Seattle Sound Series, The Collection: Books One to Five

by Alexa Padgett

  Dahlia

  I’d made an Easter basket for Abbi every year until she was nine. That year, Doug was in the hospital for some complications. The following year, because of how surly Doug had become, I hadn’t had the energy for anything more than my obligatory writing time. I’d become the sole earner for our family by then, which just added to Doug’s antagonism.

  Somehow, I’d fallen out of the habit of celebrating these little occasions, and now I realized just how important they were, not just for Abbi, but for me, too.

  “Man, the Easter Bunny even knows what guitar pick I like best.” He flashed me a smile before muttering, “That’s pretty good stalking.”

  I beamed, pleased I’d found something he’d use. I’d also packed guitar strings and some of my favorite coffee. He lingered over the last item in his basket, which I’d added on a whim this morning while he was working. It was the poem I’d written about our night on the beach. It was only ten lines but was the catalyst for my current story, the first lines I’d felt good about in years.

  He cleared his throat twice as he tapped out a rhythm on his thigh. “This is about us?”

  “Yes.”

  “From our walk?” He read the words again, his face softening. He had to wipe the corner of his eye.

  “I thought you’d like it.”

  He pulled me into his arms, his breath soft against my hairline. “I love it. Thank you.” He pressed a kiss to my temple, and I melted into his embrace. Much as I wanted to snuggle against him and watch the kids’ enjoyment, I eased back, tugging my hair away from my face. We weren’t a couple. We were . . . complicated.

  His hands splayed on my back, and I paused. Bracing myself, I met his hazel eyes. His lashes brushed his thick brows.

  “Promise me something.” His voice was pitched low, a caress. I shivered and he rubbed my arms.

  “What?”

  “The poem—can it be just mine?”

  I nodded.

  “I’m serious, Dahlia. I want to carry it around with me and know we’re the only two who’ve read it.”

  The idea of him carrying my words, words I’d written for him, was surprisingly intimate. I couldn’t deny him, not with his eyes so bright with need.

  There it was again: that fear of wanting Asher, wanting him forever, so very much.

  I knew musicians. I knew all too well the temptations thrown at them with such consistency. Doug hadn’t cared for me enough to resist. The thought of Asher cheating . . .

  An ache settled deep in my chest. “It’s the seed for my newest book.”

  “These words.” His fingers caressed the paper, and I bit my lip. I wanted him to touch me like that. “When I read your book, I’ll know why you told that story. Our story.”

  “Ours,” I agreed. Fear and pleasure bubbled through me.

  He smiled as he tucked my hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering on the sensitive skin there at my jawline. “Thank you.”

  I nodded, unable to speak. He slid the piece of paper into his wallet, and I drew a deep, shuddering breath. He pulled out another couple pieces of paper. Catching my gaze, he winked.

  “Come see this!” Mason said. He showed me the dragon he’d built with the pack of Legos I’d gotten him. Chocolate coated his mouth as he lay on his stomach, making robot noises as he walked his Lego creation across the plastic grass he’d taken out of his basket. Abbi and I laughed.

  Abbi nibbled on a chocolate-covered peanut butter bunny and doodled with her phone.

  Asher helped me to my feet. “What’s in your basket?” Asher asked.

  “A notebook that fits in my purse and a gift card to the wine shop,” I said, shrugging.

  “No chocolate?” Asher teased.

  “I don’t eat it much.”

  “Mom says it’s too sweet. Maybe you can get her to see reason,” Abbi said without glancing up.

  “I’m pretty sure there’s something else in there,” Asher said, flicking at the fake grass so it crinkled. I played along, digging around inside. I pulled out a business-card-size piece of paper.

  I pulled it out and read it. My mouth fell open. “Really?”

  He smirked and nodded. “You have one, too, Abbi.”

  “VIP?” Abbi breathed as she pulled a matching card from her basket.

  “Absolutely. Keep ’em on you, and they’re good for any of our shows. See, I signed the back with the code Reggie needs to know these are legit. He’s our right-hand guy. He’ll remember you after the first show. You won’t really need ’em after that.”

  Abbi squealed and hugged him hard. “That’s so awesome. Thanks, Asher.”

  Mason looked up. “It’s no biggie. You just flash your card to Reggie, and he lets you sit in the green room or the front row.”

  “Front row?” Abbi gasped. She fanned her face. “I’m so excited.”

  “I couldn’t tell,” Asher chuckled. “I heard you tell your mom you want to come to Seattle.” His gaze was uncertain. “Whenever you’re in the city and we have a gig, I’d like you to come. You’ll always have all-access to our shows.”

  “Thank you so much,” I said.

  I settled back in his arms, and he dipped his knees. I rested my head against the hollow between shoulder and chest. My spot. My heartbeat escalated. I shouldn’t feel like I knew Asher well enough to claim a spot on his body. But I did.

  “I’d planned to give them to you later as a thank-you for the weekend, but this seemed like a better time.”

  “Perfect timing,” I smiled.

  “So you’ll come to Seattle?”

  I nodded, my lips mashed together in an effort to keep my emotions controlled. “Of course. Thank you.”

  “Omigod, Luke’s gonna freak out,” Abbi squealed. She bounded up from her chair, eyes wide. “I need to call him. Can I go call him?” she asked.

  I nodded. She ran up the stairs to her room.

  “That was really sweet,” I said.

  “So was all this,” Asher responded. He spread his arms to encompass the Easter baskets and the house. “I think you’d make a great songwriter. Those words—I’m getting chills thinking about them.”

  “Which ones?”

  “All of them.”

  I shook my head, but happiness bubbled up in my chest. “I needed to give you something important because you gave me back my life. My ability to hope.”

  He tucked my hair behind my ear as he leaned in to murmur, “Same goes, Dahlia.”

  I made a huge brunch because Asher and Mason were leaving late in the afternoon. Asher insisted on helping me with the dishes. I enjoyed the coziness of working together in the kitchen while the kids played the building game on the neglected Wii I’d bought Abbi a few years before.

  “No fair, Mason,” Abbi moaned. “You’ve had more practice at this.”

  “You’re older and should understand physics better than I do,” Mason responded.

  My phone rang. “Hey, Bri. Happy Easter.”

  “You need to sit down.”

  “You left The Asshole?”

  She snorted. “I’m not that brave. Don’t freak.”

  “Too late. Did something happen to Mom?” The blood drained from my face. “Did The Asshole get you pregnant?”

  “No, thank God. Which says something about my relationship. Now, will you listen? Someone must have followed him.”

  “Followed him?” I asked. “Who?”

  “What are you talking about?” Asher asked. He hung the dishtowel on its hook, concern building in his eyes.

  Briar huffed. “There’s no way to feed this to you gently. There are pictures of you together. That first night you and Asher met. It looks . . . sordid. What they did with the pictures.”

  My lips felt numb. The feeling, blessedly, traveled downward. I turned toward Asher. “Jessica knew you were coming here?” I asked him.

  Asher nodded, a scowl forming.

  Briar said, “The pictures are in today’s Seattle paper, but other sites have picked
up the story,”

  “What does it say?”

  “Nothing nice.”

  I stuck my hand out and asked Asher for his phone. He opened the web browser app and handed it over. “What site?” I asked. Briar named one of those news aggregator sites. If the link wasn’t to all the news outlets, it would be soon.

  Supernaturals Lead Singer’s Wife Claims Affair is Last Straw.

  I blinked my way through the next couple of paragraphs, my chest tightening.

  The article talked about how I was a lonely, sexually deviant writer who liked musicians. The writer suggested I put up dating profiles so I could take men to my bed to gather new fodder for my books. My date with Dale was detailed down to the type of coffee I drank and how I lapped up the attention from one of my fans.

  Dale had messed with his phone. God, he’d probably recorded the whole conversation.

  Black spots formed in front of my eyes. Asher wanted a normal relationship. He wanted poems and Easter baskets, and this . . . this is what the world thought of me.

  “Oh,” I wheezed.

  Asher moved behind me, peering over my shoulder. He snatched his phone from my hand. I tried to breathe through the rising panic. I could handle this. It was just my reputation. No problem.

  “Jessica?” he asked. His voice vibrated with anger.

  I shrugged. I wasn’t sure it mattered who’d sent the pictures. Jessica and Dale had already talked to the media. Anything I said now was a rebuttal.

  The pictures looked bad. While I knew I was having a panic attack in one, to the outside world, Asher was holding me in a tight clinch, his head bent toward mine. He hadn’t kissed me, but it looked like he was about to screw me against the side of a building in a busy part of Seattle. Another showed us holding hands on the pier, us laughing in the surf.

  “Fuck. Dale’s one of her boyfriends. They set you up,” he said after reading the full article himself. His voice was clipped, anger dripping from each sentence. “I’ll call the record’s PR head. It’ll be okay, Dahlia. We’ll work this out.”

  I wheezed out a laugh. Sure. Once I was trashed all over social media.

  “Don’t panic,” Briar shouted.

  “I’m not,” I said, the response automatic. “Everything’s fine.” Then the phone slid from my hand. The anxiety burst through my chest. My lungs labored, failed to draw enough oxygen. I struggled against the overwhelming sensation, but the waves of anxiety were too big. Soon they’d be over my head.

  Asher’s arms slid around me. He was warm and smelled of safety.

  “You need to stop dropping your phone,” he murmured into my hair. “I’m getting you one of those heavy-duty cases. Listen to me, Dahlia, I know you’re panicking. I know it’s scary. I’ve got you. You’ll be okay. This is fixable.”

  He repeated the words. How did he know what I needed to hear? He understood I couldn’t control these emotions. That, more than anything, helped the panic recede.

  I dragged air into my lungs as I pressed my wet cheek into his shoulder.

  “My phone’s not important,” I huffed against his chest. “Did I break it?”

  Asher shook his head.

  “Is Briar still on the phone?” I asked.

  “Abbi’s talking to her.”

  He nodded toward the other side of the kitchen. Abbi had my phone pressed to her ear, the other arm wrapped around her waist as she listened to my sister. Mason was still engrossed in his game. I was thankful he hadn’t seen me fall apart, hadn’t been scared.

  “He does seem good for her. Totally calms her down,” Abbi said.

  She was right. Asher did. Instead of pulling away, I pressed against him, but I had to say the words to him. “I-I’m so sorry I’ve complicated your divorce, Asher.”

  “You didn’t. Jessica did. She told me she had insurance. I didn’t get that it was you. Us.”

  I clung to him, hating what I had to do. I’d pushed aside my concerns about dating another musician. I’d gone so far as to build a fantasy of us, together. But life wasn’t that easy. Or that perfect.

  “I’m not ready to push what’s between us,” I whispered. “I like saying we’re friends collaborating on a project. That we worked together this weekend.”

  I looked up and caught the pain in Asher’s face. He sucked in his bottom lip but nodded. “Probably smart. I hate that Jessica’s upset you,” he said. He cupped my cheek. “I’ll call my PR team now that you’re okay. We’ll let everyone know that she served me the papers almost a year ago. Ask your sister for those pictures of her and Dale from the cabin, will you?”

  He sighed, a heavy sound weighted down with defeat and guilt. I gripped his forearm, my nails digging in when he tried to step back. He inhaled but met my eyes. The sadness there . . . . My lungs compressed again, but for a different reason. I’d hurt him.

  “I don’t want you to do that for me. I don’t want to create a bigger media storm for you and Mason.”

  “I’m doing it for me,” Asher said. “For my band.”

  I searched his eyes, but I didn’t see anything in there to give me pause. “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely.” He glanced over at Abbi, who was watching us. “I meet the guys tomorrow, and we’re practicing all this week on the songs I sent them and maybe the ones you and I worked on. We go into the studio the following Thursday.”

  I frowned. “That’s good, right?”

  “Sure. But I won’t be around much, probably until that gig in Seattle.”

  Ah. He was pulling back, too. I wondered if it was because of what I’d just said.

  “I want to talk to you, Dahlia even if I can’t get out here to see you. Don’t shut me out. I can see you want to.”

  The panic beat against my breastbone again. He cupped the back of my head. I shuddered as the calm he brought washed over me.

  “I wouldn’t do that to you, Asher.”

  “Yes, you would. Because you think it’s best for me. And Mason. Don’t. Please. I need to talk to you. For me, but for you, too.”

  The words I’d written him were there between us. I crave your touch more for its kindness.

  “Yes to the talking.”

  Asher pressed the pad of his thumb to my bottom lip, and I could feel the longing in his gaze. “And Seattle?”

  Avoiding his question, I said, “Let me ask Briar for the pictures. If I don’t talk to her now, she’ll worry.”

  26

  Asher

  Taking Mason back to Mount Vernon was hard. He was quiet the whole flight, gripping his new video game so tight his fingers turned white.

  On our drive home, he asked, “Why can’t I live with Abbi? I like her. They have schools in Idaho.”

  “But your mom’s in Mount Vernon. You wouldn’t get to see her often if you lived at Dahlia’s.”

  Mason slouched in his seat and stuck out his lower lip. “I like Dahlia.”

  “But you love your mom.” Mason was young. He needed Jessica. He needed stability.

  “I guess. But Dahlia pays attention to what I say. And Abbi’s fun.”

  I’d really let my marriage, and Jessica’s behavior, spiral out of control. Already the divorce was impacting Mason.

  I’d made my first public statement confirming Jessica and I had been separated for nearly a year. I’d learned to put Mason first, and it was effortless now, but I was also more worried about Dahlia’s feelings and needs than my own. Maybe I was finally growing up.

  Mrs. Knowles opened the back door when I pulled up to the house, which surprised me. Mason greeted her, still appearing sad.

  I set his bag down by the back stairs. I’d left my stuff in the car, planning to crash in my apartment. Not just because I didn’t want to be in the same house as Jessica, but also because I didn’t want Dahlia to feel like there was anything still between us.

  “Jessica isn’t here,” Mrs. Knowles said.

  “Will she be back tonight?” I asked.

  Mrs. Knowles shrugged, the smile slidin
g off her face. “She didn’t say. She called me a couple of hours ago and asked me to be here when Mason came home.” She wrapped Mason in a hug, but he pulled away.

  “Can I play my new game?” he asked with a little sniffle.

  “Sure,” I said. “But just for a little bit. It’s almost bedtime.”

  He dragged himself over to the game console and shoved the disk into the slot.

  I turned back to Mrs. Knowles. “I’m worried about him.” I tipped my head toward the couch where Mason was slumped, eyes glued to the television.

  Mrs. Knowles pursed her lips. I knew she was trying to decide whether or not to say something.

  “You should be,” she finally said.

  I rubbed my hands through my hair and over my eyes. “You know about the divorce?”

  “The whole country knows, dear. Along with your friendship with that pretty author.”

  “I need Mason with me,” I said. “That’s going to be hard with my crazy schedule, but I’m hoping you’ll come along, help me with the transition. Jessica’s going to fight me.”

  Mrs. Knowles’s chin quivered. “If I can help, I will. In a heartbeat. He’s much happier when you’re around.”

  I cleared my throat and shifted my feet. “So you haven’t seen anything that could help build a case for me to get custody? Any drugs? Men in the house?”

  “She calls me before she leaves if I’m not here. The time Mason was here by himself is the only I know of. I haven’t seen anything more than wine or beer in the house.”

  “Her boyfriends?”

  “She meets them elsewhere. They don’t call the house phone.”

  “Dammit.” I pressed my thumbs to my eyes.

  “Do you want me to stay or are you going to?” Mrs. Knowles asked.

  I was supposed to be in Seattle early in the morning for our practice session. I looked over at Mason and noticed the white of dried tear tracks down his face. “I’m staying here.”

  Mrs. Knowles laid her hand on my arm. “You’re good with him. For him.”

  “Tell that to the judge.”

  Her eyes were serious, sad when she said, “I will, dear. Whether one asks or not.”