Love's Rhythm (9 page)

He held up the glass and, eyes closed, threw its contents down his throat. And still the liquid didn’t abate the chill in his soul. A quiet
tsk tsk
sounded to his left, a shuffle of feet and a whispered, “What a shame, he had such promise”. He opened his eyes to find himself alone again with his bottle and ever-watchful barkeep.

There was no elderly couple

There was no Lauren either. No Lauren and no teenage son.

No one to talk to.

Fuck, he’d never felt so alone. Alone and empty and missing something. Missing her. Missing fifteen years of…of…what? Something he didn’t know could have been? Missing a family he didn’t know he had? Christ, what was he thinking? He was Nick Blackthorne. He didn’t have time for a kid. He didn’t have time for a little wife and a picket fence. He was a rock star.
The
rock star, damn it. Why the fuck was he sitting here in a pissy little pub getting drunk over a woman who hadn’t told him what he’d deserved to know? Why was he even back in town? If she’d wanted him, Lauren would have come to him. Women chased him. Not the other way round. Women threw themselves at him. Wanted him. That was the way his life was. Not being a dad. Not playing soccer in the backyard, or taking his son fishing, or teaching him how to play the guitar. Not watching him take his first girlfriend out on their first date. Not helping him get over his first heartbreak. Not…not…

Not being Nick Blackthorne, rock star. M.I.A. father.

He poured another drink, the bottle chinking on the glass’s edge. Whiskey splashed over the side. Not a lot, but enough to make the barkeep narrow his eyes.

Nick ignored him, turning his glass a full circle on the table. Damn it, he ached. He wanted nothing more than to look into Lauren’s eyes and see his heart there, see her love. He loved her. Jesus Christ, he loved her. And it had nothing to do with how fucking amazing she looked, how fucking hot she was, how incredible she was to make love to. It had everything to do with how she made him a better person.

Clichéd, Nick. Are you really stooping to clichés?

He was. He was drunk. He was allowed to stoop to clichés. Clichés spoke the language a singer knew all too well. How many songs had he written about love? About love lost? Love denied? About futures destroyed and hope shattered.

He didn’t want to be a walking cliché. He didn’t. He wanted to be—

His phone vibrated in his pocket, a second before The Wiggles started singing “Hot Potato”.

The barkeeper chuckled, sliding his white towel off his shoulder as he turned to the glasses stacked behind him, seemingly done with his Nick Blackthorne vigil. Nick squirmed about on the bench seat, digging his phone out of his pocket before blinking at the image on the screen. He hit the accept key, raising the phone to his ear. “Hey, Uncle As.”

“Where are you, Nick?” His bodyguard’s voice slid through the connection into Nick’s brain, rumbly deep as always.

Nick dropped his head into his free hand. “In the Cricketer’s Arms, drunk as a fart and pissed as a skunk.”

“Interesting,” Aslin answered. “Do I need to fire up the chopper and get there right away?”

Nick snorted. “Guess what, As?”

“What?”

Nick stared hard at his whiskey. “I’m going to be a dad.”

“What?” Aslin’s voice didn’t slide through the connection. It punched through it.

Nick frowned, turning his glass around once on the table. “No, wait. That’s wrong. I’ve been a father for fifteen years. I only just found out today.”

“Bloody hell, Nick. Do I need to call your lawyer? Are we talking paternity suit here?”

Nick shook his head, closing his eyes on the blurry, unfocussed glass before him. “We’re talking Lauren Robbins here, As.”

Aslin didn’t answer.

“Lauren Robbins,” Nick went on, his chest suddenly tight, his stomach suddenly knotted. His balls suddenly swollen. “The woman I came back to say sorry to, has a son. My son. Isn’t that a kicker?”

“Tell me what you think you’re doing, Nick?”

“I don’t know.” He snorted. “Getting drunker?”

“I’ll be there in an hour. Don’t move.” Aslin's accent grew thicker, his voice deeper. “And don’t have anything else to drink.”

The line disconnected. Nick listened to the engaged signal for a second, tapping his foot to its monotonous beat before tossing his phone onto the table. He picked up his whiskey, studied it and then drained the glass.

He’d lied to Aslin. He’d lied to the old couple, Mr. and Mrs. Missen whose lawn he’d mowed all the way through his twelfth summer. He
did
know what he was going to do now. He did.

His chest squeezed tighter. His balls throbbed.

He picked up the whiskey bottle and poured another shot.

He knew
exactly
what he was going to do now.

Whether Lauren wanted to let him or not.

He was Nick Blackthorne, after all. He always got what he wanted.

Chapter Six

Someone was banging on the front door. Continuously. Lauren rolled onto her stomach and smothered her head with her pillow. “Go away,” she mumbled. Damn it, she’d only fallen asleep an hour or so ago. Finally fallen asleep after hours staring at her bedroom’s dark ceiling, the sound of Nick singing “Night Whispers” emanating from her iPod beside her bed.

“
And I want to beg but I can’t find the words.
” A much younger Nick had sung to her through the night, his voice husky, the evocative sound of an acoustic guitar his only accompaniment.

“And I want to cry, but I can’t find the tears.

“And all that’s left is the shadow of your heart and the ghost of your smile…

“And the whispers in the night.”

It had been stupid, self-torture, listening to that song over and over again. The first song he’d released after their relationship had ended. Listening to him sing the words she’d always wondered may have been written for her. Self-torture she couldn’t stop. Until finally, her eyes burning with stubbornly unshed tears, she’d fallen asleep with Nick singing to her in her head.

The banging on the door continued, loud enough to penetrate the duck-down stuffing of her pillow.

Someone wanted to talk to her bad.

Nick…

Her belly flip-flopped and she groaned. “Go away,” she called from under her pillow. Stupid really. Her bedroom was on the other side of the house to the front door. Whoever was on the other side—Nick?—wouldn’t hear her.

Which meant she had to get up and answer it, or pretend there was no one here.

Her belly twisted. She liked option number two.

No, you don’t.

“Walking paths I haven’t seen,”
Nick continued to sing,
“Looking for roads I’ve left behind.”

The banging grew louder. She stretched over to her iPod dock, turned up the volume and buried her head under her pillow again.

“It doesn’t mean a thing when I know you’re not there. Know you’ve moved on. Know you don’t care.”

More banging.

“And all that’s left is the shadow of your heart and the ghost of your smile…

“And the whispers in the night.”

Even more banging, this time followed by a muffled voice she could barely hear calling out something she couldn’t understand.

“Oh, for the love of God.” She flung her pillow aside, climbed out of bed and squinted at the bright light streaming into her room through the window. She’d been so frazzled last night she’d forgotten to pull the blinds.

See? A perfect reason to get Nick out of your life again. He makes you forget simple things.

Her pulsed thumped a little harder at the thought. Or was it the vaguely remembered dream coming back to her—a dream where Nick was making love to her on her bed as the curtain billowed in a warm summer breeze, the sounds of screaming fans outside chanting his name…

“The ghost of your smile,”
he sang from her iPod.
“And the whispers in the night.”

Lauren scrubbed her hands through her hair and hurried to the door. She must look like hell. Her hair was a mess, her PJs old and worn, her makeup from the day before smudged. Well, good. Let him see her this way. Let him see the harsh reality of Lauren Robbins, mother and teacher. Bet he never woke up with a woman wearing Elmo pyjamas before. Or with her hair looking like a bird’s nest. A psychotic bird’s nest.

The wooden floor of the hallway was cold, sending a rush of gooseflesh over her as she approached the doorway. Her nipples pinched tight. Her breath quickened. What was she going to say to him? What did she want to say?

Go away.

I’m sorry.

Make love to me. Please?

She curled her fingers around the door handle, released the lock and pulled the door wide.

Josh’s best friend, Rhys McDowell, stood on the other side, grinning at her. “Way to rock the grunge look, Miss R.”

Lauren’s face flooded with heat. She let out a sharp breath, her belly flip-flopping some more. “Rhys, why are you banging on my door so early in the morning?”

He grinned some more, his blue eyes positively sparkling with ill-disguised mirth. “It’s not early, Miss Robbins. It’s almost ten a.m.. And Josh is meant to be at soccer in—”

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Josh barreled past Lauren, shoving one gangly arm into his soccer shirt as he all but fell across the threshold, his sport bag flopping around his back, his soccer boots clattering on the wooden porch like rapid gun fire.

Rhys smirked, staggering away from Josh seconds before Josh tossed him his bag. “You two ever heard of something called an alarm clock?”

“Shut up, McDowell,” Josh laughed, thrusting his other arm into his sleeve and tugging his shirt over his head. “Like you’ve never been late.”

Rhys chuckled, tossing Josh’s bag back to him. “Yeah, but I’ve only been late for school. Never for something important like soccer.”

Both boys laughed some more, their grins wide as they ran from the door. They jumped over the porch steps with loping grace and their feet hit the damp ground with solid thuds.

“See ya, Mum,” Josh threw over his shoulder, jogging after Rhys. “I’m going to Rhys’s after the game, okay?”

“See ya later, Miss R,” Rhys called, the mirth in his grin just as clear in his voice. “Love the PJs!”

Lauren stood in the doorway, her mouth open. She watched the two boys sprint down the driveway, soccer bags flung over their shoulders like lumpy capes, their laughter dancing on the still morning air behind them.

A soft chuckle bubbled up her throat. Did Josh even brush his hair?

Shaking her head, she closed the door. What a way to start the day. She needed coffee. A lot of coffee. Preferably fed intravenously into her system as she attempted to make sense of the last twelve hours. Thinking it was Nick at her door was a perfect example of how quickly she would unravel if she let herself. After last night, Nick was probably back in Sydney. Or Melbourne. Or wherever the hell he actually called home now. Anywhere but here.

“Good.”

Her stomach—still churning from her rude awakening—tightened and she let out a shaky sigh. Damn it, why the hell had he come back into her life? Why? She’d done quite well without him, thank you very much. And now—
bam—
back he was, messing up her head and getting in her dreams and making her question every decision she’d made since he walked out the door of their apartment in Sydney a lifetime ago, leaving her behind.

She bit back a sigh. No good. She had to stop thinking about him. Teeth. That’s what she needed to do. Clean her teeth. Clean her teeth, splash some water on her face and maybe attempt to drag a brush through her hair.

The bathroom floor tiles were as cold on her bare feet as the water she splashed onto her face. She scrubbed her teeth and brushed her hair, refusing to look at the face in the mirror before her. Not until coffee. With coffee rational thought would return, and she could get her head around the situation. What to do next. With coffee she could—

A sharp thump on her door made her jump, her heart leaping into her throat.

Lauren rolled her eyes. God, she was twitchy this morning.

She left the bathroom, ready to give Josh a hard time about forgetting something as she opened the door.

And stared straight into Nick’s piercing grey eyes. “Nice pyjamas.”

She ground her teeth, her throat so thick she could barely swallow. He looked haunted and tormented and sleep deprived. Black stubble covered his jaw, his hair—normally a scruffy, sexy mess—now looked like her psychotic bird had been given a building permit to set up home on his head. His clothes were crumpled. Well, his T-shirt was, his jeans were far too snug to show anything but the perfection of his long lean legs and the bulging thickness of his—

She jerked her stare back up to his face, her cheeks on fire. Oh God, where was her brain? Just because he turned up on her door looking sexy and conflicted and wretched didn’t mean she could go all gooey and wanton and…and…sex-obsessed. She gripped the doorknob tighter, tilted her chin and fixed him with an unwavering glare. “What do you want, Nick. And don’t say me, ’cause I’m not on your playlist anymore.”

“Looking for roads I’ve left behind,”
Nick’s voice wafted down the hallway,
“It doesn’t mean a thing when I know you’re not there. Know you’ve moved on. Know you don’t care.”

Nick raised an eyebrow. “Seems like I’m on yours however.”

Lauren closed her eyes. She dropped her head, swallowing at the lump filling her throat. “Please go away, Nick,” she murmured, eyes still closed, head still down. “I can’t take this.”

He stepped closer to her. Close enough her nerve endings tingled. Close enough she could hear his slow intake of breath. “I can’t go away, Lauren,” he whispered, his hand lifting to her face. He brushed the back of his fingers against her cheek, over her lips. “I can’t. God help me, please don’t ask me to. Not now.”

With the slightest of pressure, he lifted her chin. She couldn’t stop him. She didn’t want to. She let him.