The Moments We Share

by Barbara C. Doyle

  “Going somewhere, Boots?”

  She yelps and spins around, hand flattening against over her heart. “Would you stop doing that? You’re going to give me a heart attack.”

  I chuckle. “Are you sneaking out … of your own house?”

  She flushes. “No, that’s stupid.”

  “So you usually climb out of your two-story bedroom window instead of using the front door?” I’ve had the sneaking out thing down since I was fourteen and had every intention of making out with Ginger Davis who lived three houses down. Ever since I noticed girls, my determination to scope out every exit in my parents’ house became apparent to me.

  She crosses her arms on her chest. “Maybe. It’s none of your business anyway.”

  My eyes lock on her pouty lips, causing my own to quirk up in amusement. “You’re avoiding me,” I accuse. “I’m flattered, but watching you struggle to get out was too much for me. I need to teach you the proper way sometime.”

  “I wasn’t—” The doubtful look I cast her stops her from finishing the poor lie.

  “You’re many things, Ash,” I tell her confidently. “You’re smart, funny, and beautiful. But you are not a good liar. So give it up. Was our last kiss that amazing you couldn’t face me without salivating?”

  Her nose scrunches. “Gross, no.” She looks away, purposefully avoiding my eyes by fixing her shirt that has nothing wrong with it.

  “You’re stalling,” I accuse.

  “And you’re—” Her face screws, but nothing comes out to finish her comeback. She groans loudly, defeat washing over her features. She grips her purse strap. “You’re annoying, persistent, and dangerous. You’re the type of guy that everyone thinks they’ve pegged until they know you for more than a day, and I really wish that I could say you’re still the same asshole I assumed you were the night we met at the club. But you’re not.”

  I gape at her, not expecting the rant.

  “Why do you have to be secretly nice? I bet you adopt orphaned puppies, help little old ladies across the road, and donate to charity. Yet, you’d rather the world know you as the guy who can’t keep the same woman on his arm for more than an hour, and who can’t keep his temper under control enough to stay out of a fight. The press thinks your head is in the bottle, but I can see where it really is.”

  Eye twitching, I wait for her to continue. Surely wherever this is leading must be good, because she’s too riled up for it not to be.

  “It’s out in the open, waiting for everybody to look the other way so you can be yourself,” she finishes quietly, shrugging like that’s all there is to it. “Why do you have to pretend like you’re some selfish asshat when you’re really the type of guy who helps people without a second thought?”

  I shake my head, teeth grinding. “You’re wrong. Plenty of people need help, and I look the other way every time.”

  “Not with me,” she counters matter-of-factly. “I know you want me to believe that you’re worth hating, but that isn’t true. Maybe you’re so caught up in saving me because you don’t put effort into saving yourself. Like agreeing to write this song with me. Taking me to that gym to get my head clear. Calling off Conner Mason and Rhys. Yeah, I heard about that. You think you’re the villain in every story, but maybe you’re the white knight in disguise.”

  I scoff at the thought, knowing damn well I’m too tainted to be anybody’s white knight. Especially hers.

  “Look at the facts, Ashton,” I finally answer, voice nothing more than a whisper. “You’ve written this delusion in your head that I’m here to save you for selfless reasons, but can’t you see just how wrong you are? Everything I did is for selfish reasons. I agreed to write a song with you to get you alone, took you to the gym to bring your defenses down, and finally got what I wanted the whole time. What I told you I’d get. In your pants.”

  The words tumble from my lips before I can process them, anything to prove her theory wrong. If I let myself believe it, it’ll change me.

  Her expression grows stoic, any emotion blocked from me. I study her, waiting for her to break. To yell. To slap me. Something. Anything.

  “Keep telling yourself that,” she finally replies, voice hard. “But you’re not as great of a liar that you think you are.”

  “Doubt that,” I grumble. She turns to leave, but I jump out and nearly eat dirt just to catch up with her. “Would you wait? I’m waving the proverbial white flag here.”

  She stops, giving me an exasperated look.

  “Where are you going?”

  “It’s none of your business, Dylan.”

  “Is that anyway to treat a house guest?” I quip, mocking offense. “And here I thought all Southerners were about their hospitality.”

  She glares. “I’ve been taking you out ever since you got here! But if you must know, I was invited to go to a karaoke bar to meet up with some old friends. It’s a tradition we’ve had since high school.”

  “You hung out a bar in high school?” I don’t hide how impressed I am over rule-breaker Ashton.

  She rolls her eyes. “They have karaoke nights, so it’s known to gather a younger crowd. My friends used to go because there were agents who would watch the performances, and we all wanted our big chance.”

  At a bar?

  “And that’s how they discovered you?”

  She shrugs. “It’s not important.”

  I want to tell her it is, to dig. But I remember the vow I took before I flew here. She doesn’t need to be dragged any further into my shit show. So why do I keep attaching myself to her?

  “Mind a plus one?”

  Amusement sweeps her face. “You want to go to a karaoke bar?”

  “I like music and I like bars.” My explanation makes her roll her eyes, but it also eases her anger with me. It’s odd how quickly she can forgive. I wonder if I’ll ever be like that someday.

  I lean against the tree right next to me. “Plus, my friends are in the area and wanted to hang out. Figured it’d be best to meet them outside of your house.”

  Her expression shifts. “Let me guess? Women friends.”

  I bury that question. “I do have friends with dicks, Ashton. You met three of them already, remember?”

  She just shrugs, looking away with a rosy dusting to her cheeks. Good, she should be embarrassed.

  Then again, I shouldn’t care that she assumed I’d have women “friends” pining for my attention. But I do, and as usual that’s just another problem piled on my list of many.

  Fuck me.

  “Listen, the guys that I’m meeting up with like to party. Let’s just say the last time we hung out, a hotel room got trashed. I don’t want them to ruin your home, especially knowing how sentimental it is to you.”

  Her eyes widen, and I know it’s because I let her see that I care about whether or not Hollis Wilder and his band would destroy her home. But I know everything inside the walls mean too much to her to let somebody as tainted as us destroy it.

  Yet you’re still here.

  I push the thought away. “So are we good?”

  I can tell she isn’t so sure, but she relents, because that’s just the kind of person she is—determined to be nice even to the people who don’t deserve it.

  “Fine. But you have to change.”

  I scope out the outfit I’m wearing.

  “You’ll stick out too much. I’ve still got some of Grandpa’s clothes stashed away. You can borrow them.”

  Oh joy, I think as she drags me back into the house for a makeover.

  Hollis takes one good look at me and busts out laughing, howling until tears run down his face. It must be quite the scene, because even Cannon Rhodes, The Wild’s bass guitarist, is smirking at the bar.

  “Dude,” Hollis cackles, taking in the wardrobe that Ash made me wear from her grandfather’s closet. “You look like Conway Twitty threw up on you.”

  I wiggle my toes in the borrowed cowboy boots I’m wearing and flex my arms in the flannel shirt. All I’m
missing is a cowboy hat, belt buckle bigger than my dick, (which would be hard to find) and a piece of straw to hang from my mouth.

  Not that I’d ever admit it, but it’s actually comfortable. More freeing than the tight clothes I usually wear, and nowhere near as hot as the leather. Ashton thinks this will embarrass me, but I’m embracing it for the night, much to her dismay.

  I wave him off. “Laugh it up, Wilder. You’re just jealous that you can’t pull off this look.”

  Rush shoulders Hollis away before Hollis can answer. “He most certainly doesn’t have the body type for it, but I could work the fuck out of that.”

  I size him up, knowing damn well he’d dress in this just for the hell of it. Out of all of them, he would be the one to pull it off. No tattoos, one ear pierced, but overall boy-next-door. His look doesn’t fit his personality, at least not from what I’ve always experienced being around him.

  “Can’t really argue with you, Daniels,” I laugh, shaking my head. “Not sure what that says about you, either.”

  “That I’m awesome?”

  Fox Kessler, guitarist of the Wild, feels the need to butt into the conversation then, snorting over Rush’s comment. Leaning around me to get a better look at Rush, who seems dead serious as he looks over my attire, he says, “Yeah, let’s go with that.”

  He orders himself a drink, sitting on the stool next to me, leg perched on the leg of the chair. I don’t know either Fox or Cannon well enough to figure them out since they don’t always meet up with us whenever we’re in the same area, and I never had much interest to whenever there was alcohol around to distract me.

  Maybe it’s because I always try surrounding myself with people who understand why I act out—people who know my type of fun. Out of the four of them, that seems to be Hollis and Rush over Cannon and Fox.

  Usually because Cannon—the brooding, tatted up, silent-but-deadly one—is too busy scoping out the crowd like he needs to analyze everything before he can even figure out what fun is. And I never bother him, because truth be told the dude is intimidating. Even though Hollis swears he’s a good guy, there’s something about him that I don’t dare mess with. Could have something to do with the tattoos and piercings, between his neck and fingers being inked up, and nose and lip being pierced, that give him an edge that warns people away. Sure as hell keeps me at a distance.

  Then there’s Fox, who took it upon himself to put itching powder in my boxers during one of my random hookups at the party I’d mentioned to Ash earlier. Apparently the night wouldn’t have been a success by just trashing the place, so he had to make my balls suffer, too.

  “Keep telling yourself that, Rush.” I pat his shoulder and waltz over to the bar. “So, what will the poison be tonight?”

  Hollis, Rush, and Fox surround me, but it’s Hollis who can’t stop staring at at the attire Ash just had to put me in. I flag down the bartender and order a beer.

  “Careful, pretty boy. Looking at me like that will only get a guy’s hope up.”

  Hollis snorts. “You wish, fucker. Cowboy boots don’t do it for me.” His eyes go to Ashton, brows arching up as he rakes over her profile from what he can see. My jaw clenches when he whistles in admiration. “Unless they’re on her.”

  I smack his arm, a deadly feeling of possession racing over me. “Don’t even think about it, Wilder.”

  He grabs my beer before I can, taking a swig as he studies me. “She yours?”

  My eyes shoot to Ash, who’s still laughing with her group of friends. One of them points to the girl singing at the microphone, and another nudges Ashton. But whatever they’re saying, Ash isn’t having.

  Silently, I answer, Not like I want her to be.

  “For now,” I tell him instead, shrugging casually as I try to figure out her expression. Her eyes are on the mic in contemplation, teeth biting into her bottom lip like they always do when she’s thinking.

  He snorts, leaning his back against the counter. He watches Ashton with interest, making my fist twitch. I’m two seconds away from demanding him to look away, when he catches my glare and laughs so loudly that the crowd takes notice and gawks.

  “Calm down, dude,” he muses, tipping back my beer. “You’re into her. I won’t get in your way. Bro code and all that shit. Plus, not sure if she’s my type.”

  Rush guffaws next to him, looking Ashton over, too. “What? Hot and breathing?”

  My eyes snap to his as if to say, Not helping.

  He shrugs in reply.

  “Well you better go do something,” Hollis suggests, tipping his head toward the girls’ table. A group of guys are wandering their way, intent flashing in their eyes.

  Oh, fuck no. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m stalking over to them to claim what’s mine. Eyes spitting fire, the three men stop, analyzing the situation before deciding to turn around once they see I’m not joking.

  Ashton looks from them to me, exasperation in her eyes. “Really, Dylan? They were probably just coming over to say hi.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” I jeer. “See the tall blond douche who’s staring at you? That isn’t a I-want-to-be-best-friends look. That’s a I-want-to-put-my-dick-in-you expression. I know it well, I think you should take my word for it. Who better than to read guys than one?”

  Her friends giggle, causing me to remember we’re not alone. My eyes scope them out; both blonde, both attractive. Yet neither of them seem to stir anything up inside of me like Ashton does.

  My eyes snap to the mic, which is now free and ready to be occupied. An idea comes in my head, and based on the knowing smirk on Hollis’ face, he knows what I’m planning.

  “Come on,” I say, head gesturing toward the stage. “You should remind this town what you got. Show them you’re not afraid of what the press is saying.”

  Her eyes widen. “Um, I don’t know …”

  I tug on her arm, making her stand up. “You once sang at this bar because you hoped you’d be discovered. And did you?”

  “Well … yeah.”

  “So obviously that person thought you were worth taking a chance on,” I goad. “Now is your shot at proving you’ve made it.”

  Her eyes return to mine. “Dylan—”

  Her friends cheer her on. “You should do it!”

  She seems conflicted, nibbling on her bottom lip as the crowd waits for a new performer to walk on stage.

  “Don’t make me ask in front of the crowd,” I threaten, brow raised with nothing but seriousness on my face.

  She eyes me, not daring to challenge the fact that I would. She knows I would if it meant getting her on stage.

  “Fine,” she says slowly. “But you have to sing with me.”

  I chuckle. “All right, if that’s what it takes.”

  She stands up, her friends clapping.

  “But I get to choose the song,” she informs me, shouldering past me as the crowd cheers over her appearance on the stage.

  I can tell they recognize her, the noise picking up as they murmur amongst themselves. It only gets louder when I join her on the small stage, one of the people in charge giving me a second microphone since Ashton is already at the one set up.

  “What’s your poison, princess?” I speak into the microphone so the whole bar hears, my tone sultry as I meet her eyes. I wink, showing her I’m not afraid of what she chooses like I know she wants me to be. She already dressed me for the part, so I expect her to pick something so outside my comfort zone that I’ll back down.

  Not going to happen.

  There’s a familiar spark in her eyes that is a deadly mixture paired with the shit-eating grin on her face, and when she muffles her song choice to the man running the machine, I know I may have underestimated her.

  And when the beginning of Abba’s “Dancing Queen” comes on, I know she’s already won.

  “Nice play,” I congratulate her, shaking my head at the song selection. I see the guys out in the crowd laughing their asses off at my expense, but I take it like a man a
nd do my part.

  She faces me as the song begins, starting it off. My eyes stay on her the whole time, amazed at how she pulls off the song. I already know she’s an amazing singer, but watching her in her element, the crowd as engrossed as I am, makes me smile easily.

  After the first verse and chorus, she gestures for me to pick it up, and I cringe knowing how bad my rendition will be. She laughs along with the crowd as I do my best, knowing damn well it’s nowhere near what she gave, yet the way her face lights up tells me it’s worth it.

  We sing together on the next chorus, and alternate over the rest of the song. She dances around me, laughing as I spin her around, making use of our space on the stage. The crowd is all on their feet by the time the song is done, but we’re both cracking up and watching each other through the applause.

  The manager comes on stage clapping, but another idea comes to mind before he asks if anyone else wants to take their turn.

  Turning to the crowd, I ask, “Would anyone mind if I get my sweet revenge on this beautiful woman? I need to redeem myself after that, and the only way I know how is by a sing-off.”

  The manager appears to be amused, but lets us continue by backing off and behind the curtain.

  The crowd seems into the idea, clapping along to my plan.

  “You see,” I explain, “I may not be the professional singer of the band I’m in, but I have a few tricks up my sleeve.”

  Ashton giggles, bringing the mic up to her painted lips. “That’s his way of saying he’s sorry for what you’re about to hear.” She winks at me, the motion stirring my dick once again. “I think you should stick to the guitar, Mr. Hilton.”

  The crowd ooes at the trash talk, but cheers in encouragement.

  I wave her away from center stage. “Let me show you how it’s done, Ms. King. Two can play at this game.”

  I request my song, a favorite of mine since the day I saw them in concert. As Breaking Benjamin’s “The Diary Of Jane” comes on, I slowly creep toward Ashton. When I actually start singing, I can see the shock in her face, her eyes widening, mouth dropped.