Jessica wouldn’t give me what I wanted with Mason—tonight had proven that. I closed my eyes and fought to find some serenity. Dahlia’s eye’s reflected in the water slid into place behind my shut lids. “I don’t screw any of the fans.”
Jessica sniffed.
“Look, we’ve beaten this horse past death and into dust. Mason will never completely believe in stable, loving relationships again. The least we can do is ease the transition.”
“You signed the separation agreement, and we have the trial date set.”
“Let’s give our kid a chance to get used to the idea,” I said. I set the bottle down before facing her. “We haven’t told him anything, Jessica. He’s not going to understand. Especially with you screwing Car Wash Dale.” I waved my hand. “And the neighbor.” Jesus. Two different men.
She slammed her hand against the counter. “I’d rather have any life except this one. Any other life!”
“You’d go back to that trailer?”
She glared, eyes burning with anger. “You are such an asshole. I’ll never be poor again. Ever.”
Fear flitted through her eyes. I didn’t know what it was like to be hungry and scared. Jessica had never told me much about her mother, but from the little she’d said, Jessica’s childhood was filled with traumas I could barely grasp. Her fear was deep-rooted, a demon she struggled to overcome.
“If you won’t provide me with the lifestyle you promised and make sure I have everything I need to be happy, then I’ll find someone who can,” she said. She was petulant but also combative.
“Fine,” I said, relief replacing the brooding depression I’d felt since I pulled into the drive. At least I could tell Dahlia I’d tried without it being a complete lie. “I’ll have my lawyers get in touch with your lawyers. Guess I’ll see you around.”
Sadness and fear swirled through her eyes. She looked like a lost puppy. She straightened and smirked, thrusting out her chest. “Enjoy your little apartment. I have things to do.”
I turned to go. I should have just left. I knew it, but I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. “What about Mason? Do you care what this does to his life?”
She picked at one of her nails. “He has a life. The one you wanted for him.”
“I never said my life was glamorous, Jessica.”
“I’ve known that for years. It’s a slow grind.”
“Then why shove this on him now?”
She met my gaze, her lips settling into that mischievous smile I used to find adorable. “I’ve talked to Dale.”
“What’s good ol’ Dale up to these days? Besides banging my wife.”
“Your wife. I haven’t been your wife in years, Asher. Long before we officially separated.” She laughed, but it was caustic, scraping against my skin and shredding my pride.
“He asked me to marry him. And he wants us to have custody over Mason.”
5
Dahlia
Garcia was a thin, well-dressed man who gushed with flamboyant happiness about my grasp of emotional nuances. By the time I was seated in a brown leather chair in front of the gleaming glass-and-steel conference table, he was my new best friend.
“I read the first book in the series at my son’s birthday party. My partner hasn’t completely forgiven me, but after reading your books, at least he understands why I was so captivated. He said to thank you for that bathroom scene. You sex kitten.” Garcia winked. “I’d totally do that if I was a woman.”
I wanted to. With Asher. But more, I wanted to see his smile, to hold his hand. I needed him to ease the panic winding into a tight grip in my chest.
I focused on how his hand pressed against mine, and my lungs relaxed. The clasp of our hands had been decadent, intimate. Perfect. I wanted to hold his hand again. Soon. I wanted more with him.
Reconnecting with Asher Smith had pushed me over the edge, reminding me of the small, lonely life I’d been leading. This sudden rush of need left me raw, unsure how to proceed. Hence, my increasing anxiety.
“So we see you in a producer role. I told your agent I want your input because your grasp of romantic tension is divine,” Garcia said, his smile wide, his manicured fingers steepled in front of his short, neat beard. “But we’ll need to see where you plan to take it—the final ending, you know, so we can set the tone. Paul suggested we might want to film the ending first.”
“Of course,” I said, squirming in my chair. The ending? I had no idea how the series would end. I’d made notes, sure, about the next book. But since Doug’s death, nothing I wrote flowed. It felt stilted, unimaginative.
Bad.
I exhaled through my nose and turned back toward the director who was waxing poetic about another scene. We’d done many of the things I’d written about, Doug and I, before the symptoms started to manifest. He’d declined faster than his doctors predicted. Within months, Doug’s coordination started to fail, and he’d been frustrated with his waning strength. Our sex life was the first casualty. Not that it had been all that spectacular for the previous couple of years.
I shoved my glasses back into place and then clasped my chin, forcing my attention to stay trained on Garcia’s thin, tanned face. My eyes felt gritty, too tired after another sleepless night. I didn’t have it in me to deal with my contact lenses this morning.
Paul, the director, had remained silent this whole time, twiddling a pen. I could tell he didn’t want me on the project. He was sending out as much negativity as possible, trying to get me to agree to sell my rights and leave.
I had two options: I could pretend Paul wasn’t bothering me or I could confront this situation. Panic fluttered up my throat, but if I wanted to be able to complete the series, I needed to take charge of my writing. That started with taking control of my life.
I faced Paul, both amused and ashamed that his heavy features reminded me of a basset hound. His balding head and long ear lobes didn’t help, but it was his deep frown that sealed the connection.
“Are you sure you want my input?” I asked. I slid my hands into my lap and twisted my fingers together. My knees began to bounce, but I kept my gaze steady. I was in control of this situation. I could walk out anytime I wanted.
“We do, darling,” Garcia answered, glaring at Paul, who’d yet to do more than blink at me. “This is going to be the hottest series on HBO. We’re in agreement there. Right, Paul?”
“Of course, Garcia. But I’d like to get through the first round of screenplays that our writers are working on before we ask Ms. Moore for her input.”
I waited for Garcia to quit grumbling. “Paul, I appreciate the offer to keep me in the loop. I really do, but I need to make sure you and I can work together. I haven’t signed the contract yet because I wanted to see what your vision was for the project.” And because I wasn’t sure I could deliver the next storyline. “And call me Lia, please.”
Paul glanced at Garcia from the corner of his eye. He took a deep breath before launching into his ideas.
“So I’m thinking we open with the firehouse scene. Viewers will be hooked.”
I nodded, moving my clasped hands to the tabletop. That was one of the hottest scenes in any of my books, one Doug had laughed at when I read it to him. “You think dudes actually do that? Please, Lia. Maybe you need to recategorize into fantasy.”
I’d reminded myself that Doug had been sliding deeper into the Huntington’s by then, and he probably had no idea how much his words had hurt. They still did.
Paul sputtered out and I blushed, trying to smooth out my frown.
“Sorry, you were talking about the sound track?”
Garcia leaned forward. “Bev told us you’re a big indie rock fan.”
I nodded. I listened to it all the time. It even played softly in my room as I slept. “My husband was a guitarist.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that.”
I smiled. “His band was pretty underground.”
“What was it?”
“Dynamite Fish.”
Paul smiled, his
red-rimmed eyes sparkling with interest. “Really? I have all their albums.”
“I’m sure Doug would’ve been thrilled to hear that. Before that, he was in Cactus Arrow.”
“I’ve heard about them. That was, what? Nearly twenty years ago?”
I nodded. “I can make you a copy of their only release. It was four songs, including an early version of ‘Moonshine Eyes.’”
“Excellent!” Paul smiled, but he still looked tired.
Garcia tapped his pencil on his desk, shooting Paul a get-on-with-it look. Paul met my gaze as he scratched behind his ear.
“‘Moonshine Eyes.’ That’s an Asher Smith song. Was Cactus Arrow one of his earlier bands?”
I nodded again, slower this time. Paul smiled, his brown eyes lighting up even more.
“I’ve been talking to Asher Smith’s agent, Richard, about possible projects. Richard and I went to UCLA together, so when he approached us a couple years ago, I tossed Asher a few smaller gigs. He told me Asher wants to move into sound tracks, do more producing.”
“Interesting,” I said. I dropped my pen and shoved my shaking hands back into my lap. Just a coincidence. No way I’d get thrown back into Asher’s life after all this time. Fate wasn’t this cruel.
Garcia leaned forward, smoothing his gelled hair back into place. “When Paul mentioned Asher’s interest, I was intrigued. I mean, the man writes about sexiness with a little roughness. Your heroes are willing to play it loose with the rules. Like Asher.”
“I saw Asher Smith again a couple of nights ago at a singer-songwriter show. He’s a great guy.”
“Maybe you two could collaborate on the lyrics,” Paul said, his droopy face jiggling with excitement. “For the theme song. That could be really cool! Not too much, just give him some ideas of phrases that’d work well for certain scenes. The two of you could make the music so intense! Actually, if you’re good with that idea, Asher’s going to meet with us today. His agent said he had a family thing to deal with last night, but Asher called a while ago, saying he was back in Seattle.”
“I’d love the opportunity,” I said. Sweat slicked my back and my heart rate escalated.
Garcia thought we were a perfect fit. I swallowed, breathed deep through my nose. I couldn’t see Asher again. I couldn’t. My burgeoning feelings for him needed to stay out of whatever business arrangement we developed. He was married, and I wanted them to reconcile whatever their problems were. I needed to believe in Asher as much as I needed to believe that love could get people through the hard times.
Correction. I needed to believe in Asher even more, especially after the night we’d spent together.
I forced the tension down with brutal efficiency, unwilling to give in to the emotions rolling over me.
Paul’s smile warmed. “Great! I want him, specifically, to do the songwriting, with some help from a few singer-songwriters and another couple of indie rock groups. Keep the mix eclectic but unified. Maybe your brother-in-law, Simon. I heard him play a couple of months ago, and I loved his ‘More Time’ tune,” he gushed.
Surprise sizzled through me. “I’ll pass that along,” I said. This entire meeting was surreal. First, my books were like Asher’s songs and now Paul wanted to give Simon his big break. “I’m sure Simon would love the opportunity and airplay.”
The door opened and a young brunette stuck her head through the opening. “Asher Smith’s here. Should I send him in?” she asked, looking at Garcia.
“Please,” Paul said.
Garcia nodded. I sucked in a deep breath, trying to school my features into some semblance of professionalism. I wasn’t ready. When he entered, I stood, bumping into my notepad. It tumbled to the floor. “Asher, so good to see you again,” Paul said, holding out his hand.
“Yeah, thanks.” But Asher’s eyes never left mine, even when he shook Garcia’s hand.
“I wondered,” he said, a slow smile curling his lips. “I remembered your last name used to be Moore.”
I stared at him, the panic building. I couldn’t sit next to him for an hour, not after the depth of our conversation the other night. Asher narrowed his eyes, no doubt seeing I was about to lose it. He moved around the table, picked up my notepad. He leaned in and brushed his lips against my cheek in a casual greeting.
His smell swirled around me, heightening the burning sensation around my heart.
“Breathe, Dahlia,” he murmured, close to my ear. “You have this. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
I looked up at him, his eyes soft and sure. I took a deep breath and nodded. He set the notebook on the table in front of me. I collapsed into the chair, and Asher sat next to me.
“I didn’t realize you two were more than acquaintances,” Paul said, frowning.
“Old friend,” Asher said with an easy smile. Under the table, he clasped my hand. “Dahlia and I reconnected the other night at Simon’s gig.”
Paul eyed us. Asher squeezed my fingers, and I managed a smile.
“Thanks for having me here,” Asher said. “Richard said this was for a sound track.”
“Since you know Lia,” Garcia said, his smile megawatt-bright, “I’m sure you know she writes these sexy-hot books. We want to produce her Gardiner series.”
Asher nodded. “I’m familiar with those books.”
I pulled my hand from his, and rested my damp palm on my knee. Much as I wanted his touch, I couldn’t handle it, not if we were going to discuss love scenes.
“So here are some of my ideas,” Paul said, snapping back to business mode.
I pulled my pen and paper closer, ready to take notes.
6
Asher
Once the shock wore off, Dahlia handled herself with the same poise and patience I’d come to expect from her years ago. She offered a few suggestions, but mainly listened, jotting down her notes.
I shook hands with the men before ushering Dahlia from the room. She fell into step beside me, surprising me with her acquiescence. Once we were in the elevator, I turned toward her. She was composed, but the pulse in her neck still beat at a frantic rate.
She hadn’t told me her pseudonym. I didn’t think it was because she was embarrassed by her work. Like I’d told her, as had millions of her fans, she wrote intriguing stories with deep, compelling characters. Something I strove to do with my songs.
Maybe that was the whole of our connection. We both loved words strong enough to evoke images and emotions. It didn’t encompass how much I’d wanted her all those years ago before she started creating her own art. No, I was drawn to her, the woman with sad eyes that shone bright in the moonlight.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were Lia Moore?”
She kept her gaze firmly on the floor. “I don’t know.”
“Look at me, Dahlia. Please.” When her eyes hit mine, the punch of awareness was deep. I sucked in a breath. “I keep thinking about you.”
Not what I meant to say, but there it was.
“Maybe this project is a bad idea,” she whispered. She clenched her tote’s strap so hard her knuckles were white. “I mean, I haven’t even written the ending.” Her breathing became more labored, nearly a wheeze. “I don’t know if I can do it in one more book. And getting you involved in my mess seems irresponsible.”
She thought she was irresponsible? She didn’t know half of the mess I’d caused in the last few days, let alone over the past two decades.
The elevator doors opened to a crowded lobby. Before Dahlia could object, I pushed the up button, followed immediately by the close doors button. A man in a suit hurried toward us, waving for me to open the doors. I ignored him.
“I didn’t tell you the full truth the other night either,” I said, fighting the urge to fidget. “That’s not right. Everything I told you was true. I just didn’t tell you the whole story.”
She scooted back into the far corner, her breathing escalating again. I moved close enough to touch her shoulder. I slid my fingers up to the soft skin on h
er neck, my thumb against her pulse. She melted into me, her body finding its place against mine. I wrapped my other arm around her, holding her there for a minute.
“Jessica and I have been separated, officially, for nearly a year. She instigated it. Had me served.” Dahlia made a noise but didn’t try to pull away. I hoped that was a good sign. “We have the date for our divorce hearing.”
“Asher.” Her voice cracked. “I didn’t know.”
“We’ve managed to keep it fairly quiet. I’m worried about how the split will affect Mason. So far he hasn’t asked any questions, probably because I’m gone so much on tour.” A huge weight lifted from my shoulders, easing the constant tightness there. “See, you need to know you weren’t part of that decision. It’s been made. Was made long before I met you the other night.”
“But you said—”
“I said we were in a bad place. We are. The divorce is going to be difficult. I want custody over Mason. Jessica knows that. She wants money, security. I’d give it to her, but she’s been counseled that she’ll do better financially if she keeps custody.” I unclenched my fists. “I’m pretty screwed there.”
Her mouth softened and her eyes finally came back up to meet mine. “I’m sorry.”
“I want to work with you on this project,” I said. “Not just because I’ll get to see you. That’s a major perk, by the way. But I’ve been transitioning into a more stable work situation. To show I’m capable—and willing—to take on Mason’s school schedule.”
She pulled back, and I let my arms fall to my sides, though I wanted her warmth against me again. Her, there, it felt right.
The door opened and two people entered, deep in discussion. Dahlia and I stood quietly at the back. We rode up another few floors before the pair stepped off, never looking back. I nearly groaned with relief. I didn’t need to deal with a fan right now. I needed to talk to Dahlia without distractions.
“I told you I always thought Doug was a lucky bastard. What I didn’t tell you was how much I loved and hated that you were Doug’s girlfriend.” I scratched the side of my head. “Loved it because you were at so many of the practices. But I wanted to talk to you. I knew I shouldn’t. But I did. I always did.”
Seattle Sound Series, The Collection: Books One to Five Page 5
