Hard As Rock (7 page)

I noticed that he didn’t mention Derek, and was grateful that he didn’t.

“So, yeah, if I wanted them to stay healthy – and if I didn’t want to eat pizza and Hot Pockets 24/7 – then it was up to me.”

“I’ll have to put that in the article,” I said without thinking about it – and then felt a stab of grief and loss.

My big chance at a career, and I had fucked it up.

Ryan looked over and saw me physically wilt, saw the pain on my face.

“Kaitlyn,” he said quietly, “there’s no reason you can’t still write it.”

I shook my head ‘no.’ “That’s over with. Done.”

“No, you’re just not under Glen’s thumb anymore. That’s the only difference.”

That, and writing anything about Derek would feel like scraping broken glass over my heart.

But I kept that one to myself.

“
Rolling Stone’s
not going to take the article,” I said morosely.

“You walk into any music magazine’s office with an article that interviews… all the members of the band, you’ll sell it in a heartbeat.”

I noticed how he paused and said ‘all the members of the band’ to avoid saying ‘Derek.’

I loved him for that.

Platonically, I mean.

After weeks of putting up with a boyfriend who signed women’s bare tits in front of my face, it was nice being around a man who cared about my feelings.

“Don’t give up just yet,” Ryan said softly. “You’ve got all the time in the world now. Take it at your own pace, when you’re ready.”

Tears started to blur my eyes – but for the first time, it wasn’t because of Derek. It was because of Ryan’s kindness.

I smiled gratefully, and he smiled back.

“Alright, let’s eat this before it gets cold,” he said, and took the dishes to the table.

Dinner was wonderful. We ate at the dining room table in front of the massive bay window, and watched the sky turn pink and purple over the mountains as we got buzzed off the bottle of wine.

The food was excellent. The chicken was tender, the spices were just right, and the vegetables tasted wonderful.

“Are these fresh?”

“Yeah, Mrs. MacCruder keeps a garden. Most of the vegetables came out of it.”

“That’s amazing… this is like a little paradise.”

He nodded. “It is. That’s why I really wanted to keep it. It’s a great place to come and chill out, and it’s one of the few places I have to get away from the insanity.”

After five weeks on the road, I had an inkling of what he meant.

I helped him do the dishes and load the dishwasher.

“What do we do now?” I asked as we finished up.

“Um… well… there’s a TV in the den if you want to watch television. Or we could watch something On Demand.”

That sounded a little out of character for Ryan. He was out in the middle of the wilderness after just finishing a grueling tour; I doubted the first thing he wanted to do was turn on HBO.

“Is that normally what you do?”

“No. Almost never, actually.”

“So what do you do?”

He looked embarrassed. “Mostly play music… sing… compose a little.”

“You sing? I mean, I know you sing backup on a lot of the songs, but… you sing by yourself, too?”

He seemed super self-conscious. “I’m not as good as Derek.”

“The way I feel right now, I could never hear Derek’s voice again and it would still be too soon.”

He grinned, relieved.

I looked over at the piano. “Can you play me something?”

“Only if you promise to tell me when you’re bored.”

“Deal.”

I nestled into one of the comfy leather sofas with a fourth glass of wine as he sat down in front of the piano.

“What do you want to hear?” he asked.

“…you choose.”

He thought for a minute. As he did, he started to play lightly, his fingers dancing over the keys, warming up.

Damn – he was
good.

Not like classical virtuoso player good, but… he knew his way around a piano, that was for sure.

Suddenly he started to sing “Hey Jude.”

I listened, entranced.

He had a good voice. It was pitched higher than Derek’s – closer to Rob Thomas’s of Matchbox Twenty, but that just meant that he sang the song more like the original version. If Derek had been singing it, it would have sounded dark and gravelly. Ryan’s voice made it softer and sweeter.

The song also brought back memories of my interview with Riley. She’d asked me to sing something by the Beatles, and that was the one I had hummed.

I know it’s one of their most famous songs, but it seemed almost eerie that he had picked it, too.

When he reached the chorus, he turned around and said, “Everybody!”

I laughed and joined in on the “Naaaaaah… naah naah NAH nah NAH naaaaah” part. We kept that up for awhile until he finally ended it with a flourish on the piano keys.

He turned around to check on me. “You bored yet?”

“Noooooo. That was awesome.”

“Alright… any requests?”

Anything except songs by Bigger,
I thought silently.

“You hit a homer on the first one,” I said. “You keep going.”

So he kept going. First it was “Piano Man” by Billy Joel, then “Old Time Rock ‘n Roll” by Bob Seger, “Champagne Supernova” by Oasis – which was kind of mind-blowing, since there’s no piano in the original song – and “Imagine” by John Lennon. The last song was absolutely breathtaking, with the final chords dying out beautifully in the wide open spaces of the room.

Ryan looked around at me, and a concerned look came over his face. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, why?”

“You’re crying.”

I blinked and felt the wetness on my lashes. It was true; I
had
been crying, just a little.

But not over Derek.

Over how beautiful the song was.

“I’m fine,” I said, and suddenly stifled a yawn.

“You’re tired,” Ryan said, and stood up, walked over, took my empty wine glass from me, and offered his hand.

“You’re cutting me off?” I asked. My words were a little slurred, I have to admit.

“Yup.” He grinned. “Come on, it’s been a long day for both of us.”

I took his outstretched hand. Even then, I got up unsteadily. “I want to hear more.”

“We’ve got a lot of nights ahead of us. Plenty of time for more songs.”

He walked me back to my bedroom. On the way, I was hit with an overwhelming need for sleep.

He stopped at the door.

I turned around and lifted my head to look at him.

I could feel it in the air – the slight tension between us. The longing on his part… and strangely enough, the conflicted feelings on mine. With more than a little yearning to feel his arms around me.

We looked at each for a few long seconds.

Then he smiled. “Goodnight, Kaitlyn. Sleep well.”

He turned quietly, walked down the hallway, and disappeared.

Either because of my lack of sleep the previous night, or the bottle of wine – or both – I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

But I dreamt. Constantly, vividly, nonstop.

They were all about Derek.

And all of them were variations on a theme.

In one I was following him through a crowded street. Suddenly the street was a hotel hallway, the way that dreams shift without need to conform to reality. I walked faster, trying to catch up with him. As I came up right behind him, a door opened to his left, and a woman’s bare arms reached out and dragged him willingly into the room.

As the door closed in my face, the last thing I saw was a glimpse of his eyes staring into mine – and his lips, which silently formed the words:

You knew what I was when you slept with me.

In another dream I was on the side of a stage, watching the band play to a giant arena.

Then suddenly I was among them – Killian off to my right, Ryan to my left, and Riley behind me. But Derek wasn’t there anymore.

I looked around the stage for him as the others played on, oblivious – except for Ryan, who watched me with sad eyes. I stared at him and saw his gaze flicker down into the audience.

I followed his eye-line into the pit, where Derek was crowd-surfing across an undulating mass of naked female bodies, their hands tearing off his clothes. He gave me a smug smirk as he slowly sank into their writhing, sensual forms, like a ship being swallowed by the sea.

In another dream I was with him on the beach, happy, frolicking in a bikini, him in a black pair of board shorts that showed off his muscles. We were in the water, kissing, our wet hands running over each others’ slick bodies.

Suddenly I felt a horrible pain in my back, a burning sting. As I gasped in agony, a hand dunked me underwater. I came up sputtering and stared into the face of the woman from the hotel room – except this time her features were malevolent and filled with hate.

She wasn’t alone. There was another woman with her, though I couldn’t see her face. They took turns clawing at my skin, forcing me beneath the waves.

I surfaced one last time and screamed for Derek. He was up on the shore, standing on dry sand, watching unconcerned as both women raked their nails down my face and pushed me underwater.

Before I finally disappeared, I glimpsed the face of my other attacker.

It was me.

I woke up in a cold sweat from that one.

I cried and sobbed bitterly. I hated him a little bit more as my heart broke into ever smaller pieces… and then the wine worked its magic, and lulled me gently back into sleep.

I don’t remember any of my dreams after that.

I woke with a dull, throbbing headache.

I lay there in bed, struggling to remember where I was… and then I saw the flowing canopy over my bed and remembered.

Then I remembered
why
I was there and started crying again.

After about five minutes of that, I got up, peed, and splashed some cold water on my face. I checked my phone, which I had plugged in before dinner last night.

Eight new voicemails, one as late as 4AM. Nineteen new texts.

I was out in the middle of nowhere, but apparently the cell reception was fine. Thank God I’d had my phone on Do Not Disturb.

I listened to the first voicemail, and my heart broke to hear his voice.

“Kaitlyn, please, for God’s sake, you’ve got to call me… you can’t keep doing this to me… PLEASE… don’t DO this to me… please, Kaitlyn, please… just call me… text me… ANYTHING…”

Then I listened to the second one, and my heart boiled over with anger.

I could hear him in a crowded place, with the noise of a bar and casino behind him. His words were more slurred than usual.

“Stop being a goddamn BITCH and call me! Jesus Christ – do you know how many woman just threw themselves at me in the last hour?! DO you?! …you know what? For every hour you DON’T call me, I’m going to FUCK one of them until I hear from you!”

Before I could hit the ‘Delete’ button, though, the next message played. It was dated one minute after the previous one.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that… That was fucked up. I don’t want anybody but you – but would you please just stop being a fucking BITCH and FUCKING CALL ME?!”

I hit ‘Delete’ and trashed every last message he’d sent me.

Fuck anybody you want, ASSHOLE.

Underneath my rage, though, my heart shattered a little bit more.

I shuffled out of the bedroom hallway in my XXL pink t-shirt. I felt absolutely miserable about Derek, but the smell and sizzle of cooking bacon and eggs temporarily lifted my spirits.

I was expecting the comforting sight of Ryan standing at the stove when I walked in. I was also a little surprised at how happy the thought made me.

So imagine my shock when a tiny woman in jeans and a denim shirt was standing there instead.

She looked to be in her mid-60’s. Her silver hair was done up in a long, single braid that reached halfway down her back, and her face was crinkled with the lines that come from a long life spent outdoors. Her eyes were kind and soft, and she didn’t have a lick of makeup on.

I froze at the edge of the hallway.

She looked up and gave me a friendly smile. “Mornin’, dear. I’m Mrs. MacCruder. You must be Kaitlyn. Breakfast is almost ready.”

After a few seconds, I managed to squeak out, “Um… it smells good.’

“Thank you, I hope you two enjoy it.”

“You’re… not eating with us?”

“Oh no, I just thought I’d whip something up for the two of you while Ryan’s out.”

I started to panic, imagining him to be… I didn’t know. On a cattle drive or something.

“Where
is
he?”

“He’s out saying hello to Mildred and Bessie and Fat Albert.”

“…who?”

“The horses, dear. He’s out at the barn with the horses.”

I was used to thinking of Ryan as Mr. Rock Star Bassist. Not as a guy who went out to barns and said hello to horses.

It was an odd sensation.

Mrs. MacCruder gave me an amused look from head to toe. “You might want to go get dressed before he comes in.”

I looked down, and realized my t-shirt had ridden up a little farther than usual. I pulled it down my thighs as far as it could go.

“We, uh, we didn’t…” I stammered. “We’re not…”

“I know,” she said with an impish smile. “But you might want to change into something else, or he’ll want to.”

I turned around, my face scalding red, and fairly ran back to my bedroom.

By the time I reappeared in a black skirt, blouse, and black leather boots, Ryan was in the kitchen with Mrs. MacCruder. He wore a pair of jeans, work boots, and a dark green shirt rolled up to expose his forearms. Oddly enough, he didn’t look out of place at all. Not like a rock dude trying to pose as a country boy. More just like a really tall, really cute ranch hand… with a badass haircut and a necklace he might have gotten surfing somewhere in South America.

“Hey, good morning,” he said cheerily. “Did you sleep well?”

“Very well, thank you,” I said, giving Mrs. MacCruder a tentative glance.