Текст книги "Dirty Lies"

Автор книги: Emma Hart

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

“Acknowledgment,” I correct her, pulling her closer to me. “This is your answer.”

I kiss her long and hard and deep until I’m sure I really am high on her.

Jessie

Little things.

I’ve noticed that it’s always, always the little things that change everything. Like lying under the stars with the sounds of a fair in the background while you talk tattoos. Like being forced into a cuddle on the grass. Like the sweet request for a kiss, even if I know he said it to annoy me. It worked, but I couldn’t help the flutter in my belly.

God, I couldn’t.

I wish I could. I wish it never fluttered. But it did. So much.

I think I’m going crazy—I do. I don’t know where we go from here or what I’m supposed to do with how real this relationship is starting to feel. I don’t know what I was expecting when I agreed to this, but it wasn’t this. It wasn’t late-night chats and hugs and arguments that turn into hot kisses or even hotter sex.

I guess I expected pretense. I expected what was promised to me. And this? This wasn’t.

Because I can still feel his fingers brushing my hair away from my face. I can still taste the cotton candy from his lips on mine. I can still hear his question.

Can I kiss you?

Four words. So small. So simple. So trivial. So unlike him there was nothing I could do but simply stare at him for a long moment while my heart went loopy.

Because, God. There’s nothing else in this world like a guy asking if he can kiss you. And when the question comes from the mouth of a hot, tattoo-covered guy who’s more accustomed to taking than asking, it’s even better.

It doesn’t matter that I walked right into it. What matters is that the question made it the best goddamn kiss of my life.

I sigh and pull the plug in the bathtub. Finishing work before my parents get home and my sister gets out of school definitely has its perks—like long, hot bubble baths to mull over my problem, which shouldn’t even be a problem.

I wrap myself in a fluffy towel and grab my phone from the side of the sink. There are two missed calls from Chelsey, so I call her back while I walk to my bedroom.

“About time,” she answers. “I thought you were off on another lovey-dovey date with your new boyfriend.”

“I just finished work,” I reply. Just because she’s the progeny of a rock star and hates them doesn’t mean I do. Or that I want to listen to her latest rant about them. “You called?”

“What are you doing tomorrow?”

“I have to go to some concert with Aidan.” I pull underwear from my drawer and drop onto my bed.

“You have to, huh?”

“Chels,” I warn. “Don’t be a bitch.”

“Can’t help it. It’s in my blood,” she replies. “When will you be done playing girlfriend?”

“I don’t know. It’s at seven or something.”

“Well, if you can escape early, I’m going out with Sofie and Ella tomorrow night. If you can tear yourself away, you should come.”

“Well, if Sofie and Ella are getting away from it early, I probably can, too.”

“Ugh. Are any of my friends single?”

“Yes. You just pissed them all off.”

She sighs into the phone. “Probably. So are any of my friends not dating a rock star, despite my warnings?”

“I don’t know. Ask them, Chels. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Sure. Just to let you know though, Dax came into the bar looking for you at lunchtime. I told him you took a rocket to Mars.”

“Thanks. You’re the best.”

“I know. But I think he knew I was lying.”

“Really? What gave it away?”

She laughs. “If he shows up again, don’t worry. I have a cheese grater with his balls’ names on it.”

“Noted,” I reply, fighting my own laugh. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“You better.” She hangs up, and I drop my phone on the bed next to me so I can get dressed.

There’s nothing funny about the fact that the hardest part of my fake relationship is my best friend—who, by the way, is less concerned about the fact that the relationship is fake than the fact that the guy I’m seeing is a rock star. Yeah, Chelsey sure knows how to look after me.

I tug my dress over my head and squeeze a towel around my wet hair. As I take to the mirror with my brush, I notice my roots poking through, noticeably dark against the red, so I make a mental note to call the salon for my next appointment.

Instead of grabbing my hair dryer, I text Sofie to see if she’s at home and braid my hair to one side. I pull it over my shoulder and take the dryer to my bangs right before my phone vibrates with her response, confirming she is at home. I reply, telling her I’ll be over in a few minutes, and grab all my things from the side table.

I scribble a note to Mom in the hallway, tearing off the Post-it and sticking it to the mirror. I’m pretty sure that stopped being a requirement when I turned twenty-one, but it’s a habit, and I know she’ll text me to see where I am and if I want dinner. I turn back and scrawl No dinner! on the bottom before locking the door behind me.

And you have got to be fucking kidding me.

I see it before I even get to the gate.

Egg covers my car. And not just one or two—several yolks are smashed against the windows, hood, trunk, roof. Everywhere. The yolks are meshed into it in bursts of bright yellow, and the whites are dripping down and around and just about everywhere. As if it couldn’t get any worse, flour is layered on top of that. It looks plastered on it, and I have no idea what the hell has happened in the last hour.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes, hoping this is a nasty dream.

I open my eyes.

Nope.

Not a dream.

Motherfuckers.

I throw my wallet and keys on the ground next to me and send a picture of my car to Aidan. Anger burns inside me—who the hell do his little fangirls think they are? Words on social media are one thing. Egging my fucking car? No. That’s where the line is crossed. That’s where the social media becomes null and void, because they know where I live, and their threats are no longer words, but true actions.

That’s where it becomes seriously fucking real.

Someone, somewhere, has a very real obsession with my very fake boyfriend, and they’re doing whatever they can to warn me off.

I’m torn between running away and giving them a giant “fuck you.” Every breath I take is sharp, because hello panic, hello freak out, hello what the fucking hell? Even my mental “fuck you” can’t dispel the anxiety building inside me. Even my stupid inner defiance can’t beat away this panic or this realistic fear that’s slowly drowning me. Minute after minute it rolls over me, and I can’t see anything other than my car.

Or my street.

Or my car.

Or my street.

Where is he?

Why did my car, of all things, get targeted?

Where is he?

Were they too afraid to target me as a person?

Where the fucking hell is Aidan?

An engine roars from down the street, and Aidan’s truck zooms up to my car, and he jumps out two seconds later.

“Is this what I think it is?”

“No one else but your stupid fans hate me enough to try and turn my car into a cake!”

He walks to the gate and, without opening it, cups my face with his hands. “Breathe, baby.”

“Are you kiddin’ me? Look at my damn car! Breathe? How am I supposed to breathe? I haven’t breathed for ten minutes! And if that is a fucking photographer down the street, I’m going to shove his camera up his ass!”

He presses his lips against mine firmly. I freeze at the touch, but it’s brief enough that it’s barely even fleeting. “Breathe, Jessie. You’re mad, right? I get that. I’m pretty damn pissed, too. But yellin’ ain’t gonna make it better.”

“No, but it helps me.”

“I know. But this isn’t the place, because that is a photographer,” he continues in a low voice. “So just grab your things, get in my truck, and we’ll go like this isn’t bothering you, okay? Then I’ll get your car picked up, cleaned, and delivered back.”

“So I’m just supposed to pretend it isn’t happening? Is that what you’re saying?”

His eyes turn stormy. “No. They crossed the line. I’m just sayin’ let me handle it.”

“Like you’ve handled everything before?”

“I’m not afraid to throw you over my shoulder and shove you in my truck, you know.”

“Don’t you dare!” I seethe.

“Then do as I say for once.”

“The reason I’m in this mess is because I did what you said.” I bend down and grab my things, shoving them at him, because I have no pockets. “Or did you forget that part, huh?”

He puts my wallet and keys in his pocket, then simply holds his hand out for my phone. I slap it into his palm and unlock the gate. I swear I’m always furious at him for something. Doesn’t matter what. Something he does just always has to piss me off, doesn’t it?

I jump up into his truck, almost losing a flip-flop in the process, and slam the door behind me. He rolls his eyes as he gets in the driver’s side and hands me my things.

“You don’t have to be mad at me this time, you know,” he says, glancing at me as he starts the engine.

“Oh, I do. Because if it weren’t for you and your stupid idea, this wouldn’t be happening. I wouldn’t wake up to more threats and abusive messages than anyone should deal with in their life and someone wouldn’t have tried to batter and deep-fry my car!” Tears sting my eyes and I turn away.

I refuse to look at him. I refuse to let him see me so affected by this.

“Jessie.”

I shake my head, turning my whole body away from him, and swipe under my eyes.

“Jessie!” He pulls over at the end of the street, by the park, and I unbuckle my seat belt.

Screw this.

I jump out of the truck and slam the door behind me. My things are still in his truck, but I don’t care. I just care about getting away from him, because he’s right. There’s a line and it’s been crossed. Well, to be honest, there have been several lines crossed, but this is the final one.

I simply can’t do this anymore.

The tears burn my eyes hotly, and I drop my head back in an effort to blink them back. No, no, no. I’m not going to cry this way over this. I’m made of stronger stuff. Better stuff. It’s pettiness, and no one should cry over pettiness. I don’t have a tattoo for pettiness.

“Jessie!” Aidan says my name for a third time, and the rawness of his voice makes me swallow back the lump in my throat.

I walk as a tear rolls down my cheek.

“Dammit, Jessie!” He grabs my arm and turns me around to face him. He must have run to catch up with me, but I don’t care how he got here, not really. I just don’t want him to see these tears, because then I’ll have to admit that I care.

I keep my face turned away from him determinedly. He touches my cheek, his thumb brushing across my skin.

“You can’t hide from me, baby,” he says quietly, his voice gentle and full of regret. Guilt seeps from every word. “I can feel your tears running past my thumb. Look at me.”

I shake my head.

“Please. Jessie, please.” His words are stressed and drawn out, nothing but raw emotion.

“I can’t, Ads,” I whisper. “It’s just so much. It’s constant, all the time. I can’t keep doing this and pretending I’m okay, because I’m the furthest thing from okay that I’ve ever been.”

He moves, bending down, and touches his forehead to mine. “Don’t,” he breathes. “Don’t give up on this now, baby. I need you to stay with me, with this, with us, for just a little longer.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“You can. Because, you—shit. You give me something. You give me the freedom to be someone other than Aidan Burke, Dirty B.’s drummer. You give me the freedom to be Aidan, the guy lost behind album sales and tours and a drum set. And, selfishly, I need that. I need something that reminds me of that, and, sunshine, it’s you. You remind me how to be me.” His inhale chills my lips. “So stay with me. Just for now.”

His words ricochet through my body. Like an electric current with no way to make it to Earth, his words spin around and around me until I feel every syllable with the rushing beat of my heart.

“Stop,” I whisper. “Stop saying things you don’t mean.”

“But I do,” he stresses, moving so that I have no choice but to look into his eyes. “I mean it. Every word. You stay, and I’ll do everything in my power to make them stop.”

“They never will.” I take his hand from my cheek, wrapping my fingers around his, and I drop it. “This is more real to them than us. What makes you think you can make them stop?”

“But I’ll try.” Defeated. He’s defeated. “Just let me try once.”

I take a deep breath and look away from him. I feel like I’m being torn in two different directions, but it’s more than an emotional tug. It feels almost physical, and I’m sick with the realization that I don’t hate Aidan.

I don’t even dislike him.

I like him. Maybe even a lot. Maybe too much to fight this.

And that . . . It’s the most terrifying thing I’ve ever thought or felt. That after all my protests that I wouldn’t be his bitch or take the shit from the fans, that I might just, and I’ll be okay with it. What did I expect, really? That I would stay hating him forever, even as I got to know him? Even as I got to know who he really is under the Dirty B. act? Under the overconfident-teenage-boy act he used to put up?

Did I really think I could do this and still hate him?

Yes.

Because I’m stupid. I wonder what flower means “foolish,” because I’ll have to get that one next.

Aidan pulls his phone from his pocket, and after a few taps on the screen that I see out of the corner of my eye, he holds it to his ear. His eyes are on me and I can feel them burning into me. The intensity has shivers rolling down my spine and across my skin, each one leaving a trail of goose bumps in its wake, each one leaving me colder and colder despite the heat of his gaze.

“Tate,” he says. “Call Marc. Tell him to get a statement written that we can put out about the fans’ behavior toward the girls. . . . No, Jessie’s car was egged and flour-bombed this afternoon. . . . Yeah . . . All right.” He drops the phone into his pocket and wraps his arms around my shoulders, pulling me into him.

I rest my cheek on his shoulder, and swallow back the lingering lump at the bottom of my throat. “You didn’t need to do that,” I lie, snaking my arms around his waist. “I’m just tired and overreacted. It’s nothing.”

“No, it ain’t nothing,” he replies, his voice soft. “It was nothing while it was nothing to you, but it stopped being nothing when it started affecting you. And you know what, baby? It started being something to me when you became something to me.”

“Rule breaker,” I whisper, knowing the hypocrisy of my words.

“Always. Remember that time I broke my leg in high school? It was because, at sixteen, I still broke the ‘look both ways’ rule when crossing a road.”

I shake my head. “You’re a total idiot.”

“I know. I’m embracing it.” He smiles against the side of my head, then kisses it. “Let’s go. Tate’s calling Marc.”

“You know it won’t matter, don’t you?” I ask as he grabs my hand and leads me back over to the truck. “You know they’ll still send stuff?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “But at least I can say we tried, right?”

“Right. And, Ads? Thank you. For trying.”

“Hey, no worries.” He cups my chin, eyes finding mine. “I told you, when something is something to someone that’s something to me, then I’m going to kick that something’s ass until it becomes a nothing again.”

“Say something again. Go on. I dare you.” I narrow my eyes, and my lips tug up at the corners.

He grins widely, stepping back. He grabs the edge of the door, and just before he pushes it closed, he whispers, “Something.” His smile widens even more, until he’s humming with teasing and playfulness, fingers drumming quickly on the truck’s frame, and instead of shoving him when he gets in the truck, I just turn my face away so he doesn’t see me laughing.

Damn him.

I tuck my feet beneath me, and resting my elbow on the arm of the chair, I cup my chin with my hand. Mila is sitting cross-legged on the garage floor with one of Kye’s old guitars, gently running her fingers across the strings. She giggles every time she plucks one hard enough that the sound vibrates through the air. Said guitar is also decorated with her new chalks.

“Tinkle, tinkle, ittle sarrrr,” she sings, randomly plucking the strings. Out of tune, naturally. “I wonner whachu arrrrr!”

“Come here,” Aidan says, holding his arms out to Mila.

“No.” She juts out her bottom lip, grabbing the guitar tightly.

“Let me help.” He sits down behind her, resting his legs either side of her tiny body, and readjusts the guitar so he can play it. He plays a few notes, and Mila’s face lights up. “See?”

“Tinkle tinkle!” she gasps, clapping her hands against her cheeks. “Oh, my pay tinkle tinkle!”

“Okay. Give me your hand.”

I smile as his large hand covers her positively tiny one. Aidan grabs her finger and plays the notes one by one, and Mila squeals when she finishes.

“Again!” she demands, holding out her pointer finger.

“You gonna sing, pretty girl?”

“Uh-huh!” She nods her head, her messy, dark curls flying everywhere. “Tinkle tinkle ittle sarrr . . .”

My smile grows as she sings along robotically yet enthusiastically to her “playing” the song. The excitement in her eyes is adorable, and it really does bring meaning to the phrase It’s the little things.

It is the little things, because seeing Aidan sitting behind her, coddling her as he makes her think she’s playing the guitar, is something else. His arms, strong and covered in ink, are a complete contrast to her barely brown arms stretching out from beneath a pig-covered T-shirt. And as for how tiny she looks in comparison to him . . . Well.

Let’s just say I’m not sure I’ll see anything this damn hot for the rest of my life, ever.

And my heart?

It might just stutter a little too much.

Aidan looks up and meets my eyes. I move my hand so my smile is somewhat hidden, but he notices it anyway, and the curve of his lips mirrors mine. The look in his eyes—it’s bright, amused, but there’s something else, too. Something knowing.

All I know is that he’s never looked at me this way, ever.

“Fee bind mice!” Mila turns, looking up at Aidan. “You pay fee bind mice?”

“ ’Fraid not, kiddo,” he says regretfully. “Just ‘Twinkle Twinkle.’ ”

“Oh.” She looks down. “My pay drums?”

Aidan looks up, tilts his head from side to side, then drops his head and stage whispers, “Okay, but don’t tell Mama. Deal?”

Mila bounds up, the guitar almost going flying. “Okay!”

I get the impression there’s a lot of “Don’t tell Mama” where the Burke boys are concerned.

As if she heard my thought, Mila looks at me. “Always don’t tell Mama,” she sighs, shoulders heaving and all, and her starting the Dirty B. Diva thing makes so much sense now.

“Well, the last time I let you play them, you pulled all the pots out of the cupboards at five a.m. the next morning and started banging on them with the remote control. Big no-no,” Aidan reminds her, sitting on the stool. He lifts her onto his lap.

“She did what?” I laugh.

“Oh yeah. It was my fault, apparently. Sofie called in a babysitting favor the day she was putting Mila’s big-girl bed together but didn’t tell me. How was I supposed to know? Mila likes drums.” He shrugs. “So if she wants to play the drums, she can. Just no pots tomorrow morning, okay?” he clarifies with her.

“No pots,” she mutters.

Satisfied, Aidan hands her a drumstick. Mila curls her tiny fingers around it and lifts it, then brings it down with a huge bang. Aidan winces, but he doesn’t say a thing as she leans forward and backward, whacking the hell out of his drums.

The crash of the cymbal is the last straw, and I shudder at the ridiculously loud noise. Jesus, that sounds so much better in an actual song.

“Okay, no cymbal, Mila,” Aidan says, directing her hand. “Just the drums.”

“Aw, you no fun.” She bangs them anyway.

Over.

And over.

And over.

Mind you, she does giggle the whole time. It is adorable, I’ll give her that.

“Aidan!” Sofie yells.

I hide my mouth behind my hand. “Uh-oh.”

“Oh crap! Run, Mila!” Aidan puts her down, taking the stick, and nudges her toward the door. “Quick, before she sees you!”

“Oh no, Mama!” Mila yells, arms in the air as she runs across the garage and darts past Sofie.

“Mila, save yourself!” Aidan laughs, ducking behind the drums.

Oh. My. God.

“Oh no, Mama!” echoes through the kitchen and into the garage. Twice. Three times. Four times.

My stomach hurts from holding in my laughter, and even Sofie looks like she’s about to lose it. Aidan is laughing unashamedly, and I hear Kye yell, “Did she catch you? To the beach! Let’s go!” followed by the opening and closing of a door and endless toddler giggles.

“If she pulls the pots out this time, I’m sending her to you and locking her in your room!”

Aidan is still laughing, his arm wrapped around his stomach as he leans forward.

“I’m not kiddin’!” Sofie replies, still fighting with herself, if her grin is anything to go by. “Y’all Burkes are gonna be the death of me, I swear.”

“Childproof . . . locks . . .” Aidan wheezes.

“She can open them!” she shrieks. “You taught her how!”

He shakes his head. “Kye,” he laughs. “Bastard lied to you and told you it was me.”

Sofie drops her head back. “I give up. Fuck all y’all,” she laughs. “Twins should be illegal.” Aidan laughs again, and she looks at me. “How do you deal with him?”

I shrug. “I don’t.”

She looks between us, and I glance up at Aidan. His laughter is so infectious, because I can feel it bubbling up inside me again, and I look down, covering my eyes. “Yeah,” Sofie drawls, amusement filling the word. “Makes sense.”

“What does?” Aidan asks.

“Everything,” she replies, just before the door closes.

I look back up and my gaze is immediately drawn to his. “Y’all are crazy.”

He holds his hands out, standing, his eyes still bright with laughter. “Welcome to the nuthouse.” He grabs the guitar off the floor. “Wanna learn how to play ‘Twinkle Twinkle’?”

Shaking my head, I laugh again. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed as much as I do when I’m with him. “Uh, no. I’m good.”

“The drums?” He holds his sticks out.

“Really? Can you see me playing the drums?”

“I can see you playing on the drums.” He raises his eyebrows, his lips smirking suggestively.

“Dirty.”

“Fun.”

“Uncomfortable.”

“For you, maybe.” He snorts, grabbing my hands and tugging me up.

“We are not having sex on your drum kit.”

“Not today, baby.” He grins. He leads me behind it and perches me on the edge of the stool, then he sits behind me. My butt is snug against his crotch, and the temptation to wiggle and tease him is just too much. I don’t give in, though, because I don’t doubt for a second that he would try the sex-on-the-drums thing without batting an eyelid.

And, well, I don’t want his family to hear that.

“Here.” His voice is still playful, but it’s quieter. He rests his chin on my shoulder, and every time he exhales, his breath flutters along my jaw and onto my neck. The feeling is strangely intimate, and so is the way he puts the drumsticks into my hands and curls his fingers over mine. We’re connected from our heads, right through our arms and torsos, even down to our feet.

We’ve been in so many positions since this started—naked ones, kind-of-naked ones, definitely-not-naked ones—but this is my favorite.

Of all the ways Aidan Burke has touched me, this is the best, because it doesn’t matter how hard I deny it, this is the one that feels the most right.

“Drum roll,” he whispers. “Easy.” He moves our hands so the sticks connect sharply with the drum, executing the most perfect drum roll I’ve ever heard. “Chorus from the song Conner wrote Sofie.” Our arms criss and cross as we play out the few beats, and his leg brushes against mine as he works the pedals in front of my feet. “The one Tate wrote Ella.” We change to something decidedly more upbeat than the one before, and his hands are so warm against mine. “The one Kye wrote his imaginary girlfriend.” He pauses, sticks hovering in midair, and I laugh quietly. “And I don’t write songs,” he finishes with a breathy chuckle. “But if I did, I guess it’d sound like this.”

I expect silence.

I don’t get it.

What I get is the most incredible mixture of beats, blending together seamlessly, gentle and slow, then hard and fast. I slide my hands out from under his, but I don’t think he even notices. His whole body moves as his arms do, and I lean back into him, watching him play this made-up song I’ve never heard.

I’m completely lost in his music, nothing but the pure beat of the drums. I feel every bit of it, so much so that my body responds to each beat. When it’s slow, my breathing is deep and easy, but when he picks up the pace and it gets louder and harsher, my heart thumps wildly against my ribs. I close my eyes when my heart beats so crazily I can feel it right through my body.

The pace changes so quickly that I can’t keep up. Up, down, slow, fast, here, there, everywhere. Hell, my heart can’t keep up. It feels like the second it steadies, it’s forced into a rough beat once again. It’s erratic and uncontrollable, and my stomach twists itself into knots, but then Aidan pauses, and I hold my breath, because I know this isn’t over.

It’s like a wild ride for my emotions. When he finally brings the sticks back down on the drums, going against them almost angrily—only this time there are gentle beats between each angry pound—I exhale deeply, wrapping my arms around my body.

His song has brought out a whirlwind of emotions I’ve barely even scratched the surface of, and the simple act of hugging myself is holding them in.

Then, just like that, he stops.

“You stopped,” I whisper. Obviously.

His chest heaves, and he sets the sticks down softly on the drums. Still not replying, he gathers my hair and sweeps it around my neck and over one shoulder, and I turn my body around so my face is closer to his. He slides his hand around my side and down to my thigh, where he curves his fingers around my leg. He moves me to standing, then closes his legs and pulls me down on his lap, facing him. His grip on me is tight, and our bodies are flush against each other, and he tilts his face up to meet mine.

“Why did you stop there?”

He presses his face against the side of mine, his thumb brushing along my neck. “Every song is a story,” he murmurs, moving so his lips sweep the corner of my mouth. “And I guess this story isn’t finished yet.”

“What kind of story is it?”

“A love story, definitely.”

“With a happily ever after?”

Aidan’s hand moves across my cheek and into my hair, holding it back from my face. His momentary silence makes me open my eyes, and my lips part as our gazes come together. His eyes are . . . raw. Unguarded. They’re soft and hopeful and stripped bare, completely. Almost as if he’s pushed his heart up into them and is just giving me a slideshow of how he feels right in this moment.

“Well?” I ask, sliding my hand up his chest to rest on his shoulder. “Does it have a happily ever after?”

“I sure hope so,” he replies in a rough whisper that goes right through me.

When he kisses me, I know in my heart that the unfinished love story is ours.

And I can’t help but give in to the tiny part of me that’s hoping it’ll have a happily ever after, too.