Prologue
Fanny
The Dolby Theatre. One of the largest stages in the nation. One hundred and twenty feet wide. Seventy-five feet deep. On one of the biggest nights of the year.
Oscar night.
Mesh bronze accents. Plush seats trimmed in plum velvet. Pure old school Hollywood glam.
Ultra cool.
What wasn’t?
Me. Fanny Bay Lesowski. A twenty-year-old with red corkscrew curls and a slight Canadian accent. Even my name was the opposite of glamorous.
Under the striking silver looping ovoid structure, which supported and disguised an immense lighting grid, I felt tiny and insignificant. Clenching my fingers tighter around the mic in my hand, I willed my body not to tremble. But I was scared. I didn’t belong here. Not really. Not center stage at the Oscars with dozens of cameras trained on me following my every move.
Fanny Bay, don’t let your nerves get the best of you, I reminded myself, my stomach swirling anew. Remember, you’ve done this song in front of cameras and audiences plenty of times since the nomination. The trick was fooling my brain into believing that this was just one more performance, not one in front of countless celebrities and rock stars much less fifty million worldwide viewers.
Breathe in Zen. I closed my eyes and inhaled positive energy.
One.
Two.
Three.
Breathe out all the negativity. I exhaled for three counts and opened my eyes.
Better.
My surroundings seemed less intimidating with my mind cleared. My tense muscles loosened as I compiled a list:
1. The capacity inside the historic venue was only thirty-four hundred. I focused on that manageable number.
2. I had done similar shows before—minus the enormous television audience of course.
3. I wouldn’t be alone. My half-sister Hollie would arrive soon to occupy her reserved aisle seat three rows back from the stage. She would be radiating positive energy and cheering for me. Our mother would be here, too. I believed that, truly I did.
Actual venue capacity. My experience. And most importantly, my support network. This was doable. When I broke overwhelming things down into less intimidating pieces, a Zen technique, it usually set me back on track.
“I love you, Mama.” I brought my hand to my mouth. “Tonight’s for you.” I pressed my lips to the Claddagh ring that had once been hers but now encircled the first finger of my right hand. The metal was cold, like my life had often felt since she had left us.
Blinking back tears, I tried to envision her standing right beside me lending me her strength. But that was difficult to do. Nine months, three weeks, two days since we had scattered her ashes. The loss still felt fresh. My emotions bubbled too near the surface and with them a pain too raw to soothe.
Focus lost, I returned the mic to its slot on the stand and backed away. I suddenly didn’t feel like singing her favorite song about making your tomorrows today anymore.
“Do you need something, Miss Lesowski?” The well-meaning sound technician assigned to me suddenly reemerged from the shadows. Navy ball cap on his head, the brim low and his eyes sparkling with eagerness to please, he had been hovering nearby since I had taken the stage for my allotted ten-minute window of rehearsal time.
“Yes. Thank you.” Best to give him something to do so I could try to regather my thoughts. “Would you mind taking my guitar?” My Martin D18-E, a six-string acoustic-electric featured a solid Sitka spruce top, mahogany back and sides and a Fishman F1 Aura plus pickup system. I smoothed my fingertips over the handsome finish of the beautifully crafted instrument any musician would be proud to play. I loved the warm tones it made, but mostly I loved it because it had been a gift from my mother. “Be careful with it,” I cautioned making eye contact with him as I unclipped the strap and relinquished my treasure to his care.
“I will, Miss Lesowski. Promise.” He gave me a reverential nod and retreated with the guitar. As he did a flash of platinum blond caught my eye.
It can’t be, I thought. Only it was. It truly was.
Ashland Keys of the Dirt Dogs.
My heart leapt to my throat.
Holy shit.
I had hoped, maybe even allowed myself a little daydream about a chance meeting, but the last I had heard things had still been up in the air as to whether his band would actually perform live tonight. My eyes bugged out of my head as I stared. The drummer of the Dirt Dogs was even more handsome in the flesh, though he looked less like a rock legend right now in a crisp, white, button down shirt and dark denim jeans and more like a cover model for some upscale clothing catalog.
What to do? My heart hammering with indecision, I panicked as he moved closer eclipsing a stack of amps with his wide shoulders and over six feet frame.
I was a big fan of Ashland Keys.
Ok, maybe more than just a fan.
He was the reason I had gotten interested in music. I had his pictures—the band’s pictures, I reflexively downplayed my obsession—pasted all over my room. I had been to so many of the Dirt Dogs’ concerts that I had lost track of the count. Well, actually it was ten. The laminated ticket stubs lined the inside of the top desk drawer in my room, but don’t tell. And I had indulged in a couple—okay, a lot—of farfetched fantasies in which the rocker and I met, bonded and instantly fell madly in love. If my mother had been alarmed by my fascination with the band and a man eleven years older than me, she had never let on. Though, I suspected my biweekly guitar lessons had been her way of channeling my fixation into something more constructive. Certainly nothing edifying in my stepfather’s reaction. He had made his disapproval of Ashland Keys and his group of surfers turned rowdy, antiestablishment rock stars abundantly clear. But then again Samuel Lesowski didn’t approve of anything that I did—that is until my nomination for best original song alongside the super successful Dirt Dogs.
Not that I desire my stepfather’s approval, I reminded myself. I didn’t need or want anything from him. He was hardly the benevolent benefactor with a heart for the downtrodden the public perceived him to be, and that he had fooled my mother into believing in the early days of their relationship. In fact, he was an egomaniac with disturbing sadistic tendencies.
“I’m marrying him for you, Fanny Bay,” my mother had told me while holding her hand over a belly that had yet to swell. “For you and this little one so we can have plenty of food and a comfy bed to sleep in rather than an old car.”
That had been fifteen years ago, but I actually missed the rusty 1998 Buick LeSabre land-barge that had temporarily served as our home.
More specifically, I missed her and the life we’d had together before my stepfather had entered it. Just the two of us, a typical day starting with me at her feet in the wee hours before dawn peeling potatoes while she cooked breakfast for the men working the oyster beds. Later I would take a glorious nap next to her in the backseat of the car before the evening found me standing in the shadows backstage watching her perform in the small local theater. It had been a hard way of living, yet it seemed to me that we both had been happier in those days.
“Ashland, baby, wait.” A high-pitched woman’s voice screeched through my thoughts like a scratch on one of my mother’s vintage records. Shifting, I saw a brunette wearing ass-baring leather shorts clattering after the rock icon in her three inch stilettoes. He turned, irritation bristling his brow as he took a step backward to avoid her. But she had momentum. She barreled into him smashing her ridiculously huge boobs into his chest while grabbing hold of his upper arms—well as much of his biceps as she could curl her red tipped claws around. “Come back to the dressing room,” she whined. “Do a couple more shots. Let’s play some, honey.” She tipped her head back and batted her glued-on lashes at him. “My sister and I were just getting started. I’ll do you while she does Linc.”
“No thanks.” He frowned, and her overly made up face registered surprise as he decisively set her away from him.
“Whatever you want then. We’re easy, honey. We’ll do the whole band if you’d like. You can watch. Everyone knows how you like to.”
My jaw dropped, not because her offer was shocking. My stepfather was a big Hollywood producer. I had seen plenty of women proposition him. Seasoned and aspiring actresses, some barely legal, came onto him everywhere he went hoping he would cast them in one of his films. No, my reaction was one of dismay. Being this close to my idol and having things unfold like this was a far cry from my fantasies.
“I’ll pass.” Ashland pried her fingers loose and lifted his chin. “Go on back and do whatever you please without me.” Silky strands of platinum brushed the collar of his shirt as he turned away from her. His eyes sweeping right over me without interest or acknowledgment, he strode smoothly toward the portable riser that would be pulled onto the middle of the stage later tonight when the Dirt Dogs performed. He withdrew a pair of sticks from his back pocket and skirted around the drum kit that sported the band’s name and the iconic bulldog surfboard logo before he lowered his significant frame onto the stool behind it.
Don’t just stand there like a dork, Fanny. My heart rate quickened. Introduce yourself. Get a picture with him at least. My sister would never let me hear the end of it if I passed over a golden opportunity to meet my idol.
“Uh-um.” I cleared my throat and shuffled closer. He lifted his gaze, his fingers stilling on the cymbal fastener he had been tightening. Piercing blue eyes met mine. Pinned in place, I was unable to move. I suddenly couldn’t breathe. The solid floorboards seemed to go fluid beneath me. I was drowning in pools of aquamarine. They weren’t the lighter shade of Lincoln Savage’s, his adopted cousin and the lead singer of the Dirt Dogs. They were a deeper, more complex hue that spoke of the ocean. Not the distant view I could see out the windows of my bedroom, but the ocean in those professional surfing photos where it all seemed alive; the overspray a smoky exhalation, the currents’ eddies swirling thought and the waves’ cosmic forces of turbulent emotion.
I swayed, buffeted by the force of his gaze knowing that my little fantasies had been one dimensional nothings. There were layers of complexity in the 3D Ashland Keys. His eyes alone could tie me up for hours. “I’m…uh…” I found it difficult to harness my thoughts. The words stuck to my tongue as he focused intensely on me. No longer dismissive, he slipped his gaze over my body in a slow approving way that stripped me of more than just my halter top and cutoff shorts. “I’m Fanny,” I managed though I sounded like I had just sprinted up three flights of stairs. “Fanny Bay.” I left off the Lesowski. I wasn’t proud of that association.
“‘Tomorrow Today’.” His intensity receding, his sculpted and-oh-so-kissable lips curved up on one side. He knew me. Well, he knew my song. Of course he did. We were nominated in the same category though my little acoustic tune wasn’t near the equal of his chart-topping hit. “You’re on before us.” He laid his sticks on the top of his snare and stood. I lost his eyes for a moment, my gaze drifting away from them and the defined strength of his handsome face, to take in his massive shoulders, his tapered waist, his narrow hips and the untucked hem of his shirt.
“Yes, that’s my song.” My breath hitched as he and all his alluring male perfection approached. “And yes, I’m on before you.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Fanny.” He stopped in front of me and my heart nearly did, too, hearing my name flow from his lips. He had such an amazing voice. Soft. Low. Seductive. “‘Tomorrow Today’ is a fantastic song and your guitar picking on it is perfection.”
“Thank you.” Heat rose to my cheeks as I lifted my gaze and found myself ensnared by the fathomless blue depths of his eyes again.
“I saw your acceptance speech at the Golden Globes.” His voice rumbled compellingly lower. “I’m sorry about your mother. I know it’s incredibly hard losing someone you love so unexpectedly.”
I swallowed and nodded. Most people didn’t know what to say and shied away from offering sympathy. Obviously he wasn’t one of those. In fact, he was so confident, his commanding presence such an arrestive force, I got the impression he didn’t shy away from much. “I’m sorry about Dominic.” He and his band had recently lost one of their founding members. Dominic Campo, the original bassist, departed the band to join the military and had died tragically while overseas. The Dirt Dogs’ song and my own were both Oscar nominated tributes to loss. Mine had been featured on a character driven film with a redemptive theme and theirs on a blockbuster WWII action film with a much more somber tone.
“So am I. So the hell am I.” His eyes swam in sudden emotion that mirrored my own. “Well, I better get back to it.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder, his shirt sleeve bunching up at his elbow to reveal more of his muscular forearm and tanned skin.
“Oh. Yes.” Duh. I was holding him up. “Could I get a picture with you first? Just a quick one. Otherwise my sister won’t believe me if I tell her I met you.”
“Sure.” The heaviness leaving his eyes, the right corner of his mouth tilted his amusement again. “How about a selfie?” He didn’t pause for me to answer, which was a good thing because when his lips tilted my mind whirled. “C’mon.” He reached for me. “Come and stand right here beside me.” My breath left my lungs in a whoosh when I felt him curl his long, slender, talented fingers around my bared shoulder. Skin to skin, an ember of heat at the point of contact ignited a deeper fire inside of me as he drew me into his rock-hard side. Being held by the living breathing man I had idolized from afar for so many years was surreal. “Don’t be shy, little rose…” His amusement brightened his voice. I didn’t have to glance up at him to know that his half-smile had blown up into a full grin. I realized I was too obvious in my adoration. He knew I was flustered, and he was enjoying teasing me.
“Alright.” Ignoring my skyrocketing pulse and the electrical shivers racing over my skin from his touch, I slid my cell from the pocket of my shorts and took a quick shot knowing he was going to look cover model great in it while I was just going to look like a wide eyed lunatic.
“I love you.” The heat already on my cheeks became searing flames. What the hell, Fanny? Could you humiliate yourself any worse? “I mean I love your music. It got me through a lot of rough times.” I blew out a breath, ducked my chin to my chest and tried again. “What I’m trying to say, but utterly failing at, is that I’m a big fan of the band.”
“Hey, no worries. I get it. You should have seen how tongue tied I got when I met Dave Grohl the first time.” He repositioned so he was directly in front of me again. My eyes still downcast, I noticed that even his suede Chukka boots were sexy. “Look at me, Fanny.” Not a request, a command spoken in a deepened tone I found impossible to resist. I lifted my gaze. “No reason to be nervous. I’m just a guy who plays drums. And it’s cool that you like our music. It’s flattering in fact.” I discovered that his expression matched the sincerity of his words though his eyes continued to sparkle his amusement. “It’s a total rush to be appreciated by an artist of your caliber.”
“I’m not an artist.” One of his platinum brows lifted in surprise. “Not like you anyway. Not that I aspire to be. I love music, don’t get me wrong. When I create for myself my music gives me a space to belong. It’s just not what I want to do for a living. Being in front of an audience. On stage by myself. Touring alone with a bunch of strangers. It takes the joy out of it all. You know?” Both of his brows were raised, and his ocean blue eyes didn’t just sparkle now they shimmered like the water at midday. Probably because I was blathering. But I couldn’t help myself, being this close to him. He was so incredibly good looking he made my thoughts mushy. And he smelled divine beneath his top note of too many shots of tequila. Like the ocean where it meets the shore. Like a summer breeze. Like freshly peeled citrus. No, like a gentle wind moving over a grove of oranges beside the sea on the most perfect summer day you could ever imagine.
“Actually, I know exactly what you mean. I’ve been doing a lot of reevaluating lately.” He cocked his head to the side and studied me again with that unwavering intensity. And now I saw something behind those eyes, something significant, a tangle of some sort that needed unraveling. “I’m at a crossroads myself.” The air seemed to crackle or at least it had for me since the moment our gazes had connected. “But I’m curious. Fanny. You’re very good at what you do or you wouldn’t be here. So what would you do if you didn’t sing?” Eyes on mine, his expression hesitant, he slowly reached for and gently brushed aside a ruby curl that had escaped the elegant twist the stylist had fashioned to complement my designer gown.
“I’d make perfume.” My words spilled out in a rush as he tucked my curl behind my ear and his roughened fingertips skimmed my smooth skin. A shiver rolled through me.
“What?” His gaze had dropped to my mouth. He seemed to have forgotten his question.
“I like combining fragrances with essential oils.” His gaze lifted, his shock at my answer clearing the brief confusion that had momentarily darkened it. It was an unusual pursuit. I was accustomed to looks like his whenever I mentioned my hobby, so I explained. “There are many holistic benefits in oils and scents. So it’s more than just a cosmetic thing to me. I’m only an amateur, but if I had some formal training, like an apprenticeship, and took a couple of business courses I might be able to make a vocation out of it.”
“I can see it’s your passion. You’re lit up like a firecracker just talking about it. You should do it, little rose. We both know life’s too unpredictable to continue doing something that doesn’t make us happy.” He was right of course, and his certainty made me want to find the courage to stand up to my stepfather.
“Fanny!” The fine hairs on my nape stood on end. Thinking of him, unfortunately, had conjured him up. I sighed. I could feel the dark cloud of his disapproval rolling toward me. I backed away from Ashland. I didn’t want the inevitable shit storm that accompanied Samuel Lesowski raining reproach on the drummer, too. I turned and braced, as the director most people knew by name and loved—he had an accomplished PR department—came closer, his long jerky strides devouring the space between us, his harsh brows sharply drawn together.
Shit, I thought. What the hell had I done to piss him off this time?
“Your preshow interview with Entertainment Weekly was scheduled to start twenty minutes ago.” He stopped in front of me, not a single strand of his perfectly styled jet-black hair out of place. Only his hairdresser, my sister and I knew he had started to color it to cover the grey that had crept in at the temples. “The cameras are already set up and everyone’s waiting for you in your dressing room.” He gave Ashland a disdainful glance that would have withered a lesser man before he returned his displeasure to me. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten?”
Yes, I had, that part at least. “I’m sorry,” I apologized readily. I knew from experience that he didn’t tolerate excuses.
“Sorry doesn’t begin to cut it, Fanny.” He snorted. “It’s not as if you don’t have a history of being irresponsible and a penchant for finding trouble.” He gave the man he no doubt considered to be my most recent example of both a condescending glare down the length of his nose.
“Father,” I acknowledged the relationship though it grated, considering our dislike for one another. “I get that I’m late. I’ll apologize to everyone when I get there in just a minute.”
“Not in a minute, Fanny. Now.”
“I just want…”
“What you want is immaterial. You’re young and impetuous, though you’re old enough to know to steer clear of someone with a reputation like this one.”
“You’re one to talk,” I fired back, and his eyes widened in surprise.
“Now just a minute…”
“Exactly. Give me the moment I’m asking for—or I won’t do that thing with Coppola.” He had been trying to arrange a meeting for me with the one Hollywood producer that was a bigger deal than he was for months. When my stepfather wanted something from me, he would most times give me something in return. There was no love between us, but I knew he understood the value of negotiation.
“As you wish.” He nodded. “But hear me well. Don’t squander the success you’ve achieved, Fanny, my dear.” He came closer. His breath blew hot on my face as he grabbed my arm. “We both know your track record of flitting from one interest to another. Your current popularity won’t last if you don’t nurture it.” His fingers dug a deep trench into the sensitive flesh of my upper arm.
“I’ll talk to him.” I winced. My voice was as tight as his grip. “But I’m not signing anything tonight.” Not ever if I could help it. I wanted out of the business. I didn’t want to be more firmly entrenched in it. I lifted my chin. I had pretty much stopped defying him since my mother’s death. Grief had stolen a lot of the fight from me. I was always so tired. I found it took less energy to give in.
“Let me remind you, daughter of the roof you have over your head. Of the food you eat. Your clothing. Your transportation. It’s all because of me and my influence. Even the Oscar nomination wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t included your song in the acclaimed film that I directed. If it weren’t for me, you and your mother would still be combing through trashcans in that godforsaken little fishing town on Vancouver Island.”
“Now you wait just a minute,” Ashland said. “You’re out of line.” He was still standing to the side of us. I had forgotten him as impossible as that seemed to believe. “And you need to let go of her.” My stepfather turned his head. The two men took each other’s measure.
“Keys, isn’t it?” My stepfather’s expression darkened. “Samuel Lesowski. I’ll thank you to stay out of my business. It’s no concern of yours.” He paused like he usually did after dropping his name waiting for the listener’s inevitable acknowledgement.
Only he didn’t get it this time.
“I couldn’t disagree more.” Ashland’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve got zero tolerance for bullies. Let her go.” His voice dropped to a menacingly level. “Now. You’re hurting her.”
“She’s my daughter. You have no right to interfere in a family matter. And I don’t think you quite understand with whom you’re dealing. If you value your paltry career at all or that of your inconsequential bandmates, you’ll turn around right now, go back to whatever you were doing and stay the hell out of my way.”
The drummer’s sharp jaw honed to an unyielding edge. He wasn’t going to back down. Samuel seemed to have struck a nerve with him in some kind of personal way. I felt my body grow cold. It was going to be up to me to make him go away. My stepfather didn’t make idle threats. He had risen to the heights he had not only because of his talent, but also because people in the business had learned not to cross him.
“I’m ok.” My eyes were overly bright, my tone tinny. “I don’t need protecting.”
“Bullshit,” Ashland spat, and he was right. I did need a protector. But it was up to me to champion my own cause after all. It was just a matter of give and take when it came to appeasing my stepfather. And I had been doing far too much giving lately.
“Samuel, let go of my arm so I can have the minute I asked for. I’m sure you don’t want a scene. Tonight of all nights. And we both know there isn’t a lot of time, not if you expect me to complete an interview, attend a meeting and perform my song.”
“Alright. Have your one moment, Fanny.” My stepfather’s eyes flared. They were green like the paper he worshipped. “But don’t linger.” He released my arm abruptly. I shifted to face Ashland, my cheeks flaming. I was more embarrassed having him witness this interchange with my stepfather than I had been by my own ineptitude earlier. I didn’t like to appear weak, though it shouldn’t really have mattered what Ashland thought. What should have mattered was how I had allowed things to deteriorate to such an appallingly state with my stepfather. I needed that to change. And I needed to escape this encounter with Ashland Keys with as much dignity as I could muster. I imagined the rock star would gladly get away from me and my problems the moment I gave him leave.
~ ~ ~
Ashland
“Well, your old man’s an asshole.” I gritted out the words, my hands curling into fists. I hadn’t been this upset in years. Granted I had spent most of that time in a fog—totally and completely blitzed out of my mind—instead of only mildly buzzed like I was now. But there was more to it. Some had to do with the crossroads I was at, and the rest was the way this girl somehow personified it. I didn’t know why but she felt like the key to unlocking something important, something just out of reach, maybe something that would always be out of reach. Here I was, a member of one of the biggest, baddest bands in rock ‘n’ roll. I had achieved everything in my career I had set out to achieve, yet none of it really mattered. “You shouldn’t put up with his shit.” I hoped a word or two of advice might help her avoid some of the pitfalls I hadn’t.
“I don’t. You’re right.” Fanny nodded solemnly. Features contemplative, she reminded me of a nymph some artist had sketched in bold autumnal colors. Willowy, almost too thin, she had a recognizable inner strength. I’d seen her draw it out like a sword and wield it against her stepfather. I certainly wouldn’t bet against her. “I want you to know I’m done letting him push me around. Done with a lot of things,” she muttered and licked her lips. My gaze dipped to them. They were full, the bottom one more so than the top, a rich ruby color that reminded me of an expensive cabernet. Moistened, like they were right now, they glistened distractingly. Hell, everything about the fiery redhead was a distraction. One I couldn’t afford right now. I should have left well enough alone and retreated to my dressing room after taking the selfie with her.
It was late. It was time to go put on my tux. Hob nob with the elites. Play my role. I had been to enough Oscars to know what was expected of me. But I didn’t feel like mixing and mingling. I didn’t want to get high with my bandmates. I certainly didn’t want to fuck any more random groupies. I had been there, done that and look where it had gotten me. At the dead end of a road no one wanted to travel.
All the Dogs were a testament to misery each in our own way. Our lead singer Lincoln Savage had lost the approval of the one woman he had really wanted and now settled for crowd adoration and groupie hookups as inferior substitutes. Our guitarist Ramon Martinez thought he didn’t know how to love, but the reality was he had given his heart away a long time ago to someone who wasn’t free to return it. Our new bassist Diesel Le had been tooled around so badly by his ex-wife that he now projected his hatred onto all women. And then there was me. In love myself yet unable to man up and confess those feelings. We were really a bunch of sad fucks just lucky that enough people like this sweet girl identified with the rebellious theme in our music.
Regrets and morose thoughts spun like a carousel in my brain a lot lately. The guys in the band had noticed and were starting to speculate about the cause. That’s why I had come out here alone. I wasn’t ready to talk about it. I would. Probably. There was no one I was closer to than Linc and Ramon. Hell, even Diesel. He had been inside the refining fire with all of us after Patches’ funeral. But not yet. After the test results came in, maybe. I might have to level with them then. But instead of finding some time to myself with my drums tonight, I had found her. And here I remained, my feet glued to the floor enjoying myself in way I never expected even with all the bullshit hanging over me. At least until her stepfather had appeared. So much like Linc’s old man. If he hadn’t let go of her, I would have broken his fucking arm.
“I wish I had more time to talk to you. More time to explain. There just isn’t any.” She threaded her fingers together as if trying to cup sand in her hands. “Time’s precious, but beyond the ability of any of us to control. Right?”
I nodded, stunned by her insight.
“But I didn’t want to go without telling you how much it means to me that you didn’t back down from my stepfather. Most would have. Actually I can’t really remember anyone ever standing up to him. And that you did it for me… Well, it means a lot is all. Thank you, Ashland.” She unclasped her fingers and touched my arm. Surprised, so caught off guard by her, I glanced down at her delicate hand resting so softly on my skin and then returned my gaze to her face. She was pretty for sure, but in a more remarkable way than all the conformist clones running around backstage tonight. She had big grey eyes, a cute nose, phenomenal lips and that striking red hair. But it was those eyes of hers that were the complete show stopper. Otherworldly, they reflected her quicksilver emotions. Nervousness. Resolve. Fear. Desire. I had seen all flash within their depths.
“Ash,” I corrected. “My friends call me Ash.” My voice sounded gruff from the weight of the things I wanted to explore further with her. Things that I wouldn’t, couldn’t pursue. Bad timing to meet someone who so intrigued me if the test turned out the way I feared. And even if it didn’t, she was too young, too innocent. Not at all right for someone like me.
“Ash,” she repeated, my name sliding so easily between those recently wetted ruby red lips of hers. I imagined them wrapped around my shaft and knew I wouldn’t have turned her down if she had offered to do to me the things the groupie had. My cock was certainly interested in her. It didn’t care about timing or right and wrong. It was all about action.
“I’m sorry you got drawn into my mess,” she continued. “I think that under different circumstances we might have been friends. It’s difficult to find many of those in our profession. Genuine ones, I mean. But I think it’s better if we just go ahead and say goodbye right now.”
“How so?” The lust thundering through me made it difficult to focus, but I did get that she was giving me the brush off. And even though wisdom dictated that I take the hint—it was the logical thing to do after all given our differences—the alpha male in me said, ‘Fuck logic.’
“Because my stepfather wasn’t kidding around. He means what he says. You don’t want to be on his bad side. I don’t want you to be on his bad side. And that’s where you would end up if he thought you were a friend of mine.”
“Someone who steps in front of him when he’s twisting your arm and hurting you, you mean?”
Her eyes wide, she nodded.
“Well, fuck that bullshit.” My gaze grazed the red welt on her arm. “He’s the one who should be worried about getting on my bad side.”
She smiled at my vehement response and smiling she was more than just cute. She was a wrecking ball to my resolve, Prettier in person than in any of the videos I had seen of her and so enticing in that little yellow halter top with the tempting bow dangling between her shoulder blades. I imagined untying it and taking those pins out of her hair. What would those glorious red curls feel like around my…. No… I reined those thoughts back and settled for tracing her subtle curves with my gaze instead. No sex. Not with her. Not with anyone. Not for a while. Potentially not ever. I wouldn’t put anyone at risk if there was even a chance they would get infected. Ironic to be sure. Divine justice for my own irresponsible behavior over the years.
The familiar icy dread returning, I had to remind myself that no diagnosis had actually been made. I had momentarily forgotten my apprehension in her presence. That song of hers was so fucking full of hope it had me expecting a miracle. And that hope sprang from within her. She was the source. No wonder her star had risen so fast. Just a handful of minutes with her was all it had taken for me to realize it.
“I…I wasn’t expecting to run into you tonight.” Her eyes twinkled like stars emerging in the sky as the sun relinquished its hold on the day. “I had hoped to, sure, you know, since I love…your music so much.” A few more spirally crimson curls shivered free of their pins as her hands fluttered in front of her chest. “It’s just now that I’ve actually met you for real.” She gave me that utterly beguiling look. “I’ll never be able to look at your picture the same way again.”
“No reason to settle for a photograph, Fanny. You have your things to do tonight, and I’ve got mine. But afterward, there are a lot of parties. I’m sure we can manage to bump into each other again. Maybe talk some more.” Unwise, Ashland. But yet doing the ‘whoever and whatever the fuck I wanted’ rock star entitlement thing was a hard habit to crush. I might not be able to take this where I wanted with her spread out on the sheets beneath me, but I wasn’t ready for whatever the hell this was to end yet, either. So shouldn’t I leave myself an opening? A contingency plan? I had been walking around like a zombie. But what if the diagnosis wasn’t what I feared? What if I received favorable news? What then? Who then? As I continued to stare into those starlit eyes of hers, I felt something shift and lock into place that was startlingly certain. Her. If I had a future on the other side of this, I wanted that future to include her.
“There is a reason.” She shook her head. “Samuel Lesowski. My stepfather. You two didn’t exactly hit it off.”
“You’re an adult. He doesn’t have to know everything you do, does he?”
“No.” Her face brightening, she shook her head excitedly and more curls escaped.
“What do you say then? How about this? You be just you and I’ll be just me. A girl from Beverly Hills and a guy from the beach. None of the other stuff. It’s not important. I’ve got a hurdle I have to clear next week, but afterward I can come back to LA. We could meet somewhere.”
“I don’t know.” She captured and wrapped one of her curls around her finger while blinking uncertainly at me through the thick fringe of her crimson lashes.
“There’s a coffeehouse,” I plowed over her reservations. “The Cosmic Cup in Manhattan Beach. It’s by the water. Quiet. Close enough to where you live, but a fair enough distance from the bullshit of LA. How about Wednesday at ten o’clock?”
“But…”
“But nothing. You wrote that song, ‘Tomorrow Today’, right? Make every moment count. I believe that. We can’t control time, but who says we can’t manipulate it. We bumped into each other tonight for a reason. Don’t you think we owe ourselves a chance to find out what that reason is?”