Sweet Solace (The Seattle Sound Series Book 1) (2 page)

I smiled at Simon. “No need to worry. We’re old friends.”

Simon’s brown eyes were shadowed with worry. “He’ll hurt you, Lia. We’re just starting to see you emerge from wherever you’ve been hiding. Ella pointed out you’ve smiled on this trip. We haven’t seen you smile in years.”

I patted his hand. “I’m completely safe from doing anything that might come close to be called living.”

“That’s what worries me. What’s going to happen when you pop the grief bubble?”

I’d have to finish mourning the life I’d lost. I’d known those last years together would be hard, but I’d chosen to stay. While Huntington’s was a slow and painful descent, my relationship with Doug suffered many little deaths, some more painful than others.

Simon rubbed his hand over the fashionable jet-black stubble bristling his chin. He looked good in scruff. Doug’s beard had been patchy at best, making him look like a guy with a bad case of mange.

I’d always wanted to run my hand over a man’s cheek, feel the short, silky hairs prickle my fingers, or better, my breasts or the sensitive skin of my stomach.

Huh. Must be the wine. Or maybe Simon’s continued push to talk about Asher. He looked good in scruff. Really good.

“Just . . . be careful.”

“I always am,” I quipped. I searched his eyes. “Are you okay? Doug’s death hit us all hard.”

“Yeah. Ella and I, Jeremiah, we’ve gotten our feet under us from Doug’s death. It’s you we’re worried about.”

I pushed down the sadness. I never would’ve chosen to become a widow at thirty-two. Half my friends hadn’t even married at that age, and I’d already lost my lover. “Thanks. You know I appreciate you looking out for me.”

Simon swallowed hard, his eyes brightened by a sheen of tears. “We’ve been family a long time.”

“We have,” I said. If he cried, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to keep my own emotions in check. “So give me a little space now, please. This may be stupid, but I want to talk to Asher. We used to be friends. Good friends. I’d like the chance to reconnect.”

Simon tugged at his lower lip. “That’s what upset Doug. Your friendship with Asher. It worries me now.”

Asher glanced over, fatigue pulling at his mouth and eyes.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” I touched Simon’s shoulder. “See you in a bit.”

Making my way back to Asher’s side, I grabbed his left hand, planning to pull him forward. He threaded my fingers through his, and the contact, palm to palm, stole my breath. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d held Doug’s hand.

The bubble of grief Simon had just mentioned cracked, and something thick and ugly seeped through my chest. I loosened my fingers. I needed to go home and go to bed.

I needed to quit feeling. This was too much, too soon. I wasn’t ready.

Asher gripped my hand more firmly. My breathing turned raspy. This was bad. Really bad. He must have felt my shiver because he let go of my hand and wrapped his arm around my shoulder, supporting most of my weight when I staggered against him. Instead of relief at the fresh air, black dots formed in front of my eyes.

“This was a bad idea. I-I should go,” I said. My voice was hoarse as tension crawled up my throat. I was about two seconds from a full-blown panic attack.

“We’re taking that walk. You look like you need a distraction from whatever you’re thinking about, and there’s no way I’m going back in there with those fans. They’re rabid. C’mon.”

His arm still slung over my shoulder, I stumbled along next to him as he towed me down the block. I tried to force down the weight in my throat. I couldn’t take a full breath, not with his arm around my shoulder. My heart battered my ribs so hard tears welled up in my eyes.

“Can’t,” I whispered, yanking away from him. “I’m sorry.”

“Dahlia, don’t you dare run from me. It’s almost ten, and this is not the nicest part of town.”

“Panic attack,” I said, my voice hoarse. “Don’t want you to see this.” I turned, trying to dash toward my car.

Asher cursed, but then his long fingers wrapped around my forearm. He spun me around. He must have dipped his knees because my nose was pressed into the side of his neck, his strong arms banding around me. His touch, the caring in it, unleashed the monster I’d tried so hard to chain.

He lifted my feet from the ground and stepped backward toward what I assumed was an alley. My vision tunneled, and I really didn’t care. I struggled to get air into my lungs.

I gasped, shook, and mewled as embarrassment mingled with the panic. I’d gotten better at recognizing the signs, managing to get away from others before I melted down. Not this time.

He held my head, his voice soothing. The worst of the pain passed quickly, and I trembled with relief as tears leaked from the corners of my eyes. I willed them to stop, and I tried to pull back. Asher tightened his grip just enough to keep me tucked against his large, warm body, his arm settled low on my waist. His free hand smoothed down my hair.

He spoke to me in a low voice. Soft words, like I used to say to Abbi when she had a nightmare. His fingers continued to comb through my hair. This time, I relaxed completely, basking in his warmth. This almost-stranger was more than I could handle, yet somehow exactly what I needed. The universe was so clever with its sense of humor.

He smelled good, like summer rain.

When my brain keyed in enough to hear what he was telling me, I calmed further, resting against the solid wall of his chest. My cheek was wet from tears, and sweat bloomed across our skin wherever our bodies touched.

“I remember the first time I saw you. I looked out into the crowd gathered in that garage where they held the tryouts for Cactus Arrow and saw this long, dark hair and the biggest, brightest gray eyes. I remember thinking how happy you were, how in the moment. I looked for you every day after that. I loved seeing the joy on your face. I loved talking to you.”

“I’m sorry about that,” I whispered.

“Panicking? Better than being puked on. That’s happened a couple of times.”

“You handled it well,” I said.

His eyes darkened. “My mom had panic attacks. They got worse after my father left. A lot worse. She’d try to hide them.” He raised his brows, a silent question.

“Some event usually triggers them,” I said. “At least that’s what I’ve read.”

“Doug’s death?” he asked, his voice still soft.

I hesitated, debating. “My dad’s, when I was fourteen. They got better for a while. Then Doug was diagnosed.” I pressed my cheek against the hardness of his shoulder. “With Huntington’s disease.” I stepped out of his arms.

“I don’t know what that is.”

“A death sentence,” I whispered. Much as I didn’t want to, I forced my gaze to his. “I’m sorry. For all of this.”

“It’s better than being covered in vomit.” He smiled.

I grinned. It was wobbly, but it was real. Damn, that felt good.

I scrubbed the heels of my hands over my eyes. I was glad I hadn’t bothered with mascara. At least I didn’t have black dripping down my red, blotchy cheeks. “No one else knows about my, er . . . episodes. Thank you for talking me through it. That helped. A lot, actually.”

Asher chuckled. “Jessica would be shocked you’re thanking me. More that I actually helped you out. She says I’m selfish, always focused on me. But even an egotistical ass like me understands shitty things happen to good people.”

I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the wall. I was probably getting grime in my hair, but I was too tired to care. “Seriously, I’m sorry. I don’t normally freak out in public. That’s more of a good-times-at-home experience.”

“Something you save for Saturday night kicks?”

The smile tugged at my lips. “No. I’m not much of a crier. Maybe that’s the problem.”

“That was intense. Do you normally have any warning?”

“I’m fine.”

“I’m not dropping this yet, Dahlia.” His voice was stern but there was an undercurrent there. One I didn’t quite understand. “Do you know what brought it on? You should avoid your triggers. That worked for my mom. Most of the time.”

I snorted. “I avoid life.” The silence built. I met his patient gaze. “I liked holding your hand.” I swallowed. “A lot.” I shrugged, trying to cover my embarrassment. “Feel free to go back to the next band. I can hear the music. Seems pretty good.”

I closed my eyes again and waited for him to walk away from me. It was inevitable.

“If you’re feeling well enough, let’s walk. My mom said endorphins solve just about anything.”

I opened one of my eyes. “Your mom sounds smart. But I don’t want you to feel obligated. You could be having fun. I’m so not a good time. I just proved that.”

“Fun gets me into trouble. And my mom was smart, I miss her.”

“When did she die?” I asked, my voice soft.

“A few years ago.”

“My dad died in a peace-keeping mission in Eastern Europe. It was terrible.”

“You’ve had your share of shitty, too. The panic attack is nothing to be embarrassed about.” He tucked my hair behind my ear, his hand lingering for a moment before dropping to his side. “You didn’t do anything wrong, and I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be.”

“You could be inside the bar, talking licks and chords with Simon.”

“Nah, I’m all about introspection these days. Walk with me, Dahlia. Please.”

A thrill shot through my chest at the sound of my name, not just my nickname, coming from Tristan Asher Smith’s mouth.

Maybe we shouldn’t have reconnected. If he’d picked a different seat, a different bar, we wouldn’t be having this conversation now.

But if I’d learned anything since Doug’s death, it was to be thankful for the moments you were given. To treasure them because they were fleeting. This moment with Asher was a mere passing-in-the-night.

That made the entire situation even more intoxicating.

He’d been my favorite lyricist ever since I heard him sing in a dingy garage not far from Doug’s apartment. The band was short-lived, but I was hooked. When his first Supernaturals album came out, I’d scraped together my change to buy a copy. And for the next week, I sat close to the speakers whenever Doug was out, listening over and over to Asher’s rough, sexy voice sing about depression, drugs, and unsatisfying sexual encounters.

As I matured, I’d realized he was singing about universal tropes most people identified with, at least at some point in their lives. He seemed as sad as I was, but he was still willing to express compassion.

He slid his hand against mine, lacing our fingers together. “I like touching you. This okay?” he asked.

“Yes. Really good. Especially now that I’ve realized how much I’ve missed it. Thanks.”

That clasp, our hands the only thing that touched, was intimate.

I couldn’t let go.

W
e drove
in separate cars up Seaview to Golden Gardens Park. From the parking lot, we meandered down the path bordering the water, away from the marina and its dark, hulking sailboats. The air was cooler here next to the sound, and Dahlia stopped to shrug into a long cardigan. She wrapped her arms around her narrow waist. She wasn’t relaxed with me now like she’d been in the bar.

I shortened my strides to match hers, occasionally grabbing her elbow to help her avoid a depression in the sidewalk or a rowdy bunch of weekend partiers carrying coolers of beer toward a bonfire. Dahlia’s conversation was sporadic. She’d drawn inward, focused on something I couldn’t see. Maybe it hadn’t been a good idea to push her to go on a walk.

The alternative was to let her go home and mourn the life she wouldn’t get back. I didn’t want her to do that, much like I couldn’t face being alone with my thoughts.

“Why does fun get you into trouble?” she asked.

Her voice surprised me out of my own introspection, and I stumbled. “Fun means getting piss-faced drunk, maybe using something harder,” I responded. Honesty might scare her away, but she seemed to think I was a better man than I’d ever tried to be. “Altered states of mind do not make the best decisions. And the situation with Jessica . . . I need to do better. No more broken bones or bad media events.”

She looked at the horizon, her eyes glowing with a warm, soft light. Like moonlight on the water.

“Want to walk on the beach?” I asked.

“Sure. I won’t see it again for a while so might as well enjoy my last night here.”

I tried to ignore the soft line of Dahlia’s hip when she leaned against me to take off her brown, heeled boots and socks. I smiled at the paisley pattern.

I slid off my shoes and grabbed them both in my left hand. I didn’t like sand much, but tonight I enjoyed the coolness as it caressed my feet.

“You don’t live in Seattle anymore?” I asked.

“Nope, so no awkward run-ins after tonight,” she said, still smiling. “We’re heading back to Idaho. It’s a little town out in the middle of nowhere, but I guess that’s not saying much because the whole state’s sparsely populated.”

“Do you miss it?”

“I enjoy the city. I used to love it, but now I find I can only deal with it in small doses.”

Her panic attacks must be harder to control here, probably because she was surrounded by so much movement and the smell of other people’s anxiety and needs.

“You said you’re visiting Simon and his family.”

“I’ve made a point to get Abbi together with Doug’s family every few months. It’s just Simon, his wife and son now. Abbi doesn’t have much in the way of family.”

“Abbi?”

“My daughter. She’s sixteen.”

I had no idea Dahlia had a kid. When my eyes met hers, she looked so small and lost. I slid my palm against hers again, offering what comfort I could. She jumped at the contact, making me gently grip her fingers tighter as I led her toward the water.

“You’re going to spoil me with all this hand-holding,” she murmured.

“I hadn’t thought about it before,” I said, shooting for nonchalance. I’d noticed how much she liked the contact, how it calmed her. “What specifically do you like about it?”

“This is silly, I know, but the connection. The fact that someone else cares enough to want to touch me for so long.”

I looked down at our joined hands and rubbed my thumb across her knuckles. So many words lodged in my throat. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“You’re still heartbroken.”

She smiled a little, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Not like you think. I have Abbi. She’s a great kid.”

“You think it would’ve lasted?” I asked, looking out at the water. The waves lapped in a steady rhythm. I loved the sound, the constancy of it.

“Is this about your relationship, or mine?”

Perceptive. I wondered if she was a psychologist. No. Her panic attacks would be too ironic for her to be a therapist.

“I’m not prying,” Dahlia said when I turned to study her. I raised my eyebrow at her. She looked away. “Okay, I am.”

“Jessica and I . . .” I drew in a deep, unsteady breath. “We’ve been rocky for a long time. Trust is hard.”

My lips firmed as I began to walk again. We’d made too many mistakes, hurt each other too many times. Especially Olivia, my biggest regret. She would always be between us. If I’d tried harder, maybe . . . but Jessica wasn’t willing to forgive me for that night. I’d never forgive myself. I looked down, thinking how easy it would be to walk out there and not come back.

But Mason deserved a father. Even if the best Mason would ever have was the fuckup I’d become.

“You’ve grown apart?” Dahlia asked. Her foot slid into a hole in the sand, and I was relieved when I had to focus on her body, my arm around her waist, holding her steady.

“There’s so much between us,” I said. “I married her because she was pregnant.”

“Doug married me for the same reason.”

“Ah, that explains so much,” I said, brushing the lock of her hair from my cheek. “I remember. You were high school sweethearts.”

“Mmm. I met him my freshman year. He was a senior. I hit the popularity jackpot.” She laughed, the first true one I’d heard. The sound bubbled out of her, effervescent, drifting across the dark night. I wished I could bottle her laugh.

“If your daughter’s in high school, you must have been a teenage mom.”

“I was nineteen. Young, yes, but Doug and I had already been together for five years.”

She had a kid two years after I’d quit Cactus Arrow. I didn’t know what to do with that information. I swallowed down a bitter mouthful of regret. “I don’t think I’ve got it in me. The staying power.” She deserved to know I was an even bigger bastard than she thought.

“With Jessica or any woman?”

“Who’s to say about another relationship? Jessica’s been pretty clear about her unhappiness for a while now. I’m not surprised we’ve unraveled.”

I swallowed, thinking about her angry outbursts, about her look of triumph when I’d signed the papers that destroyed what was left of my family. Had it already been nine months? “I’m surprised by how much the failure hurts.”

Dahlia leaned against my shoulder, comforting me. “You’re nicer than I remember. Or your lyrics led me to believe. If you’re not careful, I’ll develop deep feelings for you,” she said with a dramatic shudder.

“My lyrics, hmm? That’s my best feature?”

I walked into the shallow water, shivering at the chill temperature. Too cold, but we stayed there at the edge of the surf, laughing when the foam lapped over the edge of our jeans.

“Do you still love it? Performing?” she asked, finally moving away from the water’s edge.

That was the question. One I’d been asking for a while. “I like the energy. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like the adoration. It’s great for the ego.”

“You’re very attractive,” she said, her statement so matter-of-fact I wasn’t sure if
she
was attracted to me. “It’s easy to see why women throw their panties at you.”

She pulled her hand from mine and plopped down in some dry sand. I sat next to her, leaning back on my elbows. Her head settled on my shoulder. I was sure it must be very late, well after midnight now. I needed to get her home, but I sat still, enjoying the warmth of her body, the brush of her long hair against my arm, the clean, soft smell of her skin. Floral. I smiled, picturing dahlias. I doubted she’d wear that fragrance, but she was subversive enough to enjoy the sly humor.

“I’m going to pull out this memory often,” she murmured. “The last few years haven’t been good. This is tender.”

“Real relationships are probably what I miss most from my life before,” I said. I hadn’t meant to tell her that. I hadn’t meant to tell her most of what I had tonight, but after seeing her so vulnerable, I couldn’t stop myself. “Jessica doesn’t understand why I don’t want to be out there all the time, lapping up the attention. Doling out pieces of me. A story, an old guitar. It’s always something.”

“That’s exhausting. You have no place to just
be
. Is that what you meant about trust and staying power? That your needs are just too different?”

“If not for Mason . . .”

“Your son?”

“Yeah.” I tilted my head down so I could see her upturned face. “You do know a lot about me.”

I’d quit following up on her years ago after she married Doug. Tried to move on. I nearly snorted. Because that had worked out so well.

She shrugged, turning to look out into the dark water. The moonlight glittered across the waves. “Lots of late nights. Not much sleeping. The Internet offered an escape.”

“You, like, cyber-stalked me?” I couldn’t keep the shock from my voice.

She fidgeted, sitting up. “I joined your mailing list and found a few old interviews.”

I gripped my hands around my knees, rocking back and forth. “And just what else did you find out about me in your stalking?” Oh, this was too good to pass up.

She looked down at her fingers, dragged them through the sand. “Mmm. This is very uncomfortable for me.”

“I’m not the stalker.”

“It was completely harmless. It’s not like I walked up to your table in a bar.”

“I thought— Never mind.” No way I could tell her what I’d really thought. Not even on this night of honesty.

“What?”

I kept my eyes on hers, hoping she’d understand now what I couldn’t say when she was seventeen. I’d been too old for her then. “I’ve never forgotten you, Dahlia.”

“Puh-lease,” she said, rolling her eyes, unwilling to consider I was serious. But I was. I always had been about her.

“I regretted for years you were Doug’s girl.”

Her eyes snapped to mine. She forced a smile and looked down at the sand. I missed those bright gray eyes focused on me. I gazed out into Puget Sound.

“Favorite song?” I asked, needing to break the tension.

“‘Sweet Solace.’”

“That’s not what I would’ve guessed. That one almost didn’t end up on the album because it was so different from what we were doing then.”

“I’m glad it did. That song lets me know that you’ve experienced pain and loss. ‘Sweet solace in the dreams that can never be . . . You left too soon and I’m struggling to see . . . The beauty in a life without your smile.’“

She would be drawn to those words. “Sounds prettier when you say it.”

“Don’t ask me to sing because I won’t.” She bumped me with her hip. “Not when I’m sitting next to a legend.”

“Funny. But you never struck me as someone who’d want to make music. Or perform.”

“I like to listen. I’ve never yearned for the limelight.” Her brow furrowed as she weighed her words. “Those are real emotions in your lyrics, expressing that you know what it’s like to lose someone you love. That song helped me get through those early days and months after Doug died.”

I opened my mouth. Shut it. Cleared my throat as I decided on a partial truth. “I wrote it when my mom got sick. Breast cancer. It ate her up for years before she finally died.”

She touched my cheek, her eyes softening with empathy. I didn’t tell her I’d been thinking about her as much as my mom. That sounded unrequited, and I’d never liked Romeo and Juliette. He should’ve moved on, like I did.

I hung my head, my turn to feign interest in the sand. A long moment slid passed, the only sound the water lapping at the shore as I searched for a safer topic. “You weren’t kidding about connecting with lyrics. Let me guess—you’re a writer.”

“Mmm. Nailed it in one.”

“Anything I’ve heard of?”

“Doubt it.”

“Color me curious.”

“You ever read a romance novel?” Her muscles tensed, probably because of the usual comments about writing smut.

I sang about affairs—mine and my buddies’—I’d heard all the shaming comments. “A couple.”

“Really?”

“Reading. Yes, I do it. There’s not much else to do between stops. I’m shit at Xbox.” I narrowed my eyes. “You don’t love ‘Moonshine Eyes’?” I had to know. “‘Drifting deeper in my dreams,’” I sang, my voice soft and low. Dahlia shuffled closer, her eyes widening as I continued, “‘I swear I never thought you’d leave.’”

Her lips parted, her tongue darting out to touch the center of her bottom lip just as it had that first time I sang this tune.

I dipped my voice lower. “‘I’ve stared so long into those moonshine eyes, sliding further in the calming sea of pleasure and mystery.’”

“Oh, God,” she whispered, her breath a warm puff across my lips.

Yearning was etched deep in her eyes and the way her luscious mouth opened in welcome.

“I do like that song. So much. It’s beautiful,” she said, her voice reverential.

I wanted to pull her close, mold her soft body to mine. “What if I told you I wrote it for you?”

She leaned back enough that her lips were no longer inches from mine, her eyes darkening with pain. “I’d say you were trying to get in my pants, and we have an agreement.”

I was silent for a long moment, wishing I’d reconnected with her sooner. Later. Any time but now when my life was so totally fucked. I picked up a shell and tossed it hand to hand.

“If I wanted to get in your pants, I’d sing you ‘Let’s do it in the Surf.’ You know, to set the mood.”

She laughed, grabbing her stomach, eventually collapsing back onto the sand. “That’s the song that created my daughter,” she gasped between giggles.

“Wait until I tell the guys we get to claim partial credit for your daughter. And critics say our music doesn’t always live up to its potential.”

“For what it’s worth, I was eighteen, looking for adventure, and hyped from your gig. I met Doug on the beach later that night. He wouldn’t come to your concert.” She sobered, her eyes distant, remembering. “The water was so freaking cold. Don’t do that, by the way.”

“What?”

“Try to make love in Puget Sound.” Dahlia shuddered. “That’s hypothermia waiting to happen.”

Silence enveloped us again. Like the dark, it was comforting.

“So you really read romances?” Dahlia asked. I loved how she looked at me. I had her full attention. She cared about my answer.

“Of course. Jessica reads them, goes through them like they’re candy. My mom was more literary, but she had a couple favorite genre authors. One was a romance writer.”