by Jayne Frost
Sure, I hadn’t invited Kimber to the party. But that hadn’t stopped me from asking her to come back to my room or letting her deep throat me like a champ.
The mangled condom wrapper on the floor proved I’d at least tried to return the orgasmic favor, though, I wasn’t sure how satisfying the venture had turned out to be. I didn’t remember shit. And that bothered me. Most of my hookups came courtesy of some type of alcohol haze, but usually, I could recall the basics.
Escaping to the living room to put some distance between myself and the scene of the crime, I dropped onto the couch to scroll through my phone. Finding nothing too urgent, I rang up room service, ordering a pot of coffee and the greasiest breakfast on the menu.
While I waited, I sorted through the newspapers on the table. Settling on the Austin Statesman, I flipped through without seeing much at all until I reached the back page.
My stomach clattered to the floor when I spotted a familiar picture nestled among the obituaries.
Annabelle “Belle” Murdock, 71 years old, formerly of Austin . . .
That’s as far as I got before the words blurred together. Skipping the bio about her life, which I could recite by heart, I zeroed in on the names at the bottom.
Mrs. Murdock was preceded in death by Douglas Murdock, her husband of 42 years. She is survived by her two daughters, Alecia Dresden and Patricia Crenshaw, and three grandchildren, Anastasia Crenshaw, Alexandra Crenshaw Burke, and Annabelle Dresden Kent.
Running a finger over Anna’s married name, a wave of emotions crashed over me. Anger, frustration, and above all, soul-deep regret.
Shifting my gaze back to the picture of Gran, I whispered, “I’m so sorry, Anna-baby.”
And I was. So fucking sorry, I could barely stand it. And only a little bit of the apology had to do with Anna’s grandmother, though that stung as well.
A sharp knock on the door pulled me out of my haze.
“Room service!” a cheery voice called.
“Just a minute,” I responded as I painstakingly tore the tiny tribute from the paper.
I fished my wallet from my pocket, and as I tucked the obituary into the secret fold behind my driver’s license, my finger brushed the only photo I carried with me—the last picture I ever took of Anna. Things were already going south between us, evident in the sadness that dulled her sparkling green eyes.
I stuck the photo back in its cubby, my throat thick with emotion and the reminder that my worst moments with Annabelle were still better than my best moments with anyone else.
Chapter Four
Anna
My mom stood among the mourners, holding my dad’s arm like she might fall over. As if she could feel my stare, Mom cast a nervous look to me, huddled in the limo.
Ashamed, I dropped my gaze to the wrinkled program clutched in my hand. “Sorry, Gran,” I whispered, smoothing the linen paper against my knee.
Sweat from my palm mingled with the tears that wouldn’t stop falling, blurring the delicate font.
Annabelle “Belle” Murdock - January 14, 1945 - March 12, 2017
I thought I could do it—stand with everyone and watch them lower her into the ground. But I couldn’t. If another person told me they were sorry and that Gran went quickly and without suffering, I was going to scream.
I furiously swiped at the moisture on my cheeks as the heavy door creaked open. Dean’s cologne mixed with the scent of rain clinging to his dark suit as he scooted onto the seat.
“Are you okay?”
Nodding, I clenched my teeth to keep from snapping.
He blew out a breath and tentatively took my hand. “I think you’re going to regret it if you don’t say goodbye.”
Turning away, I squeezed my eyes shut. There was no saying goodbye. Gran was already gone, and all that was left was this incredible ache that numbed my fingers and stole my breath.
“I will.” I sniffed. “Just not right now.”
My parents were taking Willow to my aunt’s in Houston as soon as the celebration of life for Gran was over. At first, I’d balked at the idea, but Mom was right, I was in no shape to care for my baby with all this grief hanging over me.
Steeling myself, I turned to Dean and gave him a watery smile. “Thank you for being here.”
Dean sighed, shaking his head as he looked down at our joined hands. “Where else would I be, Annabelle?” Offense edged his tone as his eyes met mine. “Just because we’re separated, doesn’t mean I won’t be here if you need me.”
Dean had always been there when I needed him, and really, it would be easy to lean on him now. But that wouldn’t be fair to him. Or to me. But now wasn’t the right time to mention it, so I just nodded and let my tears fall freely.
Dean slid his arm around my shoulder. “Shh.”
I turned my face into his chest and wondered for the millionth time why I couldn’t love him the way he deserved to be loved.
Jerking away when Peyton popped her head in the door, I swallowed the lump of grief that I feared would never truly dissolve.
My best friend knew better than to ask if I was okay. Instead, she held out her hand and said softly, “Come on. The service is over. Let’s go say goodbye.”
Shrinking against the seat, I shook my head, panic rising like an ocean swell. “I c-can’t. I don’t want to watch them . . .”
Put her in the ground.
I couldn’t even say it. But Peyton didn’t have to be told.
“They don’t do that right now, sweetie.”
Dean confirmed Peyton’s statement with a solemn nod. Apparently, I was the only one who’d never been to a funeral. My parents were young. But then, so was Gran. Too young to have a stroke in her kitchen.
Pain lanced through me as I gazed beyond Peyton to the cluster of white chairs under the green awning. Now that the service was over, everyone was standing, and I could clearly see the casket.
My eyes darted away, and I found my father among the family members, staring right at me with no reproach.
Holding his gaze, I took a tremulous breath. “Okay.”
Dean slid out first, and I followed. One step and my heels sank into the wet grass, but Dean slipped his arm around my waist before I face-planted.
When we reached the chairs, I took a seat in the back row. “Give me a second,” I choked, my gaze fixed on the mahogany coffin. “I can’t . . . yet.”
Dean stood sentry, bracing a hand on my shoulder and intercepting any well-wishers who wandered over.
“Button?”
My dad’s voice cut through the fog, and I turned to him, dazed. “Yes.”
He crouched in front of me. “We’ve got to get to the house. Are you ready?”
Sorrow washed over me as I glanced at the casket. I wasn’t ready. I might never be ready.
“No, Daddy . . .” I shook my head. “I can’t go yet. Please . . .” I tipped forward, burying my face in the crook of his neck. “Not yet.”
He rubbed circles on my back, whispering words I couldn’t hear, but that soothed me nonetheless.
And then Peyton said, “It’s okay, Brian. I’ll drive her over when she’s ready.”
Dad kissed me on the forehead, and though I wanted to grab him and make him stay, I sat stiff as a statue with my eyes on the grass until I heard the car doors slam and the engines purr to life.
When I ventured a glance a few minutes later, the limos were gone.
Dean squeezed my shoulder. “I have to get back to the office.” I met his gaze, nodding. “I could come over tonight if . . .” My eyes darted back to my lap, and he took a step back. “Just call if you need anything, okay?”
I wobbled to my feet as he turned to leave. “Dean?” It came out a strangled plea, so of course, he stopped. I threw my arms around him. “Thank you.”
The air left his body in a rush, and he folded me into a tight embrace. “Don’t mention it.” He rocked me for a long moment and then broke away to wipe my tears with the pads of his thumbs. “Call me i
f you need anything.”
If I had any doubt we were over, the kiss he pressed to my forehead sealed the deal. It felt just like my dad’s, comforting. And if I only wanted comfort, Dean was the guy.
Peyton linked our fingers as I watched Dean’s retreating back, a fresh torrent of tears blurring my vision.
“What now?” she asked after his car sped off.
I let out a shuddering breath. “Now, I say goodbye.”
It took another hour, but I finally made it to the casket. While I said my last goodbyes, Peyton ran to her car to grab a blanket to wrap the large, framed portrait of Gran that I refused to leave at the gravesite.
Clutching the rosary Gran gave me, I knelt on the green faux grass in front of her final resting place, fumbling with the glass beads. “Sorry, Gran, I don’t . . .” My throat closed as I tried to breathe through the strongest wave of emotion I’d ever felt. “I don’t remember all the prayers you taught me.” I placed a palm on the coffin. “I love you.”
After pressing my thumb to the crucifix and stumbling through a single choppy prayer, I pushed to my feet. As I wiped my knees, I noticed a huge spray of roses. Not just any roses. Peach roses.
I know you like the red ones, but the peach remind me of you.
My gaze shifted to three smaller arrangements with those same roses interspersed with baby’s breath, lilies, and white daisies—Gran’s favorite.
Swallowing hard, I crouched to search for a card. Finding none, I plucked the sticker with the florist’s name and number off the ribbon that simply read, “Gran.”
Peyton appeared at my side. “All set?”
“Um . . . can you help me grab some of the ribbons? I want to keep them.”
She fished her keys from the pocket of her black blazer. “You don’t look good, sweetie.” She pressed the fob into my hand. “Wait in the car, okay? I’ll get these.”
I nodded and turned to leave, but then my heart seized, and I spun around. “Goodbye, Gran.”
I snapped a peach rose from the arrangement, kissed the petals, and then laid it atop the spray of daisies on the casket. Smiling through the tears, I took off my shoes and then turned and ran for the car.
I poured another shot of Jack into my can of Dr. Pepper as I settled against the couch cushions in my living room.
“Do you want leftover pasta,” Peyton called from the kitchen, “or peanut butter and jelly?”
I took a long drink. And then another. “Peanut butter and jelly.”
Glancing over my shoulder, I made sure Peyton was occupied before retrieving the sticker from my pocket. Biting my lip, I stared at the florist’s name, embossed on the gold foil.
The Flower Studio—Sixth Street
It couldn’t be. Could it?
I had to find out, so I picked up my phone and then punched in the number.
“Flower Studio, can I help you?”
“Yes, um . . . my grandmother’s funeral service was today and . . .” My heart raced, and I thought about hanging up, but the woman quickly offered her condolences, so I forged ahead.
“Thank you. Someone had several large sprays of roses delivered to the cemetery. Peach roses. But there was no card, and I’d like to send a thank you note.”
After telling me she’d check her records, I heard her speaking with someone in the background.
“Yes, I have the order right here. It was a custom job. Tyler roses.” A little gasp tumbled from my lips, but she didn’t notice. “I don’t have a full name, but the first initial is S and the last name is Hudson. Does that help?”
Chapter Five
Sean
A cheer erupted from the crowd as the first of our four limos rolled through the back gate at the Frank Erwin Event Center.
I shrank against the leather seat, watching the stampede of eager fans descend on the first limo. The decoy.
“It’s working,” I said to Logan, who lounged in the seat across from me.
Shifting his disgruntled gaze to the window, he scowled. “Score.”
I rolled my eyes at his sarcastic tone. After a year of fighting off scurrilous claims from our old manager, arguing with our label over the band’s latest contract, and more or less getting our collective heads bashed in every fucking day, we deserved this break.
From the reports we’d been given by the South by Southwest organizers, our show was the highlight of the event.
“Dude, stop dwelling on the negative,” I grumbled with a shake of my head. “We’ve got sixteen thousand people waiting to hear us play. Do you really care if we all rode in the same limo?”
Apparently, he did. And I saw his point. Caged had always presented a united front, us against the world and all that, but things had changed.
Cameron was with Lily now. And though Logan originally chalked up their union to a bout of temporary insanity on the part of our guitarist, he’d warmed up to the cute blonde over the last year.
But then Christian met Melody, and now that they were living together, the pendulum had shifted. Their girls were suddenly “besties,” which meant double dates and all kinds of other shit that Logan and I had no interest in since neither of us “dated.”
I turned my attention back to the window in time to see Cameron and Christian emerge from the second limo with Lily and Melody glued to their sides.
Ignoring the screaming fangirls vying for their attention, they ducked their heads and marched straight to the stage door.
Logan let out an audible groan, slamming the back of his head against the seat. “Did you see that? They didn’t even stop to sign any autographs.” His eyes found mine, frozen ponds of pale blue, iridescent in the dim light. “How do you think that’s going to go over with the press?”
A part of me shared Logan’s concern, but I knew better than to give that worry a voice.
Clearing the pebble in my throat, I shrugged. “You worry too much. Plenty of musicians have girlfriends. Besides, you love Lily and Melody. Don’t even front.”
He frowned, pinning me with his gaze. “Yeah, they’re all right.”
But I saw it in his eyes, the unsaid “but they’re not Anna” dancing on the tip of his tongue.
In four years, Anna’s name had never passed Logan’s lips. Not since that last morning in the little apartment we’d all shared.
But I felt his resentment.
No, I didn’t make Logan choose. He just did. And now he blamed the hell out of me.
I looked away, indifferent. “Well, you better get used to it, bro.” I swatted Logan’s leg and then scooted toward the door. “Lily and Melody aren’t going anywhere. Get your head on straight. We’re golden,” I tipped my chin to the fans chanting our name in earnest now, “unless you clock a reporter at the press junket.”
Logan’s cocky grin returned, but like his mood, the smile was subdued. “No worries. I’m the picture of self-control.”
The door swung open, and we greeted our security team.
I slid out first. At six foot one, I stood eye to eye with most of the rent-a-cops, but Logan bested me by three inches, and since he was the fan favorite, it took all four of the behemoths to keep the crowd at bay. Instead of staying put in the tunnel the team had created for us, Logan splintered off and headed for the rope line before we reached the door.
I followed, more than a little amped by the show of adoration from our fans. I tried to tamp down my expectations, the feeling that this show could yield us a new manager and put the band back where we belonged, rocking audiences all over the world, but somehow, I knew this was the turning point.
And after a year in exile, I was more than ready to get out of here. The family dinners at my Aunt Melissa’s, seeing the same old haunts, even Sixth Street—it was wearing on me.
Making my way down the row, I came face-to-face with a strawberry blonde, blinking up at me with big green eyes.
Holding out a concert program with a shaky hand, she stammered, “I-I love your music, S-Sean. Could you sign this for me?”
Scribbling my name, I plastered on a smile and gave her the standard, “thanks, sugar,” before moving on.
Redheads were off the menu. Unless I was drunk. And then I gravitated to crimson hair, porcelain skin, and green eyes like an addict to a needle.
Spotting a gorgeous brunette with olive skin and sultry come hither brown eyes, I smiled. Since she didn’t have anything in her hand for me to sign, the girl obviously wanted more than an autograph.
Obliging, I headed straight for her. “Hey, sugar. You here for the show?”
She tilted her head, amused. “What else?”
I could think of a few things. But since I didn’t have much time, I cut through the bullshit and pulled a lanyard from my back pocket.
“What do you say we meet for a drink after the show?”
She looked down at the VIP Pass, mulling over the offer that included much more than drinks. And then she brought her gaze back to mine.
“Don’t you want to know my name first?”
No.
Since that answer definitely wouldn’t get me where I wanted, in between those impossibly long legs, I smiled. “Of course, sugar.”
Her thumb skated over mine as she took the lanyard. I guess I’d passed her test.
“It’s Beth.”
I lifted my chin to the security guard trying to get my attention before leaning in to whisper in her ear, “I gotta go to work, Beth. See you after the show.”
I gave her a wink and then headed for the door, ignoring the strawberry blonde with the pretty green eyes who reminded me of things I had no business thinking of.
Four hours later, I was behind my kit, rolling through a drum solo for our last encore of the night. Adrenaline pushed me past the point of exhaustion. Of pain. Of anything but the beat in my head, the sticks in my hand, and the roar of sixteen thousand fans.
Cameron’s incendiary guitar licks poured through my ear piece, and I backed off on the bass drum, passing the baton back to Logan who’d appeared from the shadows like a specter to reclaim the spotlight. Prowling the stage like a cat, he belted out the refrain to our latest hit while the audience chanted along.
