Текст книги "Broken Crown"
Автор книги: Susan Ward
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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 18 страниц)
Her eyes flash. She pulls back and sits on the edge of the cushion. “Fuck you, Manny.” She fixes her eyes on me. “So it’s true?”
I shrug, since I don’t know what she’s asking.
Her gaze turns impatient. “You’re back with Chrissie.”
What the fuck?
The way Jen is staring at me leaves no doubt that Chrissie and I are the fast moving gossip in the scene again. Though how that’s possible, I don’t know. We haven’t even done anything as benign as go out for dinner. Probably just logical assumption, but fuck, gossip means soon there will be tabloid print and that always fucks up Chrissie. And the last thing I need is one more uncontrollable element complicating matters with her.
I ignore the comment and stand. “Have a nice night, Jen.”
She stares up at me. “If you decide you need a friend, call me.”
“If I need a friend, you’ll be the first I call.” I remember the slip of paper in my pocket. I take it out and hand it to her. “There is something I’d like you to do. Messenger two passes to the LA concert to this name and address. Enclose a note from me. Send a car on the day to get them there. Let them know it’s coming.”
Jen looks at it and frowns. “Who is Devon Tyler? I’ve not heard her name before.”
The smile I let surface is lazy and enigmatic. “My pizza delivery boy. I’m working at keeping promises. I’ve kept two in five minutes. Good night, Jen.”
I head back to my car, unsure where I’m going next. After an hour of fighting rush-hour LA traffic, I’m here again.
At Chrissie’s house.
Uninvited.
Without a call.
But, fuck, it’s where I want to be.
I knock on the door and wait.
After more minutes pass than seem necessary, it’s jerked wide and then hits the inside wall with a thump. I stare down at a four-foot-high echo of Jack. The kid looks just like his grandfather. “Which one are you?”
One of the twins, I don’t know which, stares at me, annoyed. “You ask me that every time you see me. Do you think it’s funny or do you have a bad memory?”
Echo of Jack. Bright and blunt in surprisingly improved language skills he’s somehow developed in the last year.
I shrug. “Which one do you think? Funny or bad memory?”
The door is slammed in my face. Laughter bubbles upward, though I’m not certain why.
I don’t move. I wait. I’m starting to feel like an idiot, crouched on the stoop. The door reopens and the kid slaps something on my chest. I look at it. Ah, lopsided letters done in crayon on a mailing label in the center of my shirt: Alan. Another label, carefully made as well, on his shirt: Ethan.
Ah, the boy has not only learned to write during my absence, but he can spell.
I smile at Ethan. “It’s very nice. Where did you learn to do letters?”
“I go to school.” He says that in a way that makes it sound as though it had been a stupid question.
“School is doing you good. The labels are very nice. Do you think it’s funny or do you have a bad memory?”
“I remembered the letters.”
I turned the tables on a six-year-old and Ethan turned them back. Laughing, I pick up the boy, step into the house and shut the door. “You’ve made your point, Ethan. You’ve had enough of the joke.”
Ethan nods. “You’ve been gone a long time. Where did you come from?”
I laugh. Where did you come from? The childlike wording is endearing. “New York. I’ve been gone because I’ve been touring. You’re not mad at me, are you? How have you been?”
“I hate my new house. I liked my old house better.”
I nod and leave that one alone. Ethan likes the old house better because Jesse had been there. “You’ll start to like this house, too, Ethan. I promise.”
“Do you want to play video games? There’s no one to play with today.”
The house does sound quiet.
“Maybe later on the video games.” I smile and then notice his cheeks have a bright red burn. “You look like a lobster. Does it hurt? Who let you get too much sun?”
“Aarsi. She took us to the beach but I stayed in the water with Krystal so she couldn’t turn me into a clown with that white stuff she smooches on my face.”
White stuff. Zinc. Fuck. I hope Chrissie isn’t pissed that the boy got a sunburn Aarsi’s first day working here.
“Better a clown than a lobster,” I chide.
Ethan crinkles his nose in disdain. Clearly the boy thinks not. I cross the empty family room, then go into the kitchen. Vacant as well.
I set him on his feet. “Where is everyone?”
“Mom is in the studio. Kaley is gone. Khloe is with Aarsi. Krystal and Eric are at Grandma’s.”
Almost a childless house.
My day is rapidly improving.
Aarsi rushes into the kitchen, looks at me, doesn’t smile, and focuses on grabbing her things and car keys from the counter.
Ethan runs off.
I frown. “What was that all about?”
She sighs, exasperated. “He’s afraid I’m going to take him to his grandmother’s. It’s hell getting that kid from his mother. He doesn’t want to leave her. Not for a second.”
Not an encouraging bit of news, but not surprising. “He’s afraid she’s going to die like his father.”
Aarsi gives me a cold, hard stare. My skin covers in prickles out of nowhere. What the fuck did I say to make her look at me that way?
“Did your first day go well?” I ask.
She shrugs.
“Is Mrs. Harris happy?”
Her eyes become more intensely unpleasant. “I have a full schedule. She wants me back tomorrow.”
“Good.”
She shakes her head. It looks almost like she’s struggling not to say something. “Good night.”
She flounces out of the kitchen. I hear the front door close.
I leave the kitchen intending to go to the studio since that’s where I can find Chrissie. In surprise, I discover myself at the end of the hallway, outside the nursery.
I go in.
The room is bathed in the soft light of a single lamp turned low and every detail of the room holds the feel of Chrissie. Not a single item placed by an impersonal hand. Delicately made natural hue teak furniture. A whisper of color from a scattering of pillows woven with scenes from fairy tales. Stuffed lambs and bears. One of the walls is covered by a full-size mural, the dreamy-hazed images familiar. Goldilocks and the Three Bears.
I slowly inhale and then exhale. I haven’t looked at her yet. Not really. Not the way I should have. And certain not with the attention that Chrissie expected of me.
But I couldn’t do it at the time.
I wanted to.
I had to fight to stop myself.
It’s better that I did.
It just wasn’t something I felt ready to do with Chrissie, unsure what I’d feel, and more worried about letting her see. I didn’t want to hurt Chrissie again. I didn’t want to disappoint her. I didn’t know for sure what this would be for me.
I cross the room to the crib.
Khloe lies at an angle, hands under her cheek. She is wide awake and there is a faint sound coming from her like hiccups. It’s nearly a noiseless passing from her lips but it makes her whole body jerk. I laugh. She is wearing only a diaper. I can see every detail of her tiny body. The full bottom lip, the bluish-veined lids with long dark lashes over bright blue eyes, a little pug nose, round creamy cheeks, tiny fat fingers with tinier faintly pink nails, and curls in black.
I slowly stroke her hair. I gaze at my daughter. Emotion lodges in my throat…my daughter. It’s amazing that even so small she is very distinctive in personality. I can feel the serenity of who she is just by touching her, how her body shudders from the reflex she can’t control, untroubled. I’ve not touched her before. My feel and my sound are not familiar to her. She lies calm beneath my fingers, no tears, wide awake and content.
Trusting of the world in every way. Four months have made her world already shaped and defined and comfortable to her. A baby surrounded by love from the start. I feel an unwanted stab in my chest. The only part I’ve had in her being here, in who she is, was at the moment of her conception.
I pick her up, wondering if a change of position will stop the hiccups. She melts into me, a little curl of body parts that feels almost like an embrace. She has her own scent beneath the fragrance of raspberry soap. I settle on the bench built into the long row of full length windows, and lie back against the pillows, legs bent, with her nestled into my chest. Her little body hiccups again. I laugh, the sensation sweetly endearing even with that stream of dampness rolling down her chin onto my shirt.
I smile down at her and let her drool. Surrounded by a stranger, my hold, my warmth, my scent and she falls back to sleep.
I struggle to hold in my emotion.
Being here in Chrissie’s house tonight it feels different. Richer. More intoxicating. More vibrant. Being with Khloe sucks me in deeper, and odder, makes me want Chrissie even more painfully.
It is so fucking strange that I love Chrissie so much, and yet do it badly. I’ve never known how to love her the way she needs to be loved and we are both too old, too tired, too wounded by life for how we’ve loved before—my fucking her, her walking away, my letting her go, her coming back, my fucking her again and on and on even to this point—to start it all over again unless one of us figures out how to change that quickly.
My body and heart ache for her. But I don’t know how not to fuck this up. How to prevent the cycle from starting all over again. I’m sick of losing Chrissie. I’m ready to get to keep her.
I’ve spent twenty years of my life playing fuck and run with the only woman I’ve ever loved, the only woman I’ve never wanted to let go of. What was it that James Hetfield had said? To keep his family he had to be ‘here, clear and in the now.’ Well, I’m here. I’m clear for the first time in a fucking long time. But I am nowhere near in the now.
My lips pucker.
I feel the dampness on my cheek.
Fuck, I’m crying.
Len is right.
British rockers never die. We become fathers and fade away.
I’m shocked how much that thought is appealing to me, and how little interest I have in my life beyond Chrissie’s front door. Everything I want—everything I need—is here with Chrissie.
Holy fuck.
I just want to come home.
Chapter 11
I go into the kitchen, bypass the hard liquor, and pour myself a glass of wine.
The house is quiet. Chrissie must still be in the studio working. She probably doesn’t even know that I’m here yet. Good. I need time to regroup.
I go out onto the patio and settle on a lounger. I need to think this one through before I make so much as a single step in any direction. Figure out what I want. Figure out how to make it work. Be honest with myself about what I can and cannot do.
Honest with myself.
Fuck.
My weak suit.
Can I even do this?
It won’t be the same as it was last time we were together. To be with Chrissie means I have to be willing to do everything in this house. Anything short of that would be unfair to her and wrong for the kids.
Do I want to complicate my life with kids?
It’s already complicated. One of those children is mine.
It’s an incredible feeling.
Does Chrissie even want me in her life?
Fuck, that isn’t something I’ve thought about.
Why did I just assume we’d be together?
Fuck, I love her.
I don’t want to lose her again.
I take a sip of my wine. I want to be here, nowhere else ever again, except with her, but Chrissie comes with kids—lots of kids—and that’s hardly an element I expected myself to be considering at this point in my life.
Not after Molly.
I push away those memories. It hurts too much to love a child and then to lose them. I never wanted to go through that again. The pain of loving someone, completely, and then having it taken away. Too soon. Leaving a hole in you that never goes away.
Yet somehow, Chrissie’s kids have roped me in since the day of their birth. I’ve always loved them. The love I feel for her children runs deeply through me in a way that has always left me sharply surprised. Probably just an extension of loving her. No, they’re wonderful children. I like them.
But to live with them fulltime.
To be here.
Is that even something possible for me?
I have always enjoyed my visits surrounded by Chrissie’s family. I spent a lot of nights during her marriage in her backyard overlooking the Pacific, talking late into the night with Jesse, envious and admiring them both, and relieved of that tedious sedative boredom that claims me too often by doing nothing but watching her for hours with her kids.
The way she smiles at them, touches them, made me ache. I’d wonder if that was the way she was with Jesse in their private moments, what it would feel like if I’d known her this way when we’d been together before.
It was like visiting a spa when you can’t afford it. I’d leave rejuvenated and pinched. The experience recharging me; the cost hurting me. The cost was always leaving, sharply aware that Chrissie was happy and married to Jesse.
I’m not the man Jesse Harris had been.
I don’t have a clue what they need from me.
How am I supposed to make this work?
I finish my wine, lie back in my chair, and run my hands through my hair. Whatever I hoped would happen tonight—my cock pulses. Fuck, I’d hoped a lot of things. Wanting her is becoming a painful ache—but it is not going to happen.
She won’t let it.
We’re not there yet.
Not in her mind.
Fuck, I just hope we get there soon.
I climb from the chair. I’ll go in, say hello to Chrissie, then cut out. It’s the right thing to do. For both of us.
I step into the kitchen and Lourdes whirls to face me.
“Señor Alan. You are back.”
I set my glass on the counter and smile at her. She’s always liked me, though I’m not exactly sure why. Her arms open. She wants a hug.
I let her take me into her embrace. She squeezes me tightly and gives me a little shake, in an exuberant, motherly sort of way. Christ, she must be near seventy. She’s worked for Chrissie forever. Like hell she can’t take care of all these kids by herself. She’s got quite a grip on her.
She steps back. “It is good that you are here.”
She says that in a heavy, worried sort of way. She’s part of Chrissie’s family. She knows everything and what she thinks matters here.
“Everything has been all right, hasn’t it?”
She nods. “The kids, they are mostly good. They miss Señor Jesse. Kaley the most. That girl—” She crosses herself quickly. “—she needs a firm hand. I do not know what’s happened to mi niña. The changes, it has been hardest on her. It breaks my heart to see her so angry and in pain.”
She brushes at her cheeks, removing tears that broke through her iron control.
I nod, and though it’s petty, I feel a slight relief knowing that it’s not just me Kaley is hostile with. Lourdes is definitely concerned about the girl.
“It will be all right, Lourdes. These things take time to mend. Kaley is a good girl. She’ll work through this soon.”
Her brows lift. “How long are you here for?”
I shrug. “Three months. I go out on the road in April again. Last four months of the tour. After that, I don’t know. I’m thinking of moving back to Malibu permanently.”
Her face brightens.
Fuck, where did that come from?
I haven’t thought about that even once.
“You are a good man. You will be a good father, too. La niña needs a father. Don’t disappoint me. I will not like you if you do.”
Her finger pokes into my chest with each word. My reaction to that is an odd mix. I bite back a smile, but inside every part of me is roiling. Lourdes knows I’m Khloe’s father and I’m surprised how much it matters to me to know she approves. And I’ve just been told by the housekeeper not to be a fuckup.
“I’ll do my best, Lourdes. I’d hate to disappoint you.”
She nods again approvingly.
“You won’t disappoint me, Señor Alan. I am certain of this. Are you staying for dinner? Mrs. Harris, she has not eaten today. I was about to make her dinner.”
I have a sudden impulse to kiss her. I drop a peck on her forehead. “Set a plate, but I’m not sure if I’m staying.”
She smiles and nods.
I go to the studio and enter quietly. I stare through the glass and smile. Chrissie is hunched over the piano, focusing on the sheets she has spread across the top, chewing a pencil.
A brilliant songwriter, but methodical. I can tell by her posture that she’s nearly finished with something and she’s pleased with it.
Not a good time to interrupt her.
She probably hasn’t had two minutes to focus on anything except the kids since Jesse—
I cut off my thoughts.
I’m not ready to think about him.
I settle on the chair in front of soundboard and prop up my feet, content to just watch her. Wispy images of the night we first met float through my head. How stunning she was, even at eighteen, in a denim skirt, UGG boots, and playing the cello in Jack’s studio.
What was it I said to her through the intercom when she realized someone was watching her beyond the glass? It was probably inane. Something to keep her there. Ah. Yes. Theatrical, but it suited her.
“Don’t open your eyes. I’m not going to hurt you and if you open your eyes this will do you no good.”
Then I kissed her forehead and those gorgeous eyes flew wide. I was only messing with her, trying to figure out if I was interested enough in her to fuck her, but how it ended up was poetic justice. She looked at me. That was it. Took me for a walk on the beach. Chattered away in nonsensical drivel. Let me kiss her once. That was all. And she had me. I left her house without even trying to fuck her.
Remorse moves in my veins. I was such an arrogant bastard back then and it did turn out to be a lie, the part about me not hurting her, because I did hurt her. A lot. I didn’t intend to. I never wanted to do anything but love her.
Music floats through the intercom, filling the room with piano and her. I lean my head back, closing my eyes, savoring the sound. The sexy huskiness of her voice when she sings. It’s like the feel of her touching my body. I get a hard-on just listening to her.
Fuck, she’s amazing.
She could have been the biggest female vocalist in the industry. Ever. But she didn’t want it. Most artists spend their entire careers scrambling. Fighting to stay on top of the charts. They compete with themselves every minute, afraid to become irrelevant. But oh no, not Chrissie. She never does anything she doesn’t want to do. She quietly stepped back when she married Jesse. And she became anything but irrelevant. Artists beg to record her music.
She’s has it all, her way, always.
“How long have you been here?” Chrissie’s voice, rich with amusement, penetrates my thoughts.
I open my eyes to find her leaning against the board, close to me, smiling.
“About two hours.”
Her eyes sparkle and she laughs. “Really? Two hours. You’ve survived alone, two hours, here.”
Her manner is light, silly, to hide what she’s thinking. She is still cautious. Not sure about what direction to go with us. Not sure about me.
I shrug. “It wasn’t so bad. It’s nearly an empty house in there.”
She laughs again and eases into me, finally breaking the awkward and agonizing separateness between us we both seem strangely committed to keep. Her hand on my chest shoots sensation through my body. Her lips touch mine, a fast greeting kiss, nothing more. I fight not to pull her against me and turn this into what it should be.
The way I want it.
With her.
She lifts her mouth, doesn’t pull completely back and instead places both her palms flat against my shirt. And fuck, the way she’s bent over leaves me a clear view—she’s not wearing a bra—and her tits are so close to me, nipples showing through her cotton tank top, teasing and not touching me.
“Are you staying for dinner?” she asks softly.
I’d rather stay for the night.
I adjust in the chair, willing my body not to respond to my thoughts or her closeness.
“If you want me to,” I say, trying not to overplay my hand too soon.
“Oh yeah. I want. You can stay.”
Her voice shoots through my veins like a Viagra rush and I can’t even begin to decipher the way her eyes are shining at me. I watch, stunned, mute, as she moves a leg until she’s straddling my thighs and sets her ass down on me, curling up against my chest with her arms around me.
Her fingers lightly stroke the back of my neck. She brushes her cheek against my chest. My dick hardens to its full length. From another woman, I’d think I was about to be fucked, right here, right now. But no, that’s not Chrissie.
I try to will down my erection.
Nope, not working.
I lift the hair from her shoulder and lean in, kissing her neck. She moves in to my touch, not away. Maybe this is going where I want it to.
I pull her up into me until that tight little ass is on my cock that’s begging to be freed from my pants. Leaning in, I capture her mouth in a brutal kiss. No hesitation. Her mouth melts beneath mine. I deepen the contact, altering the flow, my hips flexing, my body rubbing her there.
She moans and pulls back, breathless. “God, we feel good tonight. Stay close. It feels good.”
I touch her face. My body is burning. “I’ll stay close. For as long as you want me to. Fuck, you have no idea how much I love you. How much I want you. How much I want this.”
Her fingers dive into my hair, dragging me back into her kiss. There is something in her I’ve never felt before. A different intimacy, more intense, something potent and even beyond sexual, and it’s like a fire running all through her.
I stop grinding into her, and ease both my body and my mouth from her. If I don’t pull back now, I’m going to fuck her on the floor.
I touch her cheek. “What’s gotten into you? Tell me what I did to cause this, love. I’ll do it every day. When I touch you and you feel like this, it makes me out of my mind for you. I don’t even know what this feeling is I’m feeling in you, Chrissie.”
Her over-bright eyes are laced with amusement. “I’ve been worried. And now I’m not. It feels amazing to know everything is going to be OK.”
I don’t understand her.
Fuck, does it matter?
I just want make to make love to her and enjoy this—whatever this is.
She rubs her cheek against my chest again, kisses me once, and then lifts her face. “I don’t even remember me before you, Alan. I love you. I’ve loved you from the first moment we met. But never more than I do tonight with the smell of Khloe on your shirt.”
Her eyes stare into mine in a way I know I’ll never forget. Her words warm every part of me. But they are stinging, too. She knows I finally went to meet Khloe. That’s what this is. And Christ, she is so easy to please it shames me, because I’ve done a damn poor job of that, always.
What the hell am I doing here with her? Everyone is right. I’m just going to fuck up her life again. I don’t deserve her. Not even the best man among us deserves her. I’m far from the best. And the beauty of her at times is awe-inspiring.
Whatever she wants.
Whatever she asks for.
I’ll do it.
That she lets me through the front door is a bloody miracle.
A sound escapes her throat, a husky half-laugh. A hint of delight mixes with the shimmers in her eyes. “I bet I’m the first woman ever to be turned on not by sexy you, but by baby drool on your shirt. I want this shirt, Alan. Mailing label and all. I’m going to put it in a plastic bag like the Monica Lewinsky dress and keep it forever in my safety deposit box.”
I laugh—fuck, she’s ridiculous. Christ, I love her.
She climbs from my lap too soon. She checks her watch. “Wow. Is it really 8:30? Come on. I’m hungry. Let’s eat dinner.”
Absolutely ridiculous. I don’t want food. I want to make love to her. I follow her out of the studio anyway.
Two hours later, we’re sitting on her back patio on a double lounger. Dinner was wonderful. Being alone with Chrissie was everything I remember. The quiet talk. Her gentle laughter. The sporadic touch of her hand on mine. The way her eyes smile at me over every bite.
This evening has gone well. Better than I’d hoped for. But fuck, the intermission didn’t do anything to calm down my body. In fact, I’m even more urgent in my flesh.
Fuck, how do I get her into bed?
Jesus Christ, I can’t believe that I’m failing at this. I thought it was a done deal two hours ago. She came at me pretty hard in the studio. I thought dinner was just a break. But, fuck, she doesn’t seem to get the hints I drop.
Maybe she gets them.
Maybe she ignores them.
Maybe it’s time for me to leave.
She leans in to me and kisses me on the jaw. “You have the strangest look on your face, Alan. What are you thinking?”
I’m thinking that if I don’t get you into bed soon he’s going to explode.
I smile.
I touch her cheek.
“About Khloe. I’m thrilled about her. I shouldn’t have waited three days to say that. She’s beautiful. Beautiful like you and I’m thrilled.”
She pulls me into a kiss. Against my mouth, she says, “I knew that before you said it. But it’s good to hear it.”
There is a sweet kind of heaviness to the air. Like being drunk while sober. Intimate. Silly. Happy. Something new. Different.
“Promise to tell me you’re thrilled, Chrissie, if we discover later that she has the gene that spouts expletives and Chekhov simultaneously. Right now I only see black hair from me.”
She laughs and curls into me. “You need to look with more than your eyes, Alan. She is more like you than me. She pulls herself inward into calm. Isolated calm. That’s you, not me. She’s serious and studies everything. She likes Bach, Blackpoll and Metallica. Bold colors like Picasso. The feel of me all around her while she sleeps. She’s you. We’re in trouble. Big trouble.”
Laughing, I close my hands on her cheeks and kiss her. “Were you sorry? Are you sorry? Expletives. Chekhov. Me.”
I say that in a silly way, but it’s not a joke. Not inside me. I want her not only to be happy about Khloe. I want her to be happy she’s mine. I never expected to feel that way. I wait, tense, trying to read her face as she silently stares at me.
She rolls her eyes. “How could I ever be sorry? Not for a second. Never. I love you, but I love more this part of you that’s mine.”
I pull her into my arms and crush her against me. My limbs are trembling. The relief I feel is overpowering. It would have been awful if she regretted me.
We feel good right now, but it’s like a caution telling me to leave. Things are in comfortable balance. It is better not to push. Better to let it sit for a while.
“It’s late. I should probably cut out.”
The patio door opens. Ethan runs out. He climbs onto Chrissie lap and curls into her. She brushes his golden blond hair from his face and kisses his brow. “What are you still doing awake, kiddo? Just because it’s winter break doesn’t mean you can stay up past 8:30.”
Ethan glares at me and says nothing.
OK, I get it.
You want me gone.
You’re claiming her.
Lourdes follows a few minutes later and hands her a cell phone. Chrissie quickly reads a text. Then her thumbs move rapidly in answer. She clicks off the phone and gives it to the housekeeper.
She looks up at Lourdes. “Kaley is staying the night with Zoe at the Kennedys’. Do you mind if Ethan sleeps with you in your room, Lourdes? He won’t go to bed in his room without Eric.”
The two women stare at each other.
I should get out of Chrissie’s way.
“No problem, Mrs. Harris,” Lourdes says softly, lifting Ethan from Chrissie’s lap, and then walks away.
“I’m going to cut out, Chrissie.”
I set down my glass and start to rise.
She stops me with a hand. “No, wait,” she says with sudden anxiousness. She watches the house. The door closes.
She stands and steps in to me. She doesn’t look at me. “If any of my kids other than Ethan were home, I wouldn’t be doing this. But he never wakes up, especially when he’s with Lourdes, and he sleeps late into the morning. You’ve got to be out of here by eight.” She peeks up at me, her face flush, her eyes glowing. “Stay the night with me, Alan.”
