I don’t even know what drink number I’m on when my phone buzzes.
Can I come up?
My heart slams against my chest at the “H” and the “Drake.” Oh, wait. Hannah?
Sure.
I stumble toward the door and release the button so she can enter the building. It seems like I just pushed it when my door is being assaulted. I pull it open to be bulldozed by a petite fireball.
“Shit!” she says, running black nails through her light brown hair. It’s been freed from its clip and washes over her shoulders. Wow, it’s been so long since I’ve seen her hair like this. I have to suppress the urge to sample its texture. I’m just wasted, hurting, and yeah, the glare on her face would not approve of my investigation.
“Um, hi,” I reply with a crooked grin. She pauses long enough in her stomping to return it.
“Sorry. I know. I must seem crazy right now.”
“Well…”
“Ugh, I just didn’t know where else to go!”
Alarms flare. “What is it? What’s going on? Are you in trouble?”
Her bitter laugh isn’t encouraging. “Not the kind you mean.” She drops to my couch and rubs her hands over her face. That gorgeous hair. “I don’t know, Wes. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come. It’s just…”
“What’s going on? Why are you in my condo?”
She grunts and tilts her head toward me. “I quit.”
“Huh?”
“I quit.”
“Okay... Quit what?”
“Everything.”
“Like your gym membership? Euchre club? Zoo volunteering?”
“Everything. Look I don’t want to talk about it. That’s why I came here. I just want to chill and figure shit out. Can we just watch TV? Where’s your bar?”
I point to both, and it’s then that I notice her suitcase.
“Oh.”
She twists her head back at my utterance and stalls a generous pour. “Oh, right. Also, can you not tell anyone I’m here and let me crash on your couch for a while?”
Holland. Would kill me. The entire Drake family. Miranda. My family. The media. This is such a bad idea. Getting involved in the personal drama of my best friend and bandmate’s sister during a bitter contract dispute? Movies are crafted about this shit.
“Sure.”
Because, fuck it.
∞∞∞
“So are you ever going to tell me what’s going on?” I ask after the second movie and her—I don’t even know—drink.
Hannah blasts me with the dragon look that’s made me smile since we were kids. Yep, even I’m intimidated by that laser.
“Sorry, I just thought your new landlord deserved a little information.”
Her shoulders relax ever so slightly. “I’m sorry. No, you’re right. Thanks for letting me crash. And I will talk about it. It’s just…“ Her words fade as her eyes graze the wall.
“It’s fine, Han. You don’t have to talk. But how long do you think you can hide here?”
“Ha. Where’s the last place my family would look for me?”
I smirk. “Here.”
“Exactly.” We exchange a smile, but it doesn’t bring any peace.
“Your family is amazing, Hannah. Whatever’s going on, I’m sure they’re much better for you right now than I am.”
Her eyes change as she studies me, or maybe it’s the booze, but I swear she’s surprised by my comment.
“I’m not so sure about that. At least not right now. Just… tomorrow? Over breakfast?”
“Sure.”
“You won’t even know I’m here.” She pulls the throw blanket off the back of the couch, and I bristle.
“Not a chance. Get your cute butt into the guest room.”
Her smile is all shy resolve. “Seriously, this is fine. You’re already epically amazing for letting me stay here.”
“I’m not kidding. Get in that guest room. Don’t make me carry you.”
“Ugh, chill, Dad. I’m fine! I’ve slept on much worse. Your couch is perfection.”
“Hannah!”
“Nope.”
“You’re starting to piss me off.”
“What else is new?”
“Little turd.”
“Spoiled rich boy.”
“That’s it.”
“Wes!” she shrieks, laughing as I scoop her off the couch. She half kicks, half clings, on our journey to the guest room where I deposit her on the queen bed.
She grabs my hand as I turn toward the door. “Seriously.” I meet her eyes and cringe at the sudden sheen. “Thank you. I just…”
I squeeze her fingers. “As long as you need, okay?”
She bites her lip and a few tears escape before she tries to hide them from me.
5: TENANT
It’s funny. Making breakfast for a girl is usually an angst-ridden formulation. Do I want to see her again? Does she want to see me? Do I play the gentleman or the asshole?
And yet, here I am, eggs on the plate, French toast stack growing, coffeemaker beeping before the thought even enters my head that I’m preparing breakfast for a woman who slept over. That’s Hannah, though. Not a “woman” but my sister for every reason except blood. I watched the girl learn to ride a bike, find her first boyfriend, get her heart broken by her first boyfriend, then break a long streak of hearts herself. I saw her in a prom dress and almost a bridesmaid’s dress if Holland and I hadn’t broken off our engagement after two months.
No one ever understood my complicated relationship with Holland like Hannah did. How you can desperately love a woman and not be in love with her. How you can imagine her as your wife but realize neither of you would be happy. Hannah got it. Hannah was also the only one in our lives with the guts to tell us our engagement was bullshit. That great friends don’t automatically translate to great spouses.
At the time I thought she was jealous, but it turned out Hannah Drake was just developing into a woman who didn’t give a crap about the consequences of the truth. I didn’t think she gave a crap about any expectations or social pressure until she did a complete 180 halfway through university and pursued politics and law instead of vocal performance or whatever degree she was working on that made her happy. I remember being sad the day her family praised her for coming to her senses. Self-projection? Totally.
Hannah makes a great lawyer. The girl is razor sharp and brutally honest. She would have made a great anything. Well, okay, maybe not a politician. Or a preschool teacher. I snicker at the thought of terrified four-year-olds absorbing Ms. Drake’s critique of their crappy drawings. But aside from that, she was always one of those people bursting with unrealized potential. Sure, on the surface earning her law license was a huge accomplishment, and for many, would represent the pinnacle of achievement. But my Hannah has a breathtaking tattoo climbing her torso, notebooks of poetry, and a hypnotic singing voice even her rock star sister envied before she stopped using it, for some reason. Oh, right. Lawyer stuff. Scotch tastings, client dinners. All the shit I ran from the first chance I got, and there was Hannah, embracing it with open arms. Everyone else applauded her for it.
Outwardly, I did too because it wasn’t my business. Still isn’t really. No, my job now is to provide room and board for my ex-best-friend’s sister while she sorts through whatever bombshell just exploded her life.
Wes Alton: failed rock star, innkeeper.
∞∞∞
It makes no sense that Hannah Drake is shuffling down the hall toward my kitchen and open living space. Messy hair, yoga pants, and sleep weighing down her eyelids. I can’t help but grin at the sight, certain I’m in some alternate reality that’s going to screw the shit out of me. God, I love playing with fire.
“Morning, sunshine.”
“Shut up,” she replies. “Oh my gosh, that smells amazing.” She skirts around me to search my cabinets for plates.
“Above the coffeemaker.”
My instructions earn me a look. “You don’t keep you
r mugs above the coffeemaker?”
I shrug.
“Men,” she mutters, yanking two plates from the shelf. She studies them and snorts. “Dragonflies? Wesley Alton.”
“Karine’s one contribution to our relationship.”
“Ah.”
“Oh, and the towels. Wait until you see those.”
“Can I not? She was the ballet dancer, right?”
“Physical therapist.”
“Oh, right. Barbie.”
“She did not look like Barbie. You never even met her.”
“Uh, yeah I did. You brought her to that release party for Unending Circus, remember?”
“I did? Wait…” I did. “Shit, okay.”
“That girl needed to eat a burger like nobody’s business.”
“Wow. Someone’s bitter.”
She snickers as she starts scooping food onto the plates. “Forks? Let me guess, the linen closet?”
“Hilarious. Drawer next to the dishwasher.” I grin at her expression. “Impressed?”
“A little. Although not so much with your threads. What is this?”
She tugs my gym shorts, and I smack her away. “You should be thanking me. I usually walk around naked.”
“Then why would I thank you?”
Damn. By her look she knows I felt that low and hard.
“You shouldn’t be hitting on your landlord. That’s gross,” I say. “Maple syrup?”
“Duh. Coffee?”
“Yes.”
She pauses mid-stride. “Okay, so where are the mugs then?”
∞∞∞
Hannah Drake has opinions. She has a lot to say about my wall color, living room layout, and the travesty of my dragonfly cookware. The prime minister, Toronto sports teams, and whacky weather. Oh and Christmas. It’s in three days. Plenty of feedback on that topic. What I don’t get is anything remotely close to an explanation about why she’s moved in. Every time I broach the subject I get the death stare, so Christmas it is.
“You spending it with your family?” she asks, shoveling more food into her mouth. The girl can eat and doesn’t care who knows it. Is it crazy that I find it sexy? I clear my throat.
“Probably not. I got enough of an ass-kicking at Sophia’s engagement party.”
Her eyes narrow. “From your parents or me?”
I shake my head. “Please. You couldn’t take me if you spent a lifetime trying.”
“Wanna bet?”
“Not particularly, no.”
Her pout is almost as charming as watching her suck French toast down her throat. When was the last time she ate?
“What about you?” I ask even though I know the answer. Drake family Christmases are not optional. I bet Holland is even flying home. My pulse picks up at the thought. Not that I have any hope of seeing her after burning her final olive branch.
“The usual.”
I nod. I’ve been involved in enough of the Drake “usual” festivities to understand the definition.
“So what, you’re just going to spend Christmas alone?” she asks.
“I’m sure there are bars around that will be open.”
“Christmas in a bar? You’re that guy now too?”
“Apparently, I am. What of it?”
And just like that, she’s finished eating and jumps up from the table. “Play me something.”
“What?”
“Where’s your guitar? Play me ‘Viper,’ the one you wrote after I got my tattoo.”
“Hannah…”
“What? It’s been like ten years. I want to hear it.”
“Ten years? You only got your tattoo eight years ago.”
“Please! Don’t make me beg.”
“You’re already begging.”
“Don’t make me punch you then.”
I cock my head. “I dunno. That actually sounds kind of hot.”
“Whatever. Just get your guitar, Casanova.”
When I return, she’s on the couch and points to the other end. I lower myself as well.
“I don’t know if I even remember all of it,” I say. “That was a long time ago.”
“Just try?”
Her eyes are different now. Darker, the smile is gone. Red vessels corrupt the white around her blue irises, and I know her tears are close again. Dammit, I will try.
“I haven’t played much since the tour.”
I expect some snide comment about needing help to tune but there’s only silence as I do just that. I don’t like Hannah’s silence. It brings me back to a much darker time in our lives. A time when a viper tattoo snapped us into a bond that can still pull us back eight years later.
“Let them stare, they won’t dare to touch your soul.
Let them laugh, their wrath is where they hide.
They lie. They cry—too—because you, you’re the brave one, the safe one, the irreplaceable one.
Let them bleed while you release their ugly truth.
Let them bury their joy in baseless hope, faceless, nameless, shameless they scream their joke.
Let them breathe the poison of their worthless spite, their eyes,
Descend, yours amend
Fate.
So lie in wait, hold tight, let them fight
Until you strike
Them dead.”
Her cheeks are wet when I finish and dare a look across the couch. I’m not good at this. Consoling. Compassion. I’m usually last on the list of shoulders people want to soak with their tears. But Hannah is alone. Stuck with an asshole who cares deeply about her even if he has no clue how to say it.
So I don’t. I rest my guitar against the couch and move beside her. A few buttons on the remote to find a movie, and I slip my arm around her shoulders. She settles into my hold, soft hair brushing my chin as she nestles close. Then we observe some crazy shit go down on a distant planet.
∞∞∞
“Sorry about earlier.”
“Earlier?”
“Yeah, my mini meltdown.”
“Wait, that was a meltdown?”
Her sandwich remains mostly untouched as she studies the wood grains etched into my table.
“What’s going on, Hannah?” I ask finally. Her gaze trickles up to brush mine before returning to its post.
“I don’t know yet.”
I believe her and wait.
“I was trapped.” Her eyes search mine again. “I was living a great life, a perfect life, but it wasn’t mine.”
“It was the one you thought you were supposed to live.”
Her expression softens as it rests on me. “You are the only one who got that. You never judged me.”
“You were perfect the way you were.”
Oh god. I don’t know where that came from. It may be true but had no business coming from my lips.
“What I mean is, you should have felt comfortable pursuing your own goals instead of the ones you forced on yourself.”
“Yeah, that’s what you meant?” and the glint with her sudden smile makes me cringe.
“You know what I meant.”
“It literally kills you to give compliments, doesn’t it? Like rips out a piece of your badass soul.”
“Shut up.”
“It’s fine. Go find a puppy to kick. I’ll wait.”
I laugh and throw a chip at her. “Whatever. You know I’m not good at this shit.”
She giggles as she picks the chip off the table and pops it in her mouth. “Actually, you’re great at this shit because you don’t care about consequences or what people think.” She cocks her head. “Well, maybe you could care a little more about what people think.”
“You mean, not piss off your sister to the point where she wants to dissolve our friendship in writing?”
“Wait, that’s what’s in the contract?”
I sigh. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t want to put anything between you and Holland. This is our issue.”
Her brows knit, but I infuse enough indifference into
the pursuit of my own sandwich that she has to let it drop.
“Okay, yeah, I guess that’s a good example. Maybe don’t pick fights with rock stars in the midst of highly publicized comeback tours either.”
“Noted.”
“Or recruit their ex-stalkers to try to ruin their relationships.”
“Shit. You heard about that too?”
She shakes her head and pokes a finger at the bread pillow on her plate. “That was low even for you, Wes.”
I grunt. “Yeah, well, it wasn’t what it seemed.”
“No? You didn’t contact Luke’s old groupie and convince her he wanted to hook up just to wreck his relationship with Holland?”
“Okay yes, but I was really drunk and desperate. I tried to take it back the next day. I was just as shocked as anyone when she showed up.”
“Why wouldn’t she have? Geez, if someone told me my hottest crush ever wanted to see me, of course I’d show.”
“Because I told her it was a lie.”
Her eyes attach to mine. “Wait, what?”
I sigh and pull out my phone. Evidence, I guess, for no one but me. I never showed Holland. There was no point, and it didn’t matter anyway. What use is intent when your actions blow apart any rational explanations? No, this text stream is for me, for my sleepless nights, and what’s left of my conscience. Because sometimes I have to prove to myself that I’m a dick, not a monster.
I turn my phone to Hannah, and her eyes widen.
“I didn’t know that the message telling Laurel not to come hadn’t gone through until she showed up that night. I checked right after the confrontation and just about puked. That’s when I knew I’d blown it. Holland would never forgive me at that point.”
“Why didn’t you tell Holland you tried to take it back?” she asks, still in disbelief.
I study the label on my beer. “What was the point? It happened, and she hated me. I wasn’t going to whine and beg. I deserved what I got. But I’m not going to punish myself for the rest of our lives with this new contract because of one screw-up.”
Viper (NSB Book 3) Page 5
