Badass In My Bed 3 (Badass #3) Read online

  He has a point. It is a good idea to get to know my husband and soon-to-be father of my child.

  “Outside the orchestra, I’m not a horrible guy.” He smiles, and for the first time there’s warmth in his eyes, transforming his features into something pleasant. Maybe I can do this. If there’s warmth in him when he isn’t performing—with the symphony or the public—then maybe this won’t be so bad.

  I follow him inside his house.

  I’ve been here before, briefly. Chrome, marble, glass. Tasteful, modern, no personality. It could have been decorated by anyone for anyone whose income was above half a million per year. This is where we’re going to live while married, he said. Probably sooner, since we’ll have no reason not to live together, now that everyone knows about us—and in a couple months, I’ll be pregnant. I’ll get rid of my little house and move in here.

  It looks more like a museum than a home.

  Blaine shows me to the living room, and he goes to the kitchen to make us drinks. Wanting something for background noise for this odd experience, I find the remote and turn the television on, flicking through the channels to find something appropriate. Not that there’s bound to be anything right for a “getting to know my fake husband” conversation.

  “…on all the things I didn’t say,” Dylan croons into the microphone, singing straight at the camera. “Words I never said sent you away.”

  My finger stalls on the button. I should turn the television off, hit mute, or run from the room, but the words he’s singing aren’t from any Fallen Angels song I know and I need to hear them. Only the band ends the verse with a C Sharp Minor chord, and it’s over, and they’re walking over to sit in tall stools in front of a crowd of screaming fans. A blonde host claps along with the audience, light blue cue cards in her hand. I missed the song.

  My heart pounds as I soak in the sight of Dylan’s dark eyes and scruffy hair as the host shakes his hands. I hate her because she’s touching him, breathing the same air as him, standing close enough to smell his cologne.

  “Welcome back. We’re here with Fallen Angels, arguably America’s favorite band right now and some of the world’s hottest musicians, am I right?” She looks to the audience, who fills the room with their appreciative screams.

  Two words on the bottom of the screen capture my attention.

  Previously recorded.

  How long ago ? It has to be after my visit; Dylan’s had a haircut. He looks edible in a gray tank top and dark jeans, but his eyes are haunted—or is that my imagination?

  Blaine walks into the living room and holds out a glass. “Here’s your water. Are you sure you don’t want sparkling water instead of flat?”

  Shut up! I take it from him. “I’m sure.”

  “Wine maybe?”

  “This is fine.” Dylan’s said something that made the audience swoon, but I’ve missed it because of Blaine’s annoying voice.

  Blaine sits at the opposite end of the couch and swirls his wine in his glass. “I prefer red wine to white, myself, but I suppose I should stock both for guests. The guy at the store who sold this to me…”

  Does he ever shut up? I nod, but my ears strain to hear Dylan’s voice over Blaine’s babbling.

  He grabs the remote and changes the channel.

  No! “Put that back. I was watching it.” My hand twitches, but I keep it at my side instead of snatching the remote and turning it back to Dylan like I desperately want to.

  Blaine rolls his eyes. “Seriously? More of this drivel? I wasn’t aware you were so devoted.” He seems more interested than anything else, but he doesn’t change the show back.

  Frustration and tension tie my shoulders in knots. “Yes. I do. I used to be a terrible music snob, hearing only discordant sloppiness until I heard the right band. Music isn’t only about who can play the most complicated riffs the fastest. It’s about what songs can make you feel. It’s about discovering a musician who opens your mind and your soul to their emotions and makes them feel like your own.”

  “A tad dramatic, but you’ve piqued my interest.” He changes the channel back, and the camera’s zoomed in on the host once more.

  “If you’re just tuning in, we’re back, live with Fallen Angels, who just gave us a sneak peek of a new, previously unreleased song they’re working hard on. Wasn’t it amazing?” The audience goes nuts, and I hate that I missed all but the end of it.

  Blaine sniffs. “Hmm. He’s cute but mangy. He probably wouldn’t know a pentatonic scale if it bit him on the ass. I don’t know how you can take them seriously when they know nothing about what they’re doing. Do pop stars even know the basics of theory? It’s like they’re lucking into anything interesting they do.”

  “Theory isn’t everything, and he knows music.”

  “Right.” He rolls his eyes then notices my tension. “Wait, do you have a crush on this guy? You do! That is so pedestrian, Rachel, falling for a rock star. Do you have a poster of him in your bedroom as well?”

  My blush says it all.

  Blaine laughs and turns the volume up. I don’t care that he’s doing it to torture me, now I can hear Dylan clearly.

  They’ve cut to a short film of Dylan playing a snippet on his guitar—the same one I played in his hotel room. It’s the same song I just heard the end of, judging by the mournful notes fading from his guitar.

  The show cuts back to the studio, where the host makes a slow show of crossing and re-crosses her long legs, and I hate her for trying to dazzle Dylan. He didn’t look at her legs, which makes me feel slightly better.

  She flips to the next cue card then focuses on Dylan again. “This new song is a little more personal, am I right?”

  Dylan shrugs. “All of our songs integrate parts of our lives into them. I think regret is something universal. Who hasn’t made a decision they wish they hadn’t, or said something they wish they could take back?”

  The host leans toward him like a flower angling itself to the sun. “Why is that a topic you’re interested in, specifically? There are other things that are universal as well. This song seems more personal. Why regret instead of another theme?”

  Every cell in my body perks up, waiting for his answer as he fidgets in his seat, foot making his knee bounce up and down agitatedly. He runs his hand through his hair and sighs as the camera zooms in to him. “Like I said, regret’s something we can all relate to. It can bring us to our knees, haunt our days and nights. Regret’s like this dark cloak that people wear so close to their skin they feel it every minute. It’s more than a cloak. I guess it’s not like clothing; it’s a part of you. It’s skin—sensitive, damaged skin, like a burn—something harder to shed or hide. Hard to get rid of no matter how they try, and even if they try to hide it underneath their clothes, it’s always there, searing your body and soul.”

  Like a tattoo.

  “Wow. So what would your advice be to our viewers about regrets?”

  “Avoid doing things that will create them because that’s easier than remedying them after the fact.” He stares at the camera, and I can’t breathe. “Some things you can’t take back. The wrong job, the wrong partner. Passing up an opportunity to get away from it all with someone who’s perfect for you. With someone who knows your soul and would give you his world if you’d just say yes…”

  Is he talking about me? My skin prickles. He is, I know he is.

  He continues, “You might think a decision you make is just a means to an end. Maybe it even gets you what you think you want, but those easy decisions have consequences. They’re not just throwaway things you’ll be able to live with.”

  Blaine snorts. “This guy’s pretty preachy. Is he angling for a talk show? He should stick to singing his auto-tuned three-chord progression songs.”

  I take a gulp of my water, wishing I’d accepted a wine instead. “You’re right. I don’t want to hear this. You can change it if you want.”

  Blaine pulls up the guide, which unfortunately only shrinks the picture of Dy
lan and the band, the sound painfully clear when the interviewer says, “That sounds like good advice. Do you avoid regrets in your life?”

  Dylan shifts uncomfortably in his seat and scrubs his hands down his stubble. “No. I’m carrying the biggest of regrets at the moment. For a woman. For the woman. I offered to take care of her. I offered her my lifestyle, thinking that’s what she’d want to hear. I tried to impress her by sharing the fantasy instead of the beautiful reality we created when we were together.”

  The girls in the audience sigh, eyes wet with tears.

  Mine are too, but I can’t even move to blink them away, scared he’ll stop talking.

  Dylan looks at the camera. “I offered her all these things trying to sweep her off her feet, just to try and get more time with her. Things aren’t important to her, and I know they’re not. And I somehow didn’t mention that I loved her. I’m an idiot. I love her and I let her walk away, and that’s the regret biting at me like I’ve been dipped in acid.”

  Blaine changes the channel, breaking the spell.

  Somehow, I find my voice. “You know what? I can’t do this.”

  Blaine sets his wine glass down. “That’s fine. I can call you a cab if you’re not up to it.”

  With shaking hands, I set the water on the table. “No. I don’t mean this night. I mean the whole thing. The marriage. I’ll regret it in the future, and not just in the future, but I regret it today. It’s over.”

  Blaine’s face darkens, but his voice is calm. “You can’t do that. We have an agreement.”

  “An agreement to have a child neither of us wants. What the hell are we doing?”

  “You don’t have a choice.”

  I laugh. “Do you honestly think anything I agreed to will hold up in court?”

  “You signed a contract. Need I remind you your job is on the line?”

  I stand, jamming my hands on my hips, feeling better than I have in weeks. “Yeah, the director made a young, impressionable girl sign a marriage contract for a baby and a place on the orchestra. No one would believe I wasn’t coerced into it. And you know what? I don’t even care. Take me to court if you really want. Sue me. But of the two of us? You’ve got more to lose if the truth comes out. Thank you for the opportunity, Blaine.” I stride to his front door feeling lighter. Feeling more than I have in months despite the uncertainty my future now holds.

  “I understand what you’re saying, Rachel, so let’s make very certain you understand me too. I may not sue you for breaking your contract with me, but I can certainly guarantee you will not be working in my symphony any longer. Nor will you find a place in any other orchestra that my influence extends to, and I think you will find that will be almost anywhere you choose to apply. I will give you one last chance to stop being foolish and take the future I am offering you. But if you walk out that door, you’re committing career suicide.” He stares me down, clearly expecting me to come to my senses and apologize. But he’s read me wrong. For the first time in months, I have come to my senses.

  “I’m sure you will find someone to replace me, Blaine,” I say seriously, “but I’m tired of pretending to be someone I’m not, letting someone else define my life. I quit. There’s more than one way to make music. I’m going to do what makes me happy; otherwise, I’m going to wake up fifty years from now filled with regrets about the person I never became because I was too scared to be true to myself. I’ve let other people’s expectations strangle my potential and suffocate the best chance I’ve ever had at happiness. I’m not going to take that any longer. I’m going for the things I want, as of now, on my own terms. You should try that too.”

  Three days go by in a blur of activity and hope. Everyone was surprised when they found out I was quitting the orchestra, but it’s not an uncommon thing for musicians to move on. I told them I’d been given an opportunity I couldn’t pass up.

  Most people assumed I’d just realized Blaine wouldn’t be less of an asshole even if we were married. There’s a lot to be said for that point of view. As long as he looked like the jilted one, no one on his beloved board could fault him for being single again.

  Paul still hasn’t forgiven me for not being completely honest with him the whole time. I feel bad about it, but realistically, we were never going to be friends—not with a one-sided crush standing between us like an elephant in the room. Still, he texted me and congratulated me on my new job—his way of making peace. It made me feel better, anyway.

  I tape another box closed and scribble a summary of its contents on the top with a marker. What I can’t fit into two suitcases, I’m putting into storage—at least until I figure out my next move. My plane leaves in two days which isn’t much time to pack, but that’s when the couple I’m subletting my house to moves in.

  Giving up my chair was surprisingly easy. Not long ago, I thought it was everything I wanted, a dream coming true. I guess that when you find a better dream than the one you thought you wanted, there are no regrets. I’ll miss this little house though. It was the place I gorged on videos of Dylan and clips of his songs when I discovered who he really is.

  This is where, lying in bed in the dark, I allowed myself to dream about the future we might have. I’d lie there staring into the darkness and imagine him walking up my stairs, opening my door without knocking while I shivered in bed waiting for him. He’d stride in like he owned the fucking place; then he’d fuck me like he owned me too. Some nights, I’d imagine he said nothing at all as his long body stretched out over top of mine. Others, I’d pretend he told me he loved me with gentle hands and wild hips.

  Since seeing the interview at Blaine’s house, thoughts of Dylan make me smile. It was a giant wakeup call that came just in the nick of time, and every day after, it’s like something inside of me clicked into place.

  Maybe I should feel less certain about my future, but faith comes easily. So easily, I know it’s him before I open the door on Friday morning when someone hammers on it with a fist.

  But my breath still catches when I see his perfect face, despite the tension clenching his jaw. “Dylan.” My voice comes out husky. “What are you doing here?”

  He pushes past me into my living room. “I don’t even know. It’s not like I have any new, compelling arguments about what you’re getting yourself into, but I had to see you again.” He turns and levels me with an intense stare. “Maybe that’s not all. Maybe I couldn’t go the rest of my life with this regret staining every minute of every day.” He sighs. “I had to tell you that I love you, just once. Even if it changes nothing. Even though it won’t make a difference.”

  My heart stutters then swells, sending happiness tingling through every cell of my body. He loves me, and right now, I don’t know how my feet are still on the floor I’m in such danger of floating away. “It makes all the difference, Dylan.”

  He carries on like he hasn’t heard me, angrily pacing around, caught up in his own inner turmoil. “I mean, marriage contracts and babies for a lousy job? The whole thing is asinine. You’re too talented and too important to throw your life away like this. I don’t care if you don’t want to be together. That’s fine. But you’re not marrying that asshole.” He runs his hands through his hair and bends slightly at the waist, letting out a loud noise through his clenched teeth before straightening and taking a step toward me. “No, that’s a fucking lie. You not wanting to be with me is the farthest thing from fine.” He spits the word out. “I need you in my life. I love you.”

  Thank God. I hide my smile behind my hair until I can get it under control then grab a picture frame and hold out my hand to him, looking at the side table. “Can you hand me that packing tape, please?”

  Agitated, he grabs at it and stretches his arm out before the boxes and tape register. “Wait. Why are you packing? Are you moving in with him already? Speeding up the happy family timeline?” His sarcasm turns to horror. “Tell me you’re not,” his gaze shoots from my ring-less ring finger to my belly, “pregnant already.”
r />   “No, I’m not pregnant.”

  He gestures at the boxes all around us. “But you’re moving.”

  “Yes. I’m moving because I can’t afford this place anymore.”

  He frowns and taps the tape against his thigh like it’s a tambourine. “Why not?”

  I smile and sit on the arm of the couch. “I quit my job. This place isn’t that fancy, but now that I’m unemployed, it’s out of my range.”

  His eyes widen. “Why would you quit that job? It meant everything to you.”

  “I thought it did.” I set the picture down and tilt my head. “Then I saw this badass rock star on a television interview talking about regret. He had a lot of good points, and I realized something.”

  He takes a step closer, eyes suddenly all pupil and intensity. “What was that?”

  My belly flutters with a thousand butterflies. “That he was right. That some decisions aren’t worth making because they will haunt you forever.”

  He takes another step closer. “Which decisions?”

  “Marrying my gay director and having his kid, for starters. Signing my life away would have been a catastrophe.” I stand and take the tape out of Dylan’s hand. His entire body is rigid like he’s trying not to pounce.

  I can’t wait for him to.

  “So I quit my job and told my director to stick his contract—both of his contracts.”

  “Why would you do that?” He closes his eyes when I take his hand, every muscle in his body rigid from holding himself back.

  I kiss his palm. “Because I want to be with you. Because I’m yours.”

  His hand fists into my hair and tugs my head back, baring my throat to him. He savages it with kisses that make my eyes unfocus and my toes curl.

  I’d crawl across broken glass to get to this man. Hell, I burned my life to the ground after all, just for another chance with him. He has no idea I have a plane ticket to LA and he came to me anyways. Christ, how could I ever have thought I could live without this man?