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My fingers catch on the uneven words—Rey and Kai.
“Hmm, sorry?” I ask, my head jerking up. He was speaking while I was lost in my past.
He watches me carefully, glancing from the guitar to me, and seems to hesitate. Smiling, I lift my knees and sit cross-legged, but instead of asking the questions in his eyes, he simply comments, “Your phone rang a million times.”
“Ignore it,” I tell him. “You want to ask me something, so ask.” I shrug, uncaring about the outside world but curious about what he’ll ask.
He hesitates a little more, looking over his shoulder before observing me and seeming to come to some sort of conclusion. “Where did you go for all those months?”
I want to offer something noncommittal, like exploring or traveling, but I know that would disappoint him. I don’t know why I care about what he thinks of me, but I realize I do. Something about him implores me to give him the truth, even just a sliver. He could report it back to my manager or sell it to the tabloids, but I have to give him something. “Someplace no one would ever find me,” I say, glancing back at the guitar before raising my eyes and meeting his cautious gaze once more. “I needed to find my peace again . . . to find myself again.” He blinks, and I laugh self-consciously, rubbing my tired eyes. “I suppose that doesn’t make much sense.”
“It makes perfect sense,” he says, and I look up to smile at him. He smiles back. “There is food upstairs. You should eat before you get back into it. I liked the last song by the way. It was . . . raw.” He turns, and that’s when I see the scar from a bullet on his shoulder and his words come back to me.
It makes perfect sense.
Maybe I’m not the only one who ran away. Maybe I’m not the only one struggling with my past.
Now, I’m even more curious than I was before about the four men who barged into my life.
Who are they really?
More importantly, can I trust them?
* * *
I spend a few more hours in the studio, pouring over my lyrics until my brain can’t take anymore, and then I shut down the equipment, but I can’t bring myself to go upstairs. Instead, I curl up on the sofa and trace the scratched leather. So many memories are coming back, happy ones of rehearsing and writing in here with Tucker.
He infected every inch of my life, and every room of my house has memories of him, both good and bad. There was the time when I came back and he was drunk in the studio. He ended up throwing a glass bottle near my head. There is still a dent in the soundproofing to remember it by. There was also the time we made love on this sofa after writing a best-selling love song for him.
Always for him.
Sighing, I close my eyes and stretch out my legs, trying to forget the memories. It was easier when I was just mad at him, and I am, but part of my soul still misses the connection we had. I thought we were forever, which was probably naïve of me, but when that was shattered, it was easier to be in a place without memories of him. I don’t want him back. I don’t even want what we had back. I’m still mad and hurt over it, but it doesn’t mean part of me can’t still grieve.
I’ve had enough grief in my life, though, so I know how to handle it. My eyes open and lock on the guitar, pain clutching at my throat until I choke on it.
Lyrics form in my head, lyrics more familiar than my own voice. They are bitter and filled with so much pain, I can’t speak them out loud. They float around my head, filled with childish love and hope which is now nothing but dust.
Run, little one, the lost boys are coming.
No. I cover my face, refusing to sing those out loud ever again. I can’t. It hurts too much, yet as if by conjured by the words, his face floats in front of mine, and before I do something stupid like spiral like I used to, numbing myself with drugs and alcohol and earning the nicknames they call me, I close the studio and head upstairs, trying to outrun my past like I have been since the day the coffin was lowered into the ground.
NINE
I’m trying to outrun my thoughts so fast, I skid to a stop in the kitchen at the sight of all four of my new security men sitting there, food spread between them as they eat. They all glance up. Astro smiles widely, Dal watches me with an odd expression, and Raffiel nods while Cillian shoves more bread into his mouth. “We cooked. Hope you don’t mind.”
I raise my eyebrows, hesitating. At least I don’t see any flowers around anymore.
“You told us to make ourselves at home,” Raffiel comments carefully. “If you would prefer us to eat elsewhere, we can also do that.”
I’ve been quiet too long. They sit straighter, and I pry my lips open, grateful for the distraction from my own darkness. “No, it’s fine. The kitchen should be used. Sorry, it’s just been a long night and a long time since . . . Actually, I’ve never had this.” I wave around to encompass them all.
They don’t comment on that, thank fuck, and my cheeks flame at my admission. I sound lame. I have friends, after all, but they aren’t the type to sit around and relax together with a meal. They are the party, where are the cameras type, where everything has a purpose or is a PR move. This is normal and homey, and I feel like I’m an intruder even in my own home. I start to slip back into the darkness when Dal’s voice comes, calling to me like a lifeline.
“Join us.”
If it had been from any of the others, I would think it was out of pity, but from him, it feels like a genuine invitation. He wouldn’t ask if he didn’t want me here. It’s clear he has shocked the others because they shoot him a look but nod, and Astro kicks out a chair.
“Sit down, beautiful. Dal is an incredible cook. You have to try this.”
