by Tracey Ward
“Shit, I—“ I don’t know how to finish that sentence. I’m stunned into silence, a rare state for me.
“I told my mom about it and she cried. We both sat there and cried and cried. We said we’d never talk about it again, but I’ll never forget how embarrassed and ashamed I felt. How ashamed I still feel now.”
I close my eyes, feeling like a fucker for asking her to talk about this. I had no idea and now that I know the worst part is that there’s nothing I can do to make it better for her. Nothing but hold her and tell her, “It’s not your fault. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“It was my dad, though.”
“It was the disease. It wasn’t you and it wasn’t him. Does he remember it happening?”
She shakes her head against my chest. “No, and I’m glad. It would be too hard for him.”
“The way it is for you and your mom.”
She nods vigorously. Silently.
“Does he remember your brother when he sees him?”
“Every single time.”
“Damn.”
She nods again, slower this time. Sadder.
“I’m sorry, Lilly.”
“I’m sorry too.”
“For what?”
“About your dad.”
“I guess we’ve both got daddy issues, huh?” I joke feebly.
I’m relieved when she shakes with a chuckle. “It’s amazing we’re not both on a pole.”
I smile. “I’ve taken pole dancing classes.”
“No shit?”
“No shit. I did it in college to meet girls.”
She leans back out of my hold, wiping at her eyes, trying her hardest not to meet mine. “I bet you were the teacher’s pet.”
I take her face in my hands, tilting it up to look at me. I use my thumbs to wipe away the wetness gathered in her lashes and on her cheeks. I hold her gaze with mine, making sure she sees me. Making sure she knows I see her.
“I’ll keep your secret,” I swear solemnly. “What you told me and what I told you, it’s private. I promise.
She gives me a small grin. “I trust you.”
“Do you mean that?”
“Yes. Do you trust me?”
“With everything that’s mine.”
I lower my lips to hers, kissing her slowly. She tastes like salt and sadness. Like honesty and beauty and so much sweetness I feel myself getting high off the flavor. Off of her and the growing feeling in my chest that pulses and pounds, beating out a rhythm that sounds like her name.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
LILLY
November 27th
Beer ‘N Burger
Los Angeles, CA
They lost last night.
On Thanksgiving Day, with everyone watching.
And they lost big.
Colt was right; he doesn’t take losing very well. He doesn’t get angry, not the way some of the guys apparently do, but he gets depressed. Angsty and a little bit tipsy. On the cab ride to the bar tonight he ranted about all of the ways he could have turned that game around, listing the million different changes that could have happened to bring home the win. Only those million ways aren’t the way it happened. There’s only one way, and it was a loss, a fact he’s having a very hard time digesting, because a—
“Fucking thirty-four to two loss to the Jets is un-fucking-acceptable!” he declares to the table, shouting over music blaring through the bar. It’s Friday night, karaoke night, and the place is packed, the talent on the stage flatter than the beer I’m nursing.
“Oh my God, Funshine Bear, we heard you the first three times,” Sloane groans. “Let it go. It’s over. You lost. Focus on the next game.”
He chuckles scornfully, bringing his beer to his lips. “What next game. Why bother? Season’s over.”
I rub my hand consolingly up and down his back, unsure what to say. Better luck next time? You can’t win ‘em all?
Do you want another beer?
“You guys have four more games,” Hollis reminds him. “Maybe don’t throw in the towel just yet.”
Colt ignores him, probably because Hollis is right and Colt has no interest in leaving this funk he’s in.
Hollis is Kurtis Matthews’ agent, Sloane’s best friend, and one third of the DAK Agency where Colt is represented. Berny Dawe, Sloane Ashford, and Hollis Kane make up the entire agency. Colt explained that Berny’s been an agent for a thousand years, Sloane just started out a couple years ago, and Hollis has been at it for six or seven. He’s a few years older than I am. Dark hair. Great clothes. Kind eyes.
Hollis is a stark contrast sitting next to Colt’s closest friend, Tyus Anthony. I just met him tonight and I’m not sure what to think of him. He sits back in his seat, aloof and biting. Egotistical in a way Colt only dreams of. He’s not a bad guy, though. He’s been really nice to me, if not a little distant. He’s gorgeous with dark skin, dark eyes, and a warm laugh that he reserves almost entirely for Colt.
Sitting next to Tyus is Andreas Castillo. I’ve got nothing on that guy. When he stands suddenly and announces, “I have to take a piss,” it’s the first full sentence I’ve heard him utter all night.
“Have fun!” Colt calls after him.
Andreas looks at him funny, his handsome face drawn, before heading across the crowded room toward the back.
“You give me shit for being down,” Colt bitches at Sloane. “Meanwhile that dude is Tim-fucking-Burton.”
She purses her lips as she watches him walk away. “I feel bad for him. It’s been a rough couple of days. It’s his first Thanksgiving without his family, you guys lost to the Jets—“
“Fucking unacceptable!”
“—and now his ex-wife is in labor, giving birth to another man’s baby.” She looks around the table. “We couldn’t leave him alone tonight, right?”
“No, you’re right,” Trey agrees. “But maybe bringing him to a bar wasn’t the best idea.”
Hollis nods solemnly. “You’re right. We should be at a strip club.”
“That’s worse, but not by much. Alcohol isn’t really the best thing for a depressed man.”
“Bullshit,” Colt counters. “It’s the only thing to give a depressed man.”
“You’re not depressed. You’re sullen. It’s different.”
“He’s not even drinking,” Sloane reminds Trey, talking about Andreas.
“That’s true.”
Colt’s phone vibrates violently on the table. He looks at it briefly before shoving it across the table to Sloane. “It’s my mom. Talk to her for me.”
She frowns down at the Kodiak yellow phone between them. “No.”
“Yes. She’ll know I’ve been drinking if I text her back and she’ll be worried if I don’t.”
“Have Lilly text with her.”
“Mom’s gonna want to talk about the game and Lilly doesn’t know fuck all about football.” He rubs my leg under the table, looking at me repentantly. “Sorry, Hendricks.”
I shrug, unperturbed. “Nothing to be sorry about. It’s true.”
Sloane swipes up the phone and taps away at the screen. “If I’m going to manage your personal life too, you’re gonna owe me a raise.”
“Your services will be reflected in your Christmas bonus.”
“I can’t wait.”
“You’ll love it. It’s gonna be a big one.”
“Great.”
“Cock full of Christmas cheer.”
“You mean ‘chock’ full?” Hollis asks, his words nearly drowned out by the applause filling the bar. The man behind the mic is mercifully finished.
Colt shrugs. “Sure. Why not?”
Sloane glares at him. “If your idea of a Christmas bonus is to give me a dick pic, your next endorsement deal will be for penis implants, ‘cause I’ll break your shit clean off.”
“She’ll do it, man,” Trey tells him. “And if she doesn’t, I will.”
“Sorry to disappoint you both,” Colt drawls, leaning back to throw
his arm around my shoulders, “but my dick is off the market. The only person getting a picture of it this Christmas is Lilly.”
I frown. “That’s not—no. Do not give me that for Christmas.”
“Not even a little one? Wallet size?”
“So life size?” Tyus asks.
“Fuck you, Anthony.”
“I’d rather get nothing,” I tell Colt. “But thanks. That’s a very… it’s thoughtful. Very thoughtful.”
He snatches up his beer with his free hand. “You people are impossible to shop for.”
“Jewelry,” Sloane tells him frankly. “We like jewelry. The sparkly kind.”
Colt looks at me sideways. “Is that true? Should I get you jewelry for Christmas?”
“The mic is open!” A woman announces on the stage, trying to amp up the room. “Who’s next?!”
I shake my head at Colt. “You don’t have to get me anything for Christmas.”
“That’s a yes,” Sloane informs him certainly.
Colt grins. “Is she right?”
“I don’t know,” I laugh uncomfortably. The entire table is looking at me, waiting for me to pick a Christmas gift from Colt friggin’ Avery. It’s awkward as shit. “I do my Christmas shopping at Target, not Cartier. I honestly don’t know much about jewelry. I don’t wear it very often because it gets in the way in the bakery. If I’m wearing a bracelet or a long necklace they could get caught in the mixer. There was this guy at a big bakery in San Francisco last year who had his wedding ring on and it got caught in a machine and tore his finger clean off. It went into the batter and they…” They’re all still watching me, more intently now than ever, and I suddenly realize I’ve pulled a Rona; I got nervous and started rambling. Oversharing. “Never mind. Yes. Jewelry is great.”
“For fuck’s sake man, do not get her jewelry,” Hollis tells Colt sternly.
“Definitely don’t get her a ring,” Sloane adds, twirling one of her own on her slim finger, a distant look in her eyes.
“What about earrings?” Colt asks me lightly. “Is there any way earrings could gruesomely mutilate you at work?”
“Not that I know of,” I laugh.
“Then that’s what I’ll get you.”
“You don’t have to get me anything.”
“I’m not getting you anything. I’m getting you earrings.”
“Or you’ll ask Sloane to go out and get them since she’s managing your life now,” I tease.
Sloane chuckles. “You’d be better off.”
Colt shakes his head before pulling me closer to his side. “No. I’ll get them for you myself.”
“You don’t have to—“
“Get you anything. I heard you. And you didn’t have to come here tonight when you’ve gotta work early in the morning, but you did because I asked you to.”
“You begged me to.”
“The point is you’re here when I need you and that’s worth way more to me than a few diamonds.”
I feel that traitorous blush on my cheeks, the one he draws out time and time again. The one I can’t hide; my heart on my face instead of my sleeve.
I put my hand on the side of his face to bring his lips to mine so I can kiss him. So I can hide behind him. So I can lose myself in him and the electrical storm that rages through my body whenever he’s near me. The kiss is innocent and light, but the feeling inside me is rich. Thick with so many things that conflict and coil together. Desire, fear, joy.
When I pull away he’s looking down at me with half closed eyes and a small smile on his face. One full of affection that I feel through every nerve in my body. That bubbles up and out of me, making me laugh out of nowhere. But that’s what Colt does to me. He fills me with this impossible happiness that’s so overwhelming there’s nowhere for it to go but up. Up and out and into the air around us, effervescing. Dancing.
“I like you,” I whisper to him.
His grin grows. “Say that again. I like the way it sounds.”
I scoot closer to him inside the booth, my side flush with his, our faces inches apart. “I like you, Colt. I like you very, very much.”
“I like you too, Lilly.” He runs his hand down my back, tangling his fingers in my hair. “I like you very, very much.”
“Come on, guys!” the woman pushes from the stage. “No one is brave enough to take the stage?!”
“Enough to do something crazy with me?” I ask Colt.
His eyes light up with interest. “What’d you have in mind?”
I tip my head in the direction of the stage where a woman with white cornrows is still barking, demanding another victim. “Sing with me.”
Colt laughs, throwing his head back, letting the rich sound pour over me. “Hell no,” he replies, bringing his eyes back to mine. “I’ll do a lot of wild shit, Lilly, but that’s not something you want. Trust me.”
“You can’t be that bad,” I chuckle.
Colt nods emphatically. “Oh, yes, I can. I am. But now I’m interested. Get up there. Sing me something sultry.”
“Like what?”
“Whatever you’re feelin’.”
“What’s happening?” Tyus asks.
“She’s trying to get me to sing karaoke with her.”
“No,” Trey says immediately.
Sloane shakes her head. “Seriously. Please don’t. He sang Landslide a month ago and I’m still recovering.”
“Can you sing?” Tyus asks me.
“Pretty well,” I answer modestly. “I used to do it all the time. Rona and I practically lived at a karaoke bar on Burbank.”
“Why’d you stop?”
I shrug, not sure how to answer that question. There are too many reasons, too many factors that contributed to the fading of Lilly Hendricks to explain right now. “Life,” I answer simply.
Tyus considers me for a moment before nodding to the stage. “Let’s hear it, then. Quick, before this asshole starts popping Pesos into the juke and we’re listening to Garth Brooks for the rest of the night.”
“Do you know any Garth Brooks?” Colt asks me.
I laugh, shaking my head. “He’s not my style. Sorry.”
“Fuck! You were almost perfect. I guess everyone’s gotta have a flaw.”
“Better this than a cult membership,” Hollis reminds him.
“She’s got you laughing less than twenty-four hours after a loss,” Sloane points out. “She’s a fucking godsend, Colt. Don’t you dare start talking about flaws.”
“Go on,” Tyus prods with a small grin. “Show us your pipes.”
“Will you sing too?” I ask.
“I wanna see what kind of act I’m following first.”
“The screen is broken,” Colt warns me. “You won’t have the words.”
“I won’t need them.”
Hollis stands up, cupping his hands around his mouth. “We got a taker!”
“Bring ‘em up!” the woman shouts back happily.
Sloane and Trey shimmy out of the booth to let me out, and I realize I’m actually doing this. I’m going up to the stage to sing in this bar with these people watching. I know I can carry a tune. If I’m not in the mood to be humble, I’ll admit I’m really good, actually. I spent four years in high school beating Grammy Nominee Cassie Carlyle out of roles in school musicals. ‘Really good’ probably doesn’t cover it.
I used to feel good on a stage. Solid and excited. I used to enjoy it, but when I step up here tonight I feel nervous. I realize singing hasn’t felt good for a while now. Not for a year at least. Not since everything went to shit.
I put my hands on the mic. I take a deep breath. I look out over the bar where I find Colt’s eyes watching me intently, a half-grin on his lips, and I feel that feeling that he gives me. That light. That weight. That solid sense of self that I’ve been missing for too long.
I smile back at him. I don’t bother with the music. I pick a song that runs through my mind every time he kisses me. Every time I feel myself falling farther and fart
her for the man, not the myth.
I sing Prince’s Kiss.
I sing it for him. I sing like me, the old me, the happy me. The kind me. The one who has never been left, never been forgotten.
I sing like I’ve never lost a single thing in my life, especially not myself.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
COLT
“Holy shit.” The Hotness swats at my shoulder roughly, her eyes on the stage. “Dude, holy shit.”
“I know,” I mumble, stunned.
“Did you know she could sing like that?”
“No fucking clue.”
Lilly is powerful on that stage. More confident than I’ve ever seen her. She’s in her element in the kitchen, but on the stage, behind the mic, she’s something else. She’s where she belongs.
She’s like me on the field.
Small and dark in the shadows of the unlit area, she blows her voice through the room with a strength that feels impossible coming from her. She sings Prince’s Kiss in this jazz kind of way that’s slow and sensual. Subtle. It comes on you gently but when that low, gravelly voice of hers rolls through the song, you feel it everywhere. The hairs on my arms stand up. She gives me chills.
The sound of her voice literally gets me hard.
When she finishes the song there’s a moment of silence in the bar before the entire place erupts in applause and shouts. People call for an encore.
“Wooo!” I shout, standing up on my seat in the booth. “Fuck yeah! That’s my girl!”
“Yeah, Lilly!” Trey cries before putting his fingers to his lips and whistling loudly.
She laughs into the mic, this innocent, girlish giggle that makes me smile. That make me want to leap over the table, scoop her up into my arms, and take her home.
As the applause dies down Tyus turns back to our table.
“No fuckin’ way I’m following that,” he mutters.
Three songs later and Lilly rejoins our table. It’s after midnight and I’m two songs past my willingness to share her with the world. I ask her if she wants to leave, if she wants to come stay the night at my place, and I nearly growl with excitement when she leans her whole body into me and whispers a simple, “Yes” into my mouth.
