A Seductive Melody (The Kelly Brothers Book 5) (6 page)

“I’m not much of a sweets person.”

“I could tell that, but I figured you might be game for the sour cherry strudel.”

“Sour cherry?”

“Um-hmm,” she said before she swallowed a mouth full of her cake. “You seem like the sour type.”

So they were back with the teasing. “Do I? You, on the other hand, are definitely all about the sweet.”

“As you can tell by my ass.”

He leaned over to study the shape of her thighs and how they vanished into a very squeezable ass. “Nothing wrong with it as far as I can tell.”

She choked on her whipped cream–topped hot chocolate. Her face reddened as she struggled to catch her breath. “Are you flirting with me?”

“Are you bothered by it?”

She didn’t answer, but he caught a hint of a smile before she covered her mouth with her coffee mug. “How was your week?”

“It sucked.” He expected her to ask him to elaborate or maybe try to tease out some details why it sucked, but she continued to watch him with the expectant arch of her eyebrows without saying a word.

When the silence stretched into a minute, the heat climbing along the base of his spine forced him to shift in his seat. He turned away before she saw how uneasy he’d become from such a simple question.

Sucked
didn’t begin to describe his week. Between struggling to find the music without giving in to his muse and dealing with the constant phone calls from his mother and older brother Adam, he could feel the cracks forming in his thin shell of sobriety. He couldn’t sleep, not without waking up in a cold sweat and wishing he had a bag of Sweet Dreams. Instead, he was left with visions of finding his best friend wide-eyed in death with a needle still in his arm and a craving to make it all go away.

He ran his hand over the tattoo on his left arm and repeated, “It sucked.”

“You’re nearing the one-month mark, right?” After he nodded, she continued, “It’s like a New Year’s resolution, staying clean. Some people succeed, but most of us hit that first speed bump around the one-month mark. You go through the Super Flu and swear you will never touch the stuff that makes you feel so rotten ever again. You come out feeling renewed by this vow and empowered by whatever drove you to come clean. But little by little, the day-to-day pressure of reality begins to wear on you, and your resolve starts to crumble. The void you once filled with heroin becomes larger and larger until it consumes you. And around the one-month mark, you’re faced with the choice of do I give in and get high, or do I find something else to fill the void?”

She had no idea how fucking accurate she was.

“All of us started using to fill that void, and it’s different for each of us. But once you identify it, then you can come up with ways to fill it without getting high.”

“I doubt sweets will do it for me.”

She gave him a soft laugh that deflected the pessimistic sting of his words. “They don’t do it for me, either.”

“Then what does?”

She set her mug down and stared at the plate. Like last week, she engaged in the repetitive motions of stabbing, smashing, and scraping the cake crumbs with her fork. “For me, it was finding some sort of purpose for my life. I wanted to be more than a spoiled, airhead heiress.”

“And are you now?”

“Depends.” She looked across the table at him, the silent plea in her eyes echoing louder in his mind than any words she’d spoken.

Part of him wanted to bolt from the table, but the rest of him took some small comfort in knowing she understood what he was going through. No one else did. Not his friends. Not his family. Not his agent or producers. The only other person he’d reached out to was his younger brother’s assistant, Sarah, and that was only because she knew the best places to go for detox.

But Becca had been there. She’d gone through this hell and seemed to have her shit together now.

Unlike him.

A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face, and he leaned forward on the table, his eyes lowered. “Where do I start?”

“At the beginning.”

A single note of bitter laughter rose from his throat. “I started using because my best friend did, and I looked up to him.”

He waited for her to mock him for being a lemming, but instead, she said in a choked voice, “And did he inspire you to come clean, too?”

“Yeah.” Finding Ty dead was the cruelest form of wake-up call he’d ever experienced.

He glanced at her to gauge her reaction and found the same patient plea for him to continue.

They say confession is good for the soul….

He took a deep breath and opened his up to her. “I’d always been more of a dabbler, getting high here and there as needed. My best friend was more of a King Kong user, mixing his daily heroin with something else to achieve different highs. Sometimes it was as simple as smoking it with marijuana. Sometimes it was harder stuff like crack or PCP. Whatever was available at the moment. But until the last few weeks of his life, he still functioned. He showed up to work, and he never, ever bailed on me.”

His voice caught as he added, “That is, until the one morning when he didn’t show up.”

He wasn’t used to a woman with nothing to say, but Becca’s silence rattled him to the core. No questions. No sounds of acceptance or judgment. No movement to or away from him. He had no clue how she was reacting to his story, and he refused to look up from the table to read her face. The frustration mounted inside until it finally erupted with a bang of his fist on the table.

“I was so fuckin’ angry at him,” he admitted. “He’d thrown his life away. Wasted the talent he’d been given. Destroyed everything we’d worked so hard for. At first, all I could feel was rage. Then this ache followed, like he’d taken some part of me with him. And God, it hurt.”

He pressed his hand against the center of his chest where the emptiness still lingered. “Once I experienced that pain, that anger, that sense of abandonment…”

He shook his head as though it would clear the dark emotions swirling inside. Visions of his mother and brothers going through the same hell filled his head like they had in the days following Ty’s death. “I never wanted anyone I cared about to go through that.”

“So you found a reason to get clean,” she said at last.

It wasn’t a question, but he still nodded.

“Then keep holding on to that.” She reached into her purse to pull out some bills before rising from her chair.

He reached out to stop her. The second their hands touched, something changed in the air between them. Or maybe it was just him. He’d been trying so hard to push her away that now that she was leaving, he wanted her to stay. But when he looked up at her, he noticed subtle surprise playing out across her features, from the widening of her eyes to the parting of her lips.

She sank back into her chair, her attention never wavering from him.

And more important, she didn’t try to pry his hand away.

He wasn’t ready to admit he needed her or anyone else, but somehow, confessing everything that had been bottled up inside for the last month eased the burden of guilt that had been weighing him down. Just knowing someone who’d been there was willing to listen and not call him weak or stupid or a lost cause made the darkness seem a little less impenetrable. And that gave him hope that he might succeed.

Yet his tongue refused to form the words to express his gratitude. Instead, what came out was, “I can pay.”

The corners of her mouth rose into a smile that held no pity, no disappointment. If anything, she appeared to be proud of him. “You paid last week.”

She slipped her hand out from under his and went to the counter to pay.

Ethan chugged the last of his coffee and tried to pull himself together. Maybe it was a good thing she was ending the night here. If she let him continue, who knew what else might come out of his mouth. As it was, he’d probably revealed too much about himself. It wouldn’t take her long to put two and two together and figure out who he was.

And yet, oddly enough, he was okay with that. After all, she was Becca Shore. Even if she bore little resemblance to the person she’d been a few years ago, she probably still remembered how important privacy was when trying to stay clean.

He grabbed his helmet and followed her outside. A whiff of her perfume floated past him as she put her jacket back on against the cool autumn air. The scent evoked the memories of how well her body molded against his on the ride over, and a wayward twinge of desire stirred through his veins. “Can I give you a ride home?” he asked.

She bit her bottom lip, her pupils growing larger under the glow of the streetlights. Her gaze flickered to his motorcycle and then back to him. She inhaled, her body tightening up with excitement. Then her shoulders slumped as she released her breath. She took a step back and shook her head. “Thanks, but I’m going to have to pass. Besides, the subway’s right over there.”

Her rejection doused the heat in his blood. “I suppose I shouldn’t have offered. The anonymous thing and all.”

“No, it’s not that.” She gripped the shoulder strap of her bag, running her hands up and down it as she stared at the sidewalk. “As much as I’d like to, I know I shouldn’t.”

“Meaning?”

She looked up at him through her lashes long enough for him to see the attraction wasn’t one sided. But she continued to back away. “I’ll see you next week?”

His pride stung. She might have been turned on by him, but not enough for her to forget he was a recovering junkie. Thankfully, though, his wounded pride kept him from showing her how battered it really was. He stiffened his spine and got on his bike. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

He refused to let her know how much of a sucker he had grown to be for her company. “Maybe.”

Becca’s lower lip jutted out into a pout that practically invited him to take it between his teeth. However, this wasn’t some simpering trick meant to guilt trip him into saying yes. Based on the deepened furrow above her nose, this was actual bewilderment.

Good. Keep her guessing
.

But when she turned around and started walking in the opposite direction, something shifted inside. His confidence fell like a trap door, plunging him into the pit of doubt. It dragged him under, surrounding him like quicksand and smothering the fragile hope he’d only recently discovered. His lungs burned for air, and his slick palms slipped off the throttle. She was leaving him alone with his inner demons. A black tunnel narrowed his vision, closing in on him.

He cried her name out in desperation.

She turned around, only few feet farther than she’d been. Not the miles his panic had imagined her to be. “Yes?” she asked, her voice rising with worry.

His heart rattled so hard a tremble shook his fingers, but the tightness in his chest eased enough to allow him to gulp in a breath of relief. She answered him when he called, just like she said she would. “Does it ever go away?”

He didn’t need to elaborate. Her eyes darkened with regret. “No, but it gets easier with time.”

“But there’s no cure? No way to be completely free of it?”

She shook her head. “But remember what I said about filling the void with something else.”

“And what if there
is
nothing else?”

Instead of fading in the distance, the click of her heels on the cement came closer. A set of fingers ran along his jaw and forced him to turn his head toward her. “Do you really believe that?”

The doubt grew louder, whispering in the back of his mind that he was nothing without his muse. “Do you?”

“No,” she said in a hushed voice.

He longed to lift her hand to his cheek and press his head against her chest, soaking in all the comfort she could give him. But his pride wouldn’t let him reveal how fucked up he was inside. He jerked his chin in the opposite direction and yanked on his helmet.

“Ethan, I meant what I said about calling me if you need to talk to someone. Don’t give in to the doubt, the despair. It does get easier, and I’m here to help you in any way I can.”

He revved up the engine and rode away before she discovered he was beyond help.

Chapter Four

Ethan placed his fingers on the familiar piano keys and willed them to create a melody. Growing up, he’d always found solace in music. Whenever he’d been frustrated with school or teased by his brothers, he could always sit in front of his mother’s piano and release his angst through the dark and dreamy sonatas of Beethoven to the bright, bouncing beats of Gershwin. As he got older, he traded the classics for his own creations, expanding from the piano to his guitar. Whatever the song, he found peace through playing it.

But that was before music became a double-edged sword. Before playing what made him happy became what the record label would release. Before the pressure was laid on him to continue to write songs people would pay to hear. Before the thing that fed his soul only fed his bank account.

He banged his fist on the keys with a dissonant crash of notes and got up from the piano. It was eleven o’clock, a time when most normal people were getting ready to crawl into bed, but a nervous energy flowed through his blood, making sleep nearly impossible for the last three nights. The seed of doubt that had taken root as he left Becca the other night had bloomed into a dark jungle that threatened to swallow him whole.