I sit down on the stool, my coffee still gripped tightly in my palms. “I’m chalking it to temporary insanity. Hell, he beat someone up for me. That deserved a kiss.”
“Or a head smack,” she counters questionably, eyes looking at me like I’m nuts. I’ve never condoned violence before, even if it’s deserved. It just gets messy in the press, and Dylan can’t afford that.
Neither can I.
My lips twitch knowing that I may be in it again because of Conner.
“Okay, who pissed in your Cheerios?” she quips, nudging my shoulder. “You look like that time your old middle school crush said he was taking Angela Morris to the Valentine’s dance instead of you.”
The only reason I was so disgruntled over Evan taking Angela to the dance was because he already agreed to take me. Grandma helped pick my dress out and everything, just for me to get ditched. I never went, even though my grandparents told me to go with Teagan and have fun without him.
“You’re too young to care about boys,” Grandpa told me that day.
Grandma laughs. “You’ll say that until the day she’s sixty.”
Grandpa nods. “Damn straight. Ain’t no boy worth your heartache, baby girl. We’re all tools. Just stay away from us.”
Guess I should have paid better attention to the things he said.
“I just have a lot to think about,” I tell her earnestly. It’s not like I can tell her the truth, because who knows what she’ll do? She’s as sporadic as Dylan is, maybe even worse. Although she’s never beaten anyone for me, so he’s got that on her.
Not to mention Teagan hates Rhys. She didn’t like him from the day I started seeing him. There were times when he seemed to grow on her, but as time went on she just kept finding reasons to warn me away from him.
What is it about me and advice that I’m so bad about taking?
I sigh heavily. “Do you think Dylan will make a huge scene at the studio?”
She grins. “Is it wrong that part of me hopes so? He’s got the brooding, bad boy thing down. Somehow, he looks hotter.”
One of my brows arch. “It sounds like you’re more interested in him than I am.”
“More interested?” she repeats, eyes flashing. “So does that mean that there’s a part of you mentally screaming his name like a fantasy orgasm? Maybe Southern Ashton?” She gestures toward her lower half, wiggling her eyebrows.
I snort. “While I won’t deny that the kiss had me hot and bothered, it was only ever going to be a kiss. And some mild groping. I don’t condone you going after him knowing how many women he’s been with, but I won’t stop you from it either.”
She laughs, nearly spilling her freshly poured coffee. “Oh, please. Even if I wanted to, which I totally do but wouldn’t act on, he wouldn’t go after me. The guy may be an ass, but he cares. Even the smallest part of him. He wouldn’t kiss me after kissing you.”
I stare at my coffee, not voicing my doubt in that statement. Neither of us really knows Dylan. We just know he has decent moments, but who doesn’t? Even Rhys had times when he genuinely cared about people. Which just proves that it doesn’t mean anything special.
She stands across the counter, leaning her elbows on the edge, and gives me her all-knowing look. “Don’t do that.”
I play dumb. “Do what?”
“Compare him to Rhys,” she scolds. “You look constipated every time you think about him. Not that it surprises me. He kept you backed up for how long? Your vagina is practically screaming for a plumber. Or, you know, guitarist. He’d be great with his hands.” She stops me from saying anything. “Not every guy is going to be like him. The more you compare, the more you’re fooling yourself out of moving on.”
I down half my coffee before replying. “I’m not fooling myself. I’m giving myself time. Not every celebrity jumps from guy to guy. Some of us like a breather.”
“I respect that, Ash. In fact, I’m happy to hear it. For the longest time it was like I was watching my best friend suffocate because of a guy who wouldn’t share his oxygen.”
My lips twitch, sadness creeping into my heart. Sadness because she’s right, because I let Rhys take everything from me. But still no sadness over Rhys himself. Just for the people he hurt along with me.
“But you know what?” she asks, causing me to look up at her.
She winks. “There are some serious hotties who know CPR. What better way to breathe again, am I right?”
I groan, finishing off my coffee.
“I have to go,” I inform her.
As I walk out of the kitchen, she yells, “You should ask Dylan if he’s CPR certified!”
Dylan
You’ve got to be kidding me.
The studio that Ashton gave me directions to lead to a secluded line of buildings on the outskirts of the city, the brick siding chipped and one of the windows boarded up.
I stare at the address she texted me again, looking up to match the numbers by the red door. Sure enough, I’m at the right place. Unless she gave me the wrong address on purpose over what happened.
Wouldn’t surprise me too much after the way she looked at me before leaving the kitchen. It’d taken me a solid five minutes trying to figure out why she looked like I’d kicked her puppy before I finally left.
My eyes caught a glimpse of a silver car parked in the alley next to the building, with LA rental plates on it.
Before I can inspect it, the front door opens, and a white-haired lady appears.
“You coming in or what?” she calls, hands on her hips. “I ain’t got all day to watch you staring like a moron.”
I chuckle at her bluntness, walking up the cement steps and stopping right in front of her. She stares at me, eyes lingering a little longer on the front of jeans, then snaps her eyes back up to my face.
“Anyone ever tell you that you could be the love child of David Bowie and Richard Marx?”
I sputter out a laugh. “Uh, nope.”
She nods once. “You ain’t the prettiest of creatures, but you’ll do.” She gestures for me to follow her inside despite the backhanded compliment. Reluctantly, I do.
Leading us down a hall, I ask, “Are you going to tell me who you are since you seem to know me?”
She stops, turning to me. Her expression is pinched with bleakness as she eyes me. “I’m the owner of this studio. Name’s Stella.”
I look around the small space. “Is Ashton here yet?”
She points toward the door to our right, where a soft melody rings through the thick wood. I hone in my senses, listening to the sultry sound of the piano keys, the noise a quiet hum melded with jarring undertones.
Two sides of a broken soul—one shattered, the other mendable.
I don’t want to admit that Ashton is anything like me, because that means she’s too broken to fix. And nobody should have to suffer that fate but me. Yet her song doesn’t lie, and it makes me drawn to her that much more.
“Been here since nine this morning,” Stella states, leaning against the wall. She stares at the door, like she can see Ashton playing through it.
I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s almost noon, which means she’s been at this for hours. Has she been playing the entire time?
“She always gets lost in the music when she’s got a lot on her mind,” she explains without necessity. Still, my curiosity ate it up and demanded more.
“Did she say what?”
She snorts. “She’s too damn stubborn to admit she’s got problems. Won’t see it only makes her human. I imagine it’s because of my grandson.”
My brows pinch. “Your grandson?”
“Rhys.”
My lips form an O.
“Don’t look so surprised,” she snarls.
I put my hands up. “So it’s Rhys then?”
She eyes me. “Maybe. She mentioned something about a poor decision, too. Could be a mixture of them.”
Poor decision? Alarms sound in my head, and uneasiness settles in my stomach knowing
damn well that the poor decision is me and what happened between us.
I keep my expression distant, lips drawing into a calm smile. “Well, good thing it’s a new day. Maybe she’ll make better choices.”
She steps forward, boney finger jabbing into my chest. “You better make those choices easy for her, hot shot. I ain’t got all day to babysit.”
“Babysit?”
My eyes go to the door. She’s making Stella stick around while I’m here?
I shake my head, scoffing. “We don’t need you here, Stella. Rest assured, we’ll be fine.”
Her eyes look like they’re trying to stab me. “You may not need me here, but she does.”
My jaw locked, teeth grinding at the thought of Ashton needing somebody to watch us. Did she not feel safe with me? The feeling burns me as it goes through my system, like acid deteriorating me from the inside out.
I huff. “Well I’m here, and I’ve got better places to be so I have no intention of staying any later than I have to.”
She shrugs. “Fine then.”
She doesn’t look like she believes me, so I feel the need to elaborate. “Listen, lady. The last place I want to be is in a rundown studio with a country singer who can’t handle a little change in her life.”
The door swings open, causing my attention to snap to a less-than-pleased Ashton. Based on the way she glares daggers at me, she heard everything I just said.
Well fuck.
But then again, it’s the truth. She obviously doesn’t want to handle what happened between us, so she hired a nanny. Fine by me.
“Let’s get this over with,” I tell her, walking by and brushing my shoulder with hers. She stumbles to the side, letting me enter the room. Her heated eyes are following me, I can feel them on the back of my head as I plop down on the piano bench.
Dropping my things on the piano, I scope out the room. My eyes drift to the various instruments scattered everywhere.
“Make yourself comfortable,” she grumbles, walking over to me.
I hit one of the keys on the piano, and she slaps my hand away. Her eyes roam over the notebook I brought, my sunglasses, cell phone, anything but me.
Look at me, dammit.
Her expression turns serious, all business with no room for play in between. It’s respectable, especially on a deadline. Doesn’t mean that I want to spend my time here being suffocated in a tiny studio to get it done.
“So I was thinking—”
“What’s this?” I cut her off, grabbing a black book that’s resting on the top of the piano.
Flipping through the pages, nothing really sticks out. Not before she snatches it from me and shoots me a glare that looks like it could set me on fire if possible.
“Stop touching my stuff!”
I grin. “I seem to recall you not having a problem with me touching your stuff.”
Her jaw locking is all I need to feel the ammunition fire inside of me. It’s that little notion that breaks the douche switch in me, impossible to shut off without manual force.
“You know, it’s okay if you’re not used to it,” I prod causally, shrugging. “Not every guy knows how to properly please a woman. If you felt too much with me, it just shows you were deprived with Mr. Country all those years.”
Her fists clench the notebook that she clutches to her chest. My eyes dip down to her breasts, which the notebook makes press up so they’re on better display for me.
She glances down, quickly covering herself once she realizes what I’m staring at.
“Rhys and I have nothing to do with you,” she spits angrily. “So don’t bring him up, and don’t make ridiculous claims.”
Propping my elbow on the edge of the piano, I rest my chin on my open palm. “You’re saying he actually managed to give you orgasms? Or did you just fake them. Sometimes when you love somebody, you have to fake an O or two.”
Her eyes widen.
I grin. “Of course, it wasn’t really love. Nah, that dude isn’t capable of it. Too busy compensating for his tiny dick probably.”
Her knuckles are white from the grip she’s got on her notebook, and if she’s not careful the bones will pop right out.
But does that stop me? Nope.
Call me petty but I don’t deal with people pissing me off. And her little comment to her ex’s grandma isn’t going to slip my mind anytime soon.
“You look like you’re going to blow,” I note, chuckling at the way her nose flares as she tries keeping calm. “And not in a fun way either. You know, where you’re on your knees in front of me with your mouth—”
“Enough!” she blasts, standing up so quickly she nudges the bench back, nearly knocking me off it.
She moves away from me, keeping her back in my direction. I feel good about getting a reaction from her until I see the way her body is shaking, and the sudden paleness to her skin tells me it’s not in anger.
Well fuck me.
“Ash?”
She whips around, the devil in her eye. “Do not call me Ash. You don’t have that right. Only my friends get to call me it.”
Her cheeks have no color, and even her eyes look drained of anything that made her beauty stand out.
I put my hands up in surrender. “Listen, I’m—”
She puts her hand up to silence me, and I’m smart enough to clamp my lips shut. “If you’re going to apologize, don’t bother. I’m sick of people bullshitting me and expecting me to believe them.”
I’m sorry, I finish silently. There’s no point in telling her, because she won’t believe it, and I wouldn’t blame her. But I do mean it, regardless.
She nods tersely. “That’s what I thought,” she grumbles when nothing but silence fills the gap in conversation.
Her chest rises slowly, her eyes drifting shut like she’s focusing on deep breaths. It’s a technique I’ve tried too many times myself. It never worked, but I can see the tenseness on her face loosen.
I just watch her intently, waiting for her to finish. There’s no point in opening my mouth, because she’ll probably hate what comes out no matter what I say.
Granted, it’s my own doing.
Finally, she states, “This won’t work. We’re only going to waste time at each other’s throats if we’re alone.”
That’s not the only thing we’d do alone together.
Maybe asking if she’s ever had hate sex wouldn’t be the best thing right now, but it doesn’t stop curiosity from bubbling in the back of my mind.
“We need Ian.”
That dissolves the fantasy.
“We most certainly do not,” I deadpan, standing up.
She throws her hands up. “What are we going to do then, Dylan? When we’re together we argue and don’t get anything done. This collaboration might be a joke to you, but I intend to take it seriously.”
“It’s not a joke,” I inform her, but she doesn’t seem convinced. “It’s not, okay? I know I’ve given you a hard time, but it’s because I don’t like the idea of other people fixing our problems. My problems.”
She crosses her arms on her chest. “Well, do you plan on fixing them?”
I press my lips together.
“They’re not going to go away on their own,” she states matter-of-factly. “Accepting help isn’t a bad thing, so don’t make it out to be. Tom is doing what he thinks is best, just like my manager is.”
I blow out a breath, leaning my hip against the edge of the piano. “You can’t tell me that it’s easy for you to accept help.”
She averts her gaze. “I accept when I’m wrong and do whatever it takes to make it right.”
Eyes narrowing, I stare at her. “And you’re in the wrong now? You’re working with us because the press is making you seem like the bad guy. You had a public break up after that fuckwad cheated. That’s not your fault, Boots.”
She just shrugs. Shrugs. The notion loose, shoulders slumped. Defeated.
Oh fuck no.
I stalk over to her, not thin
king when my finger tips her chin up so she’s looking at me. But she needs to see how serious I am, how pissed seeing her like this makes me.
“Never let them win.”
She gapes at me.
“Never let them make you feel like nothing,” I continue, voice hard. “They are going to do whatever it takes to make you feel little. You’re the fucking ocean, Ashton. People like them can’t cross you, can’t belittle you, can’t defeat you.”
My jaw ticks, fingers twitching to touch her again in some way. Comforting. Claiming. Anything.
“People like you should never be tainted by people like us,” I conclude, voice cracking at the admission.
Her brows draw in. “People like us?”
“Like Rhys. Me.”
Something flashes in her eyes. A new kind of pain. Sympathy. Guilt. A deadly mixture that could be mistaken for her caring. And she shouldn’t care, because damn if I don’t mean it.
Rhys and I aren’t that different. We’re both players. We both say shit we don’t mean. What we do is for personal gain, never for anybody else.
“Believe me, you don’t want to categorize yourself with him,” she tells me quietly.
“I deserve to be,” I counter. “I’m at least man enough to own up to that.”
“And that’s already more than he ever is.”
I don’t say anything, not wanting to delude what I really am—who I am. I could pretend that I’m willing to change for her, but I’d be wasting both of our time. Shacking up with chicks who want to change you, make you better, aren’t worth my effort. They’re only disappointed in the end, which is why I don’t bother tangling myself up in their fantasy.
There’s no point in making Ashton think I’ll be any different.
“Let’s just try to make this work,” I suggest, hoping she won’t call Ian. “I’ll be on my best behavior. Kind of hard not to be with the babysitter outside the door.”
Her face screws. “Who are you talking about? Stella?”
“You didn’t have to ask her to stay,” I murmur. “I’m not that much of a tool.” I cringe internally, not sure I believe that’s true. “Well, okay, maybe I am. But having your ex’s family watching us is a low blow.”
The Moments We Share Page 11
