Everyone leaves.
My bed creaks from unexpected weight.
Everyone! Everyone, everyone.
The indent beside me fills with a heartbeat. A warm hand. A soft breath against my ear.
“Not everyone,” she whispers.
17: GINA
We pretend the incident outside the practice room didn’t happen. At least, the guys and I do. They’re used to my crazy. Mila, though? She’s just being patient. I see the questions swirling in her head, the pleas she’s fighting to suppress. She does, and as the days pass with a distinct vibe of “normal,” the urgency of her silent protests subsides.
“I have to go back to New York tomorrow.”
The blankets on my bed can’t block the sudden chill. She traces the tattoo on my chest as I tighten my arm around her. It didn’t take long to need her warmth to sleep at night.
“Does that mean…” God, I can’t even say it.
Her eyes widen. “No, of course not! I have a few things I need to sort, then I’ll be back.”
Air rushes into my chest as her hand spreads over my cheek to turn my gaze on her.
“You promised me a couple of months, remember?”
“I know, but—”
“I want my time.”
Her lips are warm, flames that scorch a new message into my brain.
Reasons to Fight:
1. Parker
2. Mila
∞∞∞
My plan to spend the day brooding alone falls apart when I wander from my room to find the Feather Duster King raging through our house.
I join another witness in the kitchen and lean beside him with my own cup of coffee.
“So?”
Parker takes a sip and studies the path of Hurricane Reece through our living area.
“Gina’s coming.”
I almost choke on my drink. “The Gina?”
He shrugs. “He’s cooking too. Says we better have our asses at the table at seven-thirty sharp.”
“Cooking? What the hell does he cook?”
“My guess? Esposito’s takeout.”
I suck back a snicker when our entertainment starts shoving his way through the kitchen with a vacuum. His wrath for messes shows no mercy. Parker and I watch him attack the crushed cereal by Derrick’s chair for a good forty seconds before I pull out my phone.
Should we tell him about the hard floor setting?
A grin slides over Parker’s lips as he reads my message.
Nah. It’s his own fault for never using the damn thing before.
It’s not Reece, but my concern for the floor, that finally leads me to halt his efforts and pull the attachment arm.
“Just a suggestion,” I shout, handing it back to him.
His gaze narrows in suspicion. I guess not everyone is blessed with the domestic training provided by the fine folks of the NEC.
Good deed done, I prepare to spend the rest of the day in seclusion. It was a nice thought until dark puppy-dog eyes follow my retreat, plea for help.
Ah, shit.
I sigh, retrace my steps, and turn off the vacuum.
“What do you need?” I ask.
His gaze moves to the stove as he swallows. “Gina’s coming.”
“I heard.”
“I told her I’d cook.”
“I heard.”
“I can’t cook.”
“I know.” He bites his lip, and I grunt. “Fucking hell. What am I making?”
∞∞∞
I’m not surprised the menu includes no items actually in our kitchen. She loves Thai food. Who doesn’t, but that’s not happening on such short notice; of course a house that can’t stock bread doesn’t have lemongrass and coconut milk. We settle on Italian instead thanks to my current fixation on Esposito’s shrimp fra diavolo.
I send Parker and Reece to Weavers Way for supplies and assign Derrick to the remaining bachelor offenses in the house. He groans at the state of the bathroom, but it’s mostly his shit anyway.
“Zero sympathy, dude!” I call out from the kitchen at the muttered curses and haphazard banging drifting down the hallway.
“Where’s the suction thingy?” he shouts.
Crap. “The plunger?”
“Yeah!”
“You shouldn’t need that to scrub a toilet.”
“Then how do you get the paper towels out?”
Aw, fuck.
I dry my hands on a dishtowel and march toward the bathroom. Sure enough, there’s Derrick, knee-deep in heaven knows what.
“How the hell…” I shake my head. “Forget it. Don’t want to know.”
I grab the plunger from under the sink and transfer my frustration to whatever monstrosity our drummer tried to flush.
“Toilet paper,” I growl when the drain finally wheezes and gurgles itself empty. “The only thing that goes down that hole.”
“But the paper towels…”
I point to the wastebasket after washing my hands. “Only toilet paper in the toilet.”
Seriously. And I’m the dysfunctional one?
Head pounding and patience wearing thing, I press my palms against my eyes. I need a break, just a little something to take the edge off, and make a detour to my room. Ice spreads through my limbs when I pull open my drawer. Shit. I forgot that other things do get flushed as well.
Fuck!
∞∞∞
I’m in a terrible mood when the guys return with our groceries. They sense it and give me a wide berth while I yank ingredients from bags and utensils from drawers. The kitchen is a ghost town when the knives come out.
Someone must have something.
“Yo, D!”
Derrick’s face peeks around the corner. “’Sup, man? I finished the bathroom, I swear.”
“Great. You have any weed?”
“Nah, man. All out.”
Shit.
He salutes and disappears. I go for the tequila instead. Not ideal, but two shots and the burn puts me back on track.
Peeling shrimp ain’t child’s play.
“Need help?”
Nice of Reece to offer since it’s his date.
“You know how to devein shrimp?”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
Figures. “Then, how about you open those cans of tomatoes.”
“How many?”
“Three. You got the basil?”
“I think so?”
He holds up a plant wrapped in a bag. “Good. Start chopping that too.”
“Okay…”
I sigh and point to the knife block. “Use the one on the top left. Were you able to find fresh bucatini?”
“Um…”
I don’t have time for this shit. “Parker!”
“What’s up?”
Even Parker doesn’t take more than a half-step into my lair. “Did you get bucatini?”
“We couldn’t find any fresh so we grabbed linguine instead.”
I nod. “You should start chilling whatever wine you got,” I direct to Reece.
Did I just ask him to recite the Japanese alphabet? “Dammit, man, seriously? Have you never dated a girl before? Like, ever?”
“How am I supposed to know all this shit?”
“Common sense, dude.” I let out a breath. Those poor shrimp need me to keep it together. “I’m good here. Go to the state store and pick up a few bottles. And not the cheap shit.”
“Red or white?” he calls back. The guy has never looked so afraid. “Red. Sorry. Probably red.”
“I’ll go with him,” Parker mutters.
∞∞∞
Nothing improves from there. Within seconds of their departure I lose my favorite shirt to Reece’s terrible can-opening skills. I curse and toss it in the hallway. This kitchen is a thousand degrees anyway.
I grab another can and call Derrick to clean up the tomato explosion. His eyes ignite with amusement when he sees me half-naked in front of the stove.
“Not a word,” I w
arn.
His mouth closes abruptly. My glare has that effect.
“Just set the table for five, okay?”
“Only five?”
We both glance toward the unexpected voice, and my sour cloud slips away.
“Mila?”
She smiles. “I finished my meetings and thought whatever was going on here had to be more interesting than a night in my flat. I see I was right. Should I be jealous?”
She slinks forward and slides her arms around my waist. Only one thing can distract me from the prospect of overcooked shrimp, and those lips have no mercy.
“Daaaayuuum.”
We pull back and exchange a smile at Derrick’s feedback.
“Teach me how to cook?” By the way his eyes flicker between Mila and me, he might be serious.
I smirk and turn back to my shrimp. It feels damn good when Mila settles in against my back, fingers tracing the ridges of my abs. I’m more than ready to skip dinner.
“And he cooks,” she says against my shoulder. Words become lips which become a scorching distraction on my skin.
“He’s an amazing cook,” Derrick interrupts. “When he actually does it. Remember that prime rib you made that one time?”
I pull in a breath. “I remember.”
“Oh! And the Tahiti chicken! That was epic.”
“Tandoori chicken.”
“Yeah! That one. I could eat those pita thingies with anything.”
“Naan bread.”
“No, they were definitely bread. Not normal bread, mind you, but…” Derrick gets sidetracked trying to remember everything I’ve ever made, and I suck in a breath at the sudden pressure on my zipper.
“I’ve missed you.” That voice goes straight to my groin. Every. Damn. Time.
“I missed you too.”
Shrimp. Pasta. Boil water.
The button releases, and her hand slips into my jeans, forcing the zipper down. I brace against the counter. Shit.
“Hey, D. You know how to boil water?” I call over, somehow keeping my voice steady.
He pauses. “Um… do we have a water-boiler?”
I groan, and Mila giggles. She gives me a hard squeeze before letting go. “Oh well, maybe for pud,” she whispers.
With her seduction officially thwarted, Mila retrieves a clean shirt for me instead. I’m still buttoning it when three more bodies cram into our kitchen.
“Look what we picked up while we were out.” Reece beams as he presents a curvy blonde woman five times out of his league.
“You must be Gina,” I say since Reece clearly hasn’t mastered introductions yet either.
She smiles and nods. “And you’re… Jesse?”
“I am.”
“The hair,” she says, tugging her own. “Which means, you’re Derrick.”
“She’s a genius,” Derrick whispers to the rest of us. It would be offensive if he were joking.
She only laughs. “Okay, got it. And you’re…?”
“Mila,” my girl says with a smile.
Gina returns it. “You’re with Jesse?”
I love how she tucks her arm around my waist. Possessive. Gina’s not even a threat. This message is for me.
“Yes,” I say. She looks up, and I’d say it a hundred more times to see that shine in her eyes.
“Well, the food smells delicious. Did you make it?” Gina asks me. Uh-oh. “I helped Reece a little.”
He tosses me a grateful smile, and Mila gives me a squeeze. Note to self: teach the boy how to cook for real if he wants to keep that woman.
∞∞∞
Verdict is in: Gina’s real.
By the time dinner ends, she’s confirmed almost all the lies Reece fed us for the last six months. She is in fact a grad student who was studying abroad. She is a classically trained violinist. She does speak two other languages fluently.
Reece glows the entire time we quiz her for a flaw.
“Way to go,” I whisper as we take a load of dishes to the sink.
He’s a man in the clouds. “She has a place in center city. We’re heading there in a minute.”
“Center city?”
He cringes. “Yeah, her family owns a brownstone in Rittenhouse Square.”
I snort a laugh. “Of course they do. Gonna meet the parents?”
“Nah, nothing like that. They’re in Europe or something. We’ll have the place to ourselves.”
I slap his arm. Is he blushing? “You know what to do, right? You have protection?”
“Fuck off,” he grunts, but a smile peeks out as he glances back toward the dining area.
“Go, man. I’ll clean up.”
“You sure?”
“Of course.” I step back. “Just don’t kiss me, geez.”
He shoves me instead. “Seriously, though. Thanks, man. I owe you.”
“No you don’t. Just don’t screw things up with that one.”
“Hell no!”
∞∞∞
The happy couple is off to their center city honeymoon. Derrick and Parker head out to play, which leaves Mila and me alone with the dishes.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say as she struggles with a pot in the sink. I drop my stack on the counter and reach for it.
She swats me away. “I can wash a pan.”
“Really.” I lean against the fridge and cross my arms.
“What? The spoiled rich girl can’t clean a dish?”
I shrug, mostly to earn an adorable scrunch of her nose.
“I’ll have you know, I volunteered in a soup kitchen for an entire term in senior school.”
“An entire term, huh?”
That gets me a soapy sponge in the chest. I laugh and toss it back at her.
She shrieks when it lands in her hair. “How dare you!”
I wrap my arms around her from behind, suppressing whatever plans for revenge are ripening in that brain. “I don’t think you’re a spoiled rich girl.”
“I can see why you’d think that.”
I kiss her head, inhaling her intoxicating blend of flowers and fruit.
“Did you mean what you said to Gina?” Her voice is porous with hope.
Ah. The public confession. “Do you want me to?”
Her weight settles against me. “I do…”
My heart hammers at the hesitation. “But?” I tighten my arms around her.
“Not a but, just”—she twists back to face me—“we don’t have a future. We won’t until you do.”
I tense at the familiar warning. “I haven’t even used since you got back.”
“No, and you haven’t dealt with any of the underlying issues either.”
This argument feels familiar, and I swallow the instinctive protests. Been there, lost that, not interested.
“So how was New York?”
She blasts me with another look, before channeling her frustration into sauce stains instead.
“Fine.”
“Your book thing?”
“Fine.”
“Your apartment?”
“Fine.”
“Wow. What a fine day you had.”
Her glare softens into a sigh.
“Not even an acceptable or an okay or an adequate or a satisfactory in there?”
There’s that pretty tug of her lips. “Shut it.”
I rest my chin on her shoulder from behind. “I would, but your story-telling is captivating. When you say fine, are—”
A sponge to the face shoves me back a step.
“Oops,” she laughs, not looking remotely sorry. I wipe my face with my shirt, and she softens further. “I spoke to your friend.”
“Which friend?”
“Your arsehole pal. His people reached out for a chinwag so he could tell his side of the story.”
“Wait, you’re talking about Wes?” Now she has my attention. “Does that mean you listened to their album? What did he say?”
“So many questions. You’ll just have to read my post tomorrow.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. I also spoke to my contact at Smother. Leon is definitely interested in the idea of a live band night and happens to be familiar with your music. He’s going to discuss it with his wife who runs the special events at the club and get back to us. No promises, but I’m fairly certain we should start talking strategy.”
18: A PIECE OF HELL
Manager Mila has a lot of ideas for the Alton Wedding. Tons, and her presence has certainly changed the dynamic of rowhome kitchen table band meetings.
“Instead of covering contemporary music for the prelude, why not cover classical songs? You have time to arrange a couple, right?”
Whoa. Interesting. Could be fun.
“Classical?” Derrick asks.
“Sure. Maybe Pachelbel’s ‘Canon in D’ or Bach’s ‘Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring?’”
“Pockmark what?”
“Johann Pachelbel?” Mila says.
Derrick shrugs.
“Pachelbel’s Canon. Really?”
“Assuming that’s some kind of army song?”
“Oh my god. Have you never been to a wedding?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Johann Pachelbel is a classic German composer!”
I snicker watching Derrick’s brain explode.
“Ah… But Jesse doesn’t speak German.”
I bite my lip at Mila’s exasperation. Time for our manager to manage.
“They’re classical songs, Derrick. Typically played without words.”
“Wait, so like, we’d do an instrumental version?”
“Canon in D is always instrumental! It’s…” She pulls in a deep breath. “Hold on.” After a quick phone search, she holds it out to us.
Derrick’s face brightens. “Okay, sweet! I’m diggin’ it. But none of us plays the harp.”
∞∞∞
I laugh as Mila grasps her head and drops to my bed.
“He’s an amazing drummer and has a good heart,” I say.
“I know. But seriously. Please tell me you know Pachelbel.”
With a faint smile, I grab my guitar and start picking out the iconic riff of his famous Canon.
Limelight (NSB Book 4) Page 14
