Kiss Me Goodnight (18 page)

He was so thoughtful. I’d told him about John’s health scare. He’d been there for his father, though they weren’t as close as John and me, and he understood that I needed to be near.

By that evening, he’d emailed me his analysis. Not only did he enthusiastically encourage me to take on the contract when I met him that Friday in Chicago, but shortly thereafter his friend who managed talent contacted me and related lots of advice. Within a week of broaching the subject with Thomas, I had a list of contacts around the country and a name to drop.

With those tools and Kiss Me Goodnight’s rave reviews from their one opening gig, it didn’t take long to book them several weekend dates at smaller venues. The band thought I was the second coming.

“You’re amazing,” Daisy said the following week as she folded laundry on her kitchen table.

I’d stopped by to clear a Philadelphia date with her. The rest of the band was pretty mobile, but Daisy needed notice so she could make sure Audra was available to take care of Monty. The other shows I’d booked had been closer to home—journeys no farther than a three- or four-hour car ride.

“I can’t believe you thought you’d make a crappy manager,” she continued. “You’ve done more in two weeks than any of us have been able to do in six months.”

I couldn’t take credit for everything. Though I landed them that gig at The Fillmore, everything else had come from Thomas. I might have blushed under Daisy’s praise. Receiving compliments has never been my strong suit.

“It wasn’t all me. I mentioned what I’m doing to Thomas, and he knows someone who’s been doing this for years. That’s where I got the contact information, and the rest is all you guys. I send them a couple of your tracks, and they’re foaming at the mouth to book you.”

She stopped in the midst of folding a shirt. “Thomas?”

We’d been on two dates, and I’d only mentioned him to my parents, Luma, and Jane. I don’t know if I purposely didn’t mention him to the band or if he’d just never come up before. Maybe a little of both.

My blush deepened, heating my cheeks and chest. “He’s…a friend.” We weren’t exclusive, but I didn’t make out with my friends, so that lie didn’t sit well with me. “We’ve gone out a couple of times.”

She smacked my arm. The slap rang in the air. Startled, I jumped back and fell out of my chair. I hit the floor with a thud that rattled my backside.

Daisy rushed to help me. “I didn’t hit you that hard.”

My father broke my femur when I was eighteen months old. I don’t have any memory of it, but I’ve always been a flincher. My mom blames my father. I don’t know who’s at fault; I just know I don’t relish being hit. I don’t think that’s unusual.

I popped back into the chair as if I’d never left it. “I’m fine. Thanks.” She looked at me funny, and I feared she’d ask a question I couldn’t answer without lying. I barreled forward. “He’s a great guy. He took me to Chicago last weekend and New York the weekend before. He lives in Connecticut.”

Her suspicious, speculative expression turned tart, and she frowned. “What about you and Dylan?”

“There is no ‘me and Dylan.’ He’s not over his wife.”

She snorted and shook another piece of clothing free from the pile in her basket. “He’s over Nadia. I think he was over her before she passed away.”

The ring he’d worn around his neck at their first concert—though I hadn’t seen him wear it since—testified to the opposite. “He told me he wasn’t over her.”

“He did not.” Daisy’s disapproving frown dared me to challenge her.

You know how I react to dares, right? “Yes, he did. He wore her ring to his first performance. When he took me to look at the stars, he said he wasn’t ready to move on. He told me I was fucked up. Am I supposed to spend my life waiting for him? I’m not going to suddenly turn into a different person. I don’t want to. I like myself just fine. Thomas knows a lot more about me than Dylan does, and he doesn’t call me names or treat me like a kid who needs a babysitter. He likes me, Daisy. He likes
me
.”

I didn’t say the rest of what I was thinking. While I truly liked Thomas, I wanted Dylan with an urgency that left me fractured and breathless. On paper, Thomas was perfect. I desperately wanted to want him the most.

“That explains why you’ve been happier the past couple weeks. I thought maybe you and Dylan had finally gotten together.”

Silently, I shook my head. If that had happened, I would’ve been ecstatic. Dylan and I had done the opposite of getting together; we’d cooled down completely.

When someone pounded on my door that evening, I expected my neighbor, Pauline. She’s in her nineties and hard of hearing. The way she speaks to me and knocks on my door indicates that she assumes I also suffer from hearing loss.

She likes to bring me baked goods every now and again. I invite her in and make tea. We chat, and sometimes she forgets I’m not her great-grandchild and starts talking to me about her daughter, whom she refers to as “your grandmother.” I never correct her. We aren’t related, but I don’t have a grandmother, and Pauline is a nice substitute.

I’d been stretching and thinking of Thomas. Some might call it an attempt at yoga (the stretching, not the thinking, though sometimes that’s up for debate too), but I don’t think I’m there yet. I’m not sure if I’ll ever get there, but I look cute in the pants, and they’re comfortable to boot. Stretching made me feel like I’d earned the right to wear them while vegging and scarfing popcorn, which was my real plan.

Thomas had sent me a dress that hugged my curves in sinful and suggestive ways. The note with it said he was looking forward to seeing me wear it. He’d sent matching shoes and a purse, but he wouldn’t tell me where we were going. I predicted dinner, since the plane ticket put me in Boston at four on Friday.

At any rate, I did not expect to see Dylan, fist raised to thump on my door again, when I opened it. He must have caught the security door downstairs as someone was going out.

He wore jeans that were worn and faded, and he looked incredible. On top, he had the AFI
Black Sails
shirt he’d been wearing when we met. It did not suffer from coffee stains.

His chest heaved like he’d run a long way, and he gripped his car keys tightly. He stormed into my apartment and slammed the door shut.

“Who the hell is Thomas?”

I blinked at him as I pondered which side of the door I wanted him on before I locked it. How could someone look sexy and thunderous at the same time? I did not find his display of temper charming. When men yell at me, I tend to leave and not come back.

But I wasn’t afraid of Dylan, so I voted to let him stay. I locked the door in case someone else who was pissed came a-knocking.

“Hello, Dylan. So nice to see you. I take it Daisy told you about Philly.”

That deflated his black sails a little. “Yeah. That’s awesome. Thanks.” He shoved a hand in his pocket and lowered his volume. “That’s not why I’m here.”

I gestured toward the sofa. “Want to sit down, or would your point be better made standing and shouting?”

He paced three steps toward the far end of the room, bypassing the sofa. “Lacey, who is Thomas?”

Do I owe him an explanation? No, but it would be petty of me not to answer. “Thomas is a man I’m seeing. We’ve gone out a couple of times. He’s the one who made it possible for me to book dates for your band.”

He blinked at me, speechless.

“Daisy didn’t tell you?”

He found his voice, but not his sense. “Are you sleeping with him to book dates for my band?”

I’m not sure what expression came to my face, but it must have communicated sufficient outrage. He backpedaled. “Lacey, that didn’t come out right.”

No, it didn’t. I’m not sure there’s any right way for that to come out. “I think you should go.”

“No, wait.” He captured my arms in his firm grasp. “I’m sorry. Daisy told me you had a boyfriend, and I freaked out.”

I wanted to say something flip or cool, but I’m neither flip nor cool when I really need to be. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

Interest lit his eyes. He lifted his brows. “No?”

“No, but he has plans along those lines. He lives in another state. We’re letting things unfold naturally. Long distance is hard enough without forcing the issue.”

His eyes blazed. “I told you I like you.”

“You can’t call dibs on a woman and walk away. It doesn’t work like that.”

He kissed me, skipping the preamble and going straight for my lips. I let him. I wanted this so badly. Thoughts of everything but the way Dylan made me feel this very moment flew from my head. He released my arms and wrapped me in his embrace.

I clutched his shoulders and gave as good as I got. He tasted like cherry Lifesavers and smelled like heaven. This time, I didn’t hold back. I slid one hand up the back of his neck and sank my fingers into his thick hair.

He broke the kiss, but he didn’t stop. He nibbled at my lower lip and tangled a hand in my hair. With a slow tug, he urged my head back and gained access to my neck. Heat seared my skin as he tracked kisses along my throat. I moaned.

The few times he’d kissed me before, he’d stopped at moments like this. I didn’t want that to happen again. If he stopped, I would incinerate from the latent power of unfulfilled longing. I shoved his shirt out of the way so I could explore his abs. They were rock hard. A sprinkling of hair marked the center and tickled against my palm.

I slid my hands lower, teasing at the waist of his jeans, and he growled. “Bedroom.”

“Yes.” I jumped up onto him, wrapping my legs around his midsection.

He cupped my ass in his hands and held me against his body as he continued kissing me. It wasn’t a smooth ride to my room. He stumbled several times, conveniently pinning me to the wall where he grinded against me, and then he crashed me into the closed bedroom door. I fumbled it open, and we fell through and onto the bed.

Dylan landed heavily on top of me. I looked up to find him grinning in triumph, and I knew he’d tripped on purpose. I didn’t care. I finally had him where I wanted him. The grin on his lips faded, and his eyes turned somber. He didn’t say anything, but when he kissed me, his thoroughness said it all.

He wanted me.

He drew his palm down the center of my chest, bypassing both breasts. He lifted my shirt and bared a few inches above my yoga pants. I writhed, seeking more of his caress and less clothing between us. Thank goodness for these pants. They allowed me to feel every brush and caress.

Breaking away suddenly, he scooted me until I was centered on the bed, and then he peppered kisses along my midsection. Slowly, he worked his way up, pushing my shirt out of the way as he went. I wanted to feel his hands and mouth on my breasts so badly they tingled.

I arched my body against his, seeking more friction between my legs. I wouldn’t have minded a quick release of the tension that had built between us for months. We had time for a leisurely exploration afterward. I tore at his shirt, and he shifted around to help me remove it.

This wasn’t the first time I’d seen him without a shirt—he’d stripped down in the band’s dressing room, exchanging a sweat-soaked number for something fresh after a show—but this was the best one so far.

“Lovely. So beautiful.” He unsnapped my bra, and as he lifted the cups away from my breasts, he whispered, “Nadia.”

Throwing a glass of ice water on me would have been nicer. I smacked at his shoulder and shoved him. “Get off me.”