. I’m starved.”
Sylvia placed another chair at the table and I looked around at the male faces staring up at me expectantly. Ian carried on chewing pizza with his mouth tilted in a lopsided grin. Tim and Dean, brothers, stared at me with identical blue eyes. Tim chewed the inside of his cheek while Dean popped open a beer with a bottle opener in the shape of a naked lady.
“Sit,” Robbie said, touching the back of my knees with the chair so I had no choice but to fold onto it. “It’s been a while but I remember how much you like to gorge on pizza.”
“It’s not all he remembers about you,” Dean said, lifting his bottle to his lips and flashing me a naughty grin.
I swallowed a rise of nerves and fought a flush spreading on my chest and around the back of my scalp. I wasn’t in the slightest bit hungry.
“It’s good to meet you,” Ian said. “We’ve heard ‘Jenny this’ and ‘Jenny that’ for so bloody long.” He crunched down on a wedge of garlic bread.
“Yeah, all right,” Robbie said, leaning across me for a slice of ham and pineapple. “I can take it from here, guys.”
“Yeah, sure you can,” Tim huffed. “That’s why you had to name a song after her just to get her here.”
I shifted on the chair, uncomfortable with being the topic of conversation.
“I’m sorry,” Robbie said, turning to me with a concerned glint in his eye. “They’re a bunch of morons.” He swung a stern glare at his bandmates, then looked back at me. “We’ll get out of here in a sec.” He grinned, flashing his perfect white teeth. “We’ll go somewhere alone, pumpkin.”
I caught my breath at the pet name I hadn’t heard for so long. One Halloween, Mum had made me dress up in an orange pumpkin costume that made me look as if I’d swallowed a rhinoceros. Robbie had laughed so hard he’d almost peed himself when I’d stepped out of the house. Just ’cause he’d looked all cool in a skeleton outfit with luminous bones on his chest and hips, he didn’t have to be quite so amused.
He turned serious. “I’m glad you came. I’d almost given up hope that you would.”
“Why didn’t you just call me, you know the usual way of contacting someone? Writing songs and sending tickets—it’s all a bit unconventional.”
“Ain’t nothing conventional about our Robbie,” Ian said.
I raised my eyebrows at him. As if I didn’t know that already.
Robbie shrugged. “I just wanted you to be part of my world for a while, see how it is for me.”
“What, eating pizza and drinking with your mates?”
“Exactly, eating pizza and having a beer with mates.” He smiled and shoved his hand through his damp hair. It stayed sticking up over his right ear and I itched to smooth it back down. But he wasn’t mine to touch so I curled my fingers so tight my nails dug into my palms and looked around the table at the faces I’d seen on posters and on MTV. The strange thing was, they were looking at me with equal fascination. As if I were some curiosity, someone they were fascinated with.
Clearly I’d been discussed at considerable length.
A bubble of anxiety popped low in my stomach and I wondered just what Robbie had told them. We’d been young and lust-crazed, our hormones out of control. And once we’d had sex that first time there was no stopping us—not for three steamy years. We went for it at every opportunity we could, trying out new positions, new ideas, new and risky locations.
“Do you still use vanilla shampoo?” Dean asked me suddenly.
My heart fluttered in my chest. “Er, no, not anymore.”
“Shame,” he said. “I liked the way Robbie described it. It made you sound good enough to eat.”
“Yeah,” Robbie said, looking at me with a twinkle in his eye. “It did make her good enough to eat.”
“I have to go,” I said. This conversation was sending me to toe-curling hell. Clearly Robbie hadn’t wanted to do anything more than embarrass me. “It was nice to meet you all,” I said, swinging a gaze around at Tim, Dean and Ian. “Robbie,” I said, “I’m glad it’s worked out so well for you, the concert was great, but I have an early start in the lab tomorrow and it’s already late.”
“No, don’t go,” Robbie said, jumping up and grabbing my upper arm. “Hang on just a sec.” He turned to Sylvia, who was hovering by the door. “Can you get a car? I need to take Jenny home.”
His fingers pressed through the soft material of my hoody and sent a snake of sensations long forgotten up my shoulder and into my chest.
“It’s important,” he said, lowering his head to mine. “It’s important that we talk.”
Sylvia ordered a car on her cell. “It’s waiting,” she said to Robbie as she finished the call.
Robbie let go of my arm and paced to one of the sofas. He dragged on a loose, black sweater and shoved a wallet, keys and a phone into the front pockets of his jeans. “Come on,” he said, slipping an arm around my waist and steering me to the door. “This is long overdue.”
Chapter Two
The sleek black chauffeured Jaguar sped through the traffic like silk slipping through fingers. Robbie and I sat in silence surrounded by the smell of new leather and brushing droplets of rain from our clothes. I twisted my fingers in my lap and looked out the densely tinted windows at the blurring lights of Park Lane and Marble Arch, Harrods and Selfridges.
My mind was in a whir. What was going on? My body was buzzing. Was I really with Robbie, after all this time? “Where are we going?” I asked as an apprehensive lump grew in my belly.
“Home.”
I looked across at him. There were small lines at the corners of his eyes that hadn’t been there the last time I’d seen him. “Whose home?”
“Mine.” He grinned and reached for my hand. “And it’s Sunday tomorrow, Jenny, so unless you work in a 24/7 laboratory then I very much doubt you have to be there early.”
My gut clenched. My hastily spun excuse for leaving had been ridiculously weak. I stared out the window again as he stroked his warm, smooth hand over mine. It was so familiar—his touch. It was Robbie. But it wasn’t my Robbie. He was something else, someone different. “And when we get to yours?” I asked. “Then what?”
“We talk, about us.”
I turned to him. “We were finished a long time ago. I don’t understand where all this has come from. The song and the tickets.”
“I miss you,” he said with a shrug. “And I couldn’t go on living without finding out if you missed me too.”
I’d missed him since the day we’d separated. I missed him so much there were times when I wondered if the ache would ever go away. It was why no one special had ever broken their way into my life or heart since the split. It was why I’d thrown myself headfirst into my research.
“I have missed you,” I confessed quietly, searching the depths of his eyes. They were the same as they’d always been. They hadn’t changed over the years. A ring of brown circled the green irises and flecks of gold sat at their depths.
He slid across the seat. His shadowed face was so close now, his lips a whisper away from mine. Suddenly he was my Robbie again; there was nothing different about him at all. I swallowed tightly and remembered the flavor of his tongue, the feel of his hair tangled in my fingers and the texture of his flesh rubbing against mine when we were sweaty and naked. How could I still want him after he’d hurt me so much? After all this time apart?
I stared into his hypnotizing eyes.
“Maybe I should remind you,” he murmured. He dipped his head and sealed his lips against mine, soft and gentle and oh so sexy. Once again a rush of memories flooded my mind, images of him kissing me at the school gate, the disco in the town hall, the tent at the end of his garden.
He probed past my teeth and into my mouth, caressing and searching.
Robbie was kissing me. Was this real or would I open my eyes and be hot, flustered and alone with another tremor vibrating deep in my belly?
His hands caught my face, his fingertips slotted into my hair. He carried on kissing me, his tongue stroking mine.
When he pulled back, I opened my eyes. Robbie was still there, he was real. This was no cruel daydream sent to haunt me.
“We can’t…” I said.
“We can.” He kissed me again, with more determination.
I moaned and let myself fall into it. On and on we kissed.
Eventually, sensing the car slowing I broke away.
It rolled to a stop and the driver got out.
“Wouldn’t have minded a longer trip,” Robbie said. “I would have told the driver to take the extended route had I known you’d let me kiss you. Maybe even found a traffic jam or two.”
I pressed my fingertips to my hot cheeks. “I think maybe it was for the best.”
“That’s what you think.” He smiled. “But I could kiss you all night.”
All night? Just what would the night bring? Heck, I’d been alone with him just a matter of minutes and I was letting him tangle his tongue with mine.
The driver opened my door and I climbed out, smoothing my messy hair and dragging in a lungful of cool night air, hoping it might help my nonexistent self-control return. I looked up at the glass and steel building set amongst the Georgian town houses. “Nice pad,” I said with an approving nod.
“Thanks.” Robbie stood next to me and looked up into the damp night sky. “But technically it’s Ian’s. He moved to the country with Nina and their little one a while back. He’s supposed to be putting it on the market but I got hold of the key. I kinda like it and I’m thinking about buying it.” He curled his arm around my waist and pulled me until my hip rested on the hard outer edge of his thigh. “Perhaps you could let me know what you think. Whether or not I should buy it.”
“That’s not for me to decide. It’s up to you.”
“We’ll see.”
“What does that mean?”
He shrugged and urged me toward the rotating brass doors. “Come on, let’s get out of this rain.”
We rode the elevator in silence and as I watched the numbers ping up, my heart fluttered at the memory of his words. He missed me. He couldn’t go on living without finding out if I missed him too.
I’d missed him too and we were clearly still good together, like really good together. But could I be so masochistic as to let Robbie into my heart again? Really? Could I? He would break me, take out my soul and spin it around until I didn’t know which way was up and which way was down. It had taken me six months to stop crying at the mere mention of his name last time. I couldn’t go through it again. I should never have let it go this far. I should have put those damn tickets and pass straight in the bin and not given them another thought.
And I really shouldn’t have kissed him.
We stepped out of the elevator. Robbie produced a key and opened a door with a large number six hanging on the white wood. “In you go,” he said, pushing it with the flat of his palm.
I stepped into the dark apartment and waited as Robbie bolted the door behind us.
“This way,” he said, flicking on a dim light and walking into the living room.
The London skyline twinkled through a vast expanse of windows. The raindrops streaking down the glass multiplied the soft orange lights like a spectacular kaleidoscope. “Wow,” I said. “Great view.”
“Yeah, it’s cool isn’t it?” He walked to a door and pulled it open. “Make yourself at home, I’m gonna take a quick shower. All that dancin’ around on stage makes a guy sweaty.” He flashed a cheeky grin my way.
“Okay,” I said nonchalantly, as if rock stars complained to me all the time about getting hot and sweaty on stage.
I walked past a low L-shaped couch to the dark windows that stretched from the ceiling to the floor. I looked down at the road below. Cars and taxis whizzed along, making the most of the lighter traffic. I couldn’t hear them: the road noise didn’t penetrate the glass.
A shower clicked on and I spotted a short corridor to my right. The wall was covered in photos and platinum discs. Stepping up, I peered at a large glossy image of Robbie’s ecstatic face as he held up a silver award. His bandmates were around him, their arms thrown over one another’s shoulders, all equally gleeful. I touched the frame. I had so many photos of him ranging from him in his football outfit, sweaty and muddy, to looking smart in his first suit and with a radiant smile. I shook my head to rid the image of him as a reckless teenager. That wasn’t who he was anymore. He was Robbie Harding, lead singer of the Manic Machines. Photos of him were adored by thousands of fans now, blown up into life-size posters and spread across magazine covers and teenage girls’ bedrooms.
Peachy light from the room Robbie had disappeared into spilled onto the wooden living room floor. Like a moth I was drawn to it and stepped inside. It was a bedroom. But a bedroom like none other I’d ever seen. The soft light bounced around the walls and ceiling, all of which were completely covered by mirrors—huge, smooth, seamless mirrors that were just the tiniest bit smoky. Even the door to what I presumed was the en-suite—since it was open a crack and I could hear water splashing—was mirrored.
I blew out a breath and walked farther in, creating a never-ending image of myself in all four walls. The bed was enormous, bigger than a king or queen and capable of accommodating several people. It was covered in a silky silver duvet and a huge pile of pillows was stacked against the mirrored headboard. The bedside table was mirrored, as was a large chest of drawers, although these weren’t smoky. I ran my finger over the corner of a gray cushion on the bed, the crushed velvet soft beneath my fingertips.
“Ian’s a kinky bugger,” Robbie said from behind me.
I spun and my chest got tight and achy. Robbie stood before me in nothing but a white towel hanging low on his lean hips, his reflection stretching out behind him. I forced my gaze upward over his flat stomach and the thin line of dark hair that trailed from below his navel right up to his chest. I recalled perfectly what his skin felt like beneath my palms—on my mouth, in my mouth.
“Yeah, I guess,” I managed, settling my gaze on his face—so much safer than the outlines of his delectable torso that sparkled all around me.
His eyes twinkled as though he could read my mind, as if he knew I was remembering how I used to jump him in the shower, get down on my knees and show him just how dirty I could get with my mouth.
“I wrote you this one too,” he said, moving toward the tall dresser. “Last year.”
I studied the way he walked, confident and self-assured. He’d always moved with purpose, didn’t waste energy, but now it was even more noticeable. I wasn’t sure if it was because he was more mature or if it was his off-the-scale success that made him that way.
He plucked a remote from the top drawer and aimed it at a small black box hanging in the corner of the room. The intro to a beating tune rang out and he turned to me and grinned. I noticed how the light refracting around the room shone on his dark hair and picked out strands the color of hazelnut.
If you’re searching for love, scouting for the one
All you gotta do is look right next door
Yeah, yeah, yeah
All you gotta do is look right next door
’Cause she’s there, always been there
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Yeah, yeah, yeah
I tilted my head as his chocolaty voice filled the room.
“You didn’t hear it, did you,” he said as more of a statement than a question.
“No, sorry.”
He shrugged his wide shoulders. “I thought it was a bit subtle. It was on the album but never released as a single.”
I swallowed tightly. “I didn’t buy your last album.”
“You didn’t?” A mixture of surprise and hurt crossed his eyes.
“No. You’re out of my life, Robbie. Or at least you were. Why would I want to hear your voice, hear about your conquests?” I folded my arms and sighed. “Didn’t you think it might hurt me?”
“But that song was about you, how much I regretted letting you walk away.”
“Yeah, but ‘Strawberries and Screams’, come on. I don’t know how you got away with some of those lyrics.”
He tipped his head back and laughed, a real meaty guffaw that echoed over the music.
“What’s so funny?”
“That’s not about one of my conquests,” he said, still grinning broadly.
“So who is it about?”
“Nina, Ian’s wife. He wrote it here, in this apartment, just after they met.”
“Oh.” Now I felt silly. I’d flicked that damn song off every time it had come on the radio for so long I didn’t know how I was ever going to get out of the habit.
“Have you never seen a picture of her?” he asked.
I shook my head, tried to avert my gaze but instead looked at the reflection of his beautiful, golden back in the mirror behind him. Wide and tanned with the deep gutter of his spine perfectly outlined by long strips of tendon.
“She’s got wild strawberry-red curly hair and the palest skin I’ve ever seen,” Robbie said as I salivated at the memory of scratching nails down his taut flesh. “Ian was inspired by his wife to write that, it has nothing to do with me. I just sing the words while he bashes it out on his strings.”
“Oh.” I curled my fingers into my palms.
“So you don’t need to get jealous, pumpkin.”
