Badass In My Bed 3 (Badass #3) Page 2

  The time between then and her knocking on my door is a dark abyss filled with bitter tears and sending emails and texts, all unanswered. I glare at my silent phone, willing it to ring. It stays silent. Of course it does. No matter what I want to say, I can’t explain myself. I can’t fix this.

  “It’s a long story, one I should have started telling you a long time ago. I’ll understand if you hate me.”

  “Start talking, then. No matter what it is, I’m here and we’ll get through this. Even if I want to kill you afterward.” She takes my hand and squeezes. “Are you pregnant?”

  I bark out a laugh. I’d be happy if my problem was that prosaic. My heart throbs, and I blow my nose. “No. It’s—I didn’t get the job with the symphony purely because of my playing.” I squeeze her hand back before letting go. “I know I should have told you.”

  She frowns. “Did your dad meddle and use some contacts to get you in? Because even if he did that, if you weren’t incredibly talented on your own merit, it wouldn’t have mattered. You can’t let that make you doubt how good you are because—”

  “No, he had nothing to do with it. I got the position because I agreed to marry the Maestro—the new director, Blaine.” I blow my nose again, wincing at the rub of tissue against the raw flesh, laughing when I look up at Alex. She’s been stunned silent. I’ve never seen her speechless before.

  My laugh turns almost hysterical, but I force myself together. Somewhat.

  “Your face looks about the same as mine felt when Blaine asked me during my audition. He was so casual about it, like I’d already agreed. He’s gay but wants the family man persona. He believes it will give him more power and flexibility with the symphony board.”

  “That’s stupid. Almost as stupid as you agreeing to it!”

  I shrug. “Not really. They’d been dragging their feet hiring a new director for ages, and Blaine thought his age was already a big strike against him. In that world, conservative is the norm. Families and legacies are all that counts. Appearances. Because of my family, and my education, my appearance, and of course, my skill, I was the perfect candidate to be Mrs. Sanderson.”

  “He just came right out and asked you to marry him?” Alex’s voice is flat with disbelief. She’s taking this so much better than I would have if she’d been the one to accept a secret proposal and keep it from me.

  I nod. “He let me audition, said I was good, but if I wanted to guarantee a position, he had a proposal for me. Of course, at first I thought it was a… you know… a sex thing. That I’d have to get on my knees and open wide for a place on the symphony.”

  “Instead, he wanted to put a ring on it.” She looks horrified. I can’t blame her.

  I smile weakly. “Unexpected, huh?”

  “It’s bullshit, Rachel. It’s extortion, or blackmail, or…something I can’t remember the name for right now. It’s just wrong!” She’s mad at him, not me. That isn’t right. I did this, and I kept it from her.

  “I made the choice freely, and it really does make sense.”

  Alex shifts her legs into a cross-legged position and faces me head on. “No, and I don’t know why you felt like you had to trap yourself like that. I can’t imagine anyone more driven to succeed than you. You’re talented and would have gotten a seat sometime on your own merit, even if it was with another symphony. This decision feels nothing like you. It’s so impulsive, so final. If you’d have called me—”

  “Someday wasn’t good enough for me. I couldn’t stand being a disgrace any longer.” I don’t answer the part about the phone call, because she’s right. I’m such a bad friend. A terrible person. A horrible excuse of a—

  “A disgrace? The only person who thinks that way is your asshole father. You have nothing to prove to him.”

  I shred the edges of a tissue with my fingertips. “He’s finally proud of me. He sent me an email last night. One of his Floridian golf buddies was at the event. His wife is a patron.”

  My phone had dinged with an email alert, and I’d jumped, heart lifting, hoping it was Dylan, irrationally furious when it was a glowing email from Father instead.

  “She sponsors a chair already that’s potentially worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. She wants to sponsor my chair too, and I don’t even remember her! I just walked around schmoozing patrons and hoping for the best. He’s finally said he’s proud of me. You should have seen the email, Alex. I can show you.” I fumble with my phone, suddenly desperate to prove to her—to myself—that all this was worth it.

  “That’s not a reason to marry someone, and no, I don’t want to see the email. He should be proud of who you are, not who he wants you to be.”

  I’ve heard her say this a hundred times, but today it feels more poignant. Because this time, I’ve known what it is to be loved for who I am.

  “It’s what I want to do.” Even to myself, I’m unconvincing.

  She cocks an eyebrow. “Is it?”

  I can’t answer, because it isn’t. Not anymore.

  “That’s what I thought. Rachel, you’ve got to get out of this; it’s insane. You’re worth more than a fake marriage. You’re more than a goddamned beard.”

  I pull the pins out of my now sloppy bun, relishing the tiny tugs that skitter across my scalp when they snag on locks of hair, stalling for time. Through her eyes, this does look insane.

  “Maybe, but I already said yes. After he announced our engagement, the board made a little announcement of their own. He’s been named Director now, which validates that he was right.”

  “It was a fucking coincidence. It isn’t like they’d just had a meeting in the bathroom. The decision had been made before you. You need to get out of this. It’s not too late to change your mind.”

  “I signed a contract.”

  She bites her lip and smacks the bed but I think from frustration, not anger. “I can’t believe you never told me about this.”

  There’s the reaction I was waiting for.

  “I wanted to a hundred times, but the contract sort of forbade that as well. A non-disclosure clause. I could get sued for telling you this.”

  She shakes her head. “I can’t believe you. I’m sure that kind of contract can’t be held up in a court of law. He doesn’t own you, no matter what you signed. I didn’t even know arranged marriages happen in this country. There’s got to be a way out of it.”

  “Even if I wanted to, then what? What would my future be? Moving again, spending every penny of savings I have running around the country auditioning for chairs, hoping for the best until I find a situation that would never be as good as this—marriage notwithstanding. I’d be giving up so much.” My head rings. I already gave up the best thing, when I let Dylan walk away over a contractual obligation.

  I deserve my misery. I chose my bed. Now I have to lie in it, even if it means crying into my pillow every night.

  Trying to hold back tears, I swallow hard. “If I broke the contract now, the embarrassment would be crippling to my family socially. Maybe it won’t be so bad. The contract is only for five years. I’ll still be young when this finishes.”

  “Five years? That’s not a small chunk of your life to give away. What the hell is in this for him if it’s not about sex? And don’t say it’s about his image. He’s in the arts; he can’t care that people think he’s gay. Being married isn’t going to change what everyone can see about him the second they meet him. It was the first thing I said when you showed me his picture in Bostonian Magazine, remember?”

  I slide down and pull the covers up to my chin. “It’s not just about the image. You’re right.”

  I can literally see the second the light goes off for Alex. Her nostrils flare, and her eyes widen dramatically. “Oh, no. You didn’t agree to… You’re going to have a baby for the man?”

  The look on my face must say it all. A fake marriage is one thing. A real baby is another. It’s the one thing that makes me spend most of my time not thinking about it.

  Alex sits ramrod
straight, cheeks darkening. “How the fuck is that supposed to happen? I mean, you’re a gorgeous woman, but if he’s gay, how does sex even work?”

  “Artificial insemination.” It’s the first time I’ve said the words out loud. They’re alien and don’t sit well with me. At all. “I don’t have to sleep with him.”

  Or, more likely, it’s the other way around.

  Alex’s expression softens as she puts something else together. “This meltdown isn’t about Blaine or his baby. What’s his name, sweetie?”

  “Dylan St. John.” The four syllables take a herculean effort to get past my tongue. My dirty, badass little secret.

  “Dylan…” Her jaw drops. “The rock star?”

  I nod. My heart wobbles, and I lean in, laying my head on her lap, fresh sobs overtaking me again. If I’d been able to articulate things better, if I just said he—we—meant everything to me… but it is for the best he left. Really it is.

  How long is it going to take for my heart to buy that?

  Alex makes soothing noises, stroking my hair and shoulder until I can breathe again, handing me a new tissue when my sniffles get really bad. She pulls an errant pin from my hair and sets it on the nightstand. “Where the hell did you meet a rocker like him? He’s next level famous, and you don’t exactly run in the same circles. Is he into classical music? You are so full of secrets, my little dark horse.”

  The admiration in her voice sends a little zing of pride through me. I can’t believe she isn’t furious. “Remember that guy at the bar in Chicago?”

  “That was…” Her hand stills before she flicks my ear. “Oh my God, yes! This is fabulous.”

  “No, it isn’t.” I sit up. “It changes nothing.”

  “You can ride off into the sunset with your rock star. He’ll keep you safe from the evil Blaine and his evil plans and fuck you senseless while serenading you.”

  I close my eyes, imagining Dylan sweeping me away, taking me to his mansion in the Hills. He said he had a pool. We could make love by his pool, in it. No one would bother us. We could be ourselves and relax. The sun would shine down on our private little world where there were no expectations or regrets.

  We could make music together too, like we did that day before our bodies crashed into each other, caught up in the magic we created, a link so irresistible it was nearly tangible in the air.

  But even if he’d felt something for me that was more than a spark of chemistry—more than what he’s found with anyone else—I thoroughly doused it last night. He still hasn’t returned my calls. Or texts. Or emails. “I’m not breaking the contract.”

  She frowns. “Why can’t you have both? He’s not going to want a relationship either. Musicians are total manwhores. Everyone knows that. You can see him secretly, have amazing sex, and be married to Blaine, keeping the contract intact. Win-win. Except for the kid, but maybe you can renegotiate that, because it can’t be binding.” Alex scowls at my head shaking. “If you refuse to get the fuck out of the agreement, why can’t you still have an affair with Dylan? He was good in bed, right?”

  A thousand sexy memories claim my body and stab me in the heart at once. “I can’t even begin to form words about the things we’ve done together. That man switched off every inhibition I had.”

  Her eyes widen with glee. “So why can’t you still have an affair with him?”

  “Because he’s famous. There’s no way we could keep that quiet. It’s been risky as it is. One picture in a tabloid would bring the whole thing tumbling down and end with me getting sued for everything I’m worth.”

  “If it’s so precarious, then why did you get involved with him in the first place?”

  Fate? Maybe I’m a subconscious masochist. Because something in his eyes drew me in and made me feel alive and the things he did to my body confirmed it. Because he’s even more amazing than everyone thinks he is and he let me see that side of him.

  “I couldn’t stay away,” I admit finally. “I kept wanting more.”

  “That’s bad,” Alex says.

  It’s awful. Because I’m pretty sure I love him. Not that it matters. “It’s worse than that. He was there tonight—last night—when Blaine made his speech.” I haven’t slept yet, so it still feels like tonight.

  “Aw, Rach.”

  “It was over before it even had a chance to start.” Tears well up in my eyes again. “He hates me now.” Picturing his face feels like a fresh gut-punch.

  “No one could hate you, sweetheart.”

  “You didn’t see the look in his eyes. I don’t think anyone’s ever been so disappointed in me before. Not even my dad has ever made me feel so small.”

  Alex tucks my hair behind my ear. “Maybe if you talk to him—”

  “I tried. But what can I say? I can’t tell him. I shouldn’t have told you. I just couldn’t keep hiding everything from everyone any longer.”

  “Give him some time. He’ll cool down. He’s probably just in shock. He’ll come around.” She sounds so certain I can almost believe her.

  Not really.

  “Maybe.” I doubt it. Because even if he forgives me, we still have no future.

  Now that I’ve purged everything to her, sleep weighs me down with a dark warmth, pulling at my limbs, demanding I give in. Beside me, Alex’s eyes drift shut.

  I’d love it if Dylan would listen. If I knew what to say. What I could say. Some things you can never make better, not even with all the words in the world and I have a legal injunction against many of them. Even if I could find the words, what’s next? Actions speak louder than any syllables spoken, and I belong to another man.

  Even if Dylan was okay with that—which I can’t imagine he is—I’ll have a child at the end of this. And even if he was okay with that, it’s five years. A lot can happen in five years, and Dylan is incredibly appealing with an insatiable sex drive. He doesn’t seem like the type to wait.

  Or forgive. And that’s the worst part of all. No, the worst part of all is the fact I need to forget all about Dylan St. John and move on with my responsibilities.

  I can’t think of it as “my life” yet.

  When it comes down to it, although I’m in love with Dylan, the feeling isn’t mutual. I can’t throw away my future, the one I have planned and sacrificed unendingly for, on the off chance he might come around.

  Exhaustion overcomes me, and I fall into a blissfully dreamless sleep.

  Three long weeks pass in a blur of practices, performances, and regret. That last look in Dylan’s eyes haunts my dreams, while longing for him haunts my days. It’s like I’m a junkie whose drug of choice has been suddenly taken away. The gnawing pit of sadness in my stomach grows until I can’t bear it for one moment longer. My purse hits the floor as soon as I walk in the door from practice, and I head to my desk in the living room to power up my laptop, impatiently drumming my fingers while it boots up.

  I need to see Dylan.

  I need closure.

  I need to talk to him, but there is literally nothing to say, even if he was willing. All that’s left is “goodbye.”

  I should stop this right now and focus on the future—my future. My boring, respectable, Dylan-free future. But maybe I want that last moment. Maybe I need it. Maybe “goodbye” is what will finally set me free.

  Yeah, maybe I’m lying to myself, but I’ll do anything if it’ll help me move on without this pit in my heart.

  Stomping to the kitchen to burn off some energy and grab a glass of water doesn’t help rationality rear its head, so I go back to my desk and hard, wooden chair. Giving into the compulsion to cyberstalk him, I quickly discover the band’s put the next leg of the tour on hold to extend studio time, meaning he’s still in LA recording. He was supposed to be in Europe or Asia right now, wasn’t he?

  I swallow back excitement. Fate has thrown me a life raft. All I have to do is grab it. If he’s in LA, I can fly there and talk to him. I have tomorrow off and don’t have to play until the evening on the day after. I
t would be a ridiculously simple thing to fly out and…

  How the hell would I find him? I don’t even know where he lives. He said he’d recently bought a mansion in the Hills but… That’s it! I type his name and “new home.” An article about him pops up, unfortunately without the address or much more than a small paragraph of details about his new mansion in the Hills and how he bought it for a cool twelve-point-nine million. There is a picture, and I drag that into a google image search.

  The realty listing for that exact mansion—complete with high quality photos of every room—pops up, sending a guilty thrill through me. The home sold months ago; this listing should be gone by now, but I wouldn’t have found the house if I wasn’t meant to go and talk to him, right? Finding this means something.

  My justification is reinforced when I note the mansion’s address, so I jot that down. In another tab, I book the first direct flight I can find from Boston to LA and print directions from the airport to his place. I worry for a moment that I’ll talk myself out of this between here and there, but who am I kidding? I couldn’t stop now if I wanted to. I take a deep breath and make the biggest decision of all.

  I’m going to tell Dylan everything. He deserves to hear the truth, and that’s the only way I can truly explain. Lawsuit be damned, I will not survive knowing that he thinks I used him. He may not forgive me, but at least he’ll know what I felt—what I feel—was—is—genuine.

  I should close the browser and go to bed, but the temptation is too great. Like a riptide, I’m hauled along with the compulsion to know more about Dylan’s house and where he’s been the last few weeks we’ve been apart.

  Five bedrooms, six bathrooms… My heart squeezes at the thought of Dylan roaming around his giant house, alone.

  I push away the idea that he might not be alone in those spacious rooms or his king-size bed.

  Did the furniture come included and is still there, or has he changed it with things better suited to his style? Did he rip out the fancy feature wallpaper in the open-concept living room, or is it still decorating the otherwise beige walls?

  I shake my head incredulously. Beige. Beige is the opposite of the colors I’d use to describe Dylan or surround him with. Nothing about him is neutral. He needs deep jewel tones, things that scream passion and talent and complement his restless, dominant energy.