“We’ll be back in Chicago soon,” Alex said, seeing Ryan massaging his shoulder. “You can get back to your crazy stunts then.”
And get to work on his next album. His manager, Eddie, had finally been able to set up the meeting of a lifetime. According to him, Square One had done well enough—and Ryan had finally proven himself together enough—that his old bandmates had come calling. For the first time, Ryan had an actual chance to get Little White Lie back together—and get himself back on top.
He looked down and realized he was rubbing his forearm, touching the armbands he’d gotten inked as soon as he’d left rehab. Two lines, one for him and one for Claire. A ring for the one he never got her, and another for the one he’d never wear. Parallel, not intersecting, because that was how their lives were going to have to be.
The last night he ever saw her was a blur. It was the same day Little White Lie finally signed with a major label, and he’d gone out celebrating with the guys. He knew she was waiting for him—he remembered her saying she had something important to tell him. But no matter how much he racked his brain, he never recalled what it was.
All he knew was that after coming home way too late, for whatever fucking reason, he stupidly went out again. When he came to, he was lying on the futon in his clothes and shoes, puke spattered on the rug, and Claire was gone.
If he was ever tempted to drink again, the ink was a reminder. He just had to look down at his arm and see all he’d once had…and all he had lost. His band, his girl—everything he was.
He told himself it was better that he hadn’t seen her in Seattle. He wouldn’t have known what to say if he had. The past was better off behind him. He was going to play this last show in Gold Mountain, go home to Chicago, and kick ass at Eddie’s big meeting.
Nothing—not his memories, not his drinking, and certainly not a woman—would ever distract him again.
Chapter Three
Before Kid, Claire was never late, never behind, never what she would now describe as a Complete Disorganized Mess.
After Kid was a totally different story. The night of the concert, she barely made it out the door. She didn’t know what she’d been thinking hiring a sixteen-year-old stranger. Maya, clutching her favorite stuffed T. rex and howling, clearly had her doubts, too.
She ran through the emergency contacts twice, plus the list of Maya’s food allergies, how to use the EpiPen, where the first aid kit, flashlights, and fire extinguisher were kept, and probably would have given up on the whole thing altogether if Mack hadn’t texted saying, Fun, Claire—I’m going to make you have it even if it kills me.
The house lights were starting to dim when Claire finally found her friends at the bar, clustered around a group of tables at the front.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” she whispered, juggling her jacket, purse, and the random tissues and toys still in her pockets as she slid into a seat between Abbi and Sam. She reached across the table to squeeze Mack’s hand with an extra apology. Too late, she realized she still had blue Play-Doh underneath her fingernails. If anyone thought a night at a concert would help Claire find a date, they were sorely mistaken.
But it wasn’t like she’d gotten there early enough to mingle. In a matter of seconds, the house and the stage lights went down completely, and everything plunged into darkness.
A familiar tightness gripped her chest, a mix of anticipation and nerves. It reminded her of all those times she’d sat in the dark before Ryan walked on stage. Every time it was the same. The waiting. The hope. Wanting this to be the show where the right person saw him, heard him, signed him. The show that blew everything open and let their lives begin.
For a moment, nothing happened on the stage. Then she sensed rather than saw the singer walk out and pick up his guitar. She heard the quiet shuffle of footsteps, the click of an amp turning on.
Someone behind her cleared his throat. The audience stirred, waiting.
Then the first chord played in the dark.
That was all it took for Claire to forget about blue Play-Doh, the toys in her purse, the fact that these days she had to be home well before ten because she was responsible for a lot more than midterms.
The guitar reverberated through the darkness, and she was twenty again, kissing the lead singer of Little White Lie in an alleyway behind the bar, knowing no amount of studying, and no alarm on her phone, was going to keep her a virgin for long.
Six months later, she dropped out of the University of Washington and moved to New York with him. His band had signed with a manager. All they needed was a label—a big one—to make the sacrifice worthwhile.
She knew he drank too much, even then. But she was twenty in New York—everybody drank too much. And she believed in him—in his goodness, his talent, his heart. It took her way too long to accept that the late nights and constant partying weren’t small annoyances he was going to grow out of, or stuff that would change as soon as he got his big break, the offer he swore was just one more show, one more party, one more night away. She wondered what might have happened if she hadn’t had Maya, that little pulse kicking inside her, telling her it was time to go.
They couldn’t have raised a child together. He’d made that more than clear when she finally worked up the courage to tell him she was pregnant and he proceeded to get so obliterated he could barely remember his own name.
No. She slammed the brakes down hard on that line of thought.
How could just a few chords take her all the way back to that night?
She hated thinking about those times, the broken promises and broken beer bottles and the nights she cried herself to sleep alone on the futon, too broke to afford a real bed.
This is completely different. I’m completely different.
She was Good Claire again, even more responsible than her twenty-year-old self could have imagined. One night hanging out with her friends listening to music wasn’t going to change that.
The chord swelled as a single spotlight came up on the man on stage. He was sitting on a stool, the rest of the band still shrouded in darkness behind him. She saw black leather boots, dark jeans, those two dark bands tattooed around a forearm roped with muscle and covered in dark hair. His chest was broad, filled out across the shoulders. And there were his hands, as large and strong as she’d hoped.
He was wearing a wide-brimmed hat, and his head was down, brown hair falling just below the scruff of his jaw. The effect kept the audience on edge, waiting for the next chord, the first rush of his voice. It kept Claire on edge, too, wanting to know if the whole package was going to look as good as the glimpses so far.
Fun, Mack had told her. Yeah, she could sort of remember what that was.
The music grew, and lights flooded the stage at the exact instant the man on the stool looked up.
Claire gasped.
The audience went wild with applause as they started to play, but she couldn’t hear a thing. Her hands flew to her mouth. She realized she’d let out a cry.
The lead singer of Square One wasn’t just some random piece of eye candy. She knew him.
She knew every inch of his hands, the bend of his knuckles, the warmth of his skin, even if she hadn’t recognized him in the photograph or known the name of his new band.
He might be older, more muscular, tattooed, with longer hair. But his eyes were still the color of the ocean reflecting a cloudy, changing sky. As much as she tried to forget about Ryan, she couldn’t forget those eyes. She saw them in the face of her daughter every single day.
And now, after years of no contact, they were staring right at her.
His hands wavered, and his voice caught, but Claire couldn’t stay to find out what was going to happen. In a panic, thinking only of Maya, she pushed back her chair and ran out.
Chapter Four
Ryan had no idea how long he stood there frozen on stage. He missed his cue. Hell, he missed just about everything as the woman at the front table scraped her chair across the floor and bolted
out of there like the roof was collapsing.
Not that he blamed her. If he didn’t know how much he’d changed in the last five years, he’d run out on him, too.
There was no question it was Claire. Even from the stage, with the light shining in his eyes and spilling over the first few tables, he could tell. In the beginning, he used to scan the front rows to make sure she was there, needing to lock eyes with her before he could sing a single note. He’d gotten so used to it, he did it long after she’d left him, even when he was playing in Omaha, New Orleans… Places he’d never expect to find her.
Places like Gold Mountain, which he’d never even heard of until today.
He wanted to go after her. But what was he supposed to do, jump off the stage, cancel the whole show, explain to his band, the audience, his manager, his booking agent that some ex-girlfriend came to one of his shows and walked out?
So what. Could there be any bigger cliché?
Eventually, the band took the lead and dove in, and it was all muscle memory from there. They’d played this set so often they could do it in their sleep. He could sing like he meant it, even as his mind was reeling.
How the fuck had Claire—his Claire—wound up in some random town in the mountains? How long had she been here? And why? Why wasn’t she in Seattle? How was she supposed to be a lawyer in such a small place—the lawyer she’d always wanted to be, until he stupidly convinced her to follow him to New York?
A thought hit him so hard, his voice stumbled. What if she moved up here for a man?
She could have the two-point-two kids she’d dreamed of, a nice backyard, all that wholesome fresh air. And some clean, well-heeled guy with a steady job and nice benefits and a hairdresser who kept him trimmed up like clockwork every two weeks. Someone who could take her out to dinner and buy an expensive bottle of the good stuff and actually taste it without turning into a raging asshole no one in their right mind would want to be around. Someone the total opposite of him.
Somehow, he got through the show. The audience erupted in applause. Ryan took his bow and came back for the encore, trying to act like he gave a damn. Wasn’t this what he wanted—riotous cheers, everyone on their feet, all those hands clapping for him? Look at the proof that he was somebody—not a drunk, not a deadbeat, not his father’s son.
But there was a sudden emptiness in him, a hollow pit in his stomach that he couldn’t ignore.
Afterward, the guys were celebrating backstage, excited at the success of the tour. Excited to be heading back to Seattle and then home. But Square One was just a group of guys their managers had brought together for an album—it never really felt like his band. He liked them just fine, and they were good musicians, but he didn’t want to explain who he’d seen, or why he’d been so stunned when the lights came on. As soon as he got his chance, he slipped away.
He didn’t usually hang out after a show—especially not at a bar. But tonight he went back, hoping for something. Anything. One of the friends she’d been sitting with. Maybe even Claire herself, coming back to catch him.
But it had been so dark, and he’d only had eyes for her. He didn’t know who else to look for. And could he really go around asking if anyone knew her name? The bartender, a short woman with dark hair and a sparkling stud in her nose, was pouring a drink for a woman with bright purple hair and waved him over. But he held up a hand, declining. He’d cracked a bottle of seltzer backstage, and he carried it with him as he walked out into the night.
He scanned the parking lot and the dark, winding road. No sign of Claire. No idea what to do.
She’d obviously been surprised to see him. She wasn’t looking to hang around and hug it out.
But he’d come so far. He’d worked so hard. How could he finally lay eyes on her, only to have that be it?
Four years, two months, and twenty-six days sober and he’d managed to do an entire U.S. tour in bars, in clubs, in venues where booze was always flowing, without having a drop. He looked down again at his tattoo, the two parallel bands around his forearm. He didn’t know what he’d say to her, or what he was even looking for after all these years. But he’d made it this far. Before he went home, he needed more than a fleeting glimpse of her from the stage.
He pulled out his phone. This time, he knew what to Google. Claire Collins + Gold Mountain. He clicked the first link that came up and couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face.
So she wasn’t a lawyer.
But she still had the same warm blue eyes and what he knew would be the softest hair he’d ever touched. He’d never expected to feel it again, but he couldn’t stop the memory from coming. Without taking time to think or change his mind, he used one of those hotel apps to book a room for the night. It was outrageously expensive, but he didn’t care. Alex could drop him there in the van, and then the guys would be on their way to Seattle. Ryan could change his ticket and book another flight out later in the day. It wouldn’t even delay him that much.
He just needed a few minutes, a chance to see her one more time.
Then he’d be back on his way to Chicago, his meeting with Eddie and Little White Lie, and all the success that was waiting for him.
Chapter Five
Claire went straight home from the concert, texting Mack something vague about a stomachache. She’d explain later, when her heart wasn’t beating so fast. She paid the babysitter for the full night anyway, and then hugged Maya so tightly she squirmed in her arms.
“This is my life,” she whispered softly as she watched Maya sleeping, and then again as she looked at herself in the mirror the next morning, twisting her hair into a messy bun and ignoring the tiredness in her eyes.
Ryan was just in town as part of his tour. He didn’t know she lived here. It was possible he hadn’t even seen her.
Even if he had, they were ancient history. He’d made his choice when he found out she was pregnant, and she’d made hers. One night singing a few songs in Gold Mountain didn’t change anything. No doubt he was already back in Seattle, or New York, or wherever he was heading next. She should pretend it never happened and move on.
She dropped Maya at kindergarten and went straight to work. Sonia was already in the massage room setting up a client she’d been able to squeeze in last minute. Having a massage student work as her assistant in exchange for practice hours had been a godsend, giving Claire an extra set of hands in the mornings, when she needed it most.
Sonia told her everything was ready, and Claire walked in. See? It’s just a normal day.
But as soon as she saw who her next client was, she stopped dead in her tracks.
This isn’t happening. It isn’t real. I’m going to pinch myself and wake up, and everything’s going to be fine.
But all that did was leave a sore spot on the back of her hand. The half naked man was still there, lying face down on her massage table, awaiting her touch.
He couldn’t see her, but she could certainly see him. As was customary, he’d stripped down to his boxers—or briefs, she had no idea and had better not think about it. A white sheet was pulled to his waist, right where his back dipped into what she knew was a very nice ass. She took in every cut of muscle down his back. The swell of his shoulders. That tattoo on his forearm, the one she hadn’t known he had.
She’d been so unfocused walking in that she hadn’t really looked at the information sheet Sonia had handed her. But she didn’t need to see his name on the page, or even the tattoo, to know. She could trace the lines of his body in her sleep, no matter how many years it had been.
She took a quiet step back. She could still sneak out. It would be good practice for Sonia to take over. There was no way she could work on this man.
Then the door clicked shut behind her, and he stirred.
“Is that you?” he asked, turning his head so he could see her.
As soon as his eyes landed on her, she could feel every second of their history mix up inside her. How could he be so calm? Blood was pounding in
her ears.
“I found you.” He said it with just a hint of a smile, that secret look he gave, a tightening around the mouth that let her know that no matter how much he had filled out or hardened around his eyes, he was still the same Ryan. Handsome, charming, tender, strong—and so closed off, she’d been a fool to think he could ever be hers.
She steeled her resolve. That face wasn’t going to work on her this time.
“Were you looking?” she asked, hoping she sounded composed.
The smile faltered. “No.”
They both knew the truth. Of course he hadn’t been trying to find her. He never made any effort to get in touch when she left. He would have known she’d go to her parents—where else would a pregnant twenty-something with no job, no degree, and no future wind up? But according to them, he hadn’t even called.
The silence stretched between them.
“I know this is weird,” he said with that same half grin.
Claire stared at him, dumbfounded…then at the curtains behind him, because staring at him meant taking in his naked torso, his chiseled shoulders, the dark scruff on his jaw… And none of those things were wise to look at right now.
“You’re the one who came here,” she reminded him.
“I had to see you.”
“Had to?”
“You ran out.”
He turned under the sheet to lie on his back and then sat partway up so she was finally looking at his eyes. And his chest. His pecs. The fall of his thick, dark hair.
“Last night,” he clarified, gray eyes darting away, and Claire felt her face flush. Yes, there were so many times she’d run out on him that he had to clarify. Way to go, me.
“I was surprised,” she said.
“Me, too. I thought if anything, I might see you in Seattle.”
“I was there,” she said. “To begin with.”
“And then?”
“And then I moved here.”
That strained silence again. But she wasn’t going to bring up Maya. He might ask about her, want to see her, start thinking that just because he’d managed to pull together a new band and a tour without totally flaming out, he could start laying some kind of claim.
Make Me Yours (Men of Gold Mountain) Page 2
