Lucky Girl (New Adult Rock Star Romance) (9 page)

I did what he asked, taking a spoonful as payment of course—and rather than thanking me, my stomach growled in protest—more, more! Halfway up the stairs, I heard the sweet sound of Dale’s guitar. My heart lifted in my chest and I bounded up the other half, throwing our door open and leaping at him.

“Hey!” He barely had time to put his guitar aside before I tackled him, covering his face with kisses as we rolled on the bed. “Wow. I always wanted to get a dog so I could be greeted like that, but I think I like this much better.”

“Woof.” I panted like a dog and he laughed, sliding his hand behind my neck so he could pull me down for a real kiss. His mouth was soft and open and he tasted like honey. He had started sucking on Ricola
cough drops to soothe his throat. Singers needed a lot of those, apparently. I just knew their Ricola commercial with the three Swiss leprechaun-looking fellows annoyed me to no end.

“You taste like dinner.” He smiled rolling so we could be side by side. “Is it ready?”

“I hope so. I’m starving.”

“How was work?”

“Same as always,” I said. “I’m glad Josh is back. I actually got to draw today.”

“I don’t like him.”

“Oh don’t start. Josh is harmless.”

“He flirts with you.”

“He flirts with every girl,” I said, exasperated. “So was it quiet here today?”

“Except for
Dad complaining about grading first year essays. He’s pretty sure we’re all going to be illiterate by the next century.”

“N
o reporters?”

“Not a peep.”
He shook his head.

“Maybe we got lucky.”

“Kids!” John called up the stairs. “Dinner!”

It was funny how he called us kids. I guessed maybe we would always be kids to him.

“I love Mondays.” I sighed happily, taking a seat at the table. Mondays was John’s day off from teaching—he had no classes on Monday, just office hours in the morning. He always cooked something delicious on Mondays. He had already put all the food on the table and poured me a glass of milk. Dale had a bottled water and John had a beer.

“Most people hate Mondays.” John smiled. “Back to work day.”

“Monday is spaghetti day.”

Dale looked at me.
“I thought that was Wednesday?”

“That’s Prince spaghetti day,” John said. “
For shame. I make my own pasta.”

I nudged Dale on the table, smiling at him.
I felt his hand on my knee and smiled. He gave it a gentle squeeze and a look that said, “Later.” It made me shiver.

“
So it was quiet here all day, Dale says.”

“Except for his incessant
guitar playing,” John joked. “When are you gonna go out there and get a real job?” John’s eyes were twinkling but Dale didn’t take the bait.

“That’s funny, I thought it was quiet except for all your whining about students who didn’t know the difference between there, their and they’re.”

“All sound the same to me,” I said, grinning.

“Oh the humanity.” John groaned. “To answer your rather obtuse question with a direct answer—no reporters called today.”

“Well that’s a relief,” I replied.

“However, I did get an interesting phone call from your mother, Dale.”

“What did she want?” Dale’s hand gripped my knee.

“Your sister wants to come live with us.”

Dale dropped his fork, staring at his father. I knew that look. My stomach knotted up tight. I’d been hungry but now there was no room for food.

“Let me gu
ess. She wants to go to Rutgers,” Dale snapped.

“She did just gradua
te,” John reminded him. “And it makes the most sense, given that tuition is free since I’m a professor there. You could have taken advantage of that fact too, you know.”

Dale ignored that last point.
“I don’t want to have anything to do with her. When is she coming?”

“Mid-
August.”

“Just before the tour,” I said.

“Good. We’ll be gone soon after she arrives.” Dale resumed twirling his spaghetti around a fork. “It’s good timing.”

“What if I don’t go… on tour, I mean.”

Dale didn’t answer that. I knew he didn’t want to consider that as an option.

“Are you giving her my room?”
I asked.

“No of course not,” John replied. “
I’ll dismantle the office, put most of it in my room or in storage. She’ll have her own room.”

“Is she flying?”
Dale asked.

“No, your mother’s driving her and bringing all her stuff.”

“Great.” Dale put his fork down, pushing aay from the table. “Just great.”

“Aren’t you going to finish?”
John asked as Dale got up.

“I just lost my appetite.”
Dale walked out of the kitchen and started upstairs.

John sighed.
“I guess I should have waited to tell him until after dinner.”

“I’m going to go upstairs too.” I put my fork down.
“I’m sorry, John.”

“Go on.
I’ll clean up.” John waved me on. “He’ll raid the fridge at midnight.”

Of course he was right.

“Dale?” I called, slowly opening the door to our room.

He was face down on the bed, words muffled, but I understood them anyway.

“I can’t do it. I can’t be in the same room with them. They’re just going to pretend like nothing happened. And fucking Chrissy. She knows! She knows damned well and she’s going to take advantage of him anyway.”

“John
thinks she’s his daughter,” I reminded him.

“Thinks
is the optimum word there.”

“Okay fine. So she isn’t really his daughter
.” I sat next to him on the bed. “What about me? He took me in and he loves me. He treats me like a daughter. Why would he treat Chrissy any differently—even if he did know?”

“Because you’re not the result of an affair with his best friend.”

He had a point. What would John do, if he knew?

I remembered the first time I’
d found out Dale had a sister who lived in Maine with his estranged mother. It had been enough of a shock to discover that Tyler Vincent, the man I’d worshipped from afar, whose music I listened to constantly, whose videos I stayed up late and waited for on MTV, whose movies I attended religiously on opening day, just happened to be John’s best friend. They’d met before Tyler became a star, back when Tyler was teaching music at the University of Maine, the same place John had been teaching English.

Then Dale had told me an even deeper secret, one John didn’t know—Dale and his sister, Chrissy, weren’t John’s biological children. His mother had
been involved with Tyler twenty years ago, a torrid affair—and she continued to have an affair with him, according to Dale, even though both she and Tyler remained married to other people. Dale’s mother had finally asked for a divorce—Dale said she was convinced Tyler was going to finally leave his wife for her, but he didn’t—and still, she never told John about the affair. Or the fact that his children weren’t, in fact, his.

When the
children were asked where they wanted to live, Dale had chosen John, who already had a teaching job lined up in California, and Chrissy had chosen to stay in Maine with her mother. John had no idea his wife and his best friend had betrayed him—but his children knew. Dale told me Chrissy knew, although he wasn’t sure how his younger sister had found out. Dale had discovered his mother’s sordid secret because he’d walked in on them, his mother and Tyler. She’d sworn him to secrecy, but of course Dale would never tell. John was the man who raised him, and regardless of biology, was the man he would always think of as his father. He would never do anything to hurt him, and he’d told me more than once, he believed telling John the truth about Tyler Vincent would kill him.

I knew Dale resented his little sister for siding with her mother. He felt it was like condoning what she did. He thought Chrissy had stayed because she thought, like her mother had believed, rich and famous Tyler Vincent would take care of them. I guess, to some extent, he did, according to Dale. But apparently that didn’t extend to college tuition.

For that, Chrissy was turning to the man who had raised her, even though she knew full well he wasn’t her real father. I understood why Dale felt so angry and betrayed, both by his sister’s decision to stay and live in Maine with her mother—Dale made it clear he’d never talk to Chrissy again if that’s what she chose, and I think he meant it—and now her decision to come sponge off the man who had raised her, a man she’d called “Dad,” most of her life, until the truth was revealed—a man she had ultimately rejected.

“I’m sorry, baby.” I put my hand on his shoulder, feeling the muscles tighten at my touch. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“There’s really nothing to talk about.”

I heard the phone ringing downstairs. We had one in our room but Dale had the habit of unplugging it when he was practicing.

“Sara!” It was John, calling up the stairs. “Phone for you!”

For me? It had to be Aimee—was she calling me from
St. Bart’s? I never did get a chance to talk to her after we’d made our quick exit from the wedding. I braced myself, knowing she was going to be mad. I couldn’t blame her. If my best friend’s boyfriend was a rock star and had been the sole reason a whole bunch of crazy fans crashed my wedding, I’d be mad too.

“Aimee?” Dale watched as I scrambled for the phone, having to find the cord under discarded clothes and socks, mostly mine, so I could plug it into the end.

“Most likely.” I picked up the phone, hearing that strange sort of open sound that meant John was still on the line downstairs. “I got it, John, thanks.”

John
hung up and I waited, already feeling guilty, for Aimee to scold me for ruining her wedding.

“Hello?” I finally said, meeting Dale’s eyes. He was watching, curious.

“Hello, Sara Wilson?” It was a man’s voice and I blinked in surprise. My first thought was,
oh no, a reporter!
Why hadn’t John asked who was calling?

“Yes, this is Sara
,” I replied cautiously.

Dale frowned and I knew he was thinking what I was thinking.

“I’m sorry, I told the man who answered—was that John Diamond?—I told him I was Dave. From the t-shirt shop.”

B
ut he wasn’t Dave from the t-shirt shop.

“Who is this?” I
demanded. Dale was trying to grab the phone from me and I pushed him away, turning, the cord wrapping around my legs.

It had to be a reporter. Who else?

“This is…” He cleared his throat. “Well, this is your father.”

I dropped the receiver to the floor
like it was on fire.

      CHAPTER
EIGHT     

“Sara, listen to me.” Dale reached across the table and took my hand. It was clammy and trembling but I didn’t pull it away.

“I’m listening.” I was listening. But my eyes were on the door. Every time the little bell over it rang I jumped.

“I know this man says he’s your father,” Dale began. 

I rolled my eyes. This ag
ain? When the man on the other end of the phone said he was my father, the image of the stepbeast, the only father I’d ever known, rose up to tower over me. My father, my real, biological father, was dead. That’s what my mother always told me.

“Dale, come on.” I met his eyes briefly over the scones we’d ordered. I loved
Cuppa Joe’s
hot chocolate. Dale was drinking coffee—black. “He passed every test I could think of. He knew the hospital I was born in. He knew my mother’s maiden name. He knew her middle name. He knew my middle name.”

“All things he could have looked up in public record,” he reminded me. I glared at him. “Look, I’m not trying to be the bad guy here. Really, I’m not. But this guy shows up the day after your picture is in the paper connected to me? Everyone knows rock stars are millionaires, right?”

I regretted telling him about my conversation with Josh. But I always told him everything.

“How did he know about my birthmark?” I had tears in my eyes imagining my father—my real father—holding me as a tiny baby, kissing the dark question-mark on my right shoulder. “Everything he says rings true. He’s from Florida. That’s where my mother’s family is. He knew everything about her I could think of to ask, at least from when she was younger. He even knew my grandmother’s middle name. Even I had to look that up!”

“Well, don’t you think that’s a little strange?”

“Now he knows too much instead of not enough?”
I had been holding back tears but now they slipped down my face.

“Sweetheart.”
Dale wiped my tears. “I love you. I’m here for you, no matter what. It’s me. Dale.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“I just…”He sighed. “I should probably just shut up.”

“No, say it.”

“It just seems like a pretty weird coincidence that he happened to be in New York, saw your name in the paper, wondered if you might be the same Sara Wilson and decided to try to find you. And how did he find you, considering we had a whole city full of reporters who were trying and they failed?”

“You know, I told you.” I sighed. “He said he tried finding me but I wasn’t listed. So he looked up you—and found out John taught at Rutgers. He said after that it was easy because so much of John’s informa
tion was public. He called up USC in California where he worked before you moved here. He talked to some professor… Lane Murdoch?”

“Yeah he and my dad were friends.”

“So when he called Rutgers looking for John, he found out about faculty housing and knew that was a dead end. He tried calling the university and asking for John. He got John’s assistant, Carol.”

“And then?”

“Then he pretended to be this Lane Murdoch fellow, said he would be in NY on a layover for just a few hours and wanted to see him. Could he possibly have his home number?”

“And she gave it to him.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know!” I exclaimed. “He said… he said he charmed her into it.”

“Exactl
y,” Dale replied. “And what did he say when you first talked to him on the phone? Who did he tell your dad he was?”

I hesitated.
“Dave… from the print shop.”

“But how did he know you worked there
?”

“I don’t know.”

“I just don’t like it.” Dale said. “It feels wrong to me.”

“Everything involving me and another
man feels wrong to you,” I snapped.

“
I’m just trying to be rational,” he said softly.

“Fine, why don’t I just tell him up front I’m going to require a blood sample
, so we can do some DNA testing?” I rolled my eyes.

“Those take weeks. By the time we had the results, if he is what I think he is, he’ll be long gone.”

“You’re impossible.” I felt the corners of my mouth twitching, ready to smile.

“And you’re incredibly sweet and trusting and I love you.”
He leaned over and kissed me. “But maybe you should ask for that blood test.”

“Dale!”
I punched his shoulder.

“Damn, remind me not to get in the ring with you.”

“Oh my God that’s him.” My mouth went instantly dry. I couldn’t even swallow. He was tall and lean, wearing khakis and a button-down light blue chambray shirt, just like he said he would be. He had short, sandy blond hair, not quite a military cut but close. I searched his face for any resemblance as he scanned the room, hesitating in the doorway.

His gaze skipped over me to Dale and then back to me. Our eyes met and he smiled, lifting his hand in a wave. I waved back, hoping I didn’t look overeager. I
felt
overeager and had for weeks. I’d been ready to get in my car and drive to LaGuardia, where he first called me from. He was heading back to Florida—he’d only been in New York for a few days on business, he said. But he promised he would be back in a month.

And here he was, keeping that promise.

He’d given me his Florida phone number and we’d talked on the phone several times. He assured me I could ask him anything I wanted. Dale had woken up a few times in the middle of the night to find me sitting next to the bed on the floor with a notebook and a flashlight, writing down all the things I wanted to know, things my mother had never told me. A lifetime of questions crammed into two weeks.

And now that he was here, I didn’t know what to say.

He strode over to our table and Dale stood, reaching his hand out.

“Benjamin Barnes.” Ben shook Dale’s hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Dale Diamond.” He looked over at me. “I’m going to take my coffee over there and let you two talk.”

“Oh you don’t have to do that.” Ben’s smile widened when he glanced at me and I smiled back. My cheeks hurt from smiling.

“That’s okay, I need to catch up on my reading.” Dale held up a copy of the New York Daily News. I didn’t realize he’d brought it along, but then I saw the picture of us that had been printed two weeks ago. He’d folded it so Ben could see it clearly when he held it up. I rolled my eyes at the posturing—did he really think someone would make up a story so elaborate?

Dale
leaned over and his lips brushed my cheek and he whispered, “I love you.”

“Take a seat,” I said to Ben, nodding at the chair across from mine. I still didn’t know what to call him. Ben seemed so formal and calling him “Dad” didn’t feel quite right yet either so I tried to avoid calling him anything.

Dale took a step back, letting Ben pull out the chair.

“Sara, I’ll be right over there if you need me,” Dale said again,
pointing to an empty table near the window. I just nodded.

“Do you want something?” I asked, looking down at my hot chocolate that was, by now, not hot at all. Dale had taken his coffee and scone.

“No, I’m good.” Ben leaned his elbows on the table, looking at me. “How are you?”

“Fine.” Such a stupid answer, but what was I supposed to say? Dale and John had both encouraged me to go to a therapy appointment—or to at least call
Dr. Jarvis—but I hadn’t. I knew what Dr. Jarvis would ask.
How does it make you feel?
I was excited, nervous, anxious, confused, afraid, sad, and a little angry. The neurotic seven dwarves. But I wasn’t about to tell Ben that.

“How about you?” I asked. “How was your flight?”

“Fine.”

So we were both fine. Everything was fine. Awkward, but fine. Why could I manage to ask him a hundred questions on the phone but feel so strange and dis
tant when we were face to face?

“Oh, I brought those pictures.” I grabbed my purse, unzipping the top and digging through. They were in a white envelope. I put it on the table, sliding it over to him. “Mom had a whole box, but I just brought a few. The sample pack.”

He smiled, picking up the envelope and taking out the pictures.

“I tried to pic
k ones of me at different ages,” I said, watching him study each picture and then put it down on the table when he moved on to the next.“If you really want, we can go through the whole box some time.”

“Sure.” He nodded, putting another picture down on the table. Me at age three—I knew, because there were three candles on the cake Mom was helping me cut. Then me as a newborn, almost completely bald. It was a black and white photo and I was propped up on a couch with pillows.

“That’s how I remember you.” Ben tapped that photograph, glancing up at me. “All these years I pictured you as a baby.”

“Sorry I grew up.”

“I’m not.” He smiled sadly. “I’m just sorry I missed it.”

“Me too.” I reached over and picked up the picture of me as a baby.

“Oh, wow, look at that.” Ben put a picture of me and my mom on the table. I was about fourteen or fifteen. My freshman year in high school, because I recognized the painting I was holding. It had won some sort of contest. “Carolyn never aged a bit, did she?”

“Not much,” I agreed, looking at the two of us, her arm around me. We were like twins, blond and blue-eyed, same nose, same smile.

“Aww, look at you.” Ben put another photo on the table. “Your first bike?”

“Yeah.” It was a white bike with a banana seat and pink streamers. I was riding toward the camera, head down, determined. I’d learned late—all the other kids on my block knew how to ride a bike before me. It wasn’t until my mother met
Pete Holmes, future stepbeast, that she could even afford to buy me a bike.

“Is that your stepfather?” Ben tapped the photographed. “In the background?”

“That’s the stepbeast,” I agreed. My mother had been behind the camera. “Although I don’t think they were married yet. I was in second grade when that happened.”

“He really did all those horrible things to you?”

I leaned back in my chair, pulling up my t-shirt to expose my midriff. The doctors did the best they could, but when you have a six-inch piece of splintered door frame hammered into your side by a two-hundred and fifty pound man—let’s just say my days of wearing bikinis and half-shirts were over.

“Good God.” Ben cringed. I pulled my shirt back down. “And Carolyn’s dead? What did he do to her?”

Not half as much as he did to me.

I met his eyes and thought about telling him the rest. How the stepbeast had started coming into my room drunk in the middle of the night when I was fifteen. How I’d finally worked up the courage to tell my mother two years later after I’d already missed three periods, and how she’d turned away, not believing me. How I’d missed my last year of high school, hiding in my room, afraid of the stepbeast, and with good reason. Somehow I’d known it was going to happen. The inevitable beating. The baby girl who stopped kicking inside me when I was about six months pregnant. How the stepbeast kept me locked in until all the bruises had faded before letting my mother take me to the hospital. And how she lied. And I lied too.