Coming Undone (9 page)

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He merely gave her the blank-eyed stare again and she shook her head in frustration. “Tell me!”

“What is it that you want to hear, Peej?” he asked and stepped closer again. But he stopped out of reach. “That you were the best friend I ever had? Fine. You were. For about five minutes.” His eyes were dark and shuttered as he looked down at her. “Then you gave me a phony phone number and disappeared from my life.”

She jerked in shock. “That number was real! Mama just packed us up and moved a couple days later.”

“Uh-huh. And you never got another phone?”

“I—”

“No, wait, I believe you did. But somehow you never called to give me that number, did you?”

“I—”

“I got it anyhow, you know. Rocket tracked you down to Wyoming.”

“You had the Wyoming number?” She blinked up at him. “You never called me.” She wondered how different her life might have been if he had.

“I was going to. Until I found out you’d given the number to Gert. Not to me—Gert.” He met her eyes with a cool, bored gaze. “Then I wised up. Never let it be said this boy can’t take a hint.”

“I wanted to call you!” she cried. “You don’t know how much I wanted to. But you were so educated, so…rich.”

“What?”
He shook his head. Then his eyes went from cool and disinterested to flat-out furious and between one heartbeat and the next he was towering over her, radiating so much rage and heat she was surprised she didn’t go up in flames. “What difference did the size of my trust fund make? You and I shared something no one else could truly understand, but you waltzed off because I was
rich?
You
knew
that didn’t matter.”

“Yes, it did!” She could still remember exactly the way she’d felt when she’d learned he had a cook like someone in the movies, when she’d seen the Colorado Springs mansion he’d called home and heard him correct her grammar. She hadn’t needed Mama’s whispers that a rich boy like him would have no use for a girl like her to make her feel unworthy. “You lived in a palace. I lived in a trailer! You had your sister and John and your niece and your baseball buddies. You were exonerated of your father’s murder. You didn’t need me. Your life was perfect. Mine was—”

“Perfect?” he roared. “Fucking
perfect?
”

Her driver poked his head out the bus door. “You okay, Miz Morgan?”

“Yes, thank you, Marvin,” she said, barely sparing him a glance. Her attention locked on the hint of pain peeking out of Jared’s eyes. Her heart beating an erratic tattoo, she began to suspect she had been wrong all those years ago. “I’m fine.”

“Okay, then,” he said with palpable reluctance and directed a hard glare at Jared. “Yell if you need help.” He withdrew back into the bus.

Jared wrapped his hand around her upper arm and marched her away from the vehicle. When they’d reached a point he apparently found sufficiently removed, he dropped his light grip on her as if she were covered in toxic waste and casually slid his hands in his pockets. The pain she’d glimpsed was neatly tucked away once more and he gazed at her with that recently familiar lack of emotion.

“Yes,” he agreed coolly, “I had my family and that was great. But my baseball friends were left behind when we moved up to Denver. And would you like to know what most people remembered about my father’s murder, Priscilla Jayne?”

Nothing good, she was guessing, if the remote look in his eyes was anything to go by. Still she nodded.

“It wasn’t that I was exonerated or that someone else was ultimately convicted. It was that I was accused of it. People don’t remember the retractions, honey. They remember the headlines and the talking heads rehashing the manhunt for suspected murderer Jared Hamilton night after night.”

“I’m sorry.” Reaching out hesitant fingertips, she stroked them along his forearm. His skin under her hand was warm and firm.

He slid his arm out from beneath her touch. “Not a problem,” he said carelessly. “It was a long time ago. So, listen, it’s been real, but I’ve got some packing to do.”

He started to turn away, but she grabbed his arm. “Jared, please,” she said, hanging on when he merely stood and gazed at her gripping fingers as if they belonged to a stranger. “I don’t want to part like this.”

“Then we won’t,” he said with that careful politeness. “My flight leaves tomorrow night from L.A., so I’m going to ride down there with you. We’ll chat. Catch up.”

Yeah, sure they would. It didn’t take a genius to see that was never going to happen and her temper started to percolate.

Maybe it was his well-mannered distance that put her back up. Maybe it was—she didn’t know—something else entirely. His refusal to show a genuine emotion for longer than two seconds running, perhaps. Whatever it was, if this was goodbye, they were damn well going to say it her way.

“We’ll have to do that,” she agreed with a polite smile of her own. “But before you go, I have something to say.”

“What?”

“Get your head down here,” she snapped. “I’m not going to scream this out for any Tom, Dick or Harry who might be hanging around to hear. I’m on enough tabloid covers as it is.”

He dipped his head obligingly and, reaching up, she slid both hands into the soft, cool strands of his hair. Then, yanking his head closer yet, she rose onto her toes and locked mouths with him.

She wasn’t sure what she’d intended—or, okay, if she’d planned anything at all. But if she had, she was pretty sure it would’ve been something along the lines of a brief, hot kiss that she directed. Instead she lost control of the situation the minute their lips touched. Between one moment and the next, it seemed, it was all teeth and tongues and runaway heat. She found herself plastered to the hard warmth of Jared’s long body while his hands splayed over her butt, keeping her close.

And, oh God, it felt good.

Too good. She could barely think. Ripping her mouth free, she stepped back.

“Take that with you when you go,” she said, and if her voice sounded even raspier than usual, well, it couldn’t be helped. Head held high, she whirled on her heel and strode back to the bus.

It took every ounce of willpower she possessed to not look back.

“D
ID YOU SEE THIS SHIT
?” Furious, Hank stormed onto the stage and thrust the tabloid at Nell. “Shocking secret life, my ass. Something’s gotta be done about P.J.’s old lady.”

Taking the paper, Nell skimmed the article. “Jodeen doesn’t seem to actually reveal any shocking secrets,” she murmured when she finished. “Funny how that’s often the way with these rags, isn’t it?”

He snorted. “Like there’s anything to reveal. Something’s got to be done,” he repeated.

“Like what? You going to take out a contract on her?”

He pretended to consider it. “Not a bad idea.” Her startled look dredged forth a faint smile. “No, I’m not planning anything violent. But why the hell doesn’t P.J. do something?”

Nell gave him a level look. “What’s your mom like?”

“Mine?” His smile grew. “She’s great.”

“Thought you were wonderful, told you you could accomplish anything you applied yourself to?”

“Yep, that’s my mama.”

“P.J.’s mama pretty much ignored her or told her what a burden she was up until the day Peej showed signs of becoming a money machine Jodeen could cash in on.”

He scowled. “My point exactly.”

“Oh, you don’t think you would’ve spent a good part of your life hoping your mother would somehow turn into the kind you were lucky enough to be raised by?”

“Hell, n—” But he cut himself off and thought about it. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“I have a friend who’s an E.R. nurse. She sees abused kids way too much, kids with broken bones whose X-rays show too many previous breaks to be accidental. And the one true constant, she once told me, is that they all deny their parents had anything to do with their injuries. It’s a built-in defense mechanism, because the truth is just too ugly to admit.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.” Then she shook her head. “We can’t do anything about Priscilla’s bad luck in the parent pool and I doubt she’d appreciate knowing we were discussing it. So you want to help me with a song I’ve been working on instead? I’ve practiced it over and over again on piano, but I’d love to hear how it sounds on fiddle.”

“You bet.” Man, he liked this woman. She was smart and funny and talented—and he’d bet the bank she’d be one warm, round armful if he could ever get her there.

But she had a yen for Eddie. Idiot Eddie, for crissake, who would never in a million years appreciate a woman like her the way she deserved to be appreciated. And that was supposing the fool could manage to look past the superficial in the first place, which, considering how far removed Nell was from the twenty-something airheads in sprayed-on Lycra that Eddie generally went for, wasn’t likely.

He had to admit, though, that his band mate, for all that he couldn’t keep his pants zipped for more than four or five hours at a pop, didn’t pretend to be anything other than what he was. He was honest and up front about his shortcomings.

Maybe I oughtta take a lesson,
Hank thought. Because he knew damn well if Eddie were ever interested in Nell, he wouldn’t dither around about it. He’d let her know right away.

Not wanting to think about it any longer, Hank reached for his fiddle.

“Wait.” Nell put a soft hand over his as he tucked the instrument under his chin and raised his bow. “Let’s change the note here to C flat.”

He leaned into her to see what she was pointing at on the sheet. “This one?”

“No, the one next to it there, see?”

A fresh, elusive fragrance tickled his nose. But instead of complimenting her on it or telling her what pretty skin she had or how much he enjoyed spending time like this with her, he merely nodded and began to play the new song.

And berated himself for being such a goddamn chicken-liver.

J
ARED BLEW OUT A BREATH
, squared his shoulders and climbed onto the arena stage through the almost ladder-like stairs at the back of the boards. He was so tense he felt as though one false move and he’d fracture into so many tiny pieces he’d look like a damn mosaic. And wasn’t that insane? How could one little kiss unleash fifteen years of suppressed emotion?

It shouldn’t be able to.

Yet, oh, man, it had. Unleashed it big-time. The back of his tongue still retained P.J.’s taste, his palms itched and his fingers kept wanting to curl into the shape of that luxuriant curve of her butt.

But he trusted intellect, not strong emotions. Fifteen years ago he’d lost his temper and as a result he’d thought for a brief, awful time that he’d killed his own father. In the wake of it, once his life had finally stabilized in Tori and John’s care, he’d made himself a vow that he would never again let his feelings take control. Because just look where that had gotten him. He’d quit acting in the heat of the moment, had given up committing any rash acts at all. The stronger his emotions were, in fact, the more likely he was to rein himself in. If there was a small part of him that was exhausted by always having to guard against a spontaneous reaction, it was a small price to pay. Because the truth was he just couldn’t trust what might happen if he ever let go.

Which made his reaction earlier with P.J. all the more shocking. He’d formed that resolution years ago, and considering how well it had always worked for him he’d just naturally assumed it was an established fact by now.

Not so, apparently. Because his ironclad control had sure as hell slipped with her.

And slipped big.

It was bad enough he’d allowed her to anger him with that crap about his “perfect” life. In the short time they’d been reunited, she’d managed to rile him faster than anyone he’d ever known. But he always got himself back in hand fairly quickly. And he’d done so today as well.

Only to lose it completely when she’d kissed him.

Holy shit. A kiss was a kiss was a kiss—or that’s what he’d always believed, anyhow. Kisses were nice and they led to activities that were even nicer. But face it, they were pretty much interchangeable.

Not hers.
A harsh breath exploded from his lungs. Hers had damn near blown the top of his head off.

He was going to pretend it hadn’t, though. He was going to corral her before sound check and have that catch-up talk he’d told her they’d have. He was going to chat and smile and keep it light and friendly. He’d keep his hands in his pockets and his gaze off her mouth. And afterward he’d ride that midnight bus down to L.A. with her.

Then he was getting the hell back to Denver, where life had boundaries he understood.

P.J. wasn’t onstage when he rounded the huge speaker blocking his view of most of it, but he hadn’t expected her to be. He’d come extra early by design.

Hank and Nell had come even earlier. They sat on stools on the left side of the stage, Hank playing a stanza or two of a song on his fiddle before Nell interrupted, made a notation on some sheets of paper she held, then waved at him to continue.

Well, shit.
Nell was a sweetheart, but Hank sure didn’t top the list of people he was dying to see.

But those were the breaks. As that old philosopher Mick Jagger said, you can’t always get what you want. Releasing his frustration on a hearty exhalation, he assumed a pleasant expression and shoved his hands into his pockets as he sauntered across the stage.

Hank spotted him first and the slight smile curving his lips disappeared. “Aw, hell.” Lowering his fiddle, he gave Jared his usual what-the-hell-are-you-doing-in-my-territory fixed stare. Then he turned to Nell. “Hand me that paper, will you, darlin’?”

She passed him a tabloid-sized newspaper and the musician immediately thrust it at Jared. “Here. Why don’t you make yourself useful for a change and do something about this?”

“Hank,” Nell remonstrated without heat.

Jared looked down at what was indeed a tabloid and swore when he saw the headline. Then he shut out the others to read the entire article.

When he finished, he didn’t kick it across the stage or reach for the closest book of matches to torch it the way he wanted. Instead he handed it with extra care back to Nell. “God, I despise that woman,” he murmured to himself, his gaze still locked on the
Nashville Tattler
and its screaming headline even as Nell twisted to put the paper away. “She was malicious fifteen years ago and she hasn’t changed a bit.”

“You know P.J.’s mother?” Nell asked.

He looked up, surprised that he’d actually said it out loud. Then he gave a mental shrug. What the hell—he’d given up caring who knew about his earlier days a long time ago. “We’ve never met, but I know she’s a liar and a lousy mother. That story in the rags a while back about P.J. running away from home when she was thirteen? Pure bullshit. Her mother kicked her out.”

“And you would know this how?” Hank demanded skeptically.

“By living on the streets with me,” P.J.’s voice came from behind him.

Aw, crap. He turned to face her. He’d give a lot not to have had her overhear this particular conversation. But that cat had slipped its cage.

“Yeah, right,” Hank guffawed. “Mister Hundred-Dollar T-shirt, here? Pull the other one.”

Tired of the other man’s attitude, Jared gave him a flat-eyed stare. “What, you think bad parenting can’t cross the socioeconomic line? Think again, pal. I had a dad who made Peej’s mom look like Mother Teresa.”

“Sez you.” P.J. snorted. “My mother was barely getting warmed up when your dad took that letter opener through the heart.”

Oh, gawd. She couldn’t believe she was
joking
about this! Yet there was something liberating about being able to do so after all the years of pretending that if only she wished hard enough everything would turn out okay. The truth was her mother was never going to be the parent she’d spent a lifetime dreaming of. And while she wasn’t close to being ready to share that with the rest of the world, she could at least admit it to the people here. She was among friends.

Well, two of them were, anyway.

Jared looked down at her with a coolly raised eyebrow. “And that doesn’t tell you something right there—that he was murdered and according to Rocket and Tori they had more suspects than they knew what to do with, but I was the top pick anyhow? If Dad had survived your mother would have had to hang her head in shame. The woman was a piker compared to my old man. Hell, she wasn’t even in the same league—she was strictly the minors.”

She saw the stunned looks on Nell’s and Hank’s faces and couldn’t prevent a wry smile. Because she and Jared might not be friends in the normal sense of the word, but their time in Denver had forged a bond that would never break no matter how thin they stretched it. If she never saw him again after tomorrow the experience they’d shared as kids would still be a link that connected them forever. They’d survived things together that most people couldn’t even imagine.

Jared turned those imperturbable eyes on Hank. “So do me a favor, buddy, and quit making assumptions. You don’t know the first damn thing about me.”

Hank stiffened and P.J. took a casual step forward that put her between them.

Jared merely put his long hands on her shoulders and leaned over her head. “But because I live to brighten your day, I will tell you that I’m out of here after we get to L.A.”

“And not a moment too soon,” Hank muttered. But the look he gave Jared was more thoughtful than his usual you-asshole glare.

She, on the other hand, just felt sort of edgy. Dissatisfied. “Where’s Eddie?” she demanded and winced at her petulant tone.

“I’m here, babe.”

He stood in the wings with a young blonde beneath the drape of his arm. This one looked barely legal and P.J. was fresh out of patience. “If you’d be so kind?”

“You betcha.” Giving the blonde a final squeeze, he set her loose and strolled onto the stage.

She turned to Hank. “And our backup band?”

“They’re down in the passageway, most of them,” he said. “I’ll tell ’em it’s time.” He disappeared behind the speakers and yelled down the steps. Men’s voices replied from the cavernous corridor below, then footsteps sounded on the stairs.

“Good,” she said, even though nothing felt all that good to her at the moment. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’ve got things to do. So whataya say we get this under way? Is the soundman here?”

An affirmation came from the darkened orchestra pit and P.J. nodded. “All right, then. Let’s go.”

Watching Jared saunter toward the wing where the blonde stood, it took her a moment to realize Hank was talking to her. She turned to him. “Huh?”

“We playing this in the usual order? I’m trying to figure out banjo or fiddle for the first song.”

“Oh.” She had to think a second, then shrugged when it still didn’t pop to mind. “Yeah, usual order.” Whatever that was.

“Banjo, then.”

She gave her head an impatient shake as he turned away to exchange instruments. What the hell was the matter with her? If the constant traveling was catching up with her already that didn’t bode well. They’d barely gotten started.

Nell shuffled what looked like a song score to the back of her clipboard and walked to center stage to check off the musicians who were beginning to trickle onto the bandstand. When everyone was assembled, she turned to P.J. and nodded. “We’re good to go.”

“Okay, let’s get right to it,” she said. She just couldn’t get in the mood for this today and wanted it over and done with as quickly as possible.

The musicians were launching into the first number when a short metallic screech rent the air overhead. Musical notes trailed off as everyone stopped to listen, but the noise had ceased. They raised their instruments again, but before they could launch back into the beginning of the song the sound came again—a short, high-pitched shriek that ended almost as quickly as it had begun.

Everyone looked up. “What the hell?” someone muttered.

Then there was a longer attenuated screech, and the next thing P.J. knew, Jared was racing toward them. “Clear the stage!” he yelled, and when everyone still stood frozen in shock, he leaped into the air.

And took Nell to the floor in a flying tackle just before a huge metal light on a cable that had been severed on one side came swooping with the velocity of a home-run ball straight through the spot where she’d stood a second ago.