Текст книги "Rock Redemption"
Автор книги: Nalini Singh
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 22 страниц)
Chapter 2
Noah woke to the sound of a drumbeat loud enough to reverberate through his bones. “Cut it out, David,” he muttered, wondering why Schoolboy Choir’s drummer was practicing inside his skull.
When the drumming continued unabated, he opened his eyes a slit and saw white sheets with tiny blue flowers. There were even green leaves around the flowers. He ran his fingers over the sheet, felt the texture, focused on the flowers and leaves again. This wasn’t home. And he never stayed overnight with anyone.
Eyes flicking fully open even as another part of his brain identified the scent in the air—evocative and fresh and painfully familiar—he sat up. Too fast. His head swam.
He groaned and, holding his head in his hands, closed his eyes for another minute until things settled down. Then he glanced around the room.
The walls were a warm cream, the bedside tables honey-colored wood, a stained glass Tiffany lamp on one side; the colors from the lamp were reflected in the abstract painting on the wall in front of him. On his right side was a large window that looked out onto what appeared to be a private green haven. He could see the pebbled pathway, knew that if he walked down that path, he’d find himself in a painstakingly maintained Japanese garden.
Inside was a pond bordered by large stones covered in a fine, velvety moss. A small wooden seat was positioned beside a miniature maple tree, right at the perfect spot to look into the calm of the pond as a cherry blossom tree cast its shadow on the water.
Go right and he’d eventually reach the end of the garden outside the kitchen. There was a picnic table in that spot, along with two benches, under the spreading branches of a leafy green tree. Go left and, after several minutes, he’d find himself at a moss-covered wall—because this place was a haven, secret and contained.
Noah knew every corner of it… or he had. Kit had probably changed everything by now. She was always out there. She had a service that maintained the lawn out front and made sure the wooded area on her property was free of any damaged or dangerous trees, but the garden was hers.
“It gives me peace,” she’d told him once, her eyes shining and open. “I walk out there, put my hands in the earth, and the stress of the day just falls away.”
Shoving off the blanket tangled around his legs, Noah got out of bed. He was still wearing his boots, and it felt like his belt buckle had embedded itself in his gut. It made him laugh even as he winced, and the laugh had his head pounding like it had a live jackhammer buried in it.
“Shit.” Having collapsed back on the bed, he forced himself to get up, winced again. He smelled like a fucking distillery.
“Christ.” Stumbling into the bathroom, he threw some water on his face, then used one of Kit’s fluffy white towels to dry off. Not only did he smell like he’d bathed in whiskey, he looked like he’d been on a three-day bender. “Impressive, Noah.” He’d achieved that result in a single night. And Kit had seen him like this. Great. Just fucking great.
Leaving the bathroom, he walked out of the bedroom. “Kit?” he called out, gritting his teeth as his head pounded in time with his heartbeat.
All he heard was silence. The door to her bedroom—just down from his—was open. Looking in carefully, he saw her bed neatly made and piled with a ridiculous number of pillows. He’d once asked her what the point was when she only needed one for her head and she’d rolled her eyes. “Only a man would ask that question.”
He fucking missed her voice, her smile, her. That’s why he’d called her. It was coming back to him, flashes of what he’d done. He knew it would all eventually appear. That was his special curse: he could drink himself to oblivion, something he usually only ever did while alone inside his house, but he remembered everything. Sometimes it took a day before it all came back, but it always did.
He was already getting grainy, blurry images of Kit picking up a hypodermic, shock and horror on her face.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Walking into her sunny kitchen, he saw no sign of her. What he did see was a note propped up next to a large bottle of aspirin. He ignored the pills and picked up the note.
You’re probably still over the limit to drive, and in case you’re idiotic enough to think you’re not, I’m taking all the keys. Call my car service when you get up and they’ll take you home. I’m at the studio.
At the bottom was the phone number for the car company. He flipped it over in the hope she’d written something else, but that was all. A stabbing in his heart, he crushed the paper in his hand. He had to get the fuck out since it was clear Kit didn’t want him here. Not that he could blame her.
Having shoved the piece of paper in his pocket because he was pathetic and wanted something of hers, even if it was only a terse note, he thrust a hand through his hair and winced again at the smell of alcohol. He couldn’t go anywhere like this unless he wanted to attract attention, and that was the last thing he needed today.
Back when he and Kit had been friends, he’d left a few things in the closet in the spare bedroom. Wondering if there was a chance she hadn’t thrown it all out, he went back to the room and opened the closet.
It was empty.
There went that idea, he thought, about to close the closet door when he noticed a box up on the shelf. Pulling it down, he found his stuff. It had been thrown in there in a mess, but he had everything he needed.
A long, hot shower made him feel a little more human. Afterward, he chucked his dirty clothes into the large garbage can beside Kit’s garage—thanks to her stalker, she paid a company to come in and personally pick up and dispose of her garbage, so no one would be digging through it and discovering his clothes. He did not want to remember the night he’d almost done the one thing he’d sworn never to do, no matter how bad the hell inside his head.
Returning to the house, he began to pull on his boots over bare feet.
He couldn’t call Kit’s car service without linking his name to hers. Everyone knew Kit was friendly with the band, but if he was picked up alone from her house, even at three in the afternoon—Jesus, he’d been out of it—it would fuel all kinds of rumors. The only reason they’d escaped that during their friendship was because he’d been very careful not to put her in the line of fire.
He could call the service the band used when they wanted to party and didn’t want to drive, but the driver they usually used was out with a broken leg and Noah didn’t know the new guy well enough to trust he’d keep his mouth shut. He’d walk out except that no one walked in neighborhoods like this—he’d probably get picked up by private security before he got a hundred feet.
He knew Kit’s own security guys were professionals who never blabbed about clients; he’d ask one to run him up the road, then grab a cab once he was far enough away that his name wouldn’t be connected to Kit’s. She deserved that much at least from him. No way was he messing up her life with a tabloid feeding frenzy.
He was on his way out to see if he could touch base with one of the security team when Kit’s home phone rang. He half smiled at the stodgy male voice that came on asking the caller to leave a message. The recording had come with the machine, and Kit used it so random callers wouldn’t realize whose house they’d reached. He had his hand on the front doorknob when Kit’s voice filled the air.
“Noah, are you awake? Are you alive?”
Gut tight and breath shallow at the sign that maybe she hadn’t totally written him off, he grabbed the handset. “Yeah, awake and alive and about to bounce from your place.”
A pause before she said, “What’s wrong with your phone?”
He took it out of his pocket. “Dead battery.”
“So…”
“I’m good.” He shoved a hand through his hair. “I fucked up, Kit. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called you.”
“Yeah? So you should’ve just sat in that fleapit and shot poison into your body?” Anger vibrated in her every word. “Damn, I have to go. We need to talk. Don’t leave.”
The dial tone sounded in his ear before he could reply. Putting the handset on the cradle, he sat down on a nearby sofa and pulled off his boots. It wasn’t even a decision that he’d stay. This was the first time Kit had talked properly to him since the night he’d willfully destroyed the best thing in his life.
Self-disgust built in him, but he was used to that. It had lived in him most of his life. He’d done what he had to protect Kit, but he’d hurt her, and that made him a bastard. If she wanted to take a few shots at him, he’d stand there and let her pummel him bloody. It’d be worth it if she’d just talk to him again.
Kit walked into her house at seven that night to the smell of something delicious. Even dog tired as she was, it made her mouth water. A hot, prepared meal sounded like her idea of heaven right then. She’d been planning to eat one of the refrigerated meals she bought by the dozen.
It wasn’t that she was a terrible cook—okay, yes, she was a terrible cook, but she enjoyed trying. Except with such an intense filming schedule, she had zero time. She was either at the studio or sleeping. Thank God she only had two more days to go.
And all of that, she thought as she detoured to her room to drop off her purse and kick off her flats, was just an attempt to distract herself from the fact that Noah was in her house. She could smell him in the air, and this time, there was no alcohol. Just Noah.
Warm and intrinsically male.
Fisting her hands, she made herself remember what he’d done, remember the sight of his body moving sinuously on another woman’s. It twisted up her gut, but the sick feeling was coupled with an anger that had been growing and growing and growing. Tonight it drove her out of the bedroom and to the kitchen, where Noah was stirring something on the stove.
He looked up with a wary smile, his jaw still shadowed but his hair clean and his T-shirt white, his jeans a faded blue. She knew those clothes, had been telling herself to throw them out since the hotel-room ugliness. Pathetic as it was, in the month after it happened, she’d hurt so much with missing him that she’d even put on his T-shirt once.
“Hey,” he said. “It’s not gourmet anything, but I found a pasta sauce mix in your pantry and some spaghetti.”
“Why?” she asked, the question too violent to be kept inside any longer. “Why did you do it, Noah?”
His expression grew dark. Switching off the stove, he gripped the edge of the counter. “Because that’s what I do, Kit,” he said, his voice gritty. “I fuck women. As many as I can.”
She flinched but didn’t back down. “Don’t you do that,” she said across the distance between them. “Don’t you give me some pat, Noah St. John-is-a-bad-boy answer. Did what we had together mean nothing to you?” They hadn’t slept together, hadn’t even kissed, but the thing growing between them, it had been rare, precious. And he’d shit all over it.
“It meant everything,” Noah snapped back, his eyes blazing at her with an intensity the world never saw. “But I’m never going to be that guy, Kit. The one who makes you happy.”
“I was happy. So were you.” She hadn’t imagined his crooked, sexy, private smile or the welcome in his eyes. She hadn’t imagined the hours they’d spent talking. She hadn’t imagined the music he played for her or the way he called her Katie just to rile her up.
“I wanted you as my friend!” Noah’s eyes glittered, strands of golden-blond hair falling across his forehead. “I didn’t—don’t—want to sleep with you!”
The blow landed again, just as hard as it had when he’d said it at the motel. No, harder, because he was sober now. Feeling brittle and bruised, she gave him a tight smile. “You’ve made that crystal clear.”
Noah’s head fell forward, shoulders slumping. “Shit. That didn’t come out right.”
“Don’t worry, Noah, I get it. You’re just not that into me,” she said, mocking herself.
Noah’s laugh was broken. “Kit, I—” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Say it.” She needed this dream to die a final death.
His head jerked up, dark gray eyes brilliant with fury and with a need so vicious it rocked her. “Why can’t you just be my friend?” he asked, his arms rigid he was holding on so hard to the counter. “I fuck everything female that moves. I don’t want that with you.”
The bruise was so painful by now that it pulsed… but for the first time since he’d told her he didn’t want to sleep with her, she actually heard him. Maybe because she hurt so much she was numb, her mind oddly clear as a result. As his words echoed in her skull, she thought of all those hours when they’d watched old movies together, or sat in a hotel room running lines, or the day they’d gone to a go-cart track after disguising themselves so they wouldn’t be recognized.
They’d raced like maniacs, then eaten burgers that fell apart they were so huge, and Noah had laughed. No sophistication, no edge, pure happiness. He’d grinned the same way the day she’d gotten the part that had launched her career into the big time. Noah was the first one she’d told, his arms like steel around her as he lifted her off her feet and swung her around.
“I knew you’d do it!” he’d said, his confidence in her a buoyant force that had made her believe she could conquer every hurdle.
He’d been her friend, the best friend she’d ever had. He was the reason she’d tried out for the part in Last Flight in the first place. He’d told her not to call herself “just a soap actress,” had driven her to the casting call himself, had held her hand until she’d walked inside; he’d been waiting when she came out—exhilarated, nervous, and relieved that she’d made it through without embarrassing herself.
Noah’s smile had held open pride.
I fuck everything female that moves. I don’t want that with you.
The words flayed her, destroyed her, but there was also something in them that cut through the hurt and made her pause. Noah never spent any non-sex time with the women he slept with—not one ever saw him twice. He didn’t cook for them, didn’t drive them to auditions, certainly didn’t pull out his guitar and ask their opinion on a new piece. The only woman with whom Kit had known him to do all those things was… her.
Kit didn’t know what that meant, didn’t even know if she could handle being Noah’s friend while he added notch after notch to his belt, but she knew she couldn’t shove him out into the cold. The memory of the fear she’d felt on the drive to that motel burned like acid on her bones. No matter what Noah had done, how much he’d hurt her, she couldn’t imagine a world where he didn’t exist.
She’d keep an eye on him at least until the rest of the band returned to LA.
After that… Kit had no answers. All she knew was that Noah was bad for her… and that part of her would always miss him.
Chapter 3
Noah sat across from Kit at the little picnic table she did still have at one end of her garden. It was illuminated by beautiful paper lanterns that bathed everything in a soft light that probably flattered most people. It only hid the purity of Kit’s beauty, the mobile curve of her lips, the sparkle in her eye.
Neither was in evidence tonight, he knew that, but he liked to imagine them, liked to imagine her smiling at him as if she couldn’t wait to tell him about her day and to ask about his.
And her laughter when he pointed out something ridiculous; he’d never heard better music. What he wouldn’t do to hear her laugh again.
Yeah, you’ll do anything except stop being an asshole.
He didn’t know what they were doing here tonight. He didn’t know if Kit had understood what he’d said to her. He adored her, and because he did, he would never touch her. The instant he did, he’d ruin her, ruin everything. He didn’t want their relationship tainted by sex—if they even had any kind of a relationship.
Most probably she was just making sure he didn’t end up in another dive about to shoot up. Kit had always had a soft heart, and Noah was bastard enough that he was going to take advantage of that to have her in his life, even if only for a day or two.
“It’s not too bad, right?” he said, having inhaled his own serving of spaghetti. “Probably not in your diet though.” Kit loved food, loved trying new dishes, but she had to maintain a strict dietary regime to stay in shape for her newest role.
Noah knew that because he followed every tidbit about her in the media.
“Body paint and Lycra hide zero sins,” she’d said with a grin in a recent television interview. “I’m eating a burger with all the fixings and having two bowls of ice cream the day we finish filming. Oh, and I’m ordering a full-fat creamy latte every morning for a week!”
Noah had downloaded the clip of her laughing onto his phone, watched it so many times that he’d lost count. Eyes dancing in self-deprecating humor, she’d been the Kit who meant everything to him, the one who’d once dropped ice cubes down his back after he refused to stop calling her Katie.
Tonight she shrugged. “It’s only two more days till we wrap. A little spaghetti won’t kill me.” Finishing off the last bite of her small portion, the rest of her plate having been filled with salad, she drank from the glass of chilled water into which she’d squeezed some fresh lemon juice. “And it was delicious, way better than anything I can cook.”
“In that case, I admit I ate the fish salad thing you had in your fridge.”
Kit’s lips didn’t curve at his confession. “I’m seriously jonesing for a burger. With extra pickle and jalapeño relish and a big pile of french fries.”
His memory of her interview collided with the reality of their conversation, of the fact he was here with her and she was talking to him like he was a friend. Hope flickered, bright and anxious as a puppy. “That food truck you like?”
A small nod as she reached for a slice of the orange he’d peeled and cut up for dessert. He knew all about Kit’s sweet tooth, had learned during their friendship that the fruit would give her a sugar hit while not compromising her film diet. During the course of Last Flight, she’d had to become a gaunt shadow of herself; he’d hated seeing her that way, but Kit’s body was part of her art, an instrument she used as necessary.
About to offer to take her out to the food truck soon as the movie wrapped, he took in her face as she rubbed absently at her forehead and frowned at the purplish bruises under the gorgeous amber of her eyes. “You need to get to sleep,” he said, realizing she must’ve only had four or five hours last night what with having to come rescue his useless ass.
“Not with spaghetti sitting in my stomach.” She reached for another piece of fruit, the deep golden bronze of her skin shadowed by the delicate leaves of the tree that rustled above the picnic table. “I’ll stay up for another hour, have a bath, wash off the stress of the day.”
“You’ve already showered.” He’d caught her damp hair when she came in.
“Best way to get rid of the last of the body makeup. Not as relaxing as a bath.” She stood. “Stay the night.”
He looked up, held her gaze. “I won’t go there again.” He’d hit rock bottom last night, but he still hadn’t used that hypodermic. “You don’t have to watch over me.” Even he wasn’t enough of a bastard to keep her on the hook worrying about him.
Kit wrapped her arms around herself. “What would you do if you found me drunk and alone with a needle full of poison? Would you trust me when I said I was fine?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Stay the night, drive home tomorrow. I’ll sleep better if you stay.”
The last words were so quiet he barely heard them, but they shredded him. He wouldn’t have left now if his life depended on it.
Watching Kit walk away after picking up the plates, he wanted to say something, anything, to make her stay. But Fox and David were the ones who had the words. Noah wrote songs sometimes, but words didn’t come as easily to him as the music, and he didn’t have his guitar tonight.
Getting up, he decided to go for a walk. Kit’s home had extensive grounds, not because she was particularly acquisitive, but because it had been the most secure property on the market when her stalker kicked into high gear. The fucking creep had broken into her previous home and ejaculated on her bed, then left her an “I love you” card and flowers.
She’d thrown out the bed the instant the cops were done processing the scene, but the incident had haunted her, making it impossible for her to remain in her cozy and inexpensive-to-rent town house. Add in the rising media pressure—photographers had started camping out on her damn doorstep and trying to peer through her windows—and it had made sense for her to get a place with enough land that her home was isolated in the center, far from the prying lenses of both paparazzi cameras and that of the stalker.
The cops, studio security, her friends, everyone was taking the threat dead seriously, but the fucker was still out there. According to news Fox had passed on to Noah, the disturbed man had shipped Kit a box containing a wedding gown and a ring two months ago—so they could “renew their vows.” It had been followed a week later by a letter naming her a “slut” and a “whore” because she’d been snapped while out to dinner with one of her costars.
Noah wanted to get his hands around the coward’s neck, wring it until the pathetic man could no longer terrorize Kit. The only good news was that Kit’s security measures seemed to be working. She’d had no unpleasant surprises in her new home.
He’d been walking for about ten minutes when he saw movement in the shadows in front of him. “Butch,” he said, recognizing one of Kit’s bodyguards.
The broad-shouldered and heavily muscled man, his dark blond hair worn in a military crew cut, was dressed in black cargo pants and a black T-shirt rather than the suit he wore when out and about with Kit.
“Hey, Noah.” He held out a hand and they shook.
“Any problems?”
Butch rubbed his jaw rather than responding to Noah’s question.
“I know you don’t talk about your clients’ business,” Noah said, appreciating that about the man. “But you know I care about Kit.”
“Yeah, I know. All you guys do.” Falling into step beside Noah, he said, “I’m glad you’re staying with her, to be honest. I’ve had a bad feeling lately—I think the nutjob’s back, and he’s watching her. I brought in two extra men to cover her and the house around the clock, but then she took off last night. I can’t protect her if she won’t let me.”
Noah wanted to kick himself for having put Kit at risk. “Won’t happen again.” He made a vow then and there not to get falling-down drunk ever again. It was a vow he’d broken before, but then it had only been about him—now it was about Kit. And Kit was everything. “Any physical signs of the stalker?”
“No. But I know he’s out there. Years of instinct, man.”
“I believe you.” It was Noah who’d recommended Butch and his team for this job, though Kit didn’t know that. Fox had passed on the information without mentioning where the rec came from. “You have my number, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Call me if you don’t want Kit to be alone.” He’d come, even if he had to bed down in the garage.
“Will do,” Butch promised. “If she fires me for talking to you, you owe me a job.”
Noah slapped him on the shoulder. “How about a starlet who’s currently falling out of limos and into cocaine?”
The burly ex-Marine snorted. “Hell no. Not after Kit.”
Noah understood that. Kit was extraordinary. She’d come through the ranks to the bright glare of fame without losing sight of what was important: at the top stood her friends and family. For them, she’d do anything.
As a struggling actress when she’d been cast in the soap for what was originally meant to be a bit part, she’d barely had two extra cents to rub together. Nevertheless, she’d opened her tiny apartment to the junior makeup artist on the show when the other woman was evicted after falling behind on her own rent.
Becca and Kit were close friends to this day.
Kit had helped so many people in similar ways. Her nature was all the more extraordinary given how she’d grown up—as the only daughter of a supermodel and a tennis ace. He had no idea how she’d turned out so normal. He just knew she had.
Far more normal than Noah.
Kit had expected to spend the night tossing and turning, but she slept more soundly than she had since the day the stalker broke into her previous home. It didn’t take a genius to figure out the reason why. Apparently she could hire the best security in the world, but all she needed to feel safe was to have Noah in the house.
Annoyed with herself, she got out of bed in the dark and stumbled to the bathroom to have a quick shower to wake up. That done, she dressed and grabbed her purse. When she stepped out of the bedroom, she was startled to see a light in the kitchen. Her heart thudded until she saw Noah’s half-naked body moving about in there.
“What are you doing up?” Nobody should be up at this hour; if the studio wasn’t paying her, she certainly wouldn’t be.
“I know you don’t like to eat this early,” he said with that old crooked smile, “but I made up one of those healthy seaweed things you like and put it in this.” He held out a travel mug, drawing her eyes to his chest. The ink there was relatively simple—the biggest work was on his back. “So you can drink while they’re slathering you in makeup.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” she said, feeling awkward and not at her best. She couldn’t deal with a bare-chested Noah this early in the morning. Especially when he was all mussed up and yawning and lazy-looking. It made her want to walk into his arms and snuggle against him while he rubbed his bristly jaw against her hair.
Grabbing the drink, she headed to the garage entrance instead—to find he’d opened it for her.
He leaned against the entrance as she got into the black sports car she’d bought before the stalker forced her to pour all her money into this property and hiring security. She put the drink in the cup holder and pushed the garage-door opener.
“Still not a morning person, I see.”
“Shut up,” she muttered. “It’s not morning. It’s the middle of the night.” With that, she closed her door and backed out of the garage. The last thing she saw as she left was Noah standing in the doorway haloed in light, and she thought about how wonderful it would be to wake up to him every morning.
“Enough, Kit.” Slamming her hand on the steering wheel, she focused on the road, conscious of Casey behind her. When she had to stop at a red light, she sipped from the drink Noah had made her, all the while asking herself why she didn’t just run the light. It wasn’t as if anyone else was on the road.
The answer, of course, was that she was too much of a goody-two shoes. Kit didn’t need a shrink to tell her that she’d overcompensated for her crazy upbringing. When your parents partied till five in the morning every weeknight, you either joined them, or you put on noise-canceling headphones and locked your bedroom door so drunk party guests looking for the bathroom wouldn’t wake you.
Kit had chosen the second option.
Pulling into the studio lot, she picked up the travel mug and made her way to Makeup. Casey fell in with her, but neither one of them spoke, the bodyguard concerned with keeping an eye out for threats. Nothing had happened on the studio lot as yet, but no one was taking any chances.
“Only one more torturous morning wake-up to go!” she said to Becca when she entered the brightly lit glare of the Makeup trailer. “Only two more days of being an avocado-green superhero!”
Her currently pink-haired friend held up a pot of body paint, her nails black with tiny pink hearts. “Aw, shucks, and I thought you liked being slathered in this goo.” Becca fluttered her eyelashes, her mascara dark against the cream of her skin. “Green is such a flattering shade on your skin, and those tiny horns. Oh, baby.”
As Kit laughed and went to change into the high-cut Lycra leotard that provided a base for her transformation, she tried not to think about the fact that the house would be empty when she got home.
