A Seductive Melody (The Kelly Brothers Book 5) (3 page)

“Are you going to your meeting tonight?”

Shit
. He’d forgotten that the NA meeting was tonight. “Probably.”

“Well, shouldn’t you be on your way now?”

He checked the time. Twenty minutes until it started. Just enough time to hop on his bike and find parking somewhere near the church. It would be faster to take the subway, but the risk of someone spotting him was too great. And taxis were ridiculous in the city. “I guess so.”

“Ethan…” Usually, when his mom drawled out his name, it was a warning. But this time, it was more of a plea. Even though getting and staying clean was his own battle, she wanted to be his ally. She’d flown to LA the minute she’d heard of Ty’s death to help him through his grief and arranged the moving of his stuff to New York while he was in detox. But she also respected his boundaries enough not to nag him.

Still, the plea in her voice was enough of a guilt trip. He stood and grabbed his jacket. “I’m on my way now.”

“Let me know if you need anything.” The hesitation in her voice was something he wasn’t used to. As a former lawyer, his mother had always been one to cut directly to the point. But like Adam and the rest of his brothers, she was treading carefully around him. Probably terrified that one word would send him over the deep end.

Irritation crawled up his spine. They thought he was weak and fragile. But he’d prove them wrong. “Thanks, Mom. I’m fine.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” The tone of her voice revealed she didn’t quite believe him.

“Got to go, Mom. I don’t want to be late.” He hung up before her doubt infected him.

His loft in Hell’s Kitchen didn’t have a parking garage, but it did have a freight elevator that was big enough to accommodate him and his bike. When he got to the street, he hopped on and wove through the Midtown streets until he came to the old church that housed the meetings. Parking was easier to find tonight, but instead of going inside, he lingered on his bike with his helmet on. The motor rumbled underneath him. The craving to surrender to his muse rather than fight it rebounded in his moment of hesitation. He gripped the throttle, revving it up in tempo to the rising frustration in his gut.

Then someone knocked on his helmet.

He snapped his head around to find Rebecca standing on the sidewalk beside him. She held on to the strap of her messenger bag with both hands, but the unyielding stance of her legs told him she wasn’t leaving until he acknowledged her.

He lifted his visor. “Don’t you know better than to walk up to strangers and assault them?”

“First off, you’re not a stranger. Second, I tried calling your name before I tapped on your helmet. I’d hardly call that assault.”

The craving dissipated along with his anger. He turned off the motor and pulled off his helmet. “What made you so certain it was me?”

“I recognized your bike.” Her gaze drifted over the Ducati in an amorous way that made his dick envious. What he wouldn’t give to have her look at him that way. “A 2014 Ducati Streetfighter 848. A 132-horsepower Testastretta engine. Six-speed transmission.” She bit her bottom lip and sucked in a deep breath through her nose. “Beautiful.”

He grew hard just from listening to her. Did she have any idea how much hearing her recite the technical specs of the bike turned him on?

Her gaze turned back to him. “Are you coming?”

Ms. Park Avenue intrigued him enough to make him nod. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

But when he got inside, he found himself as bored as he was last week. The only thing that kept him glued to his seat was the woman sitting next to him. She listened to every person who shared, her face softening in empathy as they whined about their individual trials and tribulations.
What makes an uptown girl like her care about the everyday suffering of recovering addicts?

She was a riddle he longed to solve. Her textured short-sleeved sweater dress screamed designer label, yet the heels of her boots were well worn. The way she unclipped her dark hair and removed the dangling earrings at the start of the meeting seemed to be part of some evening unwinding ritual, much like she would do when she came home from work. Her messenger bag with the laptop inside made her appear to have some sort of professional job, but he had no idea what field. The little details he gleaned from studying her whetted his curiosity and made him wish the meeting would end soon so he could start asking her questions.

When Gary finally called them to form a circle for the closing prayer, a twinge of panic rooted itself in his chest. He curled his fingers in his palm to keep it from spreading.
What if she tries to back out on me?

But after they adjourned, she smiled up at him. “So, you made it through your second NA meeting.”

Barely
.

“I think I promised you coffee.”

“And information about yourself.”

Rebecca tilted her head to the side, her brows furrowed in a quizzical way. “Sure, if that’s what you want, but if you’d rather talk about how you’re doing—”

“I don’t.”

Both brows rose in response, erasing the lines between them, but she didn’t pry any further. “I know a nice little Viennese café a few blocks from here.”

“Sounds good.” He grabbed his helmet and followed her outside.

Once they’d crossed the first street, she turned and asked, “Have you had dinner?”

“No.” Small talk like this he could handle. He just hoped she wouldn’t take it as an invitation to start asking about his personal life.

“I highly recommend their sandwiches. Or their soups.” She stared down at the sidewalk, her lips twitching in a shy grin. “But the desserts are to die for.”

So, Ms. Park Avenue had a sweet tooth. “Good to know.”

Her eyes widened like a child’s in a toy store when they entered the café. She went straight to the dessert case and licked her lips. “You have the Sacher-torte today.”

“I made it this morning in the hopes you’d come by, Becca,” a middle-aged woman with a slight German accent behind the counter said. “Shall I cut you a slice?”

Rebecca nodded. “And could you give me another slice to go, too, Gitta?”

“Expecting a rough week at work?”

“Horrendous,” she replied with a laugh.

“And I take it you’d like your usual drink?”

Rebecca nodded again. “I’m so predictable.”

So far, she’d seemed to be anything but predictable to him. But he was willing to watch and learn.

Gitta turned to him. “And for your friend?”

“Just coffee,” he replied. Anything more might overwhelm him.

“I’ll bring it to your table in a minute.” Gitta turned to start steaming some milk.

Rebecca took his hand to lead him to a table, but the gentle touch managed to kick the air from his lungs. He’d lived so long in a world where most women begged permission to touch him that her complete indifference to his celebrity status shocked him. But then, maybe that was a good thing. If she didn’t know who he was, he might be able to let his guard down long enough to enjoy coffee with her.

He glanced around the room, but no one was staring at them or whispering to their friends while pointing at him. No flash of a paparazzo’s camera. No cringe-worthy fear that sharing dessert with Rebecca would be tomorrow’s headline on TMZ.

For the first time in years, he felt almost normal.

He placed his helmet in an empty chair and sat down across from her. As much as he wanted to relax, he couldn’t quite let his guard down. “Come here often?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Just slightly.”

She laughed at his dry reply. “You’re really missing out on Gitta’s Sacher-torte. It was her grandmother’s recipe.”

“I haven’t been very hungry lately.”

She nodded, empathy flittering across her features. “Yeah, once you’ve had your guts turned inside out for a week, it takes a while for the appetite to come back.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and lowered his voice. “I still have a hard time believing someone like you understands what I’m going through.”

“Why?”

Her quick reply caught him off guard. He backed away and gestured to her appearance. “Because…”

“Because I don’t look the part?”

Before he could answer, Gitta interrupted them by setting a plate of chocolate cake and two mugs on the table. Steam rose from his mug of black coffee, but a mound of cinnamon-sprinkled whipped cream covered her beverage. “What is that?”

She stirred some of the cream into her drink and licked the spoon. “Cinnamon hazelnut hot chocolate.”

“Someone’s going to have a sugar rush tonight.”

She flashed him a wicked grin before drinking a gulp of her hot chocolate. When she lowered her mug, a dot of whipped cream lay perched on the end of her nose.

Ethan tried to smother the laugh that rose from his throat, but it was no use. Instead, he let it out and reached for a napkin. “You have a little something on your nose.”

“Oh?” But instead of acting mortified and reaching for a mirror like he expected her to do, she laughed with him and wiped her nose with a napkin. “Got it?”

He nodded, once again surprised by her. Here was a refined young woman who wasn’t the least bit concerned with her appearance. Very different from the high-society girls he’d gone to high school with or the models and actresses he’d met through the years.

She took a more cautious sip this time. “I’d promised to be an open book to you, so ask away.”

He crossed his arms and sat back in his chair, watching her nibble at the cake. So many things about her intrigued him. Where did he begin? But one question always lingered in the back of his mind. “How long have you been clean?”

“Two years and a hundred and fifty days.” she replied without looking up from her cake. “At least, this time around.”

“You relapsed?” She seemed so calm and collected that he wouldn’t have expected that from her.

“Yep. The first time, I was forced into rehab by my parents. Suboxone and all that mess. It didn’t take me long to figure out how to hide my pills and go back to the good stuff again.”

“So what made you stop?”

“I OD’d and almost died.” She kept eating her cake as though she were talking about a boring day at work instead of a near-death experience. “At a big charity ball, no less. The press had a field day with that one.”

“And why was that?”

That made her pause and look up from her plate. She held his gaze long enough for him to realize her eyes were more green than blue today. “You remember what I said last week about us taking the ‘anonymous’ part seriously.”

“Yes.”

Her chin quivered, and she swallowed hard. “Then let’s leave it at that.”

Another layer of mystery to her. Whoever Rebecca was, she was famous enough to be known by the press. “Fine. Then my next question—what do you do?”

“I’m an assistant at a women’s magazine,” she said with a roll of her eyes.

“Not your dream job?”

“Not even close, but it’s a foot in the door.”

“For what? Fashion?”

“No.” She didn’t expand, turning her attention instead on the remaining crumbs of her Sacher-torte as she engaged her fork in a repetitive dance of stab, smash, and scrape. “Next question.”

“Are you seeing anyone?” he blurted out before he realized what he was saying.

The corners of her mouth rose, and she looked up at him through her lashes. “Why do you want to know?”

Shit!
Not the way he wanted this conversation to go. It was one thing to stick to safe, NA-related topics, but if he found out she was single, he’d have a hard time keeping his thoughts clean around her. “Um, because I’d like to make sure some jealous boyfriend isn’t going to hunt me down and punch me for calling you in the middle of the night.”

Her smile widened into something both teasing and inviting. “No danger of that.”

No danger why? Because she’s single? Or because she has a really understanding significant other?

Time to steer the conversation back to safe subjects before he gave into temptation and invited her back to his place. “What changed between the first time and the second time?”

“It was my choice.” She pushed her plate aside and leaned forward. “I think that was the most important thing that helped me stay clean. I’m not doing this because I was forced to by my parents or the law or some other external means. I’m doing this for me. Everything I need is in here.” She patted the area over her heart.

An ache formed in the center of his chest. He resisted the urge to mirror her and press the heel of his hand against his ribs to ease the pain. He’d been the one who’d decided to give up heroin, but there was still a voice in the back of his mind telling him he’d end up just like Ty. “And what if that’s not enough?”

“Then you look for little daily victories. For example—not embarrassing your friends or family. Or not wondering where your money went because you basically handed it over to your dealer. Or not waking up next to some stranger you dragged home while you were high.”

He nodded with each example she’d given, knowing firsthand how those situations felt—until she got to the next one.