He grits his teeth together, the muscles in his cheek pulsing. Without warning, Hawke jerks the SUV into an empty parking lot and slams it into park. He tilts his head in my direction but doesn’t meet my eyes. “You obviously already read about what happened. Now you know why I’m fucked up. I watched my entire family die in front of me, Abby. You can’t erase that shit. You can’t make it better or undo it. Talking about it won’t bring them back.” I can’t tell if Hawke is getting angrier or more miserable as he speaks.
“You can—”
“Fuck, Abby! Stop it! It’s my fault they died, okay? I was stupid and needed a ride and they fucking died because of it! That’s the end of it! I killed my parents and sister and it’s done!”
All of the blood in my face drains to my feet.
Holy shit. I was not expecting that.
Hawke
Abby and I have come to a peaceful, if awkward, truce. She doesn’t bring up my past or any of my issues and I hold back all of my raw desire to have her, hiding the way I desperately want her in my arms and in my bed. Somehow, despite our challenges, we’ve managed to become friends, good friends. It’s almost reminiscent of the time we spent together in our early twenties, before we dated and I fucked everything up.
Today, it’s quite possible that we’re embarking on the worst idea ever. Of course it was my stupid idea, and I’m about to repeat history by fucking everything up again.
The buzzer by the front door echoes through my condo, letting me know the driver is here. I take one last look in the full-length mirror in my bedroom. I don’t bother with stylists. I know my style and what the fans want. I’m wearing a typical “Hawke Evans” outfit—skinny black jeans, tight faded vintage T-shirt with an open, black suit jacket over it, the sleeves cuffed to show the colorful tattoos on my forearms. My dark hair is longer on top, but swept back off my face. By the end of the night, half of it will likely be hanging in front of my face. Last but not least, my dad’s black-framed glasses are perched on my face.
“Friends. You can do this, Hawke.”
I stare at my reflection, into the brown and blue eyes looking back at me. Girls love the man they see, the playful, pierced and tattooed bad boy. The guy who looks harmless enough, nonthreatening, wearing Converse sneakers and nerdy glasses. The lip, brow, and tongue jewelry, plus the tattoos, are enough to give the girls not brave enough to go for the real asshole types a bit of a thrill.
If they only knew how not harmless I really am. The guy I see in the mirror is a first-class prick, selfish and loaded down with enough fucked-up baggage to sink the Titanic.
The buzzer sounds again, startling me. I frown at my reflection and head downstairs.
“Joel.” I nod at the familiar driver sent over by my record label.
“Mr. Evans,” he says, opening the back door of the sleek black sedan.
“You have the address?” I ask as he pulls the car away from the curb.
“All set, Mr. Evans.”
Satisfied Joel will get me to our next destination, I put up the tinted glass divider, sealing the back of the car in silence. I drum my restless fingers on my knee the entire drive, which should take twenty minutes but naturally, with hideous LA traffic, it takes forty. By the time the car slows to a stop in front of Abby’s small beach cottage, sweat is trickling down the back of my shirt, the fabric sticking to my skin between my shoulder blades, and I’m a nervous wreck.
Joel doesn’t get a chance to open the car door. I shove it open to leap out on the pavement, in a hurry to get to Abby’s front door before I change my mind and take off. This entire night has the potential to blow up in my face big time. I don’t know what prompted me to ask Abby to be my date for the awards ceremony I have to go to tonight. To justify it, I like to tell myself it’s because all the other guys are bringing significant others and I’m tired of being the pathetic single guy. But the real reason is much more complicated. Selfish as always, I want Abby with me, on my arm, calming me down, showing her off for the cameras… even if we’re just friends.
Abby answers the door before I reach the small set of porch stairs. Her smile is tentative, not quite reaching her eyes. She’s as nervous as me.
“Hi.” Abby blushes and averts her gaze. Long, dark lashes flutter against smooth, rosy skin.
Wow. My date is stunning. I know Kate hooked her up with a stylist so she wouldn’t have to worry about what to wear. I owe her big time for creating the vision in front of me. “You look incredible,” I blurt out, causing Abby’s cheeks to flush an even darker shade of red.
“Thanks,” she says so softly I have to lean in close to hear her.
Big mistake.
Abby’s familiar scent envelops me. The light floral fragrance with traces of the beach has my blood pounding in my veins like molten lava, the majority of it heading straight for my dick.
I try to shake the thoughts out of my head. It’s not exactly appropriate to have a massive hard-on when picking up Abby for her date as my friend. I want to touch her so badly I could scream. Despite my attempts to divert my brain, images of ripping the tight blue gown off her perfect body and sinking deep inside her tight hot pussy dominate my thoughts. Instead of grabbing her, touching, smelling, tasting… I dig my fingernails into my palm and bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood.
When I finally calm down, I decide to take a moment to explain the fallout that Abby can expect after tonight. “Can I come in for a minute?”
She nods and steps back, closing the door behind me. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah.” My voice catches, so I clear my throat. “I just wanted to give you a chance to change your mind about tonight.” Abby’s sweet face crumples and her blue eyes shine wetly.
Fuck!
“I don’t mean I don’t want you to go, Bee. I do…shit.” I drag a hand through my hair and it flops down in front of one eye. So much for taking the time to style it.
“Why wouldn’t I want to go with you?” she asks, shrinking back, her confidence broken.
I cross the foyer and pull her into my arms, burying my nose in her golden waves. My traitorous body reacts, electricity humming along every inch of my skin, and my half-hard cock stiffens again.
“Because the press was so awful that time they caught us at the Black Barn.” I lean back enough to see into her eyes, but keep her wrapped in my embrace. Our mouths are mere inches apart. My gaze is drawn to those full lips, shining with some sort of slick gloss. I shudder involuntarily.
“The press? What do you mean about the press?”
“Abby, that day in the parking lot was nothing compared to what’s going to happen tonight. We were lucky they didn’t figure out who you were after that. This time, they will. I just want you to be prepared for the fallout. You’re going to be painted as my girlfriend. Nothing we say or do to deny it is going to stop them from printing it, even if it’s not true.”
Her tight expression relaxes and the corner of that sinful mouth quirks up in a sexy smirk. “I can handle it, Hawke. Don’t worry about me.”
My arms feel cold and empty when Abby steps away to grab an impossibly small purse from the foyer table. “Are we ready?”
I glance up and down her body, memorizing every bit of fabric and how it clings to her perfect curves. “Let’s go.”
Holding out my elbow, Abby hooks her arm through mine and I help her into the car. As we pull away from the sanctuary of her little cottage, I pray I’m not making a huge mistake.
* * *
The line of cars leading up to the red carpet is long. Really fucking long. It gives me too much time to freak the fuck out and second-guess everything. I shouldn’t have brought Abby. She deserves better than to be paraded in front of the paparazzi simply because I’m too selfish to let her go.
“Hey,” Abby’s sweet voice instantly calms me. “It’s going to be fine.” She puts her hand on my knee and suddenly my entire body is on fire.
“Fine, huh?” I give her a shaky smile.
It’s impossible to act normal when I’m burning from the inside out from one simple touch. “We’ll see.”
My negative grousing is interrupted by the door whooshing open, followed by the deafening roar of the huge crowd. Abby cringes back in her seat before straightening her spine and putting on her game face, clearly pretending to not be intimidated by the chaos.
I grind my teeth and exhale. “Okay.” I manage to put on my stage face. “Let’s do this, gorgeous.”
Abby grins as I slide out of the car, turning around to help her exit. Right now, I’ve never been more thankful that the rest of the band decided not to arrive as a big group. As lead singer, mayhem follows Adam wherever he goes. I might have lost my shit if Abby got pulled into the screaming, crying “Adam Reynolds” fan frenzy.
Regardless, the paparazzi still go nuts snapping pictures as I take Abby’s hand and lead her down the daunting length of bright red carpet.
“Hawke! Hawke!”
“Is this your girlfriend?”
The same questions from outside the Black Barn are repeatedly tossed our way, only this time, there are hundreds of fans lining the way, adding their own shouts to the mix.
“I love you, Hawke!”
“Oh my God!”
“He’s so hot!”
Abby’s fingers tighten around mine. I lean over to speak directly in her ear. “You doing okay?”
She grins, nodding, but I can see fear reflected in her wide eyes.
“You’re doing great and you look stunning.” I resist the urge to wrap her in my arms and shield her from the never-ending onslaught of questions.
Up ahead, I catch sight of a young female pop star clad only in a few strategically placed scraps of material and my mouth falls open. Fuck. I know this is the VMAs and artists like to push the boundaries of appropriate attire, but if Abby wore something like that? Hell, I’d kill everyone here just for looking. That nagging, familiar word pops into my head when I think of Abby. Mine.
“Jesus,” I mutter under my breath. Abby stiffens next to me and I glance over just in time to see displeasure on her face.
Is she jealous that I looked at the half-naked pop star? No. I have to stop projecting what I want to see when it isn’t there. We’re friends. Just friends.
Finally, what seems like hours later, the interviews are done, the never-ending photo ops are done, and the small-talk, ass-kissing, Hollywood bullshit is done.
The ceremony hasn’t even started and I’m fucking exhausted. Abby sits next to me in the theater, a calming influence on my fried nerves. I’m too anxious. Her presence isn’t enough and my thoughts begin to darken. I drum my fingers on my knee, bouncing my leg in time with the rhythm in my head.
The lighter in my pocket starts to feel like a fifty-pound weight at my side. Its siren song calls to me, urging me to flee to the bathroom, roll up a sleeve, and let the blackness drain out. Abby chooses that moment to casually lay her hand over mine, stilling the nonstop movements of my fingers. She tilts her head and gives me a reassuring smile and just like that… my demons are forgotten, replaced by a blossoming warmth radiating out from my chest.
How long will this feeling last? When I remember how spectacularly I failed at holding back my destructive behavior when we were actually together, the warmth recedes.
I wrecked us back then and I have no doubt I’ll wreck us again. It’s merely a matter of when.
86
Abby
“Dr. Kessler.”
“Good morning, Laura.” I try to sound chipper, but after tottering around on heels all evening and well into the early morning, my feet hurt and I’m exhausted. All I want to do is crawl under my covers for another seven or eight hours or so and not deal with real life for a while.
“You didn’t tell me!”
Two steps into my office, the slightly hysterical tone of Laura’s voice has me whipping around to face my assistant.
“Tell you what?” If the freaked-out look on Laura’s face means anything, I brace myself for the worst.
“This!” she practically squeals. Laura bounces over to me and shoves a newspaper in my face.
“Laura! I can’t see what you’re holding if you hit me in the nose with it.” I take the paper from her, lowering it enough to read the article my oh-so-thoughtful assistant carefully folded back to emphasize. At the top is a large color photograph.
Of me.
As many warnings as Hawke gave me about the press, it’s still a shock to see a quarter-page photograph of yourself in USA Today’s Life section. I stumble back until my knees hit the comfortable chair I use when in session with a patient. Without looking, I drop into it.
“Are you dating Hawke Evans from Sphere of Irony?” Laura asks.
“I-I… we’re not…” Laura is staring, anxiously waiting for some sort of explanation. “Ugh.” I stand up and circle around my desk, tossing the newspaper on top. “Hawke and I have been friends for a long time,” I explain. When Laura’s eyes nearly bug out of her head, I hold up a hand to stop her impending shriek. “Actually, that’s not true. We were friends when I was in college, before the band was famous.”
I glance down to take another look at the large color photo of Hawke and me on the red carpet last night at the VMAs. He’s gorgeous, as usual, and if I had to admit it, I don’t look half-bad either.
There’s more there, though. Something I failed to notice last night amidst all the chaos. Because of my crippling heels, Hawke and I are pretty much standing eye to eye. In this particular photo, neither of us is looking at any of the cameras exploding around us. No, we’re staring at each other, and the expression on my face is one of pure adoration.
I frown. I could have sworn I masked my true feelings better than that. Clearly not. But it’s not me that my eyes are drawn to. It’s the expression on Hawke’s face that has my pulse racing and my heart fluttering with hope. His face mirrors mine—his smile, the light in his eyes, the way his body leans toward me, even the way his hand curls around my waist—is it possible Hawke feels the same?
“Abby?”
Laura’s voice jerks me out of my thoughts. I tear my attention away from the photograph to lock eyes with my friend and assistant. “Sorry. I’m just… this is all a little overwhelming.” I point at the article.
“Ummmm, yeah, but it’s sooooo cool.” Laura’s wide grin drops and she scrunches her brow, confused by my less than enthusiastic response to seeing myself in a national newspaper with a celebrity of Hawke’s status.
I give her a weak smile. “Yeah, cool. Thanks for showing me, Laura. Let me know when my first appointment comes in.”
She gives me one last odd look before leaving the office and closing the door.
Alone, I open the paper and read the article. I exhale gratefully when I realize it’s just a generic rehash of last night’s VMAs. Only the caption below the picture mentions my name. But there it is in black and white. Actually, that’s not right. It’s in full freaking color.
Hawke Evans, drummer for the multiple nominee and past VMA winners, Sphere of Irony, walks the red carpet with girlfriend, Abigail Kessler.
That’s it. One sentence. I sag back in my chair in relief.
Okay. This isn’t so bad. I can do this. No worries.
Eight hours later, I try to go home and it all goes to hell.
Hawke
The hired car pulls in front of the departures entrance at LAX and idles at the curb. Dawn is still a little while off, the sky a deep violet to the west, shades of pink and orange streaking from the east.
I flick my gaze to the clock on my phone. Six a.m. Jesus. How did I go from the guy who stays up all night and fucks random chicks at after-parties to the guy who drops his date off just after midnight and goes home without getting laid?
Since you fell in love with Abby, asshole.
I bolt upright in my seat. Love? No way. I’m not still in love with her. I care about Abby and yeah, I want to get in her pants all the time, but that’s not l
ove. She’s hot, so it’s only natural to have those urges. Besides, I can’t be in love with her. It doesn’t matter what I feel, Abby deserves better than a fucking disaster like me.
Disgusted with myself, I jump out of the backseat without saying a word to the driver. After a brief, aggravating fangirl moment with the ticketing agent, I’m standing in line at security, hoodie pulled low over my brow, staring directly at my feet so I won’t be recognized. The TSA agent who checks my ticket does a quick double-take but doesn’t say anything. Here at LAX, these guys see so many celebrities on a daily basis, they’re pretty much immune to dealing with anything out of the ordinary. The ticketing agent must be new to be impressed by me.
Forty-five minutes later, I’m sitting in my first-class seat to Denver, drumming my fingers on my knee nonstop. I keep my face tilted toward the window and tug my hood lower. Movement in the aisle next to me has me tensing up all over.
“Hi. I guess I’m your neighbor for the next two hours.” A perky female voice has me groaning internally.
Just what I need. A Chatty Kathy bugging me to be friends when all I want to do is freak out as silently and unobtrusively as possible until I can get to my house in Boulder.
The seat next to me shifts with the weight of someone sitting down. “I’m Jessica.”
Jesus Christ. I stop tapping my fingers to dig my thumbs into my eye sockets. Fuck. As much as I want to be an asshole and ignore her, it’s better to just say hi and let her gush and squeal so I can get back to letting my dark thoughts eat away at my insides.
“Hey.” I give her a slight chin tilt with every intention of letting the conversation end there. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a pair of long, toned, olive-skinned legs. Since I’m a guy with a pulse, I can’t help but shift in my seat to get a better look, and what a good fucking idea that turns out to be. Jessica is stunning. Not only that, I recognize her.