STONED (Wrecked Book 1) (32 page)

“Why are you here, Stone? I thought you guys were in LA and then back to Austin?” In the reflection, I watch him hop up on the counter, hands braced on the granite at either side of his legs, muscles and ink dancing with the movement. He twists the baseball cap on his head backwards, the hoop in his nose catching the light. He has on a black tank top, the material clinging to his muscled chest, the barbells through his nipples outlined making my insides do a funny little dance.

“I went. Did the meeting thing in LA then went home to Austin to check on the house and meet with the finance guys. I cut it all short. There’s nothing that can’t be handled over the phone or Skype if they really need to see my face. I didn’t want to be away from . . . here, anymore.”

He said here but he meant me. I’m sure of it. I just choose to ignore it. “What does the label want that’s so urgent?” I question curiously, moving past him to the stove and the kettle that is about to start whistling. Pulling a mug down from the cabinet right beside him, I try not to breathe him in. Fight not to lean into the warmth of him, so close I can feel his leg brushing ever so slightly against mine as he swings his feet. I peek around the cabinet at him, and find him looking at my ass. He doesn’t even pretend he isn’t when he realizes he’s been caught. He just gives me that slow Stone smile. The one that they love to capture and put on billboards it’s so damn hot. “Want some tea?”

He shrugs, “Okay.”

“So what did the boys at the label want?” I prod. This is the first normal conversation we’ve had since he’s been back in my life. I can’t help but like the familiarity of it. Of him.

“They want us back on tour. But I'm not ready.”

“Sobriety is hard. Don't push yourself.” I look down at our mugs, playing with the tea bags I’ve dropped in each, just taking a second to weigh out my next words. “I’m proud of you, Stone,” I say quietly. It’s hard for me to admit, I’m not exactly sure why, but it doesn’t make it any less true.

“Don't do that. Yes, it’s hard. It's a disease. But nobody tells cancer survivors that they're proud of them for beating it. They deserve it more than me. I'm an addict. I don't deserve accolades for that shit.”

My head cocked, I look at him. Does he not see what he’s accomplished? “Stone. Look at me.” I wait until he brings his angry gray eyes my way. “You’re your own cure. You. You walked into rehab on your own and walked out sober and you’ve stayed that way ever since. That’s something to be proud of. I’m not saying that being an addict is something to be revered for, but being a survivor, and facing your demons head on, is.” His eyes dart to every corner of my face and then back to my eyes. This is the most intimate moment I’ve initiated since he came back into my life and I want nothing more than to hold him right now. Heal him. Fill the cracks that his addiction left behind. But I won’t. I can’t. I’m still too broken myself.

“Only you could ever see the good in me, Birdie. Always.” Stone reaches out and runs his callused finger down the side of my face before dropping his hand to the granite again, squeezing the edge. “The day I vowed to get sober I made a promise to myself that when I finally got you back in my life that I’d never lie to you again.” I lower my head so he can’t see the hurt there. That’s something I can’t get past. All the lying and cheating. It haunts me. Niggles at me whenever I feel myself weakening toward him.

He goes on speaking, not forcing me to look at him for which I’m grateful. “Do I want a drink right now? Fuck yes. A hit? A pill? Absolutely. But then I think about you. About Lyric. I think about how brave you are. All I put you through. And the thought of taking that sip, that line, turns my stomach.” With a finger under my chin, he makes me look at him now. He won’t let me hide from him and I’m not sure that I want to. “For as long as I live, I will never be that guy again. That’s no lie, Birdie.”

The kettle shrieks scaring the hell out of both of us. With a startled laugh, I grab it off the burner, pouring the water into the mugs. Grateful for the interruption. I go about doctoring his tea the same as I do mine only with a double dose of sugar for him.

“Plus, that isn’t why I’m not ready to go back on tour,” Stone tells me as he takes the steaming brew from my hand. My eyebrows drawn, I watch him and wait. When he doesn’t answer right away I take the bait.

“Why then?” Him wrapping his large tattooed hands around the dainty cup shouldn’t be sexy, but it is. Looking up from his hands, my gaze collides with his. “I’m not ready to leave you. You or Lyric.”

“Stone—”

“I know, Wills. I know. You have JD. But you gotta know I’m not going anywhere. Even when they do finally make me go on tour, I’m coming back here. If you and the little bird are here, this is where I’ll be.” Sipping his tea, he gives me a moment to let that sink in.

“Stone, that’s nuts. You have a home in Austin, the studio.”

He interrupts me again. “None of it matters if you’re here.” Stone pins me with a look of pure determination. “If I have to steal you from him, I will. I will remind you of every pretty word, stolen moment, every fucking memory until you can’t handle it anymore if that’s what it takes, but I’m not walking away, Willow. You can’t make me. Lyric deserves a dad who loves her mama as much as he loves her little girl. That guy’s not JD. It’s not.” My lip trembles as I watch him place a hand over his heart. “I’m your rhythm, Birdie. Me.” His words are strong and ring true.

I can’t do this with him. I need to think, to breathe, and I can’t do either with him so close. Using his fucking words on me. People always say that actions speak louder than words, but with Stone it’s just the opposite. His words hold all of his meaning. Drawing in a Stone-scented breath, I walk to the other side of the kitchen. “You have to go, Stone. It’s late and you shouldn’t be here.”

He snorts. “You worried your little boyfriend is gonna show up and get the wrong idea? Let him, Birdie. Better yet, tell him. He’s not your guy.”

I shake my head, rubbing at my temple and the headache that’s starting to form. “Joaquin won’t—he’s not . . . we’re not—”I stammer. “We broke up,” I say and then take a sip of my still too hot tea.

At this revelation, Stone hops down from the counter, his grin kicking up one side of his mouth, lips curling in mirth. “When did this happen?”

“Couple weeks ago I guess.” I don’t dare tell him it was the night he sang for me at The Dirty Bird. “You know what? I’m not discussing it with you. I’ve had a long day. I need to get to sleep. I have another class in the morning.” Putting my mug down, I start for the front door, hoping with everything in my being that he follows. After a moment he does.

Once there he turns to me, “You know you don’t have to work, Birdie. You and Lyric never have to want for anything as long as you live.” Stuffing his hands in his pockets he watches me.

“Stone, I told you, that money is yours. You earned it. Just like I’m earning mine.”

His eyes are calm, his gaze steady. “Okay, Wills. Okay. I’ll see you girls tomorrow.”

Before I can argue that with him, he’s on the sidewalk strolling to his house which is still entirely too damn close.

Stone

IN THE STUDIO AT THE
Dirty Bird, I make adjustments to the lyrics in the notebook in front of me. The guys are still in Austin for a couple more days and I’m getting stir crazy at the house. It’s too fucking quiet without those assholes. Dane is there, but that motherfucker is so quiet he might as well be a mute. Shit’s unnatural.

Cigarette clamped between my teeth, I play the bridge again. Hitting the body of the Martin with my wrist, the snap on my leather cuff adding to the melody. I hear the door open and look up to see a glaring Bear.

“Cora is gonna kick your ass for smoking in here.”

With a grin I nod and take a long drag of the cigarette. He didn't come in here to bitch about my smoking. “What’s up, Bear?”

“New song?” He lifts his chin in my direction.

“Yeah, man. I did a ton of writing in rehab, but I’ve felt . . . inspired lately, I guess you can say. Amazing what you can get done when you’re not fucked up and your mind is clear.” I laugh wryly. “If only someone had told me sooner.” I take one more deep pull before putting the cigarette out.

“What’s it called?” Bear asks, coming further into the room.

Slowly I release the smoke from my lungs, watching it swirl between us. He’s never really been nice to me. I mean that one night at The Dirty Bird when I sang to Wills he pretended to be nice to me, but this is different. I feel like I’m being tested or some shit. “Willow’s Lyric.”

He nods approvingly. “Will they let you name another song after her?”

I snort, “I don’t give a fuck what they say about shit. My contract with them is almost up. If they want to keep me, they’ll stay off my ass.”

This piques his interest a bit. “Are you thinking about leaving and going with someone else? They’re a big label; bands would kill to be signed with them.”

“Not sure. The guys and I have talked about starting our own label. I don’t want to tour as much anymore, and if Fall Out had their way I’d be touring for the next three years with no break. I’m not doing that. I’m done with that shit.”

“You just hit big, what, like five or six years ago now? You really done with touring?”

“Yup. What kind of life would that be for Lyric? And I don’t want to be gone so much that I’m some deadbeat absentee father. I had one of those. Not what I want for her.” I cross my arms over the top of my guitar. “I lived my childhood in foster homes. Some I didn’t think I’d even survive. One or two I almost didn’t. I just want Lyric to have a happy fucking home. One where she knows she’s safe and loved. Give her a couple brothers to watch over her little ass.” I laugh, a little embarrassed that I just admitted all that to a man that barely likes me. Clearing my throat, I keep going, might as well let him in on the plan. Fucker’s gonna have to like me eventually, I’m not going anywhere. “So, yeah. I’m done with the crazy, never-ending tours and parties and bullshit.” I reach for my smokes on the stool next to me and light one up, glancing in his direction expectantly when he doesn’t say anything right away.

“So I take it you know that she and Joaquin broke up?”

The smile that slips over my face can’t be helped. “I do.”

Bear shakes his head and laughs. “Don’t look so upset about it.”

“She was never his to begin with.”

“No. I guess she wasn’t,” he says thoughtfully. “Do you mean everything you said? About Lyric and making a home with Willow?”

“God damn right. Every word,” I say with conviction.

“Are you planning on taking her away from here? From us?” He raises a hand to halt my answer. “I mean, if she’ll have you.” The bastard smirks at me.

“I’m all done being first. I put my dreams ahead of everything because music, ya know? And Wills let me because it was our thing. She may not have wanted in the band, but we made music . . . together. And then I let the devil get me. Let addiction take everything that meant anything to me and just leave me empty. I’d been lost for a long time. But not anymore. I have purpose. I found my rhythm again. Willow is my rhythm. I finally feel whole again. Unbroken.” Inhaling slowly from the cigarette, I exhale even slower, trying to organize the chaos of my thoughts and eventually answering the question he asked. “If Willow says this is where she and Lyric want to be, then this is where we’ll be. We can work shit out with the band and the label. If they don’t like it, that’s too damn bad. If I learned anything in rehab, it’s that we only get this one life. We may get a couple redo’s, but you gotta make them count. I want to make this one count.”

Bear just watches me for a second. Weighing my words. “Well, if you’re serious, and I believe that you are, I’ll help you in any way that I can. I only want to see them happy.” He pierces me with a steady glare and then nods. “If you guys decide to move forward and start your own label, you’re going to have some legal shit to wade through. Tell Judge to call me. I can help with all of that.”

With narrowed eyes, I jerk back a little surprised and give him a dubious look.

“What? Don’t let the beard and flannel fool you, eh? Underneath this whole lumbersexual thing I’ve got going on, I’m an attorney.”

Before I can stop myself, I burst out laughing. I’m not sure if it’s the fact that Paul Bunyan over here is a fucking attorney or that he just called himself a lumbersexual that has me doing my best to smother my laughter with the back of my hand.

“Keep laughing, you little prick. I was a partner at one of the largest, most prestigious law firms in Montreal.”

“No shit?” I ask incredulously.

“No shit. That’s actually how I met Cora. Her first husband died and left her his half of The Dirty Bird, but his partner tried to screw her out of it so she hired me to help. The rest is history,” Bear says, smiling fondly at the memory.

“And the partner?”

“Also history,” he says smugly.

“Well-played, sir. I’ll let Judge know.”

We sit for a few seconds just in the moment, bonding or some shit. It’s weird as fuck, honestly.

Testing the waters, I ask, “Did we just become friends?”