Because of Luke

by F. X. Scully

  I laugh. "My point is, he's not you. You're...like Matt Dillon and John Stamos rolled into a neat little package—with a little Brian Bloom thrown in for good measure. You're hot and unpredictable." I take my beer back from him. "Not to mention completely irresistible."

  I glance up at him, immediately regretting the last part. His expression morphs from the tight, tense mask to warm and soft. In the next few seconds, he touches my cheek sending a jolt of warmth rushing through me. My mind scrambles, telling me to get up and get out of there, but my body has other ideas. I can't move. I don't want to. I never thought I'd be touched by him again and it feels good. So good, like the thing I've been waiting for all this time. The one thing that'll make everything normal again.

  Luke leans in toward me and just like that, it feels so very wrong.

  I push him away, jumping up. "What are you doing?"

  His expression falls at first, but as his intoxicated brain comes to the same conclusion I have, his gaze darts from mine and the darkness returns to his eyes. "I'm...I didn't..."

  I turn away, rushing for the exit and nearly crashing into Dash and Roscoe as I rush past the elevators toward my room.

  Luke

  I hold up my hand as my brother impatiently paces in front of me.

  "Yeah, that's right. Six dozen." I hold the receiver between my chin and shoulder. "The guy at the desk said you guys have them in blue. Is that true? Seems kind of weird, blue roses. Really? Black? That's messed up. Who buys black roses? Oh, I guess. All right then. Blue would be cool. Same color as her eyes. Three dozen blue, three dozen red." I grin at my brother and he frowns. "Washington. Hold on, I have the address right here." I pick up the note pad and read it to the lady on the other line.

  When I hang up the phone, Roscoe is still hovering. I light up a freshly rolled joint and offer it to him. But he shakes his head.

  His arms are crossed at his chest and he doesn't look happy. In fact, he looks like he wants to pound me.

  "What?" I ask.

  "You need to stop smoking that stuff."

  I laugh. "Are you kidding?"

  "Do I look like I'm kidding?"

  "Dude..."

  "When you smoke you get stupid. You make idiotic decisions, like getting nipple rings and sleeping with Sunday School teachers."

  I raise my eyebrows. "I told you I was sorry about that. You said—"

  "I don't care about that. I care about this. You haven't touched this shit in three years. Now every time I see you, there's a cloud of smoke around your head." He snatches the still-burning joint from me, crushing it in his fist.

  "What the hell, man?"

  "You've made your last mistake, little bro."

  "What'd I do now?"

  "You mean besides knocking up some girl you barely know? Or, I don't know, fucking up your life by getting married?"

  "Yeah," I bolt out of the chair, knocking it over. "Besides that. That shit was my decision. And I already told you I don't regret it."

  He looks past me, his gaze falling to the note pad. "What was that all about?"

  I puff up my chest. "Sending roses to my wife," I announce proudly.

  "Six fucking dozen? What the hell did you do?" He narrows his eyes.

  "Did you forget you just bailed me out of jail?"

  My answer doesn't appease him though. And I guess I shouldn't expect it too. I've just added one more to the list of stupid things. He takes one step forward, towering over me and I force myself not to cower.

  "What's your problem?" I ask.

  "What's yours?"

  That's when I realize he knows. Whether Sheila told him or it's written all over my face, he knows.

  "I didn't mean it. I—she—you should have heard the things she said...l-like she was trying to seduce me or something."

  Roscoe practically growls when he grabs ahold of my collar. "Stay the fuck away from her."

  I shove against his chest, sending him flailing backwards, but he catches his balance, and in a few seconds he's charging toward me again. He's got me pinned up against the wall, his forearm pressing into my chest, a fistful of my shirt in his other hand.

  "Calm the fuck down!" I scream. "Jesus. It was nothing. What do you care?"

  The anger in his expression softens a bit and he loosens his grip. "I...the band." He lifts his chin. "We can't afford any more screw ups because of your inability to keep it in your pants."

  "Me?" I scoff a laugh. "You're the slut in these parts, Ross. Not me."

  He ignores the dig and leans in very close. His face is only inches from mine, his nose is flared and his breaths pick up. "Sheila's part of the band. Do you get that? I gave you a chance once before, but not this time. Don't fucking touch her. Ever again, you understand?"

  Roscoe doesn't let go of me, and he doesn't move back either. He continues to stare. "I said, got it?"

  I nod. But of course it isn't good enough.

  "I got it! Jesus."

  With that he releases me and I take the opportunity to shove him once, nice and hard. He barely budges, as though he expected it.

  "Good," he replies. "We've got a good thing going here. No room for drama."

  As he turns to leave, I seize the opportunity. "So, the house. Can she stay there or not? You haven't sold it yet have you?"

  Roscoe shakes his head. "No, still mine."

  "So you'll sell it to me?"

  "It's just as much mine as it is yours, Luke." He shrugs. "If you want it, I can make it happen. Just say the word."

  "I'm sayin' it."

  "Cool. I'll get the ball rolling on Monday." He holds my gaze, a serious expression printed on his face. "Promise me, kid. No more stupid shit."

  "I promise."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  FIVE MONTHS LATER

  Shannon

  I spent the night with the toilet again. Just when I thought this morning sickness thing was over, it decides to reappear in the third trimester and hang out all damn day. If it weren't for Dave...

  I scramble on my hands and knees toward the bowl, heaving, tears streaming down my face.

  A warm hand rests on my back a few minutes later and I rest my forehead on the cool ceramic surface.

  "I feel awful," I moan.

  "I'm so sorry." Dave pulls me to my feet and guides me back to the edge of the tub. "Here."

  I receive the glass of water he offers, taking a tiny sip.

  "Should I call him?"

  I shake my head. "If he knows you're here..."

  "What choice did you have, Shannon? Where is he this week? Greece?"

  "Sweden."

  Dave laughs, but his face tells another story. "I'm really starting to hate that guy."

  "Dave..."

  "No, I'm serious. Who leaves their pregnant wife to go on a European tour? It's Christmas Eve for godssake! I don't care how much money he's bringing in, Shannon. Is it worth it? When's the last time he saw Ray?"

  I don't respond. I just keep sipping my water, willing my stomach to calm down. But it refuses. Third trimester morning sickness is a bitch.

  "I mean," Dave continues. "This ranch is beautiful. You've got all the space in the world, but space isn't what you need right now."

  "I know."

  "And so should he."

  "So what do you expect me to do? Demand he come home? That wouldn't be fair. We agreed this was the best course of action."

  Ray cries in the distance and Dave shakes his head as he retreats from the bathroom. "And until then, you just do your best to get along on your own, right? Seems like a great plan," he mutters.

  "He's got three more shows, Dave. That's it. He'll be back by the end of the week."

  "Until the next tour."

  I hold my head in my hands as the door closes behind him. He's right. It's a terrible plan. But it's the only choice we have.

  I sigh, glancing down at the marble floors. Then I laugh. Who am I kidding? We have other choices? We have this house? We could sell it and make enough
to live on for two years. Lucas could come home now if he wanted.

  Clearly he doesn't.

  What I saw that night in Moscow was real. He's where he wants to be. Doing what makes him happy. And who am I to stop him? I may not have known what I was getting myself into when we married, but after that incident with Dave, after this extravagant apology, I made a decision. To stick around—for better or worse. Until death. Even if I'm not his first love.

  I make my way back into the master bedroom holding my stomach as I crawl under the sheets. Thank god for friends like Dave. Otherwise, I have no idea what I'd do.

  Stockholm, Sweden

  Sheila

  I've avoided him for the last few weeks. As impossible as it's been, I've done everything in my power to stay away from Luke. For every leg of this tour, I've looked the other way, sat at a different table, several seats away on the plane, different cars, even a different hotel when I could help it. From afar, I've championed his efforts to make it up to my sister. Moving her into the ranch, showering her and the baby with gifts. In my mind, staying as far away as possible was my way to make amends for almost kissing my sister's husband. And he doesn't seem to care. He's perfectly okay with the distance and it makes me feel like shit—like I'm the cause of all of it.

  It's Christmas Day. And I've spent it right here inside this dressing room, crunching numbers and returning phone calls. The label wants to do another domestic tour. I just want to go home and sleep for a month.

  I sigh, listening to the bustling in the hallway. The last show. Finally. Then we can go home. I can't wait to go back and forget any of this ever happened. Maybe I will. Maybe this is the end for me. I could get my GED like I planned, then go to college with Coco. I'll be a little behind, but better late than never. Mom and Dad would love that. Which, as immature as it seems, is exactly why I need to tough it out.

  No one ever said this would be easy. In fact, all those months ago, Paula Tracy told me it wouldn't be. My life isn't as glamorous as it looks. Yes, I get to ride around with rock stars, stay in expensive hotels, travel the world and meet people I never imagined would even know I existed, but no one ever tells you about the drama. Regrettable hook-ups, in-fighting, man stench. It's all a bigger part of the package than I bargained for.

  "You going to stay in there forever?" Roscoe, pokes his head in the dressing room. "You've got fans too, Sheila Carlson."

  I laugh. "Now, we both know that's not true."

  "Are you kiddin' me? I'm your biggest one." He winks, then eases onto the overstuffed sofa next to me. "Buck up, sweetheart. We'll be home in a few days."

  I offer a weak smile and lean my head back, staring up at the ceiling. "I know."

  "Is everything okay?"

  No. Far from it. I'm living in a freaking soap opera. And instead of switching the channel, I have to find my way out.

  "Everything's fine, Ross. You're sweet for asking."

  "And you're a goddamn liar." He drapes an arm across the back of the sofa and starts twirling my hair around his fingers. It's hard to believe there was a time I found this nerve wracking and then just plain annoying. Now it comforts me, makes me feel like everything really is okay.

  "It's nothing you need to worry about," I say, angling my head to look at him. I glance up at the clock. "Your last set," I nod toward it.

  "You coming to watch?"

  "Nothing I haven't seen before."

  His face falls a bit, but he quickly perks up, masking any disappointment. "Okay, guess I'll see you at the after party?"

  "Probably not. I'm kind of tired. Going to call it a night."

  "Seriously?"

  "Seriously." I nudge him when he frowns. "This is Sweden, Ross. Have you seen the girls here?" I wink. "You'll be just fine without me." I lean forward and kiss him on the cheek. "Break a leg."

  For several seconds, he just stares at me, as if contemplating whether or not to say something. Then he smiles, winks right back and gets up to leave the room.

  I'm positive I'm dreaming as I sit up in my bed and peer at him. At first, I was sure it was his brother. But as the panic settles and I focus on Roscoe's face, bathed in the light from the hallway, I reach over and flip on the bedside lamp.

  "Ross?"

  He steps over the threshold, closing the door behind him.

  "How the hell'd you get the key to my room?" I blink, then glance around still foggy with sleep. That's when I remember where I am. His suite. I'd wanted to take a bath before our trip home tomorrow and the tub in my room was too small.

  Roscoe laughs. "Damn, give a girl an inch..."

  "What are you doing here? I thought you'd still be at the party. I can go back to my room if you want."

  "Of course not." He kicks off his boots and shrugs out of his jacket, tossing it on the chair near the door. "You're not bothering me."

  "What time is it?" I ask as he continues to undress.

  "Almost one."

  "In the morning?" Now I know I must be dreaming.

  He nods and makes his way over to the other side of the bed, in nothing but a pair of boxers.

  "What the hell are you doing here?"

  Roscoe laughs again, shaking his head as he crawls into bed next to me. "My room, isn't it?" He's lying on top of the sheets, hands clasped behind his head, staring up at the ceiling.

  "Yeah, but..." I'm fully sitting up now. I push the covers off my legs and swing them over the side. "Really," I say. "I don't want to ruin your night. If you want to you use your room, I'll just go back—"

  "Carlson, you're not ruining anything. Just lie down and shut up would ya?"

  "Where's everyone else?"

  "It's after midnight so Luke's probably already knocked out and the other guys...last time I saw them they were surrounded by a group of blonds."

  "And you." I'm still sitting on the edge of the bed, unsure of whether or not to take this seriously. "You're...here?"

  "Does it bother you that I'm here? 'Cause it seems like you're trying to get rid of me."

  I turn at the waist to face him. "Seriously, Ross. If I'm cramping your style, just let me know. I can be out of here in a minute."

  "Seriously, Carlson. Get your ass back in bed, maybe I want you here."

  His unexpected admission sends butterflies swirling through my stomach. "Oh." Because what else do you say to that? He wants me here? What is that supposed to mean?

  I settle under the covers, my back to him and my heart on the Indy track. I don't know what to think, what to feel or even how to act now.

  Damn him. Just when things were getting normal in our little group again.

  I want to ask for clarification, but I'm not exactly sure how to go about it. So I just keep my mouth shut and my eyes closed, willing sleep to come as quickly as possible. But now it's like I've just downed an entire pot of coffee.

  "Sheila?"

  My eyes fly open. "Yeah, Ross?"

  "Do you think you would ever...?" He lets out a ragged sigh and I wait patiently for him to continue.

  I have a feeling I know exactly where this is going, though I'm not sure where it came from or how to respond.

  "What?" I ask after he's silent for several more seconds. "Would I ever what?"

  "How do you see me?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, what do you think? About the way I live?"

  I smile and slowly roll over to face him. "You really care what I think?"

  He's still lying on his back, but he's turned his head in my direction. And he looks. Dead. Serious.

  I'm a little taken aback at first. I've never seen this side of him. And in the year and a half I've spent with him, I've seen almost every side of Roscoe there is: angry, happy, drunk, cranky, crazy. Never serious.

  "Because I care," he says with a shrug. His gray eyes are shining and I have to stop myself from squirming beneath his gaze.

  It's a loaded response. He cares? About what? My opinion? Or me?

  "Well...I think. You're a nic
e guy. A good guy. Smart, gracious when you want to be."

  "Boyfriend material, or whatever?"

  "Not according to Maya," I laugh, but he barely cracks a smile. "Why do you ask?" I might as well put it out there.

  "Thinking about trying something new," he says with a shrug. "A guy like me can only party so long, you know? My brother's settled down and he's barely twenty-three. I've got a few years on him, maybe I should start thinking about doing the same."

  He turns away from me, staring back up at the ceiling.

  "Why are you telling me this?" I press.

  In the next second, Roscoe sits up, suddenly hovering over me. I freeze, every organ in my body practically shutting down. He stares down at me and I'm powerless to respond. I can't blink or even swallow. I'm not even sure I'm breathing. Just when I think he's about to kiss me, he flips off the lamp and returns to his side of the bed.

  "Just thought you should know," he says.

  We don't speak for a long while and, after that encounter, sleep is the furthest thing from my mind.

  "It's been a while since we played Crazy Eights," he says, breaking a good ten minutes of silence.

  I smile into the darkness. "I thought you'd never ask."

  Two Days Later: Lewiston, Idaho

  Luke

  Being home is like breathing new air or the first time. I almost don't recognize myself in this place. For three months I've been traveling around Europe, playing one massive venue after another, making a name for myself. And, even though I'll admit I never expected I'd love it this much, I do.

  But Lewiston isn't really home and I'm anxious to see my wife.

  "How long is this going to be, Ross?" I call from the back seat. "I want to be in Woodinville tonight."

  "It's late," Sheila calls from the passenger's seat. Other than 'this seat's saved for Ross', it's the only things she's said to me all day.

  "Exactly," Ross pipes in. "It'll be the middle of the night by the time you get there anyway. Just leave in the morning. Plus, we've got some business to take care of before you disappear on us for a month."

  I sigh. They're probably right. Besides, I'm not in the mood for any surprises. It's probably better to leave a message so she knows I'm coming and her good friend Dave can take a hike before I get there. No way he hasn't been sniffing around in my absence. Not that I can be mad about it. I guess I should thank him for stepping up. But I won't.