Seattle Sound Series, The Collection: Books One to Five

by Alexa Padgett

  I bolted off the couch. Alpie shrieked again, flying into the dining room. My shame, my heartache laid out there, all over the telly, for the whole world to see. I hurried to my temporary bedroom. Home, I guessed. Once again I was alone, homeless.

  I glanced over at the pills sitting on my nightstand. One was in my hand, my mouth in the next heartbeat. I curled up on my bed with my photo album clutched to my chest. The one memento from my life in Australia. Well, this one narrow book and my accent I couldn’t seem to lose.

  “Come on,” I whispered. Twenty-nine minutes and the sweet relief would start to trickle through my blood stream.

  Noelle and Maura would call. Soon, probably. They’d fuss over me. My phone vibrated with a text. From Susan. Murphy’s mum making sure I was holding up okay. I wasn’t, but I didn’t want to tell her that. My door opened and I sighed, wishing I’d taken the time to lock it.

  “I need to be alone.”

  Murphy moved steadily toward the bed. “That’s the worst thing you can do right now. Being left alone with your thoughts will just make it seem bigger. Scarier.”

  “It is scary. Every time I think I’ve gotten away, started to build a life, Jordan shows up and destroys it. And each time he takes something huge from me.”

  “See? You can’t be alone.” Murphy nudged me with his hip. “Show me the pictures.”

  I hesitated. Sharing this with him would bring back even more memories. I glanced again at the pill bottle. How long until it kicked in? Twenty-four minutes?

  “Why are you clutching it like a teddy bear?”

  Heat swamped my face. Oh, this was going to be mortifying. I shook my head. I didn’t want to share this, not with him.

  “My friends are going to call.” The phone rang, and I sighed in relief. Murphy beat me to the phone.

  “Hello, Noelle. She’s fine, sitting here on her bed. She’ll call you back later.” He powered down my phone and dropped it on the nightstand, next to the bottle.

  Soon. I’d relax soon.

  “Why don’t you show me what’s in there, Mila?”

  I loosened my grip, knowing he’d keep after it until I showed him. He snagged the album from my arms and flipped it open.

  The picture of us at Bondi beach, both of us holding surfboards, wasn’t what he’d expected. His hand trembled as he touched the page, his finger landing on my cheek in the photo. I frowned. I wanted his fingers on my face now, not an image of it.

  Wait. No, I didn’t. If Murphy touched me with such tender concern, I would fall into his arms and be just another one of his conquests.

  I scooted up against the pillows and flipped the page to one of his shows, our cheeks pressed tight together, eyes shining with excitement. We’d hoped this would be his band’s big break. Hadn’t worked out that way, and in hindsight, I was glad. We were together two more years because the record label’s intern didn’t show at that gig.

  The other picture was of just Murphy, at his twenty-sixth birthday party. He’d worn two party hats, one on each side of his head like horns. He grinned at the camera, a huge cake lit with tons of candles in front of him.

  He took the book from me and continued to flip through the pages, studying each one. He wiggled his lip ring as he turned another page. I wanted to snatch the album from his hands. These were my memories, and I didn’t want to share them even with him. Especially with him. I prepared to bolt off the bed and hide in the bathroom. My movements felt slower than usual. I tried to remember how many pills I’d taken today. From my reaction time, too many.

  But he’d flipped to the last page. I stood out front of our favorite beach, my hands forming a heart over my tiny tummy bump.

  His whole hand covered the photo. “I never saw this one,” he said. His voice was hoarse.

  “No.”

  “You’re pregnant in it. I can see this little curve above your bikini bottoms.”

  “Yes.”

  “When was this taken?”

  “The day before Jordan found me in Sydney.”

  Murphy flicked at his lip ring. He dipped his head in acknowledgment. I didn’t add that I’d hoped he’d ask me to marry him before I told him about the baby. Silly though it was, I was old-fashioned, perhaps because of the way I was raised, and I wanted the ring and the vows before the baby. My mother married many men, none my actual father. Trask was the name of her third husband, a kind teacher who’d remained hurt and befuddled when my mother cheated on him. He’d been in the process to adopt me, already legally changed my surname to Trask so we could all be a family. My mum didn’t have the money or inclination to change my name back to Jones.

  Murphy met my gaze, his eyes stormy. “What would you have done with this, Mila? I know you—you had a plan. This is staged. Who took the photo?”

  “Your mum took it.” Much as I wanted to shut the album, I worried I’d have to wrestle it from his hands. I wasn’t about to sully the photo.

  “What was your plan?” he asked again.

  “I’d planned to give it to you before your show that night. As a surprise. I’d hoped you’d be as happy about the bub as I was.”

  “Fuck.” The word was harsh but his fingers traced the lines of my belly with extreme gentleness. “Fuck. If you’d just told me the truth, Mila.”

  His sigh was harsh. He closed the album, his hand stroking over the cover. His brows pinched tight over his nose. “I planned that night, too.”

  His voice was all gravelly with emotion. A thrill raced across my stomach. I loved Murphy’s voice like this, private, something he didn’t share with many people. He raised his hand to cup my cheek, his thumb drifting in lazy swipes against my temple.

  “Do you want to know what it was?”

  Did I? I wasn’t sure. If he told me, I’d obsess about it. If he didn’t tell me, I’d obsess about what it could have been.

  He smirked at me, probably knowing my thoughts. Murphy knew how my mind worked. And he’d played me well.

  “Yes,” I said.

  He brought his other hand up and pushed my hair from my cheek, his eyes following the sweep of my bangs back from my forehead. His eyes returned to mine. Held them in a long embrace.

  “I’d written this song, see. A ballad. Soft and sweet. Just me and my guitar. I wanted to have you come up on stage whilst I played it. You’d love it, have to hug me, arms twined tightly around my neck.”

  I shook my head again, my eyes widening. I wouldn’t cry. No way. I opened them even wider.

  “When the show ended, I planned to take you there, to our spot on the beach.”

  My lips parted and a guttural sound drifted from my throat. Murphy’s lips flipped up in a sad smile. He kept his eyes on mine.

  “I’d bought you an engagement ring, Mila.” His eyes filled with sadness. “Not that big or fancy, but it felt right.”

  My breath broke. I scrambled back, but Murphy caught me before I fell off the far edge of the mattress. He brought me back toward him, though I shook my head, mouthing no.

  “I was going to ask you to marry me that night, Mila.”

  16

  Murphy

  She’d managed another pill before I got in here. I could tell by the way her eyes were filming over, glassy instead of sharp. Anger warred with a sad kind of understanding. I didn’t want Mila turning to substances for relief; I’d seen too many good musicians ruined by them.

  At the same time, she’d been through so much. So much of it alone. At some point, she’d made the decision to survive, no matter what. While I didn’t agree with her methods, my chest tightened at the other possibilities: Mila too broken to find her way back to the strong, loving woman she’d been or perhaps worse, Mila apathetic to it all, giving in to Jordan’s sick needs.

  The longer we toured, the more musicians I met, the more I realized many people had a string of bad luck who felt as though they’d deserved it.

  She sniffled. “Why did you tell me that?”

  “Because you needed to know how much
I cared about you.” I waited until she met my gaze. Took ten seconds—longer than it used to. “I still do.”

  She shook her head. “You don’t mean that,” her voice was quiet. And I bit the tip of my tongue, unwilling to fight with her.

  “I mean, you care about me as a past lover,” she said. “But we don’t know each other anymore.”

  I patted the spot next to me. “Lay here.”

  She eyed the narrow strip of space between us with trepidation. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  “Now, Mila.”

  Her eyes met mine and she sighed, longing softening her features. I hoped her medication wasn’t too powerful. The withdrawal effects were going to rip her, but that wasn’t a good enough reason to let her keep abusing the medication.

  I couldn’t let her keep digging herself deeper into the hole she’d managed to fall into. She’d destroy the life she’d clawed together. She paused again, sucking at her lower lip as she eyed my body stretched out on her bed. I gripped her wrist and gently pulled her down, tucking her next to me. She sighed and snuggled closer in increments, a tiny kitten unused to and afraid of anyone’s touch.

  I tipped my head back against the headboard. Bloody hell, being with her again hurt. Not just because I wanted to touch her—that desire never left—but I wanted to fix her life and make sure she could stand alone.

  Then I’d leave—to deal with my record exec’s meeting, decide how to handle the solo project. Go home to Sydney or start recording in LA, touring somewhere else. Leaving wasn’t an option. My life demanded it.

  I stroked her hair, letting my thumbs brush the sensitive skin against her nape. I didn’t say anything else, just held her until the pill’s effect trickled through her system.

  Once she was deep into her slumber, I picked up the album and stared at the picture of her on the beach. Her smile shone brighter than the warm Sydney sun. Her eyes laughed into the camera, thrilled with her secret.

  Prison wasn’t enough for Jordan Jones.

  I slid from under her. She mewled in protest, her shoulders stiffening. I sat on the edge of the bed just out of her reach and rubbed my hand over her head.

  “Murphy,” she breathed.

  My name from her lips and I was on the verge of an emotional breakdown. She turned, snuggling deeper into the pillow. I picked up her pill bottle and studied the label. A depression or anxiety pill. A lot of musicians took it. Ironic how many of them didn’t like to perform.

  I took the bottle and my phone into the living room.

  I dialed Noelle’s number from my Recents list.

  “What do you want?” she said, stifling a yawn.

  “Sorry to wake you.”

  “You didn’t wake me, but I am in bed.”

  I made a sound in the back of my throat as I thought of Mila on her bed, curled around me. Great, now my dick was hard. Again. Almost a permanent affliction in the past few hours. So very mature of me.

  “Mila’s abusing her Xanax,” I blurted out.

  “You’re crazy,” Noelle said, but doubt threaded through her words.

  “I’m holding the bottle in my hand. It says she filled it ten days ago and there are only ten left.”

  “It’s an easy med to become dependent on.” Noelle sighed.

  “Gets into the system in about half an hour but back out in about six to eight hours.”

  “Right,” she said. “So the mind starts to want more of it if the stress doesn’t go.”

  “How do I break her of the habit?”

  “You think now’s the time to do that?”

  I flicked my lip ring, considering her question. “Is there ever a good time to treat an addiction?”

  “She’s dealing with a lot, Murphy. The stress has to be crushing.”

  “And it’ll only get harder to stop when she becomes more dependent.”

  “Dammit. I hate that you’re right,” Noelle sighed. “Can you hold on a minute?”

  Noelle muffled the phone. A deep, male voice responded. So it was like that? Just tattoo “dickhead” across my forehead.

  “Kent says she needs to ease off. Slowly. If you do cold turkey right now, she might have a very adverse reaction.”

  “What does that mean? Some of us don’t have medical degrees.”

  “It means wean her off.” The bloke spoke again. Ah, Noelle had put me on speaker. “You have the bottle?”

  “Yep.”

  “Keep it,” he said. “Look to see if she has any others and confiscate those as well. Then dole out her normal dose for the next few days. When she runs low, she’ll need to see a psychiatrist to get another script. Noelle will send you names of a couple of psychiatrists that my colleagues recommend to their patients.”

  “She’ll need to be occupied to keep her mind off the stress, especially the waiting to find out about Jordan. And, Murphy, she’s going to be cranky,” Noelle said.

  “Cranky I can handle.”

  Noelle snorted. “We’ll see. Mila’s always so even-keeled. This ought to be interesting.” She yawned. “Call me tomorrow.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Clicking off, I went back into Mila’s room. She lay on her side, facing away from me. Her ribs rose and fell in a steady rhythm. I did a methodical search through all her bags, the pockets of her long cardigan, and her purse. I pulled out a printed script for another round of pills from her wallet but didn’t find any more pills.

  Good. Maybe the problem wasn’t that serious.

  I clutched the pill bottle in my fist. Mila mewled, shoving her hands between her thighs. I tugged a blanket from the bottom of the bed, dragging it up to her chin.

  Time to do a little more research before I could sleep for the night.

  I walked out into the living room, stifling a cry when the rustle of feathers and a rush of air brushed my cheek. The bloody bird landed on my shoulder and I cringed back from its beak nuzzling my chin—barely.

  “Right. In your cage.”

  “Mil?” Alpie asked, tilting her head. Her black eyes bored into mine. “Mil?”

  Bollocks. Its beak was mere inches from my eye.

  “You want to see Mila?” I asked. Anything to get it off me and into its cage.

  I opened Mila’s door and Alpie fluttered in, landing on the headboard. She bent down, wings spread, to peer at Mila’s slumbering face. “Shush. Mil.”

  “Time for sleep . . . er . . . Alpie.”

  The bird made a soft humming noise for a long moment before flying out of the room, just missing my head. I ducked, cursing. Alpie settled into her cage.

  “Night. Mil.” She dipped her head, her crest feathers fluffing. “Fu-‘atoo,” she said in that voice that was so close to my own.

  Mila would choose a bloody damn bird.

  17

  Mila

  I woke, shocked. I’d slept the whole night for the first time in . . . I couldn’t remember. I stood and stretched. After a trip to the bathroom, I snuggled into my cardigan, running my tongue over my clean teeth. I loved that feeling.

  I walked out to the living area, unsurprised to see Murphy up and about. He’d always been an early riser. He was talking to a man, big bloke with a no-nonsense buzz cut and sharp hazel eyes. I shied away, planning to head back into the quiet of my room.

  “Mila. Good. This is Kevin, my main security detail. He’s heading up the rest of the guards here.”

  “G’day,” I said, feeling uncertain.

  “Ms. Trask.” He dipped his head. “I’ll introduce you to your personal close guard for the duration of this assignment in a moment, but if you ever feel uncomfortable or see something odd, don’t hesitate to tell me.”

  “Yes. Right.”

  I stuck my hand into my pocket, planning to grip my pill bottle. Nothing.

  The fear pulled me under immediately. Murphy clamped onto my elbow, steering me into the dining room. He spoke to Kevin, who answered, but I didn’t understand the words. I was too busy trying to keep the shaking u
nder control.

  Murphy settled me onto his lap and placed a pill in my hand. I shoved it into my mouth and took the glass of orange juice he handed me, my hand shaking with such force, Murphy steadied me so I didn’t miss my mouth.

  He set the juice down and pulled me tighter to his chest, his hand rubbing up and down my back in slow soothing strokes.

  “I’ve got you, Mila. Breathe it out.”

  “Alpie,” I whispered.

  Murphy maneuvered me into the chair and went to open Alpie’s cage. The bird shrieked and shot out. “Mil!”

  “I didn’t know she knew my name,” I stuttered.

  “She checked on you before she’d settle in last night.” Murphy eyed the bird with diffidence. Not the best of mates, these two. Not that I expected them to be. He resettled me in his lap as Alpie shushed from the table.

  As my breathing calmed, I tried to scoot off his lap. But Murphy hugged me tighter to his chest.

  “Not yet,” he murmured. “I quite like you here.”

  I buried my face into his chest, preferring to breathe in his scent—that woodsy soap and fresh laundered cotton—than fight. So much for my early morning peace.

  “I’m sorry,” I muttered.

  “Is it always so bad? The fear?”

  I shook my head.

  “When did it get like this?”

  “When Jordan showed up here.”

  He tipped my chin up. I kept my eyes downcast. I didn’t want him to see the few secrets I still hid from him.

  “How long have you been abusing the pills, Mila?”

  My eyes flew to his. I searched his eyes, mouth open to deny. I snapped it shut. My back stiffened and anger built in my sternum, spreading outward to fire my belly. How dare he?

  “I want to help you, love. So let’s talk it through.”

  I tried to clamber from his lap again, but Murphy held me tight. The ensuing struggle was brief and certain. I remained in Murphy’s lap, but now I seethed. I turned my face away, refusing to let him see how lost I was without my pill bottle.