2. Evangeline
CHAPTER TWO
evangeline
If I had a dollar for every time
You almost touched me
I’d give my fortune to the wind
Cause unlike me she can move
Move against your skin
C urls of steam lift from the glowing surface of the hot tub. Water ripples decadently around my bare shoulders. Above me, strands of string lights bisect a sky framed by evergreens. The neighborhood is quiet at 2:00 a.m., so quiet that if I close my eyes, I can almost believe I’m in a peaceful, remote forest.
My peace shatters as the back slider on my two-bedroom bungalow slams open and Wilder storms onto my deck.
I sit up fast, my stomach somersaulting as I quickly cross my arms over my naked chest. “What the hell! What are you doing here? I gave you a key for emergencies only!”
“This is a fucking emergency,” he growls. Both hands clenched in his hair, he paces back and forth across the deck, each footstep a resounding thud . “Tell me it’s bullshit. Tell me you’re not thinking about quitting.”
My breath stills, a near-crushing weight settling on my chest. Goddammit, Rye . I shouldn’t have left him at the party unsupervised, not with Wilder there. Rye is shit at keeping secrets, and Wilder is a master at spotting and extracting them.
I open my mouth with no idea what I’m going to say, but Wilder continues, “Is this about what happened in Vegas? I already said I was sorry. I was drunk, okay? It’s not an excuse, just an explanation. I fucked up. Simple as that. You said you forgave me.”
He stops suddenly, his chest heaving. Two steps bring him to the edge of the sunken hot tub. “What do I have to do? Do you want me to beg?”
My jaw drops as he lowers to his knees and clasps his hands over his chest.
“Wilder—stop. Get up.”
His eyes veer downward, then widen and jerk back up. “You’re naked.”
“No shit,” I snap. “I thought I was home alone.”
Sagging backward so his weight rests on his feet, he whispers, “Please don’t do this.”
None of this is going how I wanted it to, but on the heels of that thought is the realization that it was never going to happen according to any plan I made—nothing with this man ever does.
“Grab my robe,” I tell him. “Behind you on the chair.”
He drags himself to his feet and fetches my robe, then holds it open and averts his eyes from my body. Bitterness makes my teeth grind as I step out of the water and snatch it from him, then slip into it. Once the belt is tied, I push past him and walk into the house.
He follows me inside, yanking the slider behind him. The frame is a little warped, and he mutters obscenities under his breath as he wrestles the door closed.
“I’ll never understand why you live here.”
I flop onto my second-hand couch in my tiny living room, ignoring the barb. Wilder, despite being obsessed with making a name for himself separate from his father’s, has zero problems using his family’s wealth to erase every inconvenience from his life.
He thinks Rye and I are idiots for not taking advantage of our parents’ money; we think he’s a hypocrite and a snob. If he was only that, maybe this would be easier. But he’s also the most complex, beautiful, insanely talented person I know.
Dropping onto the couch beside me, he cradles his head in his hands. I steel my heart against the dejected curve of his shoulders. The sad fact is I can’t be certain if it’s an act or not.
At least he doesn’t seem to be drunk or high.
“I have forgiven you for what happened in Vegas,” I say hesitantly. “But forgiving isn’t the same as forgetting. I can’t do it anymore. I’m tired of being your babysitter, of making sure you don’t run out of condoms, disappear for hours at a time, or choke on vomit?—”
“I get it,” he interrupts, hands falling as he straightens and faces me. “I got caught up in the bullshit. I’ll slow down. I promise.”
My heart pounds so hard my mouth tastes like pennies. I want to believe him—so, so badly—but it’s too late. If all we did was write songs and perform together, it might be another story. But that’s only a small part of the life we’ve chosen, and the insanity of the last two years has sucked the joy from it. From me.
Now that the rollercoaster of signing to a label, recording our debut album, and our first official tour has finally slowed, I want off the ride. Even if it means blowing up the most intimate, maddening, ecstatic partnership I’ve ever known and probably ever will. Even if I’m passing up a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to have my music in millions of ears. Those are risks I’m willing to take—that I have to take.
It’s a simple matter of survival. Thanks to the magic we make in the studio, the line between my head and heart is already blurred where he’s concerned. I have to get away from him before I cross the point of no return.
Falling in love with Wilder Ashburn will destroy me.
“I hope you do slow down,” I say carefully, “but I can’t be your conscience anymore. I want a life that’s mine, not one that’s an extension of yours. You and I both know the label will bend over backward to find you another keyboardist and backup vocalist. The album is taking off, and the tour created a ton of buzz. Besides, Night Theory is your baby, not mine. You’ll be fine without me.”
Desperation twists his features. The hand closest to me twitches like he wants to reach for me. But he won’t. He never does—sober, at least.
“Is this about the attention I’m getting? The spotlight? I wanted you to do lead vocals on half the album, but you refused! Fuck it—let’s rerecord. Take my guitar, take my mic. You can have whatever you want!”
“No.” Pain claws at my chest, propelled by the real agony on his face. “They don’t want me, Wilder. They never have. The label, the fans, they want you . Your voice, your presence. They need you.”
“But I need you ,” he grinds out, his unique, spotted irises flashing with fury. “You’re my fucking muse, and you know damn well I’m yours. Nothing will ever compare to us, to what we make together. You and me—we’re musical destiny. So you can’t leave me. You can’t. We’re endgame, Evangeline. We’re forever . You promised .”
I suck in a breath, heat blooming in my chest and face. Tears prick my eyes, my heart breaking and overflowing at the same time.
Those words… they’re weapons and he knows it. He knows all about my confusing feelings and he’s using them against me. There’s no mercy in his eyes. No remorse. Only anger and calculation.
“Fuck you,” I choke out.
His gaze sharpens and darkens. “If that’s what it takes, then let’s go.” He reaches for the hem of his shirt, lifting it enough for me to see a swath of taut, golden skin and a trail of dark hair.
“You’re unbelievable,” I snarl, leaping off the couch and knocking my shin against the coffee table in my effort to put space between us. I stalk to the front door and pull it open, ignoring the throb in my leg, the throb in my chest.
“I’m leaving the band. I’d really hoped we could handle this like adults, but I should have known better.”
He rises and moves around the couch, his eyes tracking me like a predator. I stand my ground even when he veers toward me instead of the door. Even when he towers over me and his intoxicating scent surrounds me. It’s not bodywash. Not cologne. Just him , like he was born with a midnight rainstorm in his cells.
The heat from his body breaches my robe, sinking into my still-drying skin. His gaze drops to my mouth and my breath hitches. Ribbons of heat curl and twist in my belly and lower.
I hate that after everything I’ve seen, everything I know about him, my body still betrays me like it’s done for the last four years. Ever since I walked in on him getting a blowjob from Christine Buchanan, a girl he went to high school with. Until that moment, I’d been able to mostly separate his physical allure from my attraction to his mind, his soul. But when he’d looked at me standing frozen in his bedroom doorway, Christine’s head bobbing in his lap, and his eyes flared with something I’d never seen directed at me before, that boundary was erased.
I’ve been fighting a losing battle since.
“I hate you,” I whisper.
“No, you don’t,” he says huskily. “And that’s the problem, isn’t it? You want me so fucking bad and you can’t handle the fact I haven’t taken you.”
He steps even closer, his chest grazing my robe as his other hand pushes the front door closed. The soft click makes me flinch.
I scream at myself to move, but I can’t. Right now, I hate us both. Hate what we’ve become. But most of all, I hate that he’s right. I want him, and I can’t handle that he doesn’t want me back.
I’m powerless to protest when he grabs ahold of my messy bun and jerks it so that my head falls back. He doesn’t touch my skin—his unspoken rule—but he doesn’t have to. He’s all around me, his nearness caressing every inch of my body. A hot, prickling sensation shoots from my scalp, pulsing down my back to settle between my legs. I squeeze my thighs together, but it only makes the ache worse.
All I can do is stare up at him, silent tears of anger and misery pooling in my eyes as he lowers his mouth toward mine.
“We made a pact,” he murmurs, his breath tickling my lips. “Are you asking me to break it?”
I swallow hard, remembering the night we swore to never cross the physical line. It wasn’t long after I caught him with Christine. We were sitting on his bedroom floor with our guitars. We’d just written our best song to date—the same song that would eventually get us noticed by a scout from Indigo Records. We hadn’t known it then, of course, but we still had that feeling of achieving something impossible. Capturing lightning in a bottle.
We were grinning at each other. I don’t know who kissed who first, but I do remember him jerking away seconds after our lips touched. I remember the panic in his face as he jumped to his feet and started pacing, his voice shredding all the joy of the last moments.
“We can’t. No. That didn’t happen. We’re not going out like that, Evangeline. How many incredible bands have broken up because they couldn’t keep sex separate from the art? Too many. We can’t risk it.”
Reeling from his tirade, I hadn’t protested when he made me swear we’d never kiss again. Never touch. Never, ever fall in love.
One more promise made.
One more nail in our coffin.
Now, I summon the fraying threads of my dignity and snap, “I don’t want anything to do with you. You disgust me.”
His lips curl mockingly. “Oh yeah? That’s not what your pupils are telling me, or that pulse in your pretty neck.” His gaze drops over my chest, dragging along the sliver of skin between the robe’s lapels. When his eyes lift back to mine, they’re blazing with derision. “If you’re so horny, why didn’t you go home with Eddie? Or did he not pop that sweet little cherry yet?”
A flash of shock gives way to rage. “He did,” I lie. “My first time was perfect.”
His nostrils flare, his jaw flexing, eyebrows drawing together.
Lost in the chaos of us, I laugh bitterly. “What—you thought I was going to stay a virgin forever while you screwed every groupie over eighteen?”
His fingers tighten in my hair, sending more fiery bolts across my scalp. “He doesn’t deserve you,” he growls. “I don’t, either. But if you need me to fuck you, Evangeline, I will—if that’s what it takes to prevent you from throwing away our future. But I’ll never be your boyfriend. I’m more than that stupid label, and you’re more than that, too. We are more than meaningless physical release.”
Something inside me breaks—the final piece of me that was holding onto impossible hope. A fresh swell of tears makes tracks on my face as I look up into eyes that no longer feel like a safe haven.
“Get out,” I whisper, my voice thin but unyielding.
His lips part as he sucks in a breath. His fingers spasm, releasing my hair, and I take a swift step back.
“Evangeline.” My name trembles in the air. “Please. I’m sorry. Just tell me what you want.”
“Get out of my house, Wilder. And leave the key.” My voice is strong now, as cold and hard as my newly fossilized heart. “Whatever we were is done. We broke it. It’s time to move on.”
With sluggish movements, he dips a hand in his back pocket and holds up a silver key. I snatch it from his fingers, then wrench open the front door. He walks past me, stalling on the threshold.
Not looking back, he says softly, “Maybe you’re right—maybe we’re broken. But we’ll never be done, Evangeline. Never.”
The second his foot is out of the way, I close and lock the door, then throw the key into a nearby bowl. Then I walk to the kitchen where my phone is charging on the counter. Adrenaline makes my fingers shake as I type a text and send it.
Fuck you Rye. I can’t believe you told him
My phone rings in my hand, a picture of Rye on the screen that normally makes me smile. His eyes are crossed, his tongue out. I jab the red X to decline the call. Seconds later, the device buzzes with a series of texts.
I’m so fucking sorry
Did you talk to him? What did he say?
Are you okay?
I suck. I’m sorry
After an internal war that lasts close to a minute, I sigh and text him back.
I’m fine. It’s done. I’ll see you at the barbecue tomorrow
I throw my phone back on the counter and drag myself to the couch, where I collapse and finally, finally let the last two years pour out of me in sobs.