Sweet Oblivion Page 17

  I scowled at Steve, who stood, both sentry and prison guard, in the corner of my room. “I want to talk to Hugh without you here.”

  Steve’s face remained impassive as he took his sweet time strolling from the room. As soon as I could figure out how to get rid of him, I would. Asher would know how to get me new security.

  Or maybe I’d keep Steve around and torment him. He deserved it since he’d left me to fend off Brad Porter’s verbal abuse for years. Yeah, that’s what I’d do. I’d make his life just as miserable as he’d made mine.

  I sighed when he was finally out of sight. But I didn’t relax. Not with Hugh’s comment circling around in my mind.

  “Gone? What does that mean?”

  Aya and I were supposed to live together this summer. We had the apartment chosen. The lawyers were working to get that awful video taken down. The label had issued a press release explaining that I’d been drugged and there was an ongoing police investigation. Aya had to see all that and realize…

  Fuck.

  I wanted her to realize I loved her—the words I hadn’t given her because I couldn’t. But those were the only words she’d needed to hear.

  I flicked at my IV line, restless, miserable. I hated this bed. I hated that I’d been drugged and still felt like shit. I wasn’t sure when I’d be able to process what had gone down these past few days. My entire life had imploded. I didn’t even know who I was—who my father was.

  I looked over, and Hugh was still stalling. “What do you mean, gone?” I rasped out again.

  “The housekeeper said her dad came and took her away.” His eyes filled with regret, and more than a little guilt. He’d brought Lindsay into our circle. “She’s gone.”

  Please join my mailing list to learn more about my newest releases.

  This is not the end of Nash and Aya’s story. Keep reading in CRAVING OBLIVION.

  * * *

  The boy I fell for was my superstar. Now, he's a rock legend.

  Their love was like a song, full of body and the right notes…

  * * *

  Aya Aldringham ran away from Nash’s betrayal, and her continued feelings, and she’s still running all these years later. She’s shut down, erecting fences too tall to scale.

  An unexpected marriage proposal leaves Aya second-guessing her life choices—including what she wants and who she desires.

  Nash never recovered from that night, and he has a big chip on his shoulder thanks to Aya’s ghosting.

  Drugs and alcohol fill the hole Aya left … but playing to sold-out crowds no longer holds much appeal. Fame ripped them apart, but maybe an old enemy can give them a second chance because…

  While crowds might clamor for just one touch, one look…

  He only wants hers.

  Get your copy of CRAVING OBLIVION now!

  Need more? Then turn the page!

  Also, I’ve written an exclusive bonus chapter for those of you who have read SWEET OBLIVION. If you’d like to get a copy Nash and Aya’s first holidays together, then please click here.

  31

  Sneak Peek of CRAVING OBLIVION

  Nash

  * * *

  I headed back into the house my band had rented for the weekend in San Francisco, the latest stop on our tour. Restless energy sizzled over me, as it always did, leaving me unsettled. I hated crowds and hated parties as they reminded me of Lindsay, the drugs, losing Aya.

  Dammit. I had to let that go. I had to because Aya had ghosted.

  I still couldn’t believe she’d left me.

  Our album had taken longer to write and record than I’d originally planned, in large part because I was such a fucking mess when I’d arrived in Seattle last summer.

  But Asher Smith had remained patient, and in time the album took shape—with a more melancholy tone for the final three songs, the last ones I’d written. We’d kicked off our tour in Seattle two months ago—just after our album’s launch in February. It was an early birthday present to me. Since then, we’d worked our way through the Pacific Northwest before circling back to end our tour here. Already we were in discussions to add more dates. Asher wanted another album. Fans clamored for our songs, our merch, us. Everyone said we were the hottest new band, and we had platinum sales to back that up.

  I should’ve been happy. Ecstatic. I’d achieved more than Brad ever had. I had complete creative control over my next EP, and we could add a month or a year or whatever we wanted to our tour—we sat right at the top of the music world.

  This was where I’d wanted to be.

  I just never thought it would feel so fucking hollow.

  The first song I’d written for myself—the one I wrote for Aya after dropping her off in Boston while touring with Cam—remained our most popular hit, and I sang it every night. And every time, I hated what it represented. There’d been so much hope in that song, but Aya had ditched me, unwilling to hear the truth—both in the song and in my actions.

  I mean, the lawyers had finally managed to get that video of Lindsay and me down, along with the many others that popped up, but they weren’t able to get all the shares removed, and Holyoke students had commented on my breakup with Aya for weeks afterward.

  The whole time I was in Seattle last summer, trying to get my shit together and record an album, I kept expecting Aya to return to Austin—at least to start at UT. But she didn’t. And her housekeeper finally told me she’d left her cell phone at her mom’s house. She deleted all her social media accounts and seemed to slide off the Earth.

  Like Hugh had said: Aya was gone.

  “Nash,” Jax, my rhythm guitarist, called as I made it to the French doors.

  “What?” I asked as I looked over my shoulder, pleased to see Steve wasn’t following me.

  Finally, in the last few weeks he seemed to have gotten the message that I wasn’t going to talk to him or forgive him. I wouldn’t even have kept him around, but that was part of the deal I’d made with Asher—that Steve would keep an eye on me.

  Steve could do that, but it didn’t mean I’d listen to a word he said. In fact, since losing Aya, fighting with Steve had given me a purpose—a person to hate. And I did hate him. I blamed him for letting Brad treat me so terribly, and I blamed him for sleeping with my mother. I blamed him for letting Aya walk away, too, even though that made no sense. She’d left because she wanted to.

  Except…she’d left because she was hurt and humiliated. I’d just never expected Aya to believe Lindsay—fucking Lindsay—over me.

  But Chuck had told me again and again that the photos had been damning. The social media responses from people we’d gone to school with, who’d known Aya, were merciless—many of them saying she never should have been with me in the first place, either because she was smart, or worse, because of her heritage. Both pissed me off because both were so damn wrong. Problem was, I’d never been able to get in touch with Aya to tell her that.

  Her lack of trust slashed through me again, as it always did. But it also fueled my anger. She, of all people, should have known how I felt about her. So what if I couldn’t use the precise words she wanted? I should have, but she knew me. She’d known me for years.

  That’s why I’d stopped trying to reach out. I finally figured maybe I didn’t know her. I’d certainly been wrong about lots of other things in my life.

  “Take a look at the email Hugh sent you,” Jax called. “Then come back outside. I have a surprise for you.”

  I grunted. But I did look at the email. I nearly cracked my phone case as rage settled over me. Hugh had sent me a photo. Aya. With a guy. She stared straight ahead, but he had his hands on her. He was leaning down, whispering in her ear.

  Her eyes called to me. But they were different. A shiver ran up my spine as I realized they were cold. Empty. Just like they’d been the last time I saw her, when I’d watched them drain of love and hope.

  “You see it?” Jax called again after a moment. “Hugh said for me to tell you, and I quote, ‘She�
��s moved on, man.’” He appeared in the doorway, wearing swim trunks and no shirt. He was happy to show off his tanned, toned chest and abs. The girls here loved him. “I have to agree with your buddy,” he continued. “You need to, too. It’s been months of you dragging your ass. You never partied with us in Seattle, and you hardly ever go out with us now. We head back to Austin tomorrow, and—”

  I clenched my jaw and groaned. “I’m not going back.” No way in fuck I was going to live in the house where Lev had died, where I’d lost Aya, where I’d found out what giant liars my parents were.

  “Do you love me, Nash?” I gripped my hand into a fist, gnashing my teeth. Aya had fucking dropped me like a chipped guitar pick.

  “What?” I asked, turning to the sink to get a glass of water.

  Jax frowned, aware I’d zoned out.

  I did that often these days—fell into my own world. It had gotten me through the first month or so of the tour. But that numbness had begun to wear thin. I needed something else. No way I was ready to deal with all the emotions bubbling up.

  Jax took a little step back before he held up his hands in supplication. “I just said I get that Austin’s hard for you. Still, you should let loose.” He smiled. “That surprise?” He turned and looked over his shoulder toward the pool. “Nadia,” he called.

  A lithe, buxom redhead sidled around Jax, into the kitchen, and toward me. She wore the micro-est of bikinis, barely covering her nipples, and the thong so tiny, it left nothing to the imagination.

  “Nadia wanted to get to know you.” Jax smirked. “Why don’t you go in the living room or upstairs where she can kiss your hurts all better?”

  I set my glass of water on the counter and studied the beautiful woman in front of me. There were always beautiful women around. For the most part, they left me alone. Jax said I gave off an unapproachable vibe. I didn’t care what it was as long as no one touched me.

  Nadia strode forward with well-oiled hips that told me she’d walked a few runways in her life.

  “How old are you?” I asked.

  She fluttered her lashes as she reached forward to trace my pec through my shirt. “Old enough to know how to make you feel good,” she purred.

  “Not interested.” I was never interested—I’d seen sex used as a weapon. Plus, the only woman I wanted was Aya.

  “Let me change your mind.” She tossed her hair, and I counted five freckles on her shoulder, bunched together in a cluster.

  Those freckles caused me to waver toward want. And the wavering pissed me off. But Aya had moved on—I’d seen the picture with my own eyes.

  Maybe I’d gone about this the wrong way. Maybe this was the only way for me to move on, too. My mother had a new boyfriend every couple of months and said she was happier now than she’d ever been.

  This wasn’t about using sex as a weapon; it was about pleasure, about letting go. Having fun. I was a rock star. I was supposed to let loose. To party. Jax was always telling me. Hugh, too.

  They were happy. Gratified. Relaxed. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt good.

  Yes, I could. The last time I was with Aya.

  She’d moved on. So should I.

  I slipped my arm around Nadia’s waist, but every fiber of my being revolted, remembering the perfection of my time with Aya.

  I stiffened as my gaze roved around the room and took in the number of semi or completely nude women. The place reeked of sex.

  My stomach turned at the smell—a smell I associated with Brad. I booked it down the hall to the bathroom, where I wretched and wretched.

  This attempt to move on had left me…dark. Stained. Broken.

  Nadia slipped in behind me.

  “Oh. I didn’t realize you weren’t well.” She nibbled her lip. She lifted a miniscule bag at her side. “Want something to take the pain away?”

  That sounded like Lindsay. I edged back, fearful of what was in there. Fear and guilt rioted inside me, and I wanted to crash my fists against my temples—anything to make the feelings stop. I needed all the feelings to disappear.

  I grabbed the pill she offered and slammed it back.

  32

  One Year Later

  Aya

  * * *

  “Aren’t you going to say anything?” Yamir asked, running his fingers through his wavy brown hair.

  It was chocolate brown—I steered clear of men with sun-kissed hair, just as I refused to date anyone with whiskey-brown eyes.

  Or who were taller than six one or could sing. Or that I actually cared about.

  “There’s nothing to say,” I replied.

  I stared past him, waiting for him to run out of emotional steam and leave. I remained a few feet away on the large terrace, looking out over the sprawling traditional British garden. I wished I could transport myself to the gazebo at the far end. I needed to be alone.

  I touched my wrist, after all this time, still not used to my missing malas.

  I’d had nearly two years to acclimate to my life without Mum, without Nash, but nothing had seemed to level out.

  “You think there’s nothing to say about the fact that I want you to be more emotionally available?” Yamir snapped.

  Yamir Ali, the scion of United Arab Emirates oil barons, paced and cursed, clearly not used to breaking up.

  I’d dated him to appease my father and because I wanted a connection with someone. That hadn’t happened, not once. I touched my wrist again, missing the bracelet’s comforting weight, missing my mother. Missing Nash, in spite of myself.

  I shut down the thought before I could conjure up his face. He was traveling Europe with his band, Oblivion. The name shocked me even as it felt like an insult. Nash wanted to obliterate the life he’d had? The person I’d known? Fine.

  He’d moved on without me. Why couldn’t I do the same? I frowned.

  “Finally, an emotion,” Yamir said, throwing his hands in the air.

  I blinked up at him, nonplussed by his dramatics. “I have emotions. And right now, I’m annoyed.” I sighed. “Look, it’s been fun, but it’s over.”

  Yamir reached forward and gripped my bare shoulders. The gown I wore tonight was held in place by a swath of material that wound close to my neck and clasped to the high panel on my chest, leaving my shoulders and upper back bare. The rose color complemented my skin and the exorbitant price tag hadn’t caused me to flinch, so at the urging of Harriet, my father’s wife, I’d bought her and my younger sisters’ gowns, too.

  “You can’t mean that, Aya,” Yamir protested. “I’m good for you. We have fun in bed.” He smiled, flashing his white even teeth, made even more stark against his tanned skin.

  I kept my face devoid of emotion, not wanting to offend him. His kisses were…fine. But I’d never experienced anything like being held in Nash’s arms. I stepped away, hugging my waist, needing to break this abominable habit of comparing every man I met to Nash Porter.

  At least I hadn’t had sex with him.

  “This is over, Yamir,” I said, my tone as cool as my interest in him. “Accept it like a gentleman.”

  He stared at me for a long moment, his jaw ticking, before he sneered. “You are a cold, tiny-hearted bitch.” He stomped away.

  I sighed, touching my elegant updo. Breaking up with men was tiresome. Life, in general, was an annoyance.

  That could be, in part, because I was still in London, attending yet another party of the social season at my father’s request. “You’re about to start your junior year at university, Aya. It’s time for you to plan out the next stage of your life,” he’d told me. “Princess Diana was about your age when she married Charles.”

  The princess might have been older, but I felt ancient. I pulled my phone from my clutch, taking a moment for myself. The alert I saw there stilled my breath. My mouth formed the word no, but I couldn’t manage to exhale.

  Model and actress Carolina Syad killed in fiery crash near Milan

  Oh, Nash. His mother was dead. I pressed the ba
ck of my hand to my mouth, then bolted inside and wove my way through the partygoers.

  Harriet waylaid me with a soft hand to my arm. “What’s wrong, dear? Yamir seemed upset.”

  I blinked. Yamir? Right. “We broke up.”

  Harriet sighed in that soft but disdainful way that told me she wasn’t happy. “And whose fault was that?”

  “Mine,” I said, tone flat. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I want to go home.”

  She narrowed her eyes for a moment before a calculating gleam appeared. “I understand.”

  No, she didn’t. She didn’t care, either.

  I needed my space. I longed to be back in Austin, in one of the apartments near UT’s downtown campus, going to school and making friends with people there who I’d cherish for the rest of my life. I’d never felt grounded, settled the way I had during my time in Austin—despite how it fell apart at the end. I still wondered if I could get it back.

  But I’d given up Austin, and London was my home. Here I’d been so half-hearted about friendships, so leery about getting close to someone, that I didn’t have those connections I craved.

  I trailed behind my stepmother. Maybe if I got my own flat near my university, I’d come to love London. There were so many things to do in the city, surely I could find my place. I needed to get out from under my father and Harriet’s heavy thumbs. I closed my eyes, wishing for the warm acceptance that had cloaked me in Austin. I’d planned to be there forever. My home base.

  Losing the roots I’d put down hurt. Though not as much as losing my mother or Nash.

  I sighed.

  Poor Nash.

  His mother’s death would devastate him. I needed to be there.

  “I don’t want you, you stupid bitch.”

  Even after all this time, those words rang through my head, shortening my breaths. Maybe I shouldn’t go.