Kiss Me Goodnight (14 page)

Daisy managed to collect all the band members, and the concert went well. Monty stuck to my side like glue, probably because I got to go backstage, and I took him with me. It was the coward in me more than anything else. I figured if he was with me when they found out I was getting six percent of their gross, nobody would be able to say or do anything much. Yes, I shamelessly used an eleven-year-old boy as a shield.

Meeting the headlining act sent Monty over the moon, and for the rest of the night, he glowed. Every time he talked about them, he called the members by their first names. Audra helped me sell Kiss Me Goodnight shirts in the lobby, and we ran out, which was a bonus because I think Daisy despaired of ever getting rid of that inventory. We had lots of questions about where to buy the music, and I handed out little cards with the band’s web address printed on them. I’d made them on my computer and printed them on the last of my résumé paper. Now we needed to get some tracks loaded up for sale.

Dylan, Levi, Gavin, and Daisy had too little notice to be nervous before the show, so they had a lot of energy afterward. Daisy spent a lot of time hugging people. She became weepy and told everyone she loved them. Levi and Gavin rocked out to the headlining band and drank half the contents of the bar. Dylan found a quiet alcove in the lobby and herded me into it. He stood close, his chest inches from mine, dominating my personal space. Strangely, his proximity made the urge to wash my hands vanish.

“Have I thanked you for this yet?”

He had. Repeatedly. They all had. I nodded. More thanks wasn’t necessary, but I didn’t want to break the moment.

“It makes my head spin, how much you believe in my band.” He caressed my cheek with the pad of his thumb.

I could feel the magnetism of his fingertips hovering a millimeter away from my skin. I think I started trembling. I wanted very badly for him to kiss me, but I was afraid if he did, he would only be doing it out of gratitude. I don’t want his gratitude; I want him.

“I have a confession to make. I lied to get you this job.”

He jerked back as if I’d slapped him, and his lips set in a firm line. “Lied?”

The urge to wash my hands returned. I wrung them together, but Dylan wasn’t going to let me stall. He wrapped his hands around my wrists, iron bands keeping me from this soothing motion. I tried to pull away, but he only tightened his grip.

“Out with it, Lacey.”

I took a deep breath. “They wouldn’t negotiate with me until I told them I was your manager. I thought if I waited for one of you guys to make it downtown, it would be too late. The payment they’re going to issue for tonight’s performance will go to me. I’m supposed to take six percent and then pass the rest on to you. I won’t take anything, of course. I’m sorry.”

He stared at me. Seconds ticked by. Then he shook his head, never removing his distinctive teal gaze from mine. “You will take six percent. You earned it. Without you, we wouldn’t be here. We wouldn’t have just performed in front of thousands of people. Before this, we were lucky to get three hundred in the audience.”

“Perhaps you should talk with the others first.” I hung my head, the weight of my shame hurting all the way down my spine. Lying doesn’t usually sit so heavily on me. Was I finally experiencing the cumulative effects of years of deceit?

“Hey,” he said, and I looked up to once again drown in his eyes. “I know what the others will say. Trust me on this. We’re all very much aware of how much you’ve contributed to this band.”

I wasn’t sure I would take the six percent, but we needed to stop arguing about it. I gave him a brief nod. My attention flickered between his deep eyes and his soft, kissable lips.
Please kiss me.

His hands still encircled my wrists. He brought them up between us. “Lacey, I’m concerned about these. You’ve been washing them more and more. I can’t be with you all the time. Are you using those gloves I sent you?”

I jerked back and tried to wrestle my hands from his hold. This was not the romantic scenario I’d envisioned. I’d wanted kissing and perhaps some inappropriate public groping, but that wasn’t what Dylan had in mind.

I began to realize my compulsion was the major thing Dylan saw when he looked at me. I don’t want to be his patient. I don’t want him to spend our time together—or apart—analyzing all the things that are wrong with me.

Pain thumped hard in my chest as I realized this was never going to happen. Dylan doesn’t dream about me the way I dream about him. He doesn’t lie awake at night thinking of the way I smell or the way I felt in his arms when he kissed me. He doesn’t long to snuggle on the sofa with me. I’m not even sure he remembers the implied significance of taking me out to watch the stars.

“Lacey.” He held my wrists a little tighter, attempting to gain the upper hand in the struggle each of us tried simultaneously to win and to hide from anyone passing by.

“Let go of me,” I growled, and he loosened his grip. I slid my hands free. They shook with fury. I’m not sure if I’m more pissed at him for only seeing my OCD or at myself for the five months I’ve spent pining for a man who isn’t emotionally available.

He put one palm against the wall, blocking my easiest escape. “I worry about you.”

I glared and didn’t bother to temper my rage. “Then stop. I don’t need another father, and I sure as hell don’t need another shrink to tell me what’s wrong with me. I am perfectly aware of my issues and how to deal with them.” I paused, swallowing the lump in my throat and taking a ragged breath.

He reached for me. His hand hovered inches from my cheek, poised to deliver a soothing caress, but I flinched as if it were an incoming blow. I didn’t want to be placated. If I’ve learned one thing over the years, it’s to let my anger out when it grips me. If I subvert my feelings, my OCD only gets worse. I slapped his hand away.

He widened his eyes, and his mouth opened at my raw display. “Lacey, please don’t be upset.”

Upset? He hadn’t seen nothing yet. “I didn’t come here tonight for a lecture.”

“Well, it’s high time you got one.” He set his jaw hard, the muscles there flexing as he ground his teeth. “Everybody thinks you’re this quirky mess of a woman. They see that you’re beautiful and charming, but equally fucked up. You aren’t hiding anything, and you aren’t fooling anybody.”

That felt like a slap across the face. My expression must have shown it because Dylan flinched. He tried to pull me into his arms.

I brought my knee up sharply. I wasn’t aiming for his manly parts, but he blocked anyway. Reflex, I suppose. I nailed him in the thigh, hard.

“Dammit, Lacey! I’m just trying to help you.”

“Newsflash: I don’t want your help.” I pushed him back a step, opening up my path to freedom. I wanted his tenderness and affection. I wanted his kisses and his hands roaming my body. I didn’t want another caretaker.

He looked at me, and desperation flashed across his face. “I care about you. A lot.”

Yes, and he liked me too. I recognized the distinction between what he’d said and how I’d interpreted it.

I shook my head. “That doesn’t make you my keeper.”

He clenched his fists, and the teal in his eyes darkened ferociously. “You obstinate, inflexible woman. You’re incapable of beating this alone. You need a keeper.”

I itched to slap him. I am not incapable of beating this. I’ve made wonderful progress—recently too. Only I can’t bring myself to tell him my story. But if I did, he’d certainly agree that I’ve come a long, long way back from the edge of sanity. He might then ease away slowly and avoid my phone calls, but he’d have to agree that my mental health has vastly improved.

Of course, even if I told my sad tale, I could never reveal all the details. Images of my baby brother assaulted my brain, his blood dripping through the slashes in his crib mattress and splattering on my hands as I hid beneath.

I felt the old fear seize me, and my tongue became paralyzed once again. I held fast to my anger at Dylan to keep from slipping back to the time when I couldn’t talk, couldn’t eat, couldn’t move.

Breathe.

Just breathe.

It worked. I trembled, but I had myself back under control. Washing my hands was the least of my problems. Lying didn’t even rate that high on the scale.

I slapped his chest with my open palm. “Fuck off, Dylan.”

Then I stormed away. I had my wits about me, and I headed back into the main event area. I needed to get my jacket and keys, and the back door was closer to where I’d parked.

I muttered under my breath all the way to my car. People stared and moved out of my way. I probably looked crazy, but what the hell? I am crazy.

Chapter Ten

Y
OU
M
IGHT
B
E
T
HINKING
I went off the deep end. I didn’t. Instead, I saw my life with blinding clarity: I’d been following Dylan around like a love-struck fan with a backstage pass, letting him reel me in and throw me back out whenever he wanted. I let him use me—differently from the way all my married exes had used me, but he’d used me just the same.

I went home, driving the speed limit the entire way. That envelope still lay on my table/desk, unopened and buried under a half-pound of paperwork. When I got home, I yanked it free, opened it, took a picture, and texted it to the number Thomas had given me.

I’m not your sister.

I was tempted, but I left off an invitation to fuck. The old Lacey couldn’t have resisted the appeal of starting something she could lie her way out of. But now I’m the new Lacey. For the first time in my life, I don’t want to lie. The idea turns my stomach. The excitement and peace I once found in the act are gone.

I wasn’t expecting a response. It was after midnight on a Friday night more than two weeks after I was supposed to have contacted him. But my phone dinged immediately, startling me as I went to the bathroom to brush my teeth.

What are you doing tomorrow?

More than a little stunned, I stared at the message until my fingers remembered how to type.
Are you in town?

I could be.

What did I have to lose?
I have no plans.

Now you do.

I wasn’t sure how to feel about not being asked. Well, I guess he technically did ask.
What plans do I have?

Be at Detroit Metro at 2 pm. Bring a pretty evening dress and an overnight bag.

That made me leery.
Why?

Bring ID and if you have them, take the nail clippers out of your purse.

I’m not getting on a plane without knowing where I’m going.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to get on a plane at all, though Thomas’s invitation intrigued me. The idea that our first date would involve a plane ride was surreal. I was apprehensive, but that wouldn’t stop me from doing something rash. It never had before.

When my phone dinged again, the message was from Dylan.
Where are you?

Washing my hands.

Ha ha. Seriously. I thought you went back in to watch the rest of the show.

Looks like he already checked the restrooms. Thomas’s reply interrupted.

New York. Have you been? I want to take you to dinner at one of my favorite restaurants. I’ve booked a two-room suite for us overnight. We’ll fly back Sunday at 10 am. Your ticket will be waiting.

That sounded very romantic. And forward. Thomas is the opposite of Dylan. My love life has been treading water for so long, this sudden forward progress threw me off. Does Thomas suffer from the same impetuousness that marks my personality? The idea merits further study.

Don’t be angry. I’m not wrong.

I frowned at Dylan’s reply.
You’re not right, either.

It’s not a weakness to need somebody.

Son of a bitch. He truly does not understand me. All the time we’ve spent together, and he’s missed what’s right in front of his face. Washing my hands means I’m coping, that I don’t need anyone to watch out for me. He’s probably a crappy therapist.

Thomas sent a follow up.
Lacey? We can do something in your area if you prefer.

I didn’t prefer. I wanted to get far, far away from Dylan.
New York sounds wonderful. I’ve never been, so you can be my tour guide.

I added a smiley face and told him I was going to get some sleep.

I didn’t reply to Dylan.