Hung Out: A Needles and Pins Rock Romance (10 page)

Silently, we studied until the stir of people around us indicated time was ticking down to the next hour. Slipping the tablet into my bag, I stood. “It was good seeing you. Good luck on your statistics.”

“And likewise with your…”

“Organic chemistry.”

“Right. Listen, I was going to call you in a couple of days, but since you’re here… Gage texted me to make his flight arrangements. Should I make yours too? I wasn’t sure if you were flying down and then back with him, or staying here.”

The room seemed to fade for a moment as the implication of his words settled like a lead weight. I knew his release was coming up. Since the day Gage had closed me into a cab bound for my flight out of Utah, a mental clock had ticked in my head. The maximum estimated time of treatment versus the least. And the present time was now somewhere in the middle. We had only spoken a few times in a month. But regardless, I’d expected a phone call or at the least, a text when he had a specific release date.

“I’m staying here.” I informed him and almost dropped back to the seat. But with a worried look at the clock, I shouldered my bag. “I need to talk to you. I’ll text later?”

He agreed while gathering his own belongings. Trailed by Mike, I sprinted to class. Despite the distraction of what I’d learned about Gage, I knew the material well enough to ace the test.

The rest of the day was mine to immerse in self-pity and anger. Mike held the door as I folded into the passenger seat of the Escalade.

“I need to pick up a few things.”

We stopped at the Canyon Store, an eclectic shopping experience just a few minutes from Runyon canyon. After pursuing the snacks and frozen treats, I paid for my selections and allowed Mike to relieve my arms of some of the bags.

The radio was the only sound until we neared the dragon gates. When the volume lowered to almost nothing, I glanced over and saw a frown line above his shades. He braked, letting the vehicle poke slower than normal, and spoke.

“The white Accord parked there on the other side of the street. You know it?”

A film of reddish sand dusted the nondescript vehicle. I shook my head and chalked his inquiry up to the extreme caution that was part of his job description. It was common further down the road to see cars parked since there was a popular hiking trail entrance to the canyon. But he was right. This area was normally empty.

The dragons parted, admitting us, and he parked inside the garage. “Do you have a minute? I have a couple of pictures if you wouldn’t mind taking a look.”

Pictures? “Sure.”

Rascal appeared with his normal enthusiastic greeting, and I knelt, scratching his head. Mike deposited my groceries on the butcher-block bar and then retraced his steps out of the kitchen. By the time he was back, spreading the pictures on the bar, I’d put away the freezer items and had poured myself a soda.

“I’m sorry about this. I know you’ve had a full day. But it won’t take a minute.” When I shrugged my assent, he pointed. “This person. Any idea who he is?”

The print was blurred a bit, as if it had been enlarged on the face of the forty-something year-old-man who was the focus. His hair was neither dark or light, long or short. The tattoo, a flame on one side of his neck was the only thing keeping him from being an average nondescript face.

Slowly, I shook my head and picked up another and then another of the same person. The hairs on the back of my neck lifted when I noticed the mailbox of Gage’s neighbor in the background—and the dusty white car. A date graced the corner of each photo, all within the period of the last couple of months.

“I don’t know him. He’s paparazzi?” I noticed the large bag swinging from his shoulder.

“Seems to be. But I had him checked out and he’s not a regular.”

“Are you asking because he’s been seen a lot? Around here?”

“Around you. One of those shots is on campus.” With a forefinger, he tapped one of the photos. “So Gage said to ask you. In case you knew him from school or somewhere.”

I hugged my arms to my chest. He’d talked to Gage. Gage had said to ask me. Gage hadn’t asked me himself. The hurt and anger balling inside me gathered more ugliness. He’d told Logan the date he was coming home. But not me.

“I don’t know him. Sorry.” Hating the snippy, clipped way in which I’d delivered the reply, I turned away, busying myself with a refill of Sprite. Pulling in a deep breath, I offered over my shoulder. “I was going to order a pizza. You want anything?”

He did and after we’d placed the order, he gathered the pictures and disappeared into the garage apartment.

Probably to call Gage.

Using fatigue as an excuse, I begged off in reply to a text from Seth concerning tonight’s guitar lesson. Then I called Logan.

“S
he wants to do what?” Gage exploded into the phone, drawing eyes from the others around the pool area. Leaping from the deck chair, he strode out of the fenced in area and talked as he walked. “Tell me what she said exactly.”

“She didn’t say much.” Logan spoke carefully, likely afraid of inciting further ire. “She said she wanted to be closer to campus and asked if I had any apartment recommendations. Naturally, because of her situation, I suggested a few of the higher security compounds. And then she asked if I wouldn’t mind emailing her the links. That she wanted to be moved in before the end of the month.”

The end of the month being his return to L.A. That part went unsaid, but it rang loud in the dialogue pause.

“So just tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll get right on it.”

Smart man. Logan knew where his paycheck came from. Gage, slowed, and finding the courtyard empty, turned into it. “Fuck. Just fuck.” He squeezed his eyes closed and reopened them, wishing he would find he was dreaming the last four months. Wishing he would open his eyes in Cabo or Lake Arrowhead or his own bed with Scar beside him. “Send her the links. Send ’em to me too. I’ll send them to Mike and have him advise.”

“Will do. I emailed your flight itinerary yesterday.”

“I got it. Thanks.”

“No problem. So, I’ll get this other taken care of then.” Logan seemed to hesitate.

“Was there anything else?”
Please, no more bad news
.

“That’s it. I just… Well, you and Scarlette… I wish the best for you.”

“Thanks.” What he himself wished was the best for Scar.

They ended the call and Gage considered his and Scarlette’s relationship as it appeared to outsiders. Like Logan. They had kept things between them on the down-low. His priority at the time had been saving her from the ensuing circus if the tabloids decided to exploit their past step-sibling relationship. At least until she knew what she wanted. He hadn’t been positive she would be along for the full-on musician-with-plenty-of-baggage experience once her life changed. So why put her through the embarrassment if they ended up apart? Then the sex clip had outed them. Headlines had been as vicious as he’d feared and late night shows had their fun with roasts. For the most part, she’d laughed her way through it all. But she’d left him in the end—she hadn’t said as much yet, but he knew.

Her ‘thinking time,’ as she had called it after their fight, had gone on for days before he’d finally texted her. And although she’d texted back, and they’d spoken on the phone and texted in the weeks afterward, he’d felt the chilly aura even miles away. She was waiting to break it off in person. He wasn’t stupid. He knew.

And he didn’t blame her one bit.

He’d done nothing except screw up his life and bring bad publicity onto himself, his band, and anyone unlucky enough to be associated with him.

I
was building a sandwich when the call came. Without taking the time to wipe my hands, I snatched up my phone, drinking in Gage’s picture and number flashing onscreen. My throat constricted, and I fought a bout of hyperventilation while mentally prepping myself for the conversation.

The rings stopped. For a moment, I gazed around my cozy kitchen in relief.

Moving into my new place had happened quickly. Mike had suggested a duplex he knew of, and at first look, I had fallen in love with the upstairs one-bedroom apartment in the old Victorian house. I suspected the drill-sergeant-looking downstairs tenant who always seemed to be home was on Gage or his father’s payroll.

Even though Rascal had an auto feeding station, rather than leave him alone with only housekeeping coming and going—and Mike if he continued staying in the garage apartment—I had delayed fully moving out until Gage’s last day in rehab.

For almost a week, I had been on needles and pins. Sleeping was impossible. We hadn’t spoken or texted in a month, so wondering how he was going to handle us—our relationship or lack of one—had plagued me. Wondering how
I
was going to handle it had been another source of insomnia. When two days had gone by and my phone remained silent, I’d considered maybe he had gone straight to a vacation destination, but when checking with Logan, I’d discovered Gage was indeed home.

The buzz in my hand drew my attention. A voice message. Now I did wash my hands. Anything to prolong the inevitable. After drying each finger, I retrieved the phone and punched in my voicemail code.

“Call me. ASAP.”

At one time, I’d thought ‘I love you’ were three scary words. But these three, clipped in the super sexy smoky voice I loved were a new contender.

As my finger hovered over the call return icon, a rap on the door almost made me drop the phone. Fear buzzed every cell, and I eyed the keypad, my consideration now on nine-one-one rather than redial.

Silly
. I tried to calm myself. There were plenty of white Honda’s. The one I’d seen on my street earlier today hadn’t been the same as the one outside Gage’s house. No way.

Still. This house was a fortress protected by an outside security gate, as well as a secured courtyard, and a locked exterior door. I had buzzed no one through any of these layers.

Another hum, and my phone blinked with a text from Gage. Bringing it up as I padded cautiously to the front room, I read:

A press of my eye to the peephole revealed Gage’s presence in the hallway. Well, that confirmed my suspicions about the security of this dwelling being the doings of a Remington. Wrenching the deadbolt clockwise, I drew in a deep breath and then swung open the door.

Being face to face with Gage unleashed a torrent of conflicting emotions. Love. Regret. Anger. Many more. The feelings battled for supremacy. I had no control of any, least of all the winner of that war.

Flinging myself flat against his length, I buried my face in the comfortable spot against his shoulder, just below the crook of his neck, and inhaled his essence. His hand cupped the back of my head, and as he curled his fingers into the tresses of my hair, I banded my arms tightly around his chest until my fingers pressed into his back.

Time fell away. I had no idea how long we stood, swaying slightly, when his husky words again tickled my eardrums—this time bathing my outer ear with a warm breath. “Can I come in?” Although he had apparently authorized himself through both gates and the downstairs entry, he hadn’t so much as nudged me so he could cross the threshold into my home.

Silently acquiescing, I fell back and closed the door as he eyed my new digs.

“Nice.” He nodded as he made a round of the room. The musician in him wouldn’t let him pass up the Collings 360 I’d treated myself with shortly after my birthday. Kneeling before the stand, he ran his finger down the quilted maple tiger-eye finish, but possibly, because it was the guitar from the fateful video that had spurred our breakup, he didn’t comment. Instead, he straightened, resumed prowling, and paused before the fireplace where he seemed to scrutinize the safety of the flat-screen’s wall mount. “I guess being closer to the college is a plus.”

I didn’t know what to say, as we both knew proximity was not why I’d moved from the canyon. When I discovered my hands shaking, I clasped them behind my back. “Was Rascal crazy to see you?”