Breaking Giants, page 10
“Rose, I… I don’t think the baby’s mine. In fact, I’m pretty fucking sure it’s not.”
“What?” I breathe. “Why don’t you get a paternity test?”
“That’s one of complicated parts. First, she’s in L.A. and I’m here, and Missy…” He hisses in frustration. “Shit, I’m really sorry, but I can’t tell you more. I trust you, but this is her stuff, and—”
“It’s fine,” I say, sounding miraculously normal. “It’s for the best. And I think it’s safe to say we can’t be friends, Julian. Because eventually I’m going to invite you over and bad things will happen.”
He draws a sharp breath, and because he’s my kryptonite, he says darkly, “Bad, bad things. Do you think about me, Rose?”
OhmyGod. Say NO.
“Yes.”
He hums in satisfaction. “I think about you. The way you smell and taste. The little noises you make when you're turned on. I think about your hair in my mouth and on my pillow.”
Magnetic, seductive voice, wielded without hesitance or mercy. If I don’t stop him now…
“Julian—” I gasp.
“I think about that kiss, your legs wrapped around my waist, and I get instantly hard. Anytime, anywhere. I can be sitting in a fucking board room and all I can think about is marking every inch of you my teeth and tongue.”
I jerk involuntarily against the wall, my body going molten hot. I’m pulsing, careening toward a sparkling edge, and I’m not even touching myself. All it would take is his voice.
Holy shit.
“I made someone bring me your CD. I listen to it at night.” He pauses. “That throaty little hum you do on Excess gets me every time.”
WHAT.
“You…” I start, shaking and poised to implode. I can’t say it, though.
“Yes, I do,” he says, with an edge of savagery. “Do you?”
My hand moves of its own volition, skating down my aching breasts to the juncture of my thighs. The added pressure, already intense from the seam of my jeans, hits right there. I try, and fail, to muffle my soft cry as I throb in ecstasy from his voice and the vivid mental picture of him stroking himself to my music.
When the ringing in my ears subsides, I hear Julian’s harsh breathing.
“Tell me not to come over,” he says sharply. “Tell me, or I’m getting on my bike right now.”
Every cell in my body screams YES, but I whisper, “No, you can’t. Please, Julian, I—”
“Okay,” he sighs, and again, just a whisper, “Okay. Fuck. I should go.” Self-deprecating laugh. “Kind of a mess over here.”
My eyes burn. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Don’t ever be sorry. Goodnight, Rose.”
“Goodnight, Julian,” I whisper, but he’s already hung up.
♫
Freshly showered and curled in bed with a cup of chamomile tea, feeling warm and loose and surprisingly not conflicted, I open my laptop and search for the B-Side of Breaking Giants’ latest single.
I don’t find the song itself, but the lyrics pop up on more than a few private blogs as well as the band’s major fan sites. My tea forgotten, I read Julian’s words to me.
Fading footsteps like rain,
They wash out and away
The solace of night
And the promise of day
And here in the space between breaths I see
What could have become of you and me
Your voice in my ear
Or maybe my mind
A rose in a garden
I’ve waited to find
And here in the space between breaths I see
What could have become of you and me
And I want you to know
That I haven’t let go
Of your laughter and eyes
Your sweet undertow
Maybe someday we’ll find
Between breaths we’ll see
What will become of you and me
Maybe someday we’ll find,
What belongs to you and me.
I call Greta immediately. When she picks up, I demand, “Why didn’t you say anything about the B-Side?”
She’s quiet for a few beats. “I didn’t think you’d want to know. Aw, Rosie, are you crying?”
“No,” I sniffle, wiping at my eyes. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but Missy is pregnant and he doesn’t think the baby’s his, but for some reason she won’t get a paternity test, and I think he’s trying to do the right thing, only it’s not the right thing—or maybe it is. How can I feel like this for someone I don’t know?”
“Good Lord,” she says. “Shit, Rosie, that’s a train wreck.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
She sighs. “Baby drama aside, to answer your question I think sometimes when we meet people we just know them. You don’t have to be friends for years, or date for months. Call it fate, or luck, or in the case of you and Julian, extremely bad timing. But obviously you’re feeling more than just physical attraction. You’ve never been this bent out of shape over a man before.”
I think of what draws me most to him, and she’s right, it’s not his body. It’s his mind, his music. The complexity, the passion, the danger he represents. And the babbling, the panic attacks, the introversion and self-awareness. His daily triumph over the disease that killed my mother. His strength and moral compass—the compass I unknowingly knocked sideways.
“What a mess,” I whisper.
“I don’t know,” muses Greta, “seems to me it’s just life. It’s easy to judge Julian—hell, I was first in line calling him a scumbag—but sometimes shit is just complicated. I’m not saying he’s excused of all blame. He made some mistakes. But he’s human and we all make them. And that song. Whew. It’s acoustic, and the emotion his voice is freaking unreal.”
“Can I borrow the record? I only read the lyrics.”
“Absolutely, but have a box of tissues handy.”
“Ugh,” I grunt, then chew my lips. “Greta? If I tell you something, will you take it to your grave? I’m serious. Not even Owen can know.”
She pauses, considering my question seriously, which is one of the reasons I love her so much. If she doesn’t think she can do it, she won’t lie.
Finally, she asks, “Is it something about Julian specifically? That doesn’t affect your safety or the safety of anyone else?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. What is it?”
I take a deep breath. “He’s a recovering alcoholic. He got sober at twenty after a jacked-up childhood.”
Greta’s breath whooshes out of her; she gives a startled laugh. “Oh my God, it makes so much freaking sense.”
I frown. “What does?”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but given your own childhood it’s no wonder you relate to him. In a way, you’re both recovering from the effects of addiction.”
I snort. “Okay, Dr. Laura.”
“Hey, my soon to be mother-in-law is psychic. Maybe it’s rubbing off on me. Should I start reading the cards and communing with spirits?”
I laugh. “God, no!”
“But seriously, I did mean what I said.”
“I know,” I say softly. “And you’re probably on to something. I’m not sure it’s a good something, though.”
“Meh,” she says, and I know her tiny shoulders just shrugged. “Like I said, it’s complicated. But complicated doesn’t necessarily mean bad.”
“It did for my parents,” I mutter.
“Yeah,” she concedes, then yawns hugely. “Maybe try not to worry about it too much. Focus on you, honey. Do what you love and the universe will take care of the rest.”
“Thanks, Aunt Kath—I mean Greta.”
She laughs. “Get some sleep. Talk tomorrow?”
“Yes. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
13
the jig is up
Wednesday is my day off. I celebrate by staying in bed all morning—except for trips to the kitchen for coffee. As I luxuriate in the peace and quiet, distractedly flipping through a book I’ve been trying to finish for months, the patch of sky through my bedroom window becomes increasingly distracting. It’s a cloudless sapphire, whispering tantalizing promises of a beautiful day.
Greta and Owen are working, and though I consider it, I decide not to call Greg. He told me he needed time, so regardless of my wishes that’s what I’m going to give him.
After some thought, I throw on a bikini, cover it with a tank top and cutoffs, and call the one person I know will lay around in the sunshine with me. We’ve talked about it often enough. I also know she isn’t working, because I’m the one who writes her work schedule.
But as I scroll to Allison’s name, my phone lights up with an incoming call.
Matt Sullivan.
Brows lifting, I answer, “Hi Mattie.”
“Bleh. I hate that.”
“I know,” I say sweetly. “I hope you’re calling to break up with me.”
“Actually, I am.”
I pause in my bedroom doorway. “Really?”
He laughs. “Can you sound any happier about it?”
I grin. “Nope!”
“You’re hell on my ego, Rose. I’m actually calling for another reason, too. I need a favor.”
I shake my head even though he can’t see it. “No. Nope. I’m maxed out on doing you favors, buddy.”
“Pleeease?” he whines. “I think you’ll actually like this one.”
“What is it? I’m heading out to find a sunny patch somewhere, so make it quick.”
“Perfect!” he yells, making me wince and pull the phone from my ear. “I’m having a barbecue at my place today and here’s the thing—I need you to break up with me at the barbecue.”
“Why?” I ask skeptically. “I thought we weren’t doing anything public.”
“It’s not public. Close friends. I, um, want this girl to know I’m single.”
Sighing, I sink into a chair at the kitchen table. “Matt, you’re pretty much the friend I never wanted.”
He laughs, then covers the phone to answer a question. A few moments later, he tells me, “Julian says he’ll leave if you don’t want him here.”
Breathe, just breathe.
“No, uh, that’s fine. He’s fine. I mean—”
Matt cackles. “You guys are freaking ridiculous. So will you do this for me, Rosie Posie?”
I screw up my nose at his choice of nickname revenge. “Break up with you? With pleasure. Can I throw a plate at you or is this a teary-hugs kind of goodbye?”
“I don’t care, just make it obvious,” he says, then continues in a lower, oddly vulnerable tone, “I’ve liked this girl for a while now, and I think seeing me in a relationship has, you know, made her think I might be capable of commitment.”
I hold my tongue with monumental effort, and ask only, “Is this girl over the age of twenty?”
“Yeah,” he says, confused. “She’s twenty-nine.”
“Then she’s a woman, Mattie-poo.”
To my shock, he says, “You’re right. Absolutely right. Rose, you need to stay my friend forever. You’re like a little Buddha.”
“Stop it,” I say, fighting a smile. “Where do you live?”
He rattles off an address and says the barbecue is underway and to get there stat because the love of his life just walked in. I tell him I’ll be there soon and hang up, then stare at my bedroom floor until my body stops feeling electrocuted.
A bundle of nervous energy settles in my belly and hardens. Changing my clothes ten times doesn’t help. In the end, I put back on my original outfit because screwitwhocares and maybe I’ll head to a beach afterward.
Putting Matt’s address into my phone, I follow directions east on 520, across glittering Lake Washington and into the Clyde Hill neighborhood. It takes a little over twenty minutes from Fremont, which isn’t nearly enough time to process my anxiety.
When my phone informs me I’ve arrived at my destination, I throw Siri a curve ball and drive past the house, meandering around the neighborhood for another ten minutes.
The homes that rise up amidst tall trees and lush landscaping are all gorgeous and huge, and the neighborhood’s aesthetic is close enough to where I grew up that it feels nostalgic.
Floating in memories—for once, not bad ones—I drive back to Matt’s place, a giant craftsman tucked at the end of a long, tree-shaded driveway.
“What is it with these guys and small parties,” I mutter, parking behind ten other cars. Despite my whining, though, I’m kind of relieved to know it won’t be that intimate. Like Matt, his future wife, Julian, his future wife, and me.
God I hope Missy isn’t in town.
With that thought, I lock my car (probably unnecessarily) and walk up the driveway to the front door. As I’m debating the merits of doorbell versus knocking, a car door slams behind me.
A cheery voice calls, “It should be open!”
I turn, smiling at the woman striding toward me with a case of water in her arms and heavy-looking grocery bags clutched in the fingers of both hands.
“Here, let me help you,” I say, meeting her halfway and reaching for the case of water.
“You’re a lifesaver, thanks.” She adjusts the bags, blowing pale brown hair out of her eyes. “Of course the guys organized a barbecue but forgot to buy condiments.”
I laugh, eyeing the canvas bags. “That’s a lot of condiments.”
She winks. “There might be some eclairs, chips and salsa, and veggie burgers in here.”
“A woman after my own heart,” I say, grinning. “I’m Rose, by the way.”
“Oh, I know who you are,” she says, giving a throaty laugh. “You’re the poor woman the media put through the grinder last month.”
I wince. “Yeah, that’s me.”
Clear, cornflower blue eyes fix on my face. “I think Matt’s heart was in the right place, wanting to protect Julian, but I also think it’s time Jules puts on his big boy pants. You know what I mean?”
I flush, my mouth falling open. “I—no, I don’t know what you mean.”
If I’ve ever wondered, now it’s official: I don’t have a career in poker ahead of me.
“I’m Melody,” says the sweet-faced brunette with x-ray vision. Her eyes roll with self-effacing humor. “I know, the name kinda set me up for being friends with musicians. My mom was a hippie.”
“My mom named me after a tattoo on her ankle, so I hear that.”
Melody and I share a giggle of camaraderie, and we’re still laughing when the front door opens. Matt’s eyes widen to almost comic proportions, veering between us. And the way he jerks forward, grabbing the bags from Melody’s arms—while leaving the case of water in mine—gives me all the answer I need as to who he’s trying to woo. And I definitely approve.
“What are you guys doing out here?” he asks, backpedalling into the house. “I mean, come in, please. Uh, Rose, meet Melody. Melody… um, meet my girlfriend, Rose.”
“We’re way past that,” says Melody cheekily.
I take in Matt’s expression and share a meaningful glance with Melody. “He looks so scared,” I whisper.
“What the hell, Rose?” he hisses.
Laughing, I tell him, “We can cut the act. I didn’t tell her but she knows.”
I never imagined I’d be alive and present to witness Matt Sullivan, rockstar poster boy, utterly at a loss for words.
To my forever-glee, he blushes and stammers out, “Okay. Well, okay then. I’ll take these to the kitchen. Thanks. Talk to you guys later.”
He books it down a hallway.
“Oh man,” I tell the woman beside me, “he’s got it bad for you.”
She winks. “I’m not done making him work for it.”
A full belly-laugh escapes me, then dwindles swiftly to a wheeze as Julian turns a nearby corner and jerks to a stop. In a white t-shirt and jeans cut off below the knees, he looks like something I want to cuddle with on a blanket in the shade on a sunny afternoon.
Or whenever, wherever.
“Hi, Julian,” chirps Melody, then my new friend-turned-traitor grabs the case of water from me and disappears down the hallway after Matt.
“Rose.”
I swallow. “Julian.”
His gaze devours me, lingering on my bare legs and the strings of my bikini top, visible beneath the straps of my tank.
My face is on fire, my knees weak, and all I can do is squeeze out a helpless, “Damnit.”
His eyes snap to mine, then close. “I’m sorry.” He swipes hands down his face, then peers at me over the tips of his fingers. “I’m going to stay at least ten feet away from you today. Okay?”
“Sounds smart,” I say, nodding, while my inner-demon reminds me: last night this man got you off with nothing but his voice. The memory zings through me, teasing my core with aftershocks. Or pre-shocks, because if he keeps staring at me like this…
“I have a great idea,” he says hastily. “Let’s go find everyone else.”
And because I have to know, I ask, “Is Missy here?”
His eyes narrow, melancholy clouding them. “No,” he murmurs. “Matt and I wouldn’t do that to you. Not again.”
“Gee, thanks,” I say, breaking eye contact to stare at the floor. My momentary lust has vanished, leaving raw nerves behind.
Why am I here?
Because of Julian.
Always Julian.
“I think… I’m gonna go.”
He takes a step toward me. “What? I thought… That is—”
“Melody already knows, so it doesn’t make sense for me to stay.”
I don’t belong here. With you.
“Please, stay.”
I roll my eyes to the ceiling, blinking hard. The rollercoaster that has been my life the last few months is vividly clear to me. As is the truth that nothing has happened to me. I’ve been a willing participant.
I’ve developed a taste for danger, and I know that before long, I’m going to forget things that are important to me—like fidelity—and throw myself at Julian Ashburn. He is a craving beyond my control. A mental obsession.
