Breaking Giants, page 13
Leaning against a damp wall, I unlock my phone and update my Facebook status with the news. I don’t have a personal account anymore, but at Greg’s urging made the requisite artist’s profile. I have a whopping eight hundred and forty-six likes. Ten more than yesterday.
“Eat that, Breaking Giants,” I mutter, snorting as I review recent activity.
Notifications start streaming in for likes and comments on the news that the album has wrapped. Glancing at the time, I decide to savor them later and pocket my phone.
Inside Tullamore, the celebratory air lingers, affecting everyone. Chatter is loud, laughter louder, and Owen is dropping free pastries on tables, telling everyone his cousin is a recording artist. Greg and Kelly are back, looking flushed and cuddly as they unpack their instruments. The sights, the smells, the sounds… I’m home. Everything is exactly as it should be.
Until my phone buzzes in my back pocket.
And I pull it out
and see a text message
from him.
Congrats, Rose. Can’t wait to hear it.
And my heart just
sort of
disintegrates.
“Rose?” asks Christy, concerned face wavering before mine. “What just happened? You started swaying! Are you okay?”
I blink hard. “Yeah. Just dizzy for a second.”
And angry.
Sofuckingangry.
Owen appears like magic. I grab his arm, needing something solid to hold onto. He knows the whole ugly story, and all I say now is, “Look at this.”
I hold up the phone. He reads the message, eyes narrowing. “He’s got a lot of nerve,” he says, gaze veering back to me. “How did he even know?”
I shake my head roughly. “No clue. I just updated my Facebook status… Matt’s girlfriend Melody liked my page. Maybe she told him?”
“Kind of odd timing, don’t you think?”
From behind me, Greg asks softly, “Rose? Uh, you’re talking about Julian? About that… There’s something I need to tell you.”
Turning slowly, bracing for the whole fucking world to go sideways, I meet Greg’s worried, apologetic eyes.
“Spit it out. Right now. But if you say that Julian in any way, shape, or form influenced the making of this album, I’m going to freaking murder someone.”
Greg swallows, eyes darting to Owen—who’s almost as furious as I am—before coming back to me.
“I’m sorry. So sorry. He made me swear not to tell you until it was all done, and I’ve hated lying to you, but he got me the job—”
Something inside me snaps.
17
HelloGoodbye
When the body experiences a powerful enough stressor, it’s flooded with cortisol, epinephrine, and endorphins. The first two are most recognizable as heralds of the fight-or-flight response. They accelerate the heart and respiration, enhance hearing and vision, and even make your liver release sugar to give you a boost of energy. Then there’s endorphins—ah, beautiful endorphins—which help block out pain of impending attack.
Or the pain of launching one. Like right now, as my fists pound relentlessly on the unyielding wood of Julian’s front door.
When it suddenly opens, I allow myself one second to feel the impact of his presence. Imissyouadoreyouhateyou. Then I punch him in the face. It’s a beautiful punch. He howls, his glasses go flying, and thank you endorphins I don’t feel a thing.
“Jesus, Rose!” he cries, stumbling back with a hand to his mouth. “You split my fucking lip!”
“I should split more than your lip, asshole!” I yell, then blink as I try to make sense of my statement, and finally follow up with, “Like your head!”
Bent forward with his hands braced on his knees, Julian spits blood on the lovely wood floors. He grunts, and I see his torso shaking, and when I realize he’s laughing my vision goes a charming shade of red.
Taking three steps into the house, I shove him hard, watching in satisfaction as he tumbles into a console. A bamboo plant falls on his back and a picture frame clatters to the floor.
“Bro, she’s beating you up,” says a mild voice.
I glare down the hallway at Breaking Giants’ drummer, Nick Henderson, who looks like an attractive cross between a NFL linebacker and a computer nerd. He’s eating rather noisily from a bowl of popcorn as he watches us.
“Hi, Nick!” I say brightly. “We haven’t been introduced. I’m the girl your frontman fucked over, fucked, then fucked over again!”
Nick spits out popcorn to release a laugh. “Oh, I know. Our publicist almost had Julian’s balls on a plate when she found out he spent the night with you.”
“What?” I snap, then shake my head. “I don’t care.”
“Rose—” Julian begins, now sitting upright against a wall and prodding his bloody lip.
“Shut up!” I snarl, then point at Nick. “Go away. Your buddy and I need to have a conversation.”
“Sure thing,” he says, then gives Julian a Clean This Up look before disappearing with his popcorn.
“At least close the front door,” murmurs Julian.
I kick it closed, then rub my throbbing temples. The bad news about elevated stress responses is that when they disappear, it feels like you just ran a race without the satisfaction of a finish line.
“Let me guess,” he says, sighing, “Greg told you I put in a call to Jonas at Icon.”
I sink onto a padded bench opposite him. “I don’t get it,” I whisper. Don’t cry don’t cry. “Why would you do that to me? Knowing how it would make me feel?”
He puts on his glasses, then lets his head thump against the wall. “You’re so talented. I didn’t want you to hold yourself back because of your mother, what happened to her…” He licks his lower lip, already swelling noticeably. “Just think of it as one professional helping another. It’s not unheard of, you know.”
“Is that what it was?” I ask bitingly. “One professional helping another? Or did you just feel guilty about cheating on your fiancée with me?” Angry again, I stand up and make a show of looking around. “Or, wait—are you married yet? Where’s the wife? I’m sure you're looking forward to raising another man’s baby!”
He doesn’t move, but his eyes turn to ice. “You’re way out of line.”
“Are you kidding? I’m out of line?” I yell, then freeze, heaving, as I’m consumed by a moment of clarity.
Just like me, Rose.
“Oh my God, why am I even here?” I whisper brokenly at the ceiling. Looking down at Julian, I tell him, “I’m sorry I hit you. That was completely not okay. And I’m sorry for what I said about Missy. But most of all, I’m sorry about that night.”
“I’m not,” he says, and pushes himself to standing.
His gaze is too penetrating, too full of the man I’d thought he was. The kind of man who would have chosen me, no matter the bad press. Unless…
“The baby’s yours, then?” I force out.
He stares at me in naked anguish. “I don’t know. But if it is? I can’t just abandon her. She’s… struggling.”
I have a sudden flashback to the limo, and Missy chugging champagne. When he’d told me she was pregnant, I’d figured maybe it was sparkling cider. But now…
I gasp. “She shouldn’t be drinking.”
Ire flashes in his eyes. “I know that. Don’t you get it? Of all the people on earth, I know. She has a team supporting her in L.A., sponsors and life coaches, fitness and nutrition experts. But it’s a delicate situation. I can’t leave her!”
“I understand,” I say, and I’m proud of how calm I sound.
I edge toward the door, needing escape. Needing away from this emotional earthquake that wontfuckingstop.
“Rose,” he whispers, “please. I haven’t been with Missy in months. Since before you. Before us. The relationship is a sham, a public front to hide her problems. As soon as she has the baby, I’m out.”
I realize his admission should mean something to me. He isn’t with her. He doesn’t love her. We’re not cheaters. But I’m numb.
Words don’t change anything.
“I need to go,” I say, and reach for the door.
He grabs my arm—not hard, but not gently, either. Turning me toward him, he stares down at me, eyes burning with vulnerability and frustration, confusion and fear. I flinch from the visceral impact.
“I have to protect that baby, Rose, whether or not it’s mine.”
I nod. “I hear you. I just wish… maybe you could have told me. Maybe I would have understood two months ago, too.”
“I’m sorry,” he breathes. “For me, that night wasn’t a mistake. It was the best night of my fucking life. Goddamnit—if I couldn’t have all of you, if I couldn’t give you all of me, I couldn’t stay. Don’t you get it? You and me, we’re not walks on the beach and romantic dinners. We’re a supernova. A fucking black hole.”
I’m falling, but don’t know if his words are wings or a cement floor.
“You don’t know that,” I say faintly.
“What did you want me to do?” he asks, giving my arm a little shake. “Ask you to be my mistress while in public I’m playing dutiful fiancé to Missy? Hide you? Like I’m ashamed?”
My eyes fall closed as the situation sinks in. “No, I guess not.”
His calloused fingertips lift my chin. “I miss you. I miss you every day. I’m sorry.”
The hand on my arm softens, floating to my shoulder, then cupping the back of my neck. I don’t want to feel anything. But of course, I do. Earthquakes and supernovas. Awareness pulses through me, tingling and hot.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, and I feel his breath on my lips.
I open my eyes and see his, close, full of yearning and a dangerous, forbidden question. His scent envelops me, his broad shoulders blocking out everything else.
I’m in a tiny electric world just big enough for two, with a man who is impossibly complicated, incomprehensibly perfect. A black hole.
“Your lip…” I say pointlessly.
He shakes his head, smiling a little as he brushes his mouth over mine. My body unfurls from the inside, blooming into a pulsing, focused need. I moan and he matches the sound, surging forward, yanking me up and into his arms.
I wrap my limbs around him as tightly as I can, as though if I try hard enough, I can pull him beneath my skin and keep him there. Safe and happy.
Julian takes a set of stairs two at a time, walks swiftly down a hallway I don’t see, and turns into dark room. The door is kicked closed behind us. He finds a switch on the wall, and a floor lamp in a distant corner comes on.
We fall onto a bed in a surreal parallel of the last time. Only this bed is his, and his kisses are slow and drugging instead of frenzied. He worships my ears, my throat, and finally my breasts through shirt and bra. When I’m panting and writhing beneath him, he buries his face in my chest, breathing deeply.
“Sunshine.”
I thread my fingers through his hair, holding him close, and the sharp edge of arousal fades against the steep bluff of contentment. Tension slowly leaves his body. We stay this way, in the shadows and silence, for a long time. I almost fall asleep, and I think he drifts off once or twice.
Then his fingers move lazily under my t-shirt, pushing it up. I lift my arms and the fabric slides over my head, sailing off the bed. My bra follows, then shoes and pants, all with a leisurely pace that’s somehow more overwhelming than urgency. I manage to get his shirt off and jeans unzipped before he gently guides me back down.
He hovers above me in the near dark, teasing my skin with flicks of his tongue. My shoulders, ribcage, and finally my aching breasts. Each tug of his mouth, nip of his teeth, sends bolts of awareness down my center, until I’m twitching and dyingpleaseplease.
“Tell me,” he says, in the dark voice that ignites every pleasure circuit in my body.
“Julian, I need you,” I whimper. His head dips to my belly button, and his tongue traces a thin line down, down… “I need your mouth. On me. Now.”
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, and settles between my trembling legs. “So beautiful.”
His tongue makes long, sweeping passes, then delves purposefully. My back comes off the bed, a ragged cry tearing from my throat.
Humming into my flesh, he lifts his head long enough to say, “I think about this all the time. Being right here. Listening to that.”
And then there’s no more talking.
When Julian’s satisfied that I’ve had no less than two orgasms complements of his mouth and fingers, he finally gets rid of his jeans and boxers. Feeling like useless putty, I lie sprawled on the bed and watch him roll on a condom.
Not a bad view. At all.
When he settles above me, I feel again the odd sense of imprinting—like I am being indelibly marked by him. Every inch of me.
The feeling fades as he slides into me, anchoring me wholly to the present.
“Perfect,” he says.
My hips surge against his until he growls, and at last, unleashes his passion.
And it is, just as he said, perfect.
♫
The house is dark and quiet as, several hours later, Julian walks me to my car. We’ve barely spoken since our final, explosive bout of sex. I think both of us know there’s nothing to say because there’s too much.
He gives me one last kiss through the open window of my car, grunting a little at the contact.
“How’s your lip?” I ask, and see his soft smile in the dark.
“Hurts like a bitch,” he admits. “How’s your hand?”
“Same. I’m so sorry.” I shake my head. “I don’t know what came over me. I’ve never hit anyone in my life.”
His smile widens, then he grimaces and touches his lip. “I think I deserved it.” Our eyes meet in a moment of gravity and clarity. “I want to see you again. Now, tomorrow, yesterday…” He shakes his head helplessly. “But I can’t ask you to—”
“I know,” I say, smiling bravely as I memorize the shape of his face, the outline of his body in the night. About to lose it, I turn on the car and put it in reverse. “I’m, uh… I’ll miss you. Take care of yourself, Julian.”
Not waiting for a reply, I back out of the driveway. I take a final look at him—tall shadow, a single hand raised in goodbye—and drive the empty streets home.
18
nuclear fallout
October 1st dawns cold and clear, the sky a brilliant shade of Happily Ever After. By nine a.m. I’m on my third cup of coffee and nibbling my way through a muffin at Aunt Katherine’s kitchen table.
The other three bridesmaids trickle in over the next hour, toting garment bags and chattering a mile a minute. They’re sorority sisters of Greta’s, and although they’ve always been nice to me, when I’m around them I can’t help feeling like Greta’s slightly odd sidekick.
When they ask to see my maid of honor dress, I realize my designation isn’t necessarily a bad one. A few weeks ago, Greta finally conceded that lilac was not my color at all, and we went shopping again.
As the women ohh and ahh over the pewter, floor-length sheath, I silently thank Greta for being the awesomest best friend in the world.
“It’s so… couture,” says Tracy, running a finger over one of the artfully shredded layers.
“Very you, Rose,” says Jackie, trading a meaningful glance with the final bridesmaid, Lindsey.
On the other side of the kitchen, Aunt Katherine smirks. I hide a smile as I cover the dress, thank the ladies for their compliments, and refill my coffee.
Greta arrives not ten minutes later in a flurry of hair-curlers and bags. Her conservative socialite mother is right behind her, lobbing suggestions on the day’s timeline despite the schedule Greta and I made and printed last week. To her credit, Greta is blissfully unaffected, ignoring the running commentary as she flutters around the room giving kisses.
The next hours fly by in a haze of mimosas, laughter, a few sobs, and flying shoes. Greta’s favorite stylist comes and goes, perfecting her makeup and hair. By the time three o’clock rolls around, we’re all dressed except for Greta, who won’t step into her gown until we reach the venue.
When the limo hired by Greta’s parents pulls up outside, there’s an eruption of chaos as we gather together everything we need—and a bunch of stuff we probably don’t—and pile inside. Two blocks down, we realize we forgot The Dress and have to turn around. Thankfully, it’s the only near-catastrophe of the day.
The venue is a historic downtown hotel that Greta has dreamed of being married in since she was a kid. The smiling wedding coordinator meet us outside and guides us to the bridal suite, where we spend the next hour alternately calming Greta and serving cocktails to her mother.
In a brief moment of respite, I hide in the bathroom with my phone to respond to Owen’s most recent message, which is more or less the same as all his other messages today. After assuring him that everything’s fine and running smoothly, I scroll through my contacts and call Matt.
“Hey,” he answers. “You didn’t spill the beans, did you?”
“Nope,” I say, grinning. “She’s going to flip out. I can’t thank you enough for this, Matt.”
“My pleasure, Rosie Posie. We’re packing up and should be there in about thirty minutes. The hotel has been really accommodating with security. She won’t have a clue until the reception.”
I do a little dance against the bathroom counter. “Ah! So exciting. And you swear Julian’s okay with this?”
After a pregnant pause, he says in a low voice, “Rose, you know he’d do anything for you.”
I blink hard, squeezing the phone against my ear. “Yeah, okay. Thanks.”
We hang up. I straighten to smooth the gown over my hips, then head back into the suite where Greta is anxiously waiting. A photographer approaches, letting us know it’s time for the maid of honor to zip up the bride’s gown, our figures framed by the beautiful baroque window.
