Breaking Giants, page 19
PullittogetherRose.
Dragging air into my lungs, I plaster a smile on my face and turn. “I’ll explain in the car. I have some pretty incredible news.”
♫
When we arrive at my house, Aiden follows me up the front steps. I unlock the front door with my spare key but turn before he can follow me inside. His brows lift, and in his eyes lingers suspicion and hurt, neither of which I could fully alleviate with my fumbling explanation in the car. Sure, he didn’t hear Julian’s final words to me, but he saw well enough our near-intimate stance.
Feeling reckless and sharp-edged, I blurt, “Why did they kick you out of the band?”
He takes a step back, frowning. “It was a million years ago. Why is it important?”
“If it’s not important, why don’t you just tell me?”
He drags a hand through his hair, eyes sliding away from mine. “Creative differences. Julian wanted to take the band to melodic la-la land, and I wanted to stay hardcore.”
Surprise and dismay filters through me at his bitter tone. “Melodic la-la land, huh? If that describes Breaking Giants, what am I, bubble-gum pop?”
“No,” he snaps.
“Why are you so angry?” I ask quietly.
He releases a long sigh, but his shoulders stay tense. “Look, Rose, I really like you, but I’m not at a point in my life where I want a lot of complications.”
I blink a few times. “I’m sorry, I think I just sidestepped into Crazytown. Are you breaking up with me because I asked why you left Breaking Giants?”
“Breaking Giants, Breaking Giants,” he mocks. “I swear to God, it’s all I hear. And now Indigo Records is probably signing you, and you get to piggyback to stardom on Julian-fucking-Ashburn’s glittery wings.”
Completely turned off by his sudden shift from nice to nasty, I hold up a hand to stall further venom. My emotions, already chaotic from Julian, twist and turn like a tree in a hurricane.
“You know what, Aiden? Forget it. This is obviously a mistake.”
Shoulders slumping, the fire leaves his eyes. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. I just have a raw nerve where Julian Ashburn is concerned.”
Rubbing the space between my eyebrows where a headache looms, I say as evenly as I can, “Let’s talk in a few days, okay?”
He knows I’m calling it quits, and I see both resignation and relief in his eyes.
“Okay, Rose. Take care. And good luck.”
I wave goodbye as he walks down my driveway and hops into his car. Then he’s gone, and I’m back where I started. Alone with a head full of thoughts I don’t want to think and a body full of unnamed need. Only the need does, in fact, have a name.
Once I’m in the house, I call Aunt Katherine. When she answers, I say, “She was right. I’m just like her. Maybe it’s not heroin, but it’s an addiction just the same. I’m ready for some freaking treatment. What do I do?”
There’s a long pause. “Oh, honey, it’s not an addiction. At least, not in the way you mean.”
“Then what the hell is it?” I cry.
Gently, she answers, “It’s love.”
27
half-past never o’clock
Thursday morning, I have the coveted meeting at Indigo Records. At Greta’s insistence, I bring her father with me. A spritely man in his sixties with his daughter’s blonde hair and green eyes, he happens to be a fancy downtown lawyer with a soft spot for me.
Also with us is Greg, still my acting manager, as well as a surprisingly young and easygoing label executive, the scout who saw me in California and tracked my progress on tour, and the label’s straight-faced lawyer.
We’ve moved past the wooing stage and straight to the nitty gritty. As legal jargon gets tossed back and forth across the conference table, I hear echoes of conversations overheard between my parents.
Copyrights and licensing. Royalty rates. Exclusivity. Twelve month contract with the expectation that I record at least one full-length, commercial album.
On and on it goes, until the sound of my name jolts me from a daydream involving bubble bath and chocolate.
“Rose, now that the paperwork is out of the way, if you don’t mind I’d like to invite Julian Ashburn into the room.”
The words, spoken by the executive who looks like a surfer at his day job, snap me out of my daze. Though my impulse is to ask why, I already have a suspicion.
Plus, I’m being grown up and polite.
“Absolutely,” I say.
Mr. Exec—aka Cory Donovan, aka owner of Mercer Island mansion—pushes a button on a small console and trades words with a receptionist. Less than a minute later, I see Julian walking down the hallway toward the glass-walled conference room.
Wearing dark jeans, a faded t-shirt beneath an unzipped hoodie, and his glasses, he looks completely out of place and at the same time, totally at home. As well he should. Before Breaking Giants’ astronomical success, Indigo was a small fish in a big pond. Now they swim easily with the sharks.
When Julian sees me watching him, he smiles broadly, with absolutely no trace of our last interaction. Wishing I was as unaffected, I straighten in my chair.
He enters the room like the superstar he is, shaking hands with everyone, then bending down to give me a squeeze around the shoulders and a peck on the cheek. Fast. Platonic.
You know, because we’re professionals.
When he sits beside Cory near the head of the table, he catches my eye. Responding either to the dark humor in my gaze, or the sardonic tilt of my lips, he winks and shakes his head chidingly. I slowly unclench my teeth and paste on my excited to be here expression.
Julian rocks back in his chair, lacing fingers behind his head. “Rose, congratulations. Cory wanted me to come down this morning to personally invite you on tour with Breaking Giants this fall.”
Even though I’m not surprised, I still feel the impact of the words. How could I not? They’re the equivalent of winning the musical lottery.
I’m suddenly breathless, my wide eyes and the tremor in my voice unfeigned. “Thank you. What a huge honor, Mr. Donovan. I’m blown away.”
“You’re very welcome,” he replies magnanimously. “As I’m sure you know, it’s not entirely altruistic. Your musical styles complement each other, and a lot of Breaking Giants’ fans have already heard your name. It just makes sense.”
It does make sense. To capitalize on Breaking Giants’ fanbase to launch a new act. And squeeze every drop of rumor and conjecture out of Julian’s and my past to sell out venues.
Well, at least he’s honest.
“I understand,” I say, smiling brightly. “It’s a good business decision and we’ll all benefit. I’m grateful to be working with a label that cultivates creative freedom while protecting the bottom line.”
Julian whistles. “Cory, you sure you want to take that on?”
Cory laughs. “I’d expect nothing less from the daughter of music greats.”
The meeting wraps a few minutes later. Handshakes and smiles all around. I say goodbye to Greta’s dad, then gather my things and wait near the door for Greg, who’s chatting animatedly with Cory like he just found his new best friend.
Citrus and sandalwood.
“Congrats, Rose. Really.”
I look up at Julian, then away, unable to maintain eye contact. Aunt Katherine’s pronouncement is still ringing in my ears and bones. I’m not sure what to make of it yet; or rather, I’m not sure if changes anything.
Regardless of Julian saying he’s not the same person he was last year, I still think his own pronouncement remains painfully relevant. Supernovas and black holes.
We’ve hurt each other, over and over. Just like my parents. And there’s no guarantee that the cycle is broken. Or can be broken.
“You look so sad,” he whispers. “What can I do?”
Blinking hard, I smile. Professionals. “Take Greg and me to lunch to celebrate?”
Julian nods. “Of course.”
From across the room, Greg asks, “Rose, do you mind if I hang here? Cory’s going to hook me up with Breaking Giants’ manager, Phil.”
My smile freezes. “Sure, not a problem.”
Julian says softly, “I know just the place to eat.”
♫
“Basilico?” I hiss at him as we walk into the iconic downtown eatery. “Aren’t we a little underdressed?”
Julian smirks down at me. “Who cares?”
“Ah, that’s right,” I say dryly. “You’re Julian Ashburn.”
His eyes flare with laughter. “And you’re Rose Cunningham. Time you start acting like it.” To the maître d', he says, “Two, please. Front patio, if available.”
Looking surprised, the man replies, “Of course, Mr. Ashburn. Right this way.”
“You eat here a lot?” I whisper, mindful of the growing interest from the other diners, mostly upper-crust urbanites having power lunches over wine and risotto. As Julian holds the patio door open for me, I elaborate, “In public?”
“No,” he says easily. “I normally eat in a private room in back.”
To that, I have no response. It isn’t until we’re seated on the patio—very much in view of the other patrons and the bustling street—that I understand he’s doing preemptive advertising for the upcoming tour.
On the one hand, I admire his business savvy. On the other, I feel a little used.
Taking a sip of water flavored with fresh mint, I say blandly, “You’re full of surprises, Ashburn.”
“Mmm,” he replies, eyes on the menu. “You have no idea.”
I jerk forward. “What does that mean? Did you call the press or something?”
One eyebrow cocks up. “You think I’d have to?”
I give the tables around us the side-eye, gauging their occupants’ interest. Most seem oblivious or mildly disdainful of our attire. Then my gaze flows to the sidewalk, partially obscured by an awning and separated from us by two empty tables.
There, amidst flowing foot traffic, I see a young woman standing stock-still, her mouth open as she stares at us.
“Do you want some wine?” asked Julian. At my sharp look, he shrugs. “It won’t bother me. The guys drink around me all the time.”
“Shouldn’t you lower your voice?” I whisper.
He laughs, settling back and lowering his menu. Dancing eyes scan my face. “You’re wound tighter than a two dollar watch. Relax.”
“A two dollar watch?” I echo. “What are you, eighty-five?”
His smile softens. “It’s something my friend used to say before he died.”
His first sponsor.
“Ah, okay.” I shift on my seat and take another sip of water, then glance at, but don’t read, the menu. “So I’m tense. Can you blame me? Whenever we’re in the same place at the same time, bad things happen.”
I instantly realize my mistake.
His eyes narrow, darkening dangerously. “Bad, bad things.”
Unstoppable heat floods my cheeks, my mind happily providing an assortment of memories for my sensory pleasure. Sweaty skin and gasping moans and my hair in his fists. Perched on my knees, my fingers digging into the headboard. An ice cube melting on his tongue, on my…
“Stop flirting,” I hiss.
“Is that what I’m doing?” he asks, propping an elbow on the table and resting his chin on his palm. “What were you just thinking about?”
“Nothing.”
“You were thinking about us, weren’t you?”
“No.”
I’m saved from further response by our server, who asks Julian if he wants his usual, and when he nods, I say, “I’ll have the same.”
“Very good, madam.” With a slight bow, he retreats inside the restaurant.
Julian gazes thoughtfully at me. “You seem different today.” A pause. “Less antagonistic.”
Drumming my fingers on the edge of the table, I shrug. “This is business and we’re professionals, right? And if we have to be stuck on a tour bus together, we need to learn how to be get along.”
His lips twitch. “There’s no way you’re coming on our bus. You’ll have your own.” I frown, and he leans back in his chair with a grin. “First, I don’t think you’d appreciate what happens a lot on there. And two, I can’t sleep that close to you.”
Awareness frissons down my spine; with effort, I focus on his first statement.
“What happens a lot?” I repeat, then my eyes narrow angrily. “Matt can’t possibly think he can cheat on Melody while on tour. I’ll fucking flay him. And Nick? He really didn’t strike me as that kind of guy.”
Julian lifts a hand, laughing. “I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about four guys in a small space, with one bathroom, acting like assholes.”
“Ah,” I say, understanding. “Smelly.”
He chuckles. “To put it lightly.”
A few minutes later, our server returns bearing steaming plates of sweet potato gnocchi. It’s excellent, and we eat in companionable silence until the growing disturbance outside becomes impossible to ignore. The other diners are trading confused glances, though a few are avidly watching the progression of the crowd.
On the sidewalk, people are snapping pictures of us with their cellphones. When Julian glances over, several of them shout his name. He doesn’t seem the least bit bothered, unhurriedly scooping up the last morsels of his lunch.
For as long as I’ve known about Breaking Giants, I’ve known about Julian’s loathing of public attention. But maybe, as he said, he’s not the same person he was before the accident.
Thinking about the day at Tullamore when the sight of the crowd outside had triggered a panic attack, I eye him for signs of anxiety.
There are none.
Sitting back, he asks me, “Are you finished?” I nod, and he signals our server, who looks both flustered and excited about the attention. “Henry, can we leave the back way?”
“Of course,” he says.
When we stand, the shouting from the sidewalk increases. As we head into the restaurant, Julian faces our audience and waves.
“Thanks, guys, have a great day.”
His hand settles on my back, sliding proprietarily down to the curve just above my ass. My knees go liquid, but when I stumble, he shifts to support my body with his. Behind us, the crowd’s noise doubles in intensity.
“Asshole,” I mutter.
His lips graze the hair over my ear. “We’re going to sell out every single show. Glance back and give them that sultry look you so do well. Smile and wave.”
I have no idea what look he’s talking about, but I do as he says, smiling and giving a brief wave. Seconds later, we’re inside the quieter confines of the restaurant.
The head of Julian’s security—Randy, I found out at the hospital—nods from his station just inside the front door. Behind him, people press against the glass.
“Your car’s out back,” he tells Julian, tossing him a set of keys.
“Thanks, Randy.”
Our server leads us down a hallway, through a kitchen of staring people, and out a back door. In the narrow alley, a sleek Audi waits.
“Sorry for the disturbance, Henry,” says Julian, shaking the man’s hand.
Henry, who I’m starting to think might be the manager, just grins. “Not a problem, Mr. Ashburn.”
Julian winks, then strides around the car to open the passenger door. Taking the hint, I follow and slip into the cozy leather seat. The door closes, and he rounds the hood, sliding behind the wheel and starting the car.
He stars the car and puts it into gear. “Sorry you didn’t get dessert.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s not a requirement at every meal for me or anything.”
“Uh huh,” he says cheekily, then navigates us out of the alley and onto the busy downtown avenue. “Do we need to go back to Indigo for your car?”
“Greg drove, so I’m good.”
He hesitates. “Do you want me to take you home?”
The arousal that’s been simmering since I saw him walking down the hallway at Indigo flares. Home. Bed. Now. I smother the impulse with moderate success.
But I also don’t want to say goodbye to him yet, the conviction unsettling in its magnitude.
“Can we just drive for a while?” I ask.
He smiles. “Yes.”
28
crest
Several hours later, after a relaxing stop at Alki Beach and a quick detour for gelato in Ballard, Julian pulls into my driveway. He leaves the car running, and we sit for a few minutes in silence, our seatbelts still on and tension ratcheting in the space between us.
I tell myself repeatedly to get out of the car, but can’t make my body obey. Nor can I look at him, though I feel his gaze, heavy and searching on the side of my face. That old need rises, clogging my airways and scattering my thoughts.
Finally, I muster enough braincells to speak. “Thanks for lunch and gelato. And, um, everything.”
“Of course. Do you—that is, are you seeing Aiden tonight?”
“No,” I whisper, then clear my throat. I consider lying, but decide I can’t be that petty. “We ended things on Saturday. It was mutual.”
He’s silent a few moments. “Did he tell you why we kicked him out?”
“Yeah. Creative differences.”
He huffs a caustic laugh. “My ass.”
My stomach sinks. “What do you mean?”
Julian sighs, pulling off his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. “When we were just starting out, Matt’s little sister Erin would come on tour with us and sell merch. Aiden seduced her and they fooled around for a while. She was in love, but he… Let’s just say his appetites weren’t satisfied by one woman at a time.”
My mouth drops open. “Oh my God. How old was she?”
He frowns a little. “She’s twenty-eight, so… nineteen, twenty? She was devastated. Dropped out of school and everything. Doing great now, though. She’s a vet up in Bellingham.”
