Grabbing the pepper spray she kept in the cup holder, she got out after making sure there was no one else around and locked her car. Then she ran quickly to the stairs that led up to those three rooms. All three were dark, but two of them had some limp-looking curtains. Cupping her hands over the sides of her eyes as she pressed her face to the window of the third, she felt her breath leave her in a painful rush.
Noah sat on the edge of the bed, bare-chested and with his eyes on his hands. His shoulders were slumped, but he was very much alive.
Pulling away from the window, she bent over, braced her hands on her knees, and tried to breathe. The air hurt going in, coming out. At least two minutes later, she gripped the skinny metal railing, pulled herself up and, breath still a little ragged, went to knock. Then something made her try the door. It turned easily in her hand.
"Wrong room," Noah said without looking up. "Unless you're looking for a quick fuck. Then I can oblige you."
It was a kick to the gut. As was the sight of the condom wrappers on the floor and that of the obviously used bed. She almost stepped back, almost left. He'd never know, never realize how desperately worried she'd been tonight... and then her eyes fell on the nightstand and the syringe that lay on it.
Ice formed in her gut again.
Striding across the carpet, she picked it up. "What the hell is this, Noah?"
"Kit?" He looked up, his pupils hugely dilated. "I can smell you. You always smell so good." Reaching out, he touched her thigh. "I guess I must be really drunk if I'm imagining you here." With that, he grabbed the bottle she hadn't seen at his feet and took a swig.
Holding the syringe with one hand, Kit pulled away the bottle with the other and slammed it on the nightstand. "What," she said again, gripping his jaw to force him to meet her gaze, "is this?"
An unconcerned shrug. "Something to make me high as a kite according to the dealer."
"Jesus, Noah, you don't even know what it is and you were going to shoot up with it?"
"Couldn't do it," he said on a harsh laugh. "Kept hearing your voice in my head telling me you have no fucking respect for people who fucking space out on drugs. And now I'm hallucinating you." He swiped out at the bottle, missed when she grabbed it first. "Gimme back my whiskey, Hallucination Kit."
"I'll give you your whiskey." Taking the bottle, she went into the tiny bathroom and poured the liquid into the cracked and stained sink.
Noah got up and followed her. His face fell. "Don't do that, Hallucination Kit. Now what will we drink?"
Ignoring him, she finished with the bottle and depressed the plunger of the syringe while holding it over the sink. Once it was empty, she put it on the narrow back ledge of the sink so the maid would see it straightaway. Hopefully the cleaning staff had a process for disposing of needles. "Where's the vial?" she asked Noah after dumping the bottle in the garbage.
Noah just looked at her, his jaw bristly and dark. It had always fascinated her that he could be so blond and yet have such dark stubble, eyebrows, and eyelashes. She'd always had to fight the temptation to bite at his jaw, taste him. Today, however, all she wanted to do was hit him. "Where. Is. The. Vial?" she repeated deliberately. "Noah!"
When he still didn't answer, she pushed past him, his muscled chest warm under her touch, and began to open the drawers in the nightstand. They proved empty, and there was no other furniture in the room aside from the bed. Going to her knees, she looked under the bed, caught the glint of glass. The vial had rolled underneath, likely after Noah knocked it off the nightstand.
It was empty and unlabeled.
Throwing it in the trash in the bathroom, conscious of Noah watching her with an intensity that felt like a touch, she began to search the bed for his T-shirt, careful to touch things only with the tips of her fingers. She couldn't think about the fact that he'd been fucking some other woman in this bed not long ago or she'd throw up.
"You want to fuck, Hallucination Kit?"
She'd jerked up her head, intending to flay him for the question, when he said, "I don't want to. Not with you."
And the bastard kept kicking her, kept hurting her. "I wouldn't sleep with you if you were the last man on the planet." Having found the tee, she threw it at him. "Put that on."
He did so, oddly compliant.
"Noah," she said, worried again. "Did you take anything else? Pills?"
"No, because Kit hates drug addicts. I drank. And then I ran out of booze so I went and bought some more and drank again."
Since she could smell the booze, she had to believe him on that point. "When was the last time you ate something?"
Another shrug.
Kit could've left then, but she couldn't abandon him here. Regardless of how much he'd hurt her, he'd once been her friend. Her best friend. "Come on, let's go get a burger." When he didn't move, she held out a hand despite how deeply she wanted to maintain distance between them for her own sake. "I'm hungry."
His eyes went to her hand and he moved at last, coming over to close one big hand around her own. His fingertips were callused from playing the guitar, his skin tougher than her own, his temperature hotter. The contact was a shock to her system, anger and pain and hurt entwined.
Swallowing it all down, she tugged him out of the room and to the car. "I'll go pay the manager," she said once she'd unlocked the car.
Noah laughed as if she'd told a crazy joke. "I might be drunk and hallucinating, but I know this place is prepay."
Right, of course it was. "Then get in."
The smell of alcohol and of Noah filled the car as she drove them out of the seedy area. "What are you doing back in LA? I thought you were in Hawaii?" Fox had mentioned that fact in passing when she'd had dinner with the lead singer and Molly the night before the couple left for their road trip down the Pacific Coast Highway.
No answer from Noah.
When she glanced over at the passenger seat, it was to find that he'd either fallen asleep or passed out, his head leaning against the window. Stopping at the lights, she reached out to check his pulse to make sure it was a natural sleep. He mumbled something at the touch of her fingertips, his pulse strong.
Relieved, she alerted Casey she was on her way back, then drove straight home. Once there and parked inside the garage, she went around to open Noah's door and was faced with the prospect of either leaving him in the car or trying to haul him inside.
"Noah," she said, forcing herself to grab one of his muscled shoulders and shake. "Wake up if you want to sleep in a bed."
"Not your bed," he mumbled.
Kit tried not to let his words draw blood. "Yeah, you've made that clear. Now get up."
Eyes opening, though his lashes were heavy, he stumbled out and wrapped one arm around her shoulders. "Hi, Katie." He nuzzled at her hair. "I missed you."
Tears so close to the surface that they were about half a minute away at most, she managed to bully, push, and lead him to one of the spare bedrooms--where he flopped facedown on the bed and went immediately back to sleep. Realizing he was wearing his boots as well as his belt with its heavy silver buckle, along with old black jeans, she thought she should do something to make him more comfortable, but she'd hit her limit.
She paused only long enough to put a blanket over him because she knew how much he hated her liking for cold temperatures at night. Leaving the guest bedroom, she went into her own, stripped off, stepped into the attached shower, and cried until she had no more tears in her.
Her chest hurt by the end, her throat was raw, her nose stuffy. But she was an actress, knew all the tricks. Grabbing a cold pack from the fridge, she lay down on the bed with it over her eyes. She still had forty-five minutes before she had to leave for the studio. Plenty of time for her to become Kathleen Devigny again, sophisticated, talented, and far too intelligent to have her heart broken a second time by a rock star who had never loved her like she'd loved him.
Chapter 2
Noah woke to the sound of a drumbeat loud enough to rever
berate through his bones. "Cut it out, David," he muttered, wondering why Schoolboy Choir's drummer was practicing inside his skull.
When the drumming continued unabated, he opened his eyes a slit and saw white sheets with tiny blue flowers. There were even green leaves around the flowers. He ran his fingers over the sheet, felt the texture, focused on the flowers and leaves again. This wasn't home. And he never stayed overnight with anyone.
Eyes flicking fully open even as another part of his brain identified the scent in the air--evocative and fresh and painfully familiar--he sat up. Too fast. His head swam.
He groaned and, holding his head in his hands, closed his eyes for another minute until things settled down. Then he glanced around the room.
The walls were a warm cream, the bedside tables honey-colored wood, a stained glass Tiffany lamp on one side; the colors from the lamp were reflected in the abstract painting on the wall in front of him. On his right side was a large window that looked out onto what appeared to be a private green haven. He could see the pebbled pathway, knew that if he walked down that path, he'd find himself in a painstakingly maintained Japanese garden.
Inside was a pond bordered by large stones covered in a fine, velvety moss. A small wooden seat was positioned beside a miniature maple tree, right at the perfect spot to look into the calm of the pond as a cherry blossom tree cast its shadow on the water.
Go right and he'd eventually reach the end of the garden outside the kitchen. There was a picnic table in that spot, along with two benches, under the spreading branches of a leafy green tree. Go left and, after several minutes, he'd find himself at a moss-covered wall--because this place was a haven, secret and contained.
Noah knew every corner of it... or he had. Kit had probably changed everything by now. She was always out there. She had a service that maintained the lawn out front and made sure the wooded area on her property was free of any damaged or dangerous trees, but the garden was hers.
"It gives me peace," she'd told him once, her eyes shining and open. "I walk out there, put my hands in the earth, and the stress of the day just falls away."
Shoving off the blanket tangled around his legs, Noah got out of bed. He was still wearing his boots, and it felt like his belt buckle had embedded itself in his gut. It made him laugh even as he winced, and the laugh had his head pounding like it had a live jackhammer buried in it.
"Shit." Having collapsed back on the bed, he forced himself to get up, winced again. He smelled like a fucking distillery.
"Christ." Stumbling into the bathroom, he threw some water on his face, then used one of Kit's fluffy white towels to dry off. Not only did he smell like he'd bathed in whiskey, he looked like he'd been on a three-day bender. "Impressive, Noah." He'd achieved that result in a single night. And Kit had seen him like this. Great. Just fucking great.
Leaving the bathroom, he walked out of the bedroom. "Kit?" he called out, gritting his teeth as his head pounded in time with his heartbeat.
All he heard was silence. The door to her bedroom--just down from his--was open. Looking in carefully, he saw her bed neatly made and piled with a ridiculous number of pillows. He'd once asked her what the point was when she only needed one for her head and she'd rolled her eyes. "Only a man would ask that question."
He fucking missed her voice, her smile, her. That's why he'd called her. It was coming back to him, flashes of what he'd done. He knew it would all eventually appear. That was his special curse: he could drink himself to oblivion, something he usually only ever did while alone inside his house, but he remembered everything. Sometimes it took a day before it all came back, but it always did.
He was already getting grainy, blurry images of Kit picking up a hypodermic, shock and horror on her face.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Walking into her sunny kitchen, he saw no sign of her. What he did see was a note propped up next to a large bottle of aspirin. He ignored the pills and picked up the note.
You're probably still over the limit to drive, and in case you're idiotic enough to think you're not, I'm taking all the keys. Call my car service when you get up and they'll take you home. I'm at the studio.
At the bottom was the phone number for the car company. He flipped it over in the hope she'd written something else, but that was all. A stabbing in his heart, he crushed the paper in his hand. He had to get the fuck out since it was clear Kit didn't want him here. Not that he could blame her.
Having shoved the piece of paper in his pocket because he was pathetic and wanted something of hers, even if it was only a terse note, he thrust a hand through his hair and winced again at the smell of alcohol. He couldn't go anywhere like this unless he wanted to attract attention, and that was the last thing he needed today.
Back when he and Kit had been friends, he'd left a few things in the closet in the spare bedroom. Wondering if there was a chance she hadn't thrown it all out, he went back to the room and opened the closet.
It was empty.
There went that idea, he thought, about to close the closet door when he noticed a box up on the shelf. Pulling it down, he found his stuff. It had been thrown in there in a mess, but he had everything he needed.
A long, hot shower made him feel a little more human. Afterward, he chucked his dirty clothes into the large garbage can beside Kit's garage--thanks to her stalker, she paid a company to come in and personally pick up and dispose of her garbage, so no one would be digging through it and discovering his clothes. He did not want to remember the night he'd almost done the one thing he'd sworn never to do, no matter how bad the hell inside his head.
Returning to the house, he began to pull on his boots over bare feet.
He couldn't call Kit's car service without linking his name to hers. Everyone knew Kit was friendly with the band, but if he was picked up alone from her house, even at three in the afternoon--Jesus, he'd been out of it--it would fuel all kinds of rumors. The only reason they'd escaped that during their friendship was because he'd been very careful not to put her in the line of fire.
He could call the service the band used when they wanted to party and didn't want to drive, but the driver they usually used was out with a broken leg and Noah didn't know the new guy well enough to trust he'd keep his mouth shut. He'd walk out except that no one walked in neighborhoods like this--he'd probably get picked up by private security before he got a hundred feet.
He knew Kit's own security guys were professionals who never blabbed about clients; he'd ask one to run him up the road, then grab a cab once he was far enough away that his name wouldn't be connected to Kit's. She deserved that much at least from him. No way was he messing up her life with a tabloid feeding frenzy.
He was on his way out to see if he could touch base with one of the security team when Kit's home phone rang. He half smiled at the stodgy male voice that came on asking the caller to leave a message. The recording had come with the machine, and Kit used it so random callers wouldn't realize whose house they'd reached. He had his hand on the front doorknob when Kit's voice filled the air.
"Noah, are you awake? Are you alive?"
Gut tight and breath shallow at the sign that maybe she hadn't totally written him off, he grabbed the handset. "Yeah, awake and alive and about to bounce from your place."
A pause before she said, "What's wrong with your phone?"
He took it out of his pocket. "Dead battery."
"So..."
"I'm good." He shoved a hand through his hair. "I fucked up, Kit. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have called you."
"Yeah? So you should've just sat in that fleapit and shot poison into your body?" Anger vibrated in her every word. "Damn, I have to go. We need to talk. Don't leave."
The dial tone sounded in his ear before he could reply. Putting the handset on the cradle, he sat down on a nearby sofa and pulled off his boots. It wasn't even a decision that he'd stay. This was the first time Kit had talked properly to him since the night he'd willfully destroyed the best thing in hi
s life.
Self-disgust built in him, but he was used to that. It had lived in him most of his life. He'd done what he had to protect Kit, but he'd hurt her, and that made him a bastard. If she wanted to take a few shots at him, he'd stand there and let her pummel him bloody. It'd be worth it if she'd just talk to him again.
Kit walked into her house at seven that night to the smell of something delicious. Even dog tired as she was, it made her mouth water. A hot, prepared meal sounded like her idea of heaven right then. She'd been planning to eat one of the refrigerated meals she bought by the dozen.
It wasn't that she was a terrible cook--okay, yes, she was a terrible cook, but she enjoyed trying. Except with such an intense filming schedule, she had zero time. She was either at the studio or sleeping. Thank God she only had two more days to go.
And all of that, she thought as she detoured to her room to drop off her purse and kick off her flats, was just an attempt to distract herself from the fact that Noah was in her house. She could smell him in the air, and this time, there was no alcohol. Just Noah.
Warm and intrinsically male.
Fisting her hands, she made herself remember what he'd done, remember the sight of his body moving sinuously on another woman's. It twisted up her gut, but the sick feeling was coupled with an anger that had been growing and growing and growing. Tonight it drove her out of the bedroom and to the kitchen, where Noah was stirring something on the stove.
He looked up with a wary smile, his jaw still shadowed but his hair clean and his T-shirt white, his jeans a faded blue. She knew those clothes, had been telling herself to throw them out since the hotel-room ugliness. Pathetic as it was, in the month after it happened, she'd hurt so much with missing him that she'd even put on his T-shirt once.
"Hey," he said. "It's not gourmet anything, but I found a pasta sauce mix in your pantry and some spaghetti."
"Why?" she asked, the question too violent to be kept inside any longer. "Why did you do it, Noah?"
His expression grew dark. Switching off the stove, he gripped the edge of the counter. "Because that's what I do, Kit," he said, his voice gritty. "I fuck women. As many as I can."