Viper (NSB Book 3)

by Alyson Santos

  “Hey, gorgeous,” Miranda purrs. “Surprise.”

  Her greeting tells me her expectations don’t include a roommate.

  “Miranda. Hi.”

  “You gonna let me in?”

  “Yeah. Um, come in.” I step back so she can enter and cringe when cold hands slide into my jeans and grip my ass. Hard. Yep, definite expectations.

  “I felt so bad for missing our first Christmas together. I wanted to surprise you for New Year’s.”

  “Uh, huh. Well, you did.” I clear my throat and pull her hands away. “Here’s the thing, though. I have a friend staying with me at the moment.”

  “Oh.” She scans the space. “Is he here now?”

  “Well, her name is Hannah and yes. She’s in the guest room.”

  Virtual eye-bullets say she remembers more than I hoped. “Hannah, the lawyer?”

  “Hannah, my friend from childhood who needed a place to crash for a while.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Oh hi. Miranda, right?” Hannah enters the room, wet hair twisted up in a sexy pile on her head. Dammit, she looks amazing in a ripped band tee and tight jeans. Hannah looks like Hannah for the first time in years. And she knows it, the way her eyes travel over me for a response. I try to keep my reaction private while this nightmare plays out. Worst nightmare? I don’t know. Atomic bombs go off. Some people are actual cannibals. You never know when you’ll fall into a sinkhole and get buried alive. But yeah, this moment is definitely on the list.

  Miranda shakes her hand. “Right. Hannah. From Regis, Whitlock & Sons.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Oh? They let you go?”

  “I left.”

  “Really. Are you with a new firm?”

  “Nope. Just crashing at Wes’s and watching judge shows.”

  “I see.” Distaste parades across her face, and I have to suck in a snort at Hannah’s joy over it. “Well, if you’d like a few leads, I can poke around at the firm we use.”

  “Aw, thanks, but I don’t need you poking anything.”

  I bite my cheek because ha. Miranda’s lips tighten into a thin line.

  “Well, good luck to you with your new… career.”

  “Thanks!” Hannah adds her brightest fake smile. “Okay, I’m gonna go back to the room and brood. Enjoy your night. Hope you had a good business trip.”

  “It was great, thanks.”

  And I’m alone with Miranda’s wrath.

  “Are you dating her?” Her cool tone is worse than violence. I’d love a furious slap right now.

  “No. I told you. She needed a place to stay and I had an empty room.”

  “I see. And the fact that she’s young, beautiful, and obviously into you had nothing to do with it?”

  “Just an added bonus.” Damn my sarcasm. I might get that slap after all.

  “Well, clearly you have your hands full so here’s the whisky I bought for us. I guess you can share it with your guest instead.”

  Uh-oh. “I told you it wasn’t like that.”

  “No, I suppose not. Nothing is like that with you, is it? We’re all just games in your little toy chest. Pull us out and play with us when you feel like it.”

  Solid fighting words right there. Cue the panic. “What? No. Miranda, come on. You’re not being fair. I told you from the beginning we’re not together.”

  “Oh, so you are sleeping with her?”

  “Huh? I mean…”

  “Wow, Wes. This is just… I thought we had this all worked out. Apparently not. Good luck with your band split.”

  Shit! “Miranda, wait!” I grab her arm, and she turns on me.

  “You know, I get it now. Why your ex kicked you out of the band? You’re a lying piece of shit. The world deserves to know what you are.”

  I flinch, and let her go. I knew what she was, what I am. Fucking saw this moment coming from the second we met. Doesn’t mean I have a clue what to do with it now. As if I’m not close enough to the edge of watching my world blow up even more, we’re startled by a clattering sound.

  We turn just as Hannah slams a pill bottle on the island. “Depression and anxiety.”

  She deposits another next to it. “Sleep aids.”

  Two more. “And these are for migraines. Preventative and acute.” Her eyes lock on Miranda. “I’m not well right now. I have a lot of issues I need to work through and have been fighting for years. No one has ever accepted me the way I am like Wes has. I came to him to help me pick up the pieces. You’re upset at the wrong person. I’m the problem here.”

  Stunned, I barely react to Miranda’s hard stare. All I can do is wait for her to process the surprise performance. Her eyes narrow; Hannah crosses her arms.

  “Prove it,” Miranda says finally, gaze cold and locked on me again.

  I swallow and cast a look to Hannah, who visibly pales.

  “What?” I hide my clenched fists in my pockets.

  “You want me to believe there’s nothing going on between the two of you? Then prove it.”

  My pulse is audible now, brain firing signals in all directions at once.

  “Prove it how?” We all know the answer. The stench of it pulsates around us.

  “Wes?” Hannah’s voice breaks, and I can’t even look at her.

  The album.

  The tour.

  Holland.

  Fucking Hannah who deserves so much better than this.

  “What’s wrong, babe?” Miranda buries her fist in my shirt, forcing my attention. Her other palm slides into my jeans, and I flinch at her sudden grip. “Certainly, your friend would have no issue with us heading back to your room for a while. She’d understand how much I’ve missed you.” This speech is for Hannah as much as me. I see it in every slithering movement of her eyes toward her prey. Hannah hasn’t moved. Neither have I. No, this is Miranda’s show and she returns her focus to me. She traces a manicured finger over my lips. “But I mean, if it’s a problem, I guess I can go implement that action plan we’ve been working on.”

  With a slight shove, she lets go and starts moving down the hall. Her dark gaze reaches over her shoulder and locks on me as her coat slides down her back. Next, it’s a sultry grin, thick with warning, a turn to show me the release of buttons on her blazer. Soon it’s expensive black lace drawing my eyes down the hall, bare skin explaining in no uncertain terms what “proof” means to this woman.

  My instinct knows what to do. I’m moving. God, I’m actually going to do this. Another wrong choice? I don’t even know anymore.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper to Hannah. Our eyes only connect for a second. Just enough for her silent plea to rip my heart out. “I have to. I—” A trail of clothing directs my path, lures me to the consequences of my sin. I have to, Hannah.

  Tears glisten on her cheeks when my gaze ventures back. Her teeth sink into her lower lip as she crushes me with a slight nod.

  “Are you coming, babe?”

  “Coming.”

  ∞∞∞

  “I need to check in with the office. I stopped here first.” Miranda adjusts her bra as she examines herself in the mirror. “That was amazing, hon,” she adds, turning to me. She leans in for a lingering kiss that deepens beyond what’s necessary for after-sex debriefing. “Ah, I missed you so much.”

  All I can muster is a twist of the lips. I despise her for not letting my disgust faze her. Yes, that’s right, I despise this woman. And she knows it. Hell, I think that’s her addiction to this sick arrangement.

  “I wish we could grab dinner tonight, but I’ll probably be too late. Tomorrow though?”

  “Sure.”

  I hate her smile now also—venomous and laced with a knowing glint that broadcasts the truth behind our lies. “On second thought. We should stay in tomorrow. I like you just like that.” Her slow scan travels from my face to the sheet rippling over my thighs. I’ve never had a problem being naked until this moment. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Still no r
esponse in my throat. She almost laughs at my paralysis, and every muscle in my body contracts until I hear the front door clatter.

  I smash my fist into the headboard.

  “Fuck!”

  ∞∞∞

  The condo is empty after I shower and pull myself together. My knuckles throb, and I’ve been in enough fights to know I’ll probably need medical attention for this. It’s my pick hand so I should still be able to play. Right now though, I don’t give a shit if I never play again.

  My search for Hannah only finds her belongings, and I’m relieved that at least her escape wasn’t permanent. I don’t expect a response from the message I send her and attach myself to the couch to wait for the next shard of my life to explode in my face.

  Judge shows are bullshit without Hannah. I try for a comedy, but there’s no humor in me. I’m too cynical for a thriller, definitely not a romance, so the TV goes off. Drinking is an okay distraction but becomes a menace when it’s a focused activity. After two hours, I’m sure I look as shitty as I feel. I’ve lost track of the number of shots I’ve poured down my throat. Then again, I wasn’t measuring so the count is irrelevant. The glass slips from my hand just as a scrape at the lock signals the arrival of the only other person with a key. Shit, I don’t even remember getting dressed.

  “Wes?”

  I squint up at the intruder. So beautiful. So tragic. So totally in the wrong place at the wrong time. “Hannah.”

  “Are you drunk?”

  “Um, probably more like wasted.”

  I follow her eyes down my body and see that I’m in boxer briefs. Barely. One question answered.

  “Where’s Miranda?”

  “Work.”

  “Are you two still…”

  “Yep. Can you grab the vodka? I kicked the whisky.” I find this fact hilarious and even tip the bottle to show her the lack of liquid that falls through the opening.

  “Not a chance. Come on, rock star.” She grabs my arms, but it’s more fun to pull her on top of me.

  “Wes,” she grunts, pushing against my chest.

  “I hate her.”

  Hannah stops struggling and searches my face.

  “Miranda. I hate her so much.”

  She doesn’t respond at first. It’s hard for me to read her through the rare sheen in my eyes. Stupid crap like that happens when I’m shitfaced.

  “You don’t have to keep doing this.”

  I let out a bitter breath. “What’s the alternative?”

  No answer again because I’m fucked. “I don’t know, but this isn’t the way.”

  “I’m figuring it out.”

  “You’re a mess.”

  I rock to my feet and stagger toward the bar. My hand waves at the vodka—what I think is the vodka?—until I’m able to wrap my fingers around the bottle. Maybe this is the solution. Drinking my way through Miranda until she’s sick of me.

  “Holland wouldn’t want this, and you know it.”

  I turn my head toward her double silhouette.

  “Break up with Miranda. Let shit hit the fan, and we’ll deal with it.”

  Waves rock in my stomach. I grab the edge of the cart to control the movement and squeeze my eyes shut. The waves become visual behind my eyelids. Swaying then circling into a hurricane of nausea. Oh god, I feel a hot, salty wave escape through my lashes, collect in the corner of my eye.

  “What the hell is wrong with me, Han?” I turn on her, demand an answer.

  She doesn’t flinch. Good. I want her to destroy me with the truth. Sucker-punch the sickness right out of my rotted gut.

  “Honestly? You don’t give a damn—until you do. And then you implode.” She approaches, angelic steps closing the gap between us. I suck in the emotion as she spreads her palm on my cheek. “Or the shit-storm you created implodes on you.”

  It’s a lot to take. Words like that. Compassion from someone I just wounded. Hannah Drake is too much for me, too much to fight.

  “Why did you come back?”

  “Because we need each other.”

  “I’m so fucked up, Han. You know that. You know what I just did.”

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  “I might do it again.”

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  We exchange a lopsided smile, and I can’t take it anymore. I pull her in, letting her hair against my shoulder calm the raging surf.

  “It was you in my head,” I say.

  She squeezes harder, presses into my chest. “That doesn’t help.”

  I close my eyes. “I know, but I needed to say that.”

  “And I need you to stop sleeping with a woman you hate.” She pulls back and searches my face. I let the emotion escape this time, make her understand my other need that goes beyond any of this bullshit. It’s a gentle kiss at first. Then the urge to overpower what happened in my bedroom takes over.

  Her hands shove into my chest and push me away. “You’re drunk. Besides…” She places another soft kiss on my cheek. “I can’t. Not now. Not when you belong to her.”

  “But I don’t.”

  “You do.” Full-on stare as she begins her official retreat. “Good night, Wes. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  I watch her every step until I’m satisfied she’s in her room and staying with me.

  ∞∞∞

  I manage a few hours of alcohol-induced sleep, but once the buzz wears off, I’m screwed. I spend the second half of the night reliving each brutal moment of what happened. Miranda and I are symbiotic assholes, bringing out the worst in each other, draining life-forces. And now our poison has struck someone I care about. Hannah was right when she said this isn’t what Holland would want.

  She wouldn’t, but situations like this are the reason she shed me from her life. I’m a uniting force, the villain, the fuck-up. Frederick Alton called it when I was barely out of diapers. The only thing that’s changed? I don’t give a shit anymore.

  My damaged knuckles throb, pulsate with a searing flame.

  Ashes of regret.

  Proving scars.

  Dammit. This proves nothing.

  11: SELFISH

  “Hannah, hey. I want to write.”

  My non-bruised knuckles graze her door again. It’s almost noon and I still haven’t seen her today. I’m not surprised—I’ve earned her silence—but I have no intention of accepting it.

  “I’m tired,” she calls out.

  “I’m not asking you to run a marathon with me. Just move to the couch and gush about what an amazing one-handed guitar player I am.”

  I can almost hear the eye roll through the door. I peek inside to confirm.

  “Hey,” I say, moving into the room.

  She throws an arm over her eyes with a groan. “Why can’t you just accept boundaries?” she mutters through her arm-wall.

  “Because I care about you.”

  “Yeah? Well, then care enough to leave me alone for a while.”

  I take my spot on the edge of the bed. My hand twitches with the need to touch her, to trace the smooth skin hiding her eyes from me. She’d probably touch me back with a fist to the face.

  “I’m sorry about yesterday. You know that’s not what I wanted. I wish…” What do I wish? Too many things for this conversation.

  Her arm slams down to the mattress. “I heard everything, Wes. Everything you two were doing, hoping you’d send her away, but I had to be the one to run.”

  I clench my jaw and study the floor. “She was just putting on a show for you. Most of it wasn’t real.”

  “No? It sounded like she was going for world volume records.”

  I can’t afford a laugh and bite my lip to stop it. “Yeah, believe me. I’m good but not that good.”

  “I know,” she says, totally serious, and this time I can’t help it. “Are you laughing at me?”

  I chew my knuckles and shake my head, resulting in an arm smack.

  “I’m sorry! I am, but…”

  Is that a smile sneaking over those p
erfect lips? “I hope that bitch is sore today.”

  And I’m done. The snort escapes and draws a grin. The need to taste her smile overwhelms me, and I expect a real slap this time when I lean in. Instead she drags me in for the kiss. Sweet—and painful.

  “Please, Han,” I whisper, hovering millimeters from her lips. “I’m going to figure this out. Just come write with me for a while.”

  She pushes me back, and a heavy silence follows, filling the space between us with everything I want but can’t have. She does nothing to put me out of my misery, just stares with the reminder of how much I’ve hurt her. I sigh and start for the door.

  “Hang on. I need pants.”

  Oxygen floods into my lungs. Thank god.

  “No you don’t.”

  “Perv.”

  I grin. “I’ll get started.”

  ∞∞∞

  “You should sing the chorus,” Hannah says, swallowing a mouthful from her water bottle before leaning back on the couch.

  “Really? You killed it though.”

  “Yeah, but switching to the male lead would be more dynamic. Then I’ll come in with a harmony on ‘peace offering.’”

  I run a quick review in my head and replay the progression out loud. “Damn, you’re right.”

  “Hmm… what was that?”

  “I’m not saying it again.”

  Her smile only widens. “You’re such a pushover. I bet that’s how you ended up with dragonfly plates.”

  “A pushover? Please. I have dragonfly plates because I don’t give a shit about plates.”

  Her smile fades as her eyes comb over me. “Wes, I have to tell you something.”

  I rest my guitar against the side of the couch.

  “It’s about what happened.”

  “Okay,” I say when she pauses.

  Her eyes trace the floor, the wall, the ceiling—everywhere but me. “I didn’t resign from the firm. I was fired. I had a complete meltdown in front of everyone.”

  Shit.

  “You’re human, Han. It happens.”

  I reach for her hand but she doesn’t react to the pressure of my fingers. Is she still pissed at me?

  “I could be disbarred.”