I shake my head, but say nothing, since what she’s done is more of a gift than she’ll ever know.
The bar is packed by the time Carter and I arrive. It’s unusual for a Wednesday night, but I’m a moron.
I consistently forget the siren call of Easton Mack.
He’s acoustic tonight, but his usual gig is as a drummer in a well-known band, at least in these parts, called Nocturne Court. But they’re gaining traction outside of Brooklyn at warp speed. Whispers of a record deal circle, and so do the ladies.
“Wow,” Carter says when I open the door, and she ducks under my arm. She echoes my thoughts. “Isn’t it, like, five p.m.?”
I nod while pointing to the bar. “My buddy, East, remember him?”
After a second, she says, “Yeah, except I nicknamed him Enigma in my head since he said nothing when I met him that one time, and therefore I know zilch about him.”
I bark out a laugh. “Typical East fashion. The dude doesn’t talk unless it’s necessary.”
Carter raises her brows. “I guess I wasn’t necessary.”
Shit. Did I fuck up? “That’s not what I—”
Carter laughs and smacks me on the arm. “Relax. I’m fine with it. Is he the source of all this?”
I shrug, but he is. For a guy who hates social media, East sure gets his presence noticed.
Carter hmms in approval as she scans the people, mostly female. “He’s silent, hot, and I guess very talented at—what does he play?”
I frown at the back of her head. “Drums.”
“It makes total sense now.”
My frown deepens.
The bartender comes over and asks us what we want. Carter looks to me, so I ask for the special, which is a domestic, watered down lager all chicks seem to dig, and a tonic with lime.
“Where are the rest of the guys?” she asks as a chilled brown bottle is slid over to her.
“On their way.” I tip my own drink to my mouth as I lean back against the bar.
The stage is directly in front of us, and the small wooden platform is already set up with a microphone and two big speakers with wires trailing across the floor.
“Do you normally go to his shows?” Carter asks, taking up a comfortable position beside me. “And support him like this?”
“We all support each other,” I admit. “It’s like an unspoken pact we had as freshmen. Ben and me, we were put together in a dorm room, and Ash and East were next door. When we realized we didn’t hate each other, we figured we might as well tolerate each other.”
“And that led to everlasting friendship,” Carter says, smiling. “How sweet.”
Her lips, the delighted curve to them, act as a sledgehammer between my eyes. I’m made all too aware we’re having a pleasant conversation, no pressure, no expectation, simply talking. And now that I know it, I’m gonna make it awkward.
“We’ve helped each other through a lot of shit times,” I say.
Carter sighs. “You’re lucky you have each other.”
My attention slides from rattling the ice in my glass back to her. “I’m sorry you lost yours.”
She nods, her turn to look down into the depths of her bottle. “She was my only.”
“If you ever want to talk…” I shrug. “Like, if you ever want to tell me about her, I’m here to listen. You know, if you need to.”
She catches me by surprise by meeting my stare. “You never told me. How you and Paige met, and what…what happened between you two.”
See, that awkwardness I promised? Here it is. “Oh, that.”
“Yes, that turned into Lily.”
Damn it. “I guess it did.”
“So, you want to tell me? Paige never did. I didn’t push her, and now I really wish I had. Since I’ve met you, for real and not just heard of you or run into you on campus, you’re not exactly the guy I’d picture Paige with.”
“We fooled around,” I say, and place my empty glass on the bar. Shit, I sucked that back too quick. Now I have nothing to do with my hands. “There’s not much to it.”
“Yeah, but—while Paige slept with a lot of guys, she never kept them a secret from me. And for some reason—” Carter stops herself, seeming to answer her own question.
“Paige slept around?” I’m honestly curious, because the girl I remember, she wasn’t…adept, the way I’d think an experienced girl would be.
“She’s not a slut.”
“Not what I’m getting at.” I raise my hands. “I’m all for woman power, believe me.”
Carter’s gaze darkens like she’s reminding herself of my slutty past.
It’s definitely time to deflect, both from the truth and history.
“Maybe she kept her thing with me under wraps because of you,” I say.
Carter stiffens. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“There would have to be a good reason she wouldn’t confess, considering how close you guys were,” I say, and lower my voice as much as I can to soften the blow. “Even before she knew she was pregnant, she didn’t want to tell you about me.”
“And you have the answer?”
“Yeah, I kinda do.”
I don’t want to get into the how, because for the first time, I’m hesitant it’ll come out like I’m a dick. But I know, fairly fast, when a chick is into me. Years of denying and accepting women’s advances have honed me into a sensor where I can bed a chick or let them down gently within minutes. All it takes is a brief rewind to the night of the party where I slept with Paige, and I see, in that younger Carter’s expression, exactly why Paige kept our romp in the sheets secret.
“You had a crush on me,” I say.
Carter’s mouth starts working, a fish out of water gasping for something to come out of her gills instead of dead silence, and I don’t have the heart to keep going.
“It’s whatever,” I say, then signal for another tonic. “In the past. And clearly, you and Paige worked through that night, anyway.”
“Why am I not surprised you immediately mention your sex appeal as the reason instead of something more realistic,” Carter spits out, and I’m genuinely shocked.
“Huh?”
“It always comes back to your penis, doesn’t it?”
“I—no?”
I have no idea what to do. I’ve gotten that spark back in Carter, the fire in her eyes that usually turns me on…except, she’s honestly pissed. And once again, I’m left fucking clueless.
“God, when are you going to see a girl outside of fucking her?” Carter asks.
“Hey now,” I say, but don’t dare reach for her. “I’m only telling you what I figure—”
“Well, you figure wrong,” she huffs, then pretzels her arms to her chest and stares straight ahead. “I don’t—didn’t—have a crush on you.”
I’m dismissed.
I was about to tell Carter about the bet, and how, at the time, when I was young and dumb, Paige was nothing but a wager and our night together didn’t mean anything. That what I feel for Carter, here and now, means something.
Doing that right now will land me with nothing but a broken bottle to the dick.
Carter’s protecting Paige. Even after learning who Lily’s father was and being left with no official plans laid out for Lily when Paige passed away, Carter’s protecting her best friend.
I look at her with fresh eyes and have to respect it.
“There you two lovebirds are!”
Asher’s booming voice comes through, loud and clear. Fuck, Ash, not now.
Carter cuts over to me. “Did you tell them—”
“No. Fuck no. They’re natural assholes.”
Ben’s leading the way through the crowd, but Asher acts like an efficient buffer to anyone who draws too near. Full of tats and some even reach up his neck. Most—if not all—of his chest is covered, and he’s recently started work on his calves.
I only know about this because his mother shrieks at him for it whenever he picks up his phone. Ash comes fr
om old, old money, back in the Vanderbilt Railroad days, but one look at him and no one would figure his mother’s a dame.
And the fact he’s gaining a fast reputation as one of the best pastry chefs in the city? Yeah, most people choke on their drinks after hearing that doozy.
Once Ash’s ink is properly assessed, gazes slide over to Ben and recognition flashes in most of them. He’s a power player this season, a receiver for the Giants, and, despite only having finished his rookie season in the NFL, already has over a thousand yards receiving and caught eleven touchdowns his rookie year. Ben’s living my dream, but I wouldn’t know it, since he does everything he can to respect my situation, and it’s getting annoying.
Oh, and there’s also the innate awkwardness that happens between us now that I know he’s fucked my sister, and he’s got no clue I’m aware of it.
My buddies, summed up in a nutshell.
“Carter, nice to see you again,” Ben says upon reaching us.
Carter smiles, but since I’m familiar with her skittishness, I can tell it’s a scared one.
“Nice of you guys to show,” I say.
Ash punches me in the shoulder, and I fake a wince. He likes to think he’s tough, and who am I to swat away this tatted pastry chef’s fantasy?
“Being early is for losers,” he says.
“Or for people with real commitments,” Ben pipes in.
He rests against the bar, signaling for a drink. Carter’s attention immediately lands on Ben’s scarred forearm, the result of a childhood trauma he won’t talk about. All I know is, he became an orphan because of it. The press has tried to figure out the source of the burn, but he’s since changed his name, and any court documents indicating what happened are sealed.
“You seen him yet?” Ben asks me after requesting two shots of Johnny Walker.
“Nah,” I reply, shooting back my tonic. It’s the second I’ve finished in about twenty minutes. Being sober definitely means I’m going to piss a lot.
“Where’s the shrimpette?” Asher asks as he squeezes in behind Carter, noticing her ass while tipping up his shot of Walker.
Carter isn’t paying attention. She’s back to flitting between my phone and my face, an action she isn’t aware she’s doing, but I’ve seen it at least six times. I tear my glare away from Asher, working my jaw, so I don’t rear forward and clamp my jaws on the flesh of his bicep and tear him away from Carter like a pit bull in heat, and glance at my phone.
Sis: All is well at casa Hayes. Tell Carter to relax already.
“Lily’s fine,” I say in response to Ash, but I’m looking at Carter. “Astor’ll have her ready for bed soon.”
The tension leeches out of Carter’s shoulders. “Great. That’s great.”
She takes a long draw from her beer.
If Ben reacts to my sister’s name, I miss it, because I can’t tear my attention away from Carter and how a simple few words have brought color back to her cheeks, a sway to her stance, and a genuine curve to her berry-colored lips.
Raspberry today. A bright pop to that gorgeous face. It would stain me for sure.
In all the right places.
Ah, God. I’ve got to stop thinking of her writhing beneath me. Otherwise, I’ll have to be obvious and adjust my growing bulge. And I won’t be able to hide it. The boys would unleash their hyena laughs and call me out right in front of the girl.
The lights dim and someone gets up in front of the microphone. I recognize the bar’s manager, Karl, by his giant frame, wide belly, balding head, and massively large arms. His nickname is Green Mile because of his resemblance to the main actor in the movie. His voice booms out.
“Ladies and gents—mostly ladies. I see you girls. Hi.” He waves and winks, and receives a few half-hearted finger flutters in return. Some in the front jump up and down. “What you’ve been waiting for is about to begin. Normally the drummer to Nocturne Court”—screams and phones start flashing up out of the crowd—“He ain’t nocturnal tonight. Giving a rare evening show that he’s only present for because he owes me one, please welcome to the stage, Easton Mack!”
Carter covers her ears at the sudden thunderclap of screams, followed by a sustained pitch, only contained in its worldwide effect by this tiny, wooden, stuffy room.
Holy shit, I see her mouth.
I lean into her ear, loose, small strands tickling my lips, “Told you I’d show you a good time.”
“I’ve never heard of him,” she screams back. Our noses are almost touching, and I avoid the urge to dart forward and bite on a juicy berry.
“You wouldn’t’ve,” I shout. “But you will.”
East takes the stage, all ropey and casual in a leather jacket, tight ripped black jeans you wouldn’t catch me dead in, and long hair pulled back in a man-bun you also would never kill me in and style my corpse with.
His layers of silver necklaces clank through the speakers as he takes a seat on the stool Green Mile dragged over in front of the mic, and East’s fingers, covered in various skull and bone rings, lift up his acoustic guitar, shining black like an oil slick under the spotlight.
If Ash is the tattoo lord, East here is the demon lord.
“Hey all,” he says, and I feel Carter start against my chest. She’s inched closer to me due to the crowd pushing us forward, and I want to lay my palms on her shoulders and stroke down.
She’s affected by East’s voice, all smooth and slow. I try not to lose my eyeballs in the back of my head on their roll over. Part of me hoped Carter would be different, but of course, the allure of East is hard to avoid, unless you’re a heterosexual dude.
That’s all he says before strumming a few notes on his guitar. Typical. After five-ish years of friendship, I’m lucky if I squeeze a few sentences out of him, but I’m aware he suffers from anxiety. It’s an irony he hasn’t missed, considering he and his bandmates recently sold out their first venue in LA. Poor guy is about to be more famous than a boy band, and fuck knows how he’s going to cope with it.
I guess that’s why he’s got us.
Soon, he’s quieted the room. It’s an impossible gift, one that floors me each time. Just my former dorm neighbor, East, playing his guitar and singing a tune, yet he can lay silence across a crowd as quickly as an incoming storm. His lyrics are addicting, and half the time I don’t know it, but I’m bobbing my head along, Ash knocking out the beat with his fist on the bar top, and Ben strumming the tune with his fingers on his thigh.
Carter sways, her ass scraping across the front of my pants and I grit my teeth. That perfect peach of hers is molding to my dick, ripe for squeezing, and I search for the cool quench of a beer before I remember I can’t have that, so signal for another tonic instead.
I’m knocked in the back as I raise my arm, and I hook my other around Carter’s waist to stay balanced.
“Hey, man,” I say over my shoulder. “Watch it.”
He looks at me with wide eyes, and I turn so I can see him better. “Wasn’t me. It’s coming all the way from the back.”
I crane my neck. “What’s coming?”
Bouncers are against the wall, telling people to “move back, move back!” Yet the clusters of girls aren’t listening and screeching to get closer.
When I raised my arm for a drink, I didn’t notice how far away from the bar we’d come, how we’re being shifted closer to the stage. Crammed, more like.
“Locke?” I hear Carter say, and I bend my ear to her. “I don’t like this.”
“Me neither,” I mumble and keep her tight against me.
I scan the crowd for Ben, who’s been moved a few people away from us. He meets my stare and nods. “Fandamonium. We need to get out of here.”
“Come on,” I say to Carter, and try to spin her with me, but we’re getting crushed, hands palming my back, pushing.
“Back off,” I growl at nobody in particular.
Carter spins so she’s flush against my chest, holding on. I’m looking for Ash, and since we’re taller
than most, I can spot him, still near the bar. Somehow, the fucker remained where he was, probably through intimidation alone. He crooks a finger for us to come to him.
“Yeah, how?” I mouth, but I’m navigating the crowd sideways, pulling Carter along with me, gaining closer traction to Ben.
East is still singing, but he flubs words. He never flubs words. I risk a glance at the stage and see him rising from the stool, pacing back, away from reaching hands and screams that get closer and closer.
Bouncers have arrived, but despite their girth, they’re doing nothing to quell the tide.
Green Mile fights onto the stage and roars into the mic, “Get the fuck back, people, or he’s leaving the stage! Hear me? The night’s over if you don’t behave your damn selves.”
No one’s listening. East has already hooked the guitar under one arm and is escaping the stage, three or four security types ushering him down.
As he’s stepping behind the stage, East looks up, finds me. Come this way, he mouths, and I shake my head over the masses of hair and bodies. There’s no way Carter and I can get to him, and he’s got to go, get out of sight. Maybe that’ll calm everyone down.
I shoo him away, giving him permission to leave. Ben and I have it covered. I think.
He’s at my side, using an arm to help shield Carter, and we’re on the move at a turtle’s pace. People are getting angry, demanding East return to the stage. Ash storms toward us, his expression the eye of a hurricane, and takes my other side.
“We got you,” I murmur to Carter when I hear her whimper. “Nothing’s gonna happen. We’re getting out.”
Her nails dig into my pecs, but she’s moving in time with us, though her face is buried in my shirt. She doesn’t want to look, see the anger cross everyone’s faces, the hysteria building.
Fuck. Green Mile got it wrong. He underestimated East’s fame in this tiny-ass bar in the middle of Nowhere, Brooklyn. We underestimated it.
Glass breaks. Screams and shouts build. Then, the worst thing happens.
A shot rings out.
“Fuck!” I roar, before every realm of hell breaks loose and lands in this bar.
Trusting You Page 20
