Lovely Madness: A Players Rockstar Romance (Players, Book 4) Page 11

  Could it really be that simple?

  Could it really be that his sister and I had convinced him that he needed an assistant, and that I was the woman for the job?

  Or was it some combination of both?

  I put some music on, then went over to the window. I sat down on the deep sill and looked outside. I could hear the sounds of the city, the traffic noise and distant sirens, the less distant sirens. The voices of people stumbling by on the street below.

  I took a deep breath and tried to sit with my decision.

  I knew I’d made the right decision because it was what I wanted to do. But I felt uneasy about it. I didn’t yet know what Cary Clarke’s issues were, but I knew he had them. And I heard the warning bells chiming away in the dark.

  If I was being honest with myself, though, I felt drawn to him.

  I picked up the phone and wrote a text to my best friend.

  Me: Can you drag your husband’s butt out of bed around nine or so this Saturday?

  She texted me back pretty quick.

  Danica: A.M. ??

  Me: Yup. Looks like I’m moving into Cary Clarke’s poolhouse. I need muscles and beers please.

  Danica: This is exciting!

  Me: That’s what Courteney said.

  Danica: I think you’re making the right choice. And if it doesn’t work out… just walk away. Court will understand.

  Me: I hope so.

  Danica: And by the way. I googled. Top shelf bang certified.

  Me: Told you so.

  Me: And thank you.

  Just walk away.

  I could do that, right?

  God knew I’d done it enough times in my life already. I’d walked away from bad bosses, bad boyfriends, bad relationships of all kinds.

  And so had he, apparently.

  He’d walked away from almost every relationship he had, and I wasn’t sure why.

  Were they bad for him?

  Did he walk away too late, like I always seemed to? Or did he walk away preemptively, before he got hurt?

  I wondered at what point I’d have to walk away from this one. Because I knew I would. Either at the end of our six month contract, or sometime before that, I’d have to walk away from Cary Clarke.

  And I promised myself that this time, no matter when it was, I’d know when it was time to go.

  I’d get out, before he hurt me.

  Chapter Seven

  Cary

  Heavydirtysoul

  Around ten o’clock Saturday morning, a black GMC Sierra driven by Ashley Player pulled up to my front gate. I saw him on the security feed on my laptop. He didn’t hit the buzzer, but the gate opened for his truck; it was followed by Xander’s Corvette.

  Taylor’s friends—including my best friend, apparently—had come to help her move in. I wondered if they’d volunteered so they could casually check up on me.

  Once they’d pulled up the driveway, I couldn’t see the vehicles anymore. There was no camera inside the yard or on the front door, and I stayed right where I was. In the studio, working.

  Xander knew I was hardly the welcome wagon type, and I figured they’d let me know when they needed something. He’d already made it pretty clear to me how he felt about Taylor working for me and moving into my poolhouse; I didn’t really need him saying anything ridiculous to me in front of her. If my sister was with them, same problem.

  Xander and Courteney were both far too excited about this whole thing for my comfort.

  My sister had already called me, twice, to tell me how happy she was that this situation was working out so well (a bit premature), and asking me to please let her know if I needed anything (I wouldn’t). If things didn’t work out well, she probably wanted to make sure she could whisk Taylor the fuck out of here as quickly as possible, so as not to upset me.

  My little sister was big on not upsetting me. Though I supposed having a mental breakdown on her was probably a good reason for that.

  She’d learned long ago to tread lightly.

  Xander usually tiptoed around me, too, in his stupid-expensive designer sneaks, looking like he felt guilty for being happy. But he’d been fairly direct—for him—about this, when he’d hit me up with a string of texts the same night I hired Taylor. Which, apparently, he found out from my sister. I definitely didn’t feel the need to inform him and request his two cents on the matter.

  I checked my phone now, but none of them had messaged me since they pulled into the driveway. I wondered what they were up to out there, but not enough to actually go look.

  I scrolled back through my messages to that one-sided conversation the other night.

  Xander: Heard you hired Taylor.

  Xander: She’s hot.

  Xander: Obviously you know that. Not judging. Just saying she gets a lot of attention at the bar but I’ve never seen her one and done with anyone. I thought about fucking her myself but don’t worry I didn’t. This was before Courteney. But full disclosure. I didn’t know she was your type or I would’ve brought her by to meet you long ago. Kinda feel bad I missed that.

  About an hour later, when I hadn’t replied, he seemed to feel the need to go on.

  Xander: Also she’s nice. And smart.

  Xander: Guess that’s why you like her.

  Xander: Also her last boyfriend was a fucking douchewad of the highest order.

  Xander: Ash is glad you’re moving her into the poolhouse. He says her place is a slum.

  Xander: Also she’s single. In case that wasn’t clear.

  I didn’t respond.

  Seriously, Xander was never this chatty about women.

  Ever since he hooked up with my little sister behind my back, he’d been kissing my ass to try to smooth things over, so it was hard to tell if his apparent excitement about this was genuine or what. Nowhere in there was an actual question to me, though, so I figured he didn’t bother asking because he assumed he already knew the answer.

  The last text was the most bizarre.

  Xander: I’m happy for you.

  You would’ve thought I’d proposed to her or something.

  But I supposed the fact that I was interacting with a woman who I wasn’t related to and who wasn’t my sixty-something housekeeper was fucking exciting, if you were him. The fact that Taylor was hot sweetened the deal. Maybe he could mentally strike off Is he secretly gay? and Did his dick fall off? from his long-ass list of concerns about me. Because I knew these were serious questions in Xander’s mind. Every time he talked to me, he subtly probed for answers.

  So, talked to anyone interesting lately? (Translation: Have you talked to anyone female lately?)

  Hey, I ran into [insert name of hot chick], remember her? (Translation: You do remember that chicks are hot, right?)

  It occurred to me that it was difficult for Xander Rush to fathom a lifestyle that didn’t involve a woman within reach at all times, ready and willing to get naked on demand. But Xander had never really understood me at all. And honestly, I’d never really understood him, either.

  You didn’t need to understand someone to care about them, though, and I knew Xander loved me like a brother. He used to say that all the time; that Gabe and I were his brothers. He still called me his brother.

  I knew I was his best friend since Gabe died. He was mine, too.

  So when I thought about it, really, I appreciated his weird speech about Taylor. It was his way of saying Good for you, bro. Obviously he approved of the fact that I’d hired her, and if I was also planning to fuck her, I had his blessing. I knew him well enough to extract that much from his text rambling. It was his way of looking out for me and being supportive.

  He’d always done that, no matter how hard I’d made it for him.

  I tried, for about the hundredth time, to actually focus on the music I was supposed to be listening to. I was down to the last band on Summer Sorensen’s top three, Twenty One Pilots, and I had two albums left to go. I was on the opening track from Blurryface, but I was far too distrac
ted by the fact that there were people in my yard to really listen.

  Taylor. Taylor was in my yard.

  I checked my phone, but still no text from anyone outside.

  I considered just going out there—you know, into my own yard—to say hi to my best friend and the woman I’d just hired and basically pressured to move onto my property. But I didn’t. I told myself I just had to get through this album. Finish up with the Twenty One Pilots discography today, while I finished getting some shit organized for Monday. The studio control room was kind of cluttered and disorganized right now. I was usually pretty neat and organized in general, but the idea of having Taylor walk in here made me see it with fresh eyes.

  I had to at least clear some work space for her and unpack the office chair I’d had delivered for her to use. Maybe clear out a drawer or something? Try to look like I at least remembered what it was like to have another human being inside my bubble.

  And thinking about it just made me anxious to get it done.

  Yeah, maybe I should get on that shit.

  I put the music through the house-wide system and went looking for a knife in the kitchen to open the ridiculously stapled and tape-sealed box the chair came in.

  But then someone rang the doorbell.

  I figured it was Xander, coming to try to drag my ass out of the house. But when I went out to the foyer and looked through the front window, it was Taylor, and she was alone.

  I opened the door.

  She was wearing a little black cotton dress and a pair of pastel-pink Vintage Nikes that had been doodled on with black marker, her hair in two little pink braids. I didn’t realize an almost thirty-year-old woman could look so hot in braids until this moment.

  Yeah, I knew how old she was now. I’d discerned that from the birthday party photos she’d posted last November.

  And yeah, I’d been snooping through her social media again.

  “It’s just me,” she said quickly, as I stared at her. “Everyone’s in the backyard.”

  “Hey.”

  “Good morning.” She glanced down—at the utility knife I was holding in my hand. It was pointed at her. The blade was out and I’d forgotten I was holding it.

  I dropped it to my side. “Uh—”

  “Wow. That is one way to welcome a woman to your house.”

  “Sorry, I was opening a box.” The knife clicked as I retracted the blade, and I tucked it in my back pocket. My face must’ve actually been turning red, judging by the heat level under my skin.

  Holy Christ, was I rusty with women. I couldn’t think of one word to say to her.

  Good morning. Just say good morning, idiot.

  “Uh, good morning.”

  She smiled tentatively and handed me a takeout coffee. And a packet of paperwork. “Black coffee. Employment contract and NDA, signed. Tax documents. Direct deposit info for my bank account… My rider’s in there, too.”

  When I just looked at her, the smile fell.

  “I’m kidding,” she said.

  “Thank you.” I glanced at the paperwork but didn’t really see it. “If it were in there, what would be in it?”

  “A rider? For me?” She kinda laughed. “Uh, I’m pretty low maintenance. Salt and vinegar chips? Coke? Jolly Ranchers?”

  “Coke… like, the drink?”

  “Yeah. Coca-Cola. I wasn’t planning to hoover blow on my coffee break or anything.”

  “Good to know.”

  “I do eat chip sandwiches and Coke every day for lunch, though. Just mentally preparing you. Every adult human I’ve ever met makes fun of me for it. But if I never changed the menu for anyone else, afraid I can’t do it for you, boss.”

  “I see. You’re telling me you put chips on bread and eat it?”

  “No.” For the first time since I met her, she actually looked at me like I was crazy. “You just make a regular sandwich with whatever on it and then add chips to it. Makes it salty and crunchy.”

  “Alright, then.”

  “You don’t have to partake. I’m just saying.”

  “I’ll get Rose on your lunch supplies. You can let me know what brand of chips you prefer.”

  “Oh. I didn’t mean—” Her eyes went wide. “I was just joking. I don’t have an actual rider. You know that, right?”

  “It’s fine. Lunchtime is during the workday and you’re at the office, so to speak. You can just give me a list of what you want from the grocery store and we’ll stock up the kitchen.”

  “Okay,” she said, seeming unsure. “That’s really nice. Thank you.”

  “Come in.” I opened the door wider and she followed me into the foyer. “Wait here.” I went into the studio, dumped the paperwork and the knife, and grabbed the envelope I had for her. When I re-emerged, she was looking up the curved staircase in the foyer, at the framed photos on the wall over the stairs. My family. My former band.

  She turned to me when she heard me coming.

  I handed her the envelope. “House keys. Alarm code for the house. And the entry code for the poolhouse. I just had it changed, so you don’t have to worry about any of my friends stumbling in there or anything.”

  “Yeah, Courteney was pretty miffed that she couldn’t open it just now.”

  “Maybe memorize those, and then burn that?” I suggested as she peeked in the envelope.

  “It won’t just auto-destruct?”

  “I’m not a secret spy or anything, so no.”

  “Just checking.” She looked me over, quickly. “You have this subtle, if-James-Bond-were-a-surfer vibe going on, in case you didn’t know.”

  “I think he did surf. In Die Another Day.”

  “Okay, I’ll try not to hold it against you that you know that.”

  “Not a Bond fan?”

  “Not really.” Her eyes widened and she immediately tried to backpedal. “I mean, when I compared you to him, though, it wasn’t an insult…”

  “I didn’t take it as one.”

  “Shit.” She rubbed her neck. Was she nervous?

  I was so used to being distracted by my own discomfort when talking to people, I could hardly read the signs.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I think I just flirted with you, without meaning to, then insulted you, without meaning to. Can we chalk this up to moving day nerves and move on?”

  “Done,” I said. I didn’t want her to be nervous. I was nervous enough for both of us. “Your own remote for the gate is in there, too. The other one is signed out to Courteney so you can just give it back to her. I have a security company that monitors everything. You’re attached to the new remote.”

  “Sounds official.”

  “I emailed you a list of other contacts you’ll maybe need, like the groundskeepers and whatever.”

  “Thank you.” She hesitated. “Do you want to come out and say hi?” she asked, with the kind of unassuming innocence of someone who really didn’t know me. “Xander’s here and so is your sister. And Ashley and Danica.”

  “I’ll pop out a bit later. I have some things to do first.”

  “Okay. We’ll be a little while. I didn’t bring a ton of stuff, but the guys are already two beers in and playing Frisbee. I’m herding rock star cats out there.”

  “I have total faith you can handle it.” I opened the front door for her. “Let me know if you need anything.”

  “Sure. See you later.”

  I could hear voices out in the yard, in the distance, as she jogged down the steps. Laughter. Music was playing, but I couldn’t tell what it was. I thought I heard Xander’s voice, getting louder, like maybe he was coming around to the front of the house as I shut the door.

  I headed into the studio and locked myself in.

  I pulled up the security feed of the front gate on a laptop and left it open next to me, so I’d see when anyone left. Or if anyone else arrived. Then I got to work on unpacking and assembling Taylor’s new chair. And tried not to think about her out in the yard, hanging out with her friends, drinking beer
in the sunshine.

  You know, being normal.

  Normal was hard for me. Because I so totally wasn’t.

  Sure, I used to be the kind of person who’d enjoy a few beers by the pool with friends. I used to be easygoing—more or less. Even as my anxiety worsened, the bouts becoming more intense, I found joy and pleasure in everyday life.

  I had a pretty great life.

  The anxiety came on infrequently, and always triggered by specific things. It was predictable. Manageable.

  But all that changed when Gabe died.

  Overnight, living became unmanageable. I spun out of control, and the only way for me to get some semblance of my life back was to take control.

  Of everything.

  I became closed off, guarded, particular about everything in my life down to the smallest detail. I wasn’t even sure what is was about Taylor Lawson that made me want to let her in.

  I’d been thinking about it all week and I still hadn’t figured it out.

  I liked looking at her. I liked talking to her. But it was more than that.

  I got a strong sense that she’d be willing to follow my rules.

  Let me have control where I needed it, which was pretty much everywhere, in every little thing. And I didn’t think she’d treat me like a freak because of it. Or tiptoe around me. Or butt heads with me over every trivial thing. She had strong instincts for navigating around other people, and I could feel that when she walked into my house and looked me in the eye, gently grilling me without being rude.

  She was respectful without kissing ass.

  She had a subtle, dry sass about her that was endearing without being prickly or obnoxious.