Seattle Sound Series, The Collection: Books One to Five Page 7

  I didn’t care about the money or the house. I never had, not like Jessica did. I wanted to make music and I wanted my son. No way Jessica was letting some asshole in pleated pants gain custody. When I’d made the mistake of telling her that, she set off higher than a firework on Fourth of July.

  I was still pissed she expected a percentage of future record sales. She was leaving me now, so I figured any judge had to consider what a well-regarded musician had to offer. I was more than happy to give her the paid-off house, a new car, and split time with the child we’d had the good sense to create. But Mason was my son, and he’d know I loved him.

  Even if she stopped the custody nonsense, I didn’t want to give Jessica sole custody of Mason because she would always have an excuse to keep me from my son. Especially if she found out I wanted to see Dahlia again. Jessica would assume I’d been having an affair, which would make these painful proceedings downright nasty.

  Didn’t matter that I’d worked hard not to look at other women for years because I’d determined at the age of eleven that I wasn’t going to be a cheating asshole like my dad.

  I’d read enough websites to realize judges liked continuity, and Jessica had been Mason’s main guardian for years. I wondered, not for the first time, if she’d pushed me to go back to recording and touring for this eventuality.

  I hoped like hell I was wrong because that made her even more calculating than I’d thought. And I knew she’d fucked around with the band, trying to break us apart or no longer trust each other. The guys and I, we’d worked through those issues years ago. We were in a good place now. I wanted it to stay that way.

  But if the media dug into Olivia’s death again . . . I couldn’t imagine what that story would do to my son. He grinned and I counted the freckles on his nose. Damn, I loved this boy. I’d throw in the whole of my retirement account and all our cash as long as I got equal time with Mason.

  “Mom’s home,” Mason said, looking over my shoulder.

  I turned. Jessica’s mouth was set in a thin line, her hands on her hips.

  “She’s mad,” Mason said. He scooted closer to me.

  “At me, I bet.” I ran my hand over Mason’s sweat-dampened head.

  He glanced up, his brows furrowed. “Why is she so mean to you?”

  Shit. Not a question I wanted to answer. “Because I’m sure I did something to make her angry.”

  “I don’t like it,” Mason muttered, sliding his small hand into mine.

  I rested my other hand on his shoulder and hugged him tighter to my side. I’d missed this. I needed more time with my kid.

  “Mason,” I said. “Why don’t you go get a drink?”

  He scampered into the house without responding. I wished I could follow, but instead I braced myself.

  Jessica crossed the yard in quick, jerky strides. Pissed didn’t cover the look on her face. Awesome. This ought to be fun.

  Jessica had a pretty smile, all dimples and straight white teeth. I’d loved to see her turn those brown eyes toward me in the beginning. I’d written songs about her and for her. I’d kissed her eyelids and rubbed her expanding belly. I’d held her as she wept.

  “Were you going to tell me about your new sound track project?”

  “I don’t have a new project,” I said. “I have an inquiry for a new project, and I really don’t see how that’s your business.”

  Jessica’s eyes narrowed. “I’m your wife.”

  “Correction, you were my wife. We’re legally separated, which means anything I do in the future has no bearing on you, especially now that I have the newest settlement agreement in writing as of this morning.”

  “All the years I spent waiting for real fame, and now that you’ve been asked to work with HBO—”

  “Which you’d only know by checking up on me. Who’d you sweet talk? Richard?”

  My agent and I would be having words. And if he didn’t listen, I was firing him. No way was I giving Jessica more access to my life. What was next? Hacking my e-mail?

  She tossed her short, brown waves back from her cheeks. She flicked her fingernail against my chin, scraping my stubble. “Your career was always supposed to open doors for me. I want that, Asher. It’s what I’ve always wanted. Fame. Money. That’s success, security. That’s what people respond to.”

  Sure, I could provide those, but Jessica didn’t want me. And that was the hell of it—I couldn’t rescue a marriage that had long been dead. More, I didn’t want to.

  “I thought you were marrying Dale.”

  She glared at me. Like I had done something wrong by bringing up her new lover. “No, I said he asked me. Now that you’re doing this big project I might just stick around, like you asked me to the other night.”

  She batted her eyelashes at me. Sickness swirled into my throat. I was such a fucking idiot. I’d made an offer I had no desire to keep.

  I wanted to spend time with Dahlia, and this project offered the perfect excuse. I didn’t, however, want to keep spiraling into negativity each time Jessica and I tried to have a conversation.

  I wished I’d met Dahlia a few months later.

  No, I didn’t. The night on the beach was the most honest one I’d ever had. I wanted more of those moments. So I did the most natural thing I could do with Jessica: I lied. “I told Richard the HBO project’s a no-go.”

  9

  Dahlia

  Our drive back to Rathdrum started off quiet, Abbi staring out the window. While I should have been considering methods to get beyond my writer’s block, I spent too much time thinking about Asher. I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact he wanted me. Still wanted me. The way he’d held me, the concern in his eyes—those moments were real, almost too perfect.

  “Don’t let this go to your head, but I’ve missed our place.”

  “Glad to hear that,” I said. “How’s school going?”

  “Good. Kinda boring.”

  “Nothing interesting at all?”

  “I like one of the baseball players.”

  “More than that boy you went on the trip with?”

  Abbi wrinkled her nose. “He was cute, but he isn’t the varsity’s best pitcher. Plus, I actually see Luke. You know, once we’re home.”

  “Luke who?”

  “Watson. His dad owns the big spread near us.”

  “Jim Watson’s a nice man . . .” I quickly glanced at Abbi, who was wearing a smug expression. “Oh, I know that look! Stop those wheels turning right now. Jim and Evelyn just split up in January. And he’s not my type.”

  “Because he isn’t Asher Smith?” Abbi giggled. “I overheard Aunt Ella talking about him. It’s hilarious that you have a crush on a rock star.”

  “Your dad was a musician. So’s your uncle.”

  “Different league, Mom.”

  True. Doug’s band had been successful, but not enough to make much of a living.

  “I’m setting up a dating profile when we get home,” I said. “But I’m not dating Jim or Asher or probably anyone else either of us has met before.”

  “Why?”

  Because I wanted Asher too much for us to actually work out. Because I was afraid he was projecting feelings onto me in an effort to get over his wife. “Because . . . ,” I replied, not being able to muster a real response. “Asher lives near Seattle.”

  Abbi cocked her eyebrow, calling me on my pathetic reasoning.

  I cleared my throat. “Back to school. The advance placement classes still aren’t challenging enough?”

  Abbi shrugged. Her finger followed a raindrop across the glass.

  “I know that look, too. Your dad got it when he was about to say something he was pretty sure I wouldn’t like.”

  She turned in her seat, pulling her foot under her other thigh. “I don’t have many high school credits left. I could finish those in the morning either during the summer or during the first part of next year. I could start some college coursework online, too. Mr. Jameson said I could probably tutor in math
and science. I could save the money.”

  “What about your senior year?”

  “Besides Sally, most of my friends are graduating this year. I want to apply to Marin Tech, and I think this could help my chances.”

  I clutched my empty coffee cup, wishing there was another sip of cold coffee. I needed something to help with my dry throat.

  “Say something. It’s a good idea, right?”

  “Unh,” I managed to croak out. “Give me a bit of time to process. Marin Tech?”

  This was the first I’d heard of her desire to go to California for college. California was so far away. No weekends home to do laundry and veg out in front of the TV for Breaking Bad marathons like I’d envisioned.

  I sucked in a breath, trying to stave off a panic attack. I needed Asher’s arms around me, murmuring words into my hair. How could I crave him so intensely?

  I was losing everything. My daughter, my career, maybe my sanity. Abbi wanted to leave me, just like her father had. Just like my mother had all those years ago. The thought struck, hard and vicious: I wasn’t lovable.

  “Your face got all pale.”

  “You want to leave?”

  “I want to go to Marin Tech. That doesn’t mean I won’t come back to visit, Mom.”

  “Of course.”

  Abbi huffed and shoved herself back into her seat while I struggled to breathe and drive us home.

  As soon as we cleared our bags from the car, Abbi went up to her room to call her friend Sally. They’d spend the next hour or two texting, talking, and otherwise social media-ing about Abbi’s latest crush.

  I spent some time lurking on Abbi’s social media accounts, finally deciding this Luke was a reasonable kid.

  I stared at the swirly screensaver for a few minutes before I forced myself to open the writing program I preferred. Panic bubbled up in my chest. I’d been sitting at my computer finishing the last scene of the third book in the Gardiner series when I got the call telling me Doug was en route to the ER.

  I hadn’t seen Doug that day because he’d left before I woke up. Just like when I lost my father and I hadn’t had the chance to give him a last hug, tell him good-bye. Would I have done so with Doug? I’d like to think I would have. He’d held an important place in my life, even with all of the problems we faced later in our marriage.

  I stood and walked into the kitchen. I pulled down a wineglass and opened a bottle of my favorite red. I watched the liquid spill into the glass, the bottle emptying with a gurgle of pleasure.

  I set the bottle down on the counter and lifted the glass. I filled my mouth as full as possible and leaned my head back to swallow. I could do this. I was a writer, dammit. I walked back to my computer, set my hands on the keys. I pulled them off, my breath hitching. I sipped more wine. Finally, closing my eyes, I ignored my fluttery stomach and started typing.

  The words were disjointed, not so much a story as feelings I’d been trying to grasp and understand. A paragraph of nothing.

  I stood and walked to the window, staring out at the mountains.

  Where was Doug? Could he hear me? My eyes remained dry, but my heart hitched a little. “I wanted to be perfect for you,” I said to the room. “You broke my faith. My trust. Me.”

  The night and my house were quiet. I walked back to my desk and picked up my wine. I drained the glass before I sat back down.

  I placed my hands on the keyboard once again.

  Nothing.

  I slammed my laptop closed and went to bed.

  I couldn’t sleep. Asher, the way his face looked in the moonlight, taunted me. I should have been honest. I should’ve told him I was scared. That of course I cared about him.

  Ella said I was half in love with Asher. I bit into the pillow to keep the hysterical giggle from exploding forth. Another musician. A more successful musician. And I’d sworn off that breed years long before Doug died. I didn’t want that type of relationship, always waiting for him at home.

  But I did want Asher. He’d said he wanted me, too. Wanted me in his bed. The ache built in my belly, but more importantly, hope grew in my chest.

  I looked up at the clock, shocked to realize I’d been lying there for more than four hours. I stood, stretched, and forced myself to get up.

  I peeked in Abbi’s room. She was curled up in her bed, asleep.

  I wandered back into my office and stared at my laptop for a few minutes, emotions roiling through me. I snagged my notebook and trotted down the stairs. I’d watch the sunrise, use it as a writing exercise.

  I was forcing myself through another line of description of the changing colors, when Abbi strolled into the living room.

  “Did you go to bed last night?” Abbi yawned. She shuffled into the kitchen, and I forced my pen to continue across the page. Fading into burnt umber. Yeah, that was going to win awards.

  I tossed down my pen and walked into the kitchen. Abbi raised her eyebrow as she bit into one of the whole grain waffles she’d toasted.

  “Yeah. Just couldn’t sleep.” I waved the notebook in my hand. “I was trying to sort through my thoughts so I could send Bev and the HBO people a decent outline. Bad news is, it’s got to be two more books. I don’t know if they’ll go for that.”

  I’d stared at the notes for at least an hour before the sunrise, willing something, anything to spark inside me. I flipped back to the scene sketches I’d written years before. They didn’t feel right anymore. I wasn’t sure I could write one, let alone two, more novels.

  Abbi leaned over my shoulder, reading my notebook. She inhaled sharply.

  “Please tell me either Dad or Asher Smith said that to you.”

  “It’s fiction, Abs. Poetic license.”

  “I want a man who’s that romantic.”

  “Romance is what you make of it. You’re not old enough for a man. Stick to Luke boy-almost-guy for now.”

  “You’re tied up in knots, Mom. I don’t know if that’s a good thing.” She considered me as I set my notebook on the bar. “Hmm, it’s almost seven. I need to hop in the shower and get my bag together.”

  I walked to the big windows and stared out, cup of coffee cuddled in my hands, staring out at the view without really seeing it.

  “My ride’s here, Mom. See you after practice.”

  “You don’t want me to take you?” I asked, blinking. It was almost eight. Wow. I took a sip of my coffee; it’d gone cold. I headed into the kitchen to reheat my full cup.

  “No. I called Luke and told him you were working on your HBO miniseries,” Abbi said as she shouldered her messenger back. “Thanks for that, by the way. Now I get to show up at school with him.”

  She pecked my cheek. I noticed she was wearing the new ripped jeans we’d bought in Seattle. Her dark auburn hair was braided down the side of her head and hanging over her shoulder. My you-don’t-need-much-make-up lecture had taken hold. Abbi had on some mascara, which highlighted her vibrant blue eyes. Lip gloss coated her smiling mouth. She looked pretty and fresh. I’d forgotten what that felt like.

  “You should check your Facebook account. See ya. And wish me luck. I’ve wanted to kiss Luke forever. Today’s the day!”

  “As long as it’s just kissing,” I said.

  Abbi laughed as she walked out the front door. “I set you up a dating profile,” she called back.

  I frowned, watching as Abbi greeted Luke, who was both cute and muscular. I’d told her I would start dating, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to date anyone. Well, I did. But Asher was off limits.

  “You still sitting there?” Abbi said.

  I yelped, falling back in my chair.

  Abbi moved back away from me, laughing. “Dude, you’re jumpy.”

  I turned to her. “School’s out?”

  “It’s after five, Mom.”

  “Really?” I gasped.

  Abbi laughed again. “I’ll make dinner. You looked totally engrossed. Have you been sitting there all day?”

  “I guess so.” I was thirsty and
trailed behind Abbi to the kitchen. I grabbed a glass, filled it with water, and downed it quickly. I refilled the glass and drank again.

  “Slow down there, lady. No reason to get crazy. Did you check your Facebook account?”

  “Was I supposed to?” I asked as I filled my glass again.

  “I told you this morning.” Abbi cocked her head, pointing toward my office. “Still nothing, huh?”

  I shook my head, feeling even worse now that Abbi knew I’d failed to write anything new. Again.

  “It’ll happen. What did you tell me? Writing’s about creating my own fantasies. Why don’t you just start there?”

  “Because I don’t have any.”

  Abbi raised a skeptical brow, and I had to agree with her knowing look. I did have fantasies. About Asher. Which I’d locked down tight because I wasn’t sure I could handle how much I’d yearn for him if I let my imagination and hope run free.

  “Fine. Don’t write, and lose your deal.”

  “I don’t need more pressure, Abigail.”

  “Now to the good news, Luke asked me out!”

  “Really? Well, that is news.”

  “Not as big as your new Facebook friend. Would you check it all ready? I’ve been dying to know your reaction all day!”

  I pulled up the page, expecting it to be Garcia Jones, maybe Paul Loomis. It wasn’t. My new friend was Tristan A. Smith. His private page, not his public Asher Smith page that linked back to the Supernaturals.

  My stomach dipped. “Did you do this?” I asked, my voice hoarse.

  “No. How could I? He must’ve looked you up.”

  He’d sent me a private message, too.

  “Did you read this?” I asked Abbi.

  “No!”

  Relief flooded my system. My relationship with Asher—Tristan . . . no, he’d always be Asher to me—was confidential. I needed to keep it that way.

  “What does it say?” Abbi asked.

  “I’ll read it later,” I said, closing my laptop.