Chapter 2
Derek
The wheels of the plane touch down in LA and I roll my shoulders back and crack my neck.
“You slept the whole flight,” Mav comments beside me.
“Yup,” I mutter, not in the mood for a conversation. To discourage him from starting one, I power on my phone and stare at the screen.
Mav sighs beside me.
The screen lights up and a barrage of emails and texts comes through.
One catches my eye and I tap it.
It’s a text from my manager, Jess.
Jess: The man, Derek Madden, that’s claiming to be your father reached out again via his lawyer. He must have seen that you’re in LA this weekend for the River Wells launch. He wants to meet.
I scoff. What a shit show. I’ve been in LA for forty-three seconds and already, I regret coming.
I’m part owner of a whiskey label that’s doing a West Coast launch. Clearly, I have to show up for the festivities and the event. The timing is shitty, with fucking Levi checking into rehab less than seventy-two hours ago.
I drag a hand over my face.
And now, my so-called father, who bounced before I was born, wants to meet.
Me: Tell him to fuck off and stop contacting me.
I send the message and slip my phone back into my pocket, too annoyed to read any of the other unimportant messages.
“To grab brunch?” Mav looks at me expectantly.
“Huh?” I look up, realizing I caught the tail end of his question. “What brunch?”
He narrows his eyes. “I asked if you wanted to have brunch with me and Allegra on Sunday.”
Allegra.
Just her name rips through me like a bullet, causing an invisible wound to spread across my chest. The rate of my breathing increases and I feel things, messy, complicated feelings, pouring from the gaping hole in my heart. “No,” I snap, even though it couldn’t be further from the truth.
I’m desperate to see Allegra. To get eyes on her and know she’s okay. Better than okay; thriving, living, blossoming. I want to know she’s doing all the things she would have missed out on if she came on tour.
I want the affirmation that I didn’t ruin her because letting her go saved her.
But fuck, I can’t see her. It would gut me.
The anger in her eyes, the disgust in the curve of her lip, the hatred—it would fucking gut me.
“Your loss,” Mav mutters. “I’m also getting drinks with some friends tonight if you want to roll through.”
“Whatever.”
Another heavy sigh. “You know, I didn’t have to come this weekend.”
“You’re right,” I agree. He didn’t have to come.
He could have begged off like Jameson or checked himself into fucking rehab like Levi.
“Fuck, you’re stubborn,” Mav replies, not at all offended.
Another truth.
I’m being shitty. It was thoughtful of Mav to tag along and support me in a new venture. I should be thankful he’s here. Grateful to have a friend like him.
Instead, I’m sour as hell because I’m in the same goddamn city as Allegra and I can’t see her.
I won’t.
I’m here for work. I don’t have time for distractions. I allowed Allegra to distract me, to get in my head, all damn summer and look how that turned out.
Her brother’s in rehab, our tour was cut short, and she probably hates me on a cellular level.
The plane taxis and Maverick and I stand, stretch, and disembark.
When I clear the plane, retrieve my luggage, and step out into the sunny afternoon, I take stock of my mental well-being.
I’m exhausted and burnt out. My eyes feel scratchy and my head thrums. As incredible as our European fans are and as disappointed as I am in Levi, I can’t squash the flicker of relief that our tour is officially done.
I need the time out. The quiet. The calm.
LA isn’t any of those fucking things but it’s a step up from screaming fans in London and sold-out shows in Berlin.
“You ready?” Mav calls out, holding open a door to a black Suburban.
“Yeah,” I mutter, stowing my suitcase in the trunk and sliding into the back seat beside him.
Our driver points the SUV in the direction of my LA condo. I turn my head to stare out the window, to watch as the cityscape, the day, blurs past.
I’m in Allegra’s city and still, I feel so far from her we may as well be on different planets.
“Reign!” a woman squeals when she sees me. Her friends immediately flock and I dutifully turn and smirk.
“Ladies…” I dip my head to greet them. “Thanks for coming.”
“As if we’d miss your launch!” the one wearing the skimpiest fucking top I’ve ever seen exclaims. She clutches her breasts dramatically and I briefly wonder if there’s going to be a nip slip. “We’re so happy you’re here!”
Nope, no luck.
“Me too,” I mutter.
“A photo,” the event photographer reminds me.
I slip my hands into my pockets so I won’t have to touch any of these women. They don’t get the hint and drape themselves over my frame, rubbing up against me as much as humanly possible.
Snap.
“Thanks,” I repeat. “Make sure you try the whiskey.”
“Oh.” The woman in the red miniskirt wrinkles her nose. “We don’t drink whiskey.”
“Of course not,” I sigh, walking away. “It’s just an event for a fucking whiskey label.”
“There you are, mate,” my River Wells partner, Johan Hansen, smacks me on the back.
He’s a tall, imposing, Viking type of guy.
Blond hair, bushy eyebrows, steel blue eyes.
He hails from Norway but maintains ties to Boston since his cousin, Torsten, is a former NHL player for the Hawks.
Can’t get away from this fucking hockey team no matter how hard I try.
But Johan’s a decent guy and a solid partner. “What’s good?”
“Glad you made it in time.”
“Yeah,” I agree, walking over to a high-top table.
He snags us each tumblers of whiskey and passes me one.
We clink glasses. “To River Wells,” I say simply.
“River Wells,” he echoes.
We drink to the success of our new label. I nearly polish off my drink in a few hearty gulps.
“Slow down,” Johan warns. “Or you won’t make it to the after party.”
“Right,” I say. Of course, there’s an after party. It’s so fucking LA, I want to laugh.
I glance at Johan, wondering if he really likes it here. He comes from serious money, the kind I couldn’t fathom as a kid. I glance around the beautiful venue, filled with insipid, uninteresting women and guys looking to get their dicks wet.
At some point, this shit must grow old, right?
Hell, I’m in my goddamn prime, just stepped off a flight from Madrid, and I’m fucking bored by it all.
Unimpressed. Uninspired.
What the hell’s the point anymore?
“You all right?” Johan peers at me closely.
“Yeah, sorry, man. Just jet lag.”
“Of course. I’m sorry to hear about Levi.” He lowers his voice respectfully. See what I mean? He’s decent.
“It was a long time coming,” I comment, speaking the truth. Not that people outside of our circles know the extent of Levi’s addiction issues, but alcohol is only the tip of the iceberg.
“Yeah,” Johan replies, taking a swig of whiskey. “You know, with the band complications and things being unsettled, you could stay here and help me grow the label. Be more involved with the day-to-day.”
I cut him a look. Johan has been trying from the jump to get me to move out, or at least, spend more time in LA. But, “It’s not for me, man. I gotta get back to Boston. To making music. This shit, Levi, the shortened tour—it will blow over.”
Johan dips his head in understanding. “Just a thought. Another option.”
I nod in thanks and take a sip of my whiskey. Damn, it’s good. A flicker of pride swells in my chest that I helped create this label, that I weighed in on the whiskey I’m currently drinking.
“Hey! Congrats on the turnout.” Mav steps to our table and grins.
Johan holds out a hand, which Mav shakes before pulling Johan into a hug.
Johan snorts. “Thanks for coming, Maverick.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Mav says, shooting me a look.
I smirk, knowing he’s taking a dig at me.
He grins back, knowing I know.
Fucking Mav. It’s impossible to stay annoyed with him. He’s too damn genuine.
“I’ve got some friends rolling through in a bit,” Mav states, glancing at Johan. “All good?”
“What’s your expression? The more the merrier?” Johan asks.
Mav laughs. “You got it. Yeah, cool. We’re going to grab drinks, but what better place to start?”
“Exactly,” Johan chuckles. “Begin your night with whiskey and see where it goes.”
“Sideways,” I mutter, but both Mav and Johan, used to my moodiness, ignore me, and continue their conversation.
I get another drink, mill about the space, mingle when I’m required to engage. The sky darkens as night falls. The smokiness of cigars hangs in the air, even though we’re outside, on a rooftop. Still, oversized leather armchairs are clustered in groups and high-top tables decorate the perimeter.
It’s as if someone took the library of a hyper-masculine, egotistical alpha and put it outside. But it lends a vivid experience to the whiskey and as I swirl my tumbler, I take a seat in a wingback chair and scan the event.
There’s a good turnout, we’re getting great press, and I’m excited to venture into a new business. Still, I can’t shake the unease that rides low in my gut. I can’t fully enjoy this moment, or this event, because my mind is twisted up on something else.
Allegra.
I start when my eyes fasten on her. She steps onto the rooftop as if bidden by my thoughts.
My gaze darts from her to Mav and I catch him staring straight at me.
He shrugs, completely unapologetic.
Fuck. I tip my head back and close my eyes.
She’s here. Of course, Mav fucking invited her. But why the hell did she come?
My eyes spring open and I zero in on her.
She’s as gorgeous as I remember but different.
I sit up straighter in my chair, my tumbler forgotten on a side table. My hands grip the armrests, my fingernails making indents in the buttery leather.
Everything is different.
Her long, dark hair has been chopped into a blunt bob and dyed. She’s fucking blonde! If I didn’t memorize the curves of her body, or intimately know the allure of her eyes, I wouldn’t have recognized her.
Her lips are painted a dark red when the woman I recall from summer was usually fresh-faced and makeup free.
This version isn’t wearing flip-flops or Chucks. She’s rocking heels and a skintight bodycon dress that leaves nothing to the imagination. Every curve is on display. She turns toward Mav and I groan at her full, round ass.
She’s here to torture me. That has to be it.
I growl as Mav’s hand slides over her lower back. He hugs her tightly before kissing her cheek. They exchange words, and I try to read Mav’s lips like a fucking loser.
What the hell is he saying?
He flips his chin in my direction and Allegra turns.
When she sees me, she freezes. Her lips part and her eyes widen. A shock of hurt, a ripple of regret, a mask of indifference. Emotions filter over her face and because I’m staring right at her, drinking her in, I catch each one in real time.
She turns back to Mav, dismissing me.
I chuckle, more surprised than anything else.
Yeah, she hates my guts.
And hell yeah, my blood still sings for her.
But fuck if she doesn’t keep me on my toes. Catch me off guard. Call me out on my bullshit.
I’m still in fucking love with Allegra Rousell. Not that she ever knew it.
But now, the woman who used to look at me with hearts and hope in her gaze is more likely to chuck daggers at my head.
Yeah, I should’ve stayed on the damn plane.