Chapter Three
Iris
“Let her be, Max.”
A second man rests against the nearby cupboards, all laconic ease. He arches a ski-slope brow, evidently bemused by the interplay between me and the giant. Mister Laconic needs no introduction—Wynter Knight. A man I’ve harboured more than a few fantasies about.
I do indeed appear to be standing in Lucidity’s kitchen.
Oh, and yeah, Wynter Knight is his real name. I’m sure his parents thought it was clever.
I gawp. This is crazy. I bashed my head. This is probably a hallucination. I’ll wake in a moment, in hospital or still in the freezing water.
Fantasy land lingers on, despite repeated blinking.
Wynter observes me, somewhat bemused. At least, I think that’s what I’m seeing.
Everything about Lucidity’s singer-songwriter is so sharp that it gives him a malevolent edge.
Chin, cheekbones, yes, even the slopes of his brows.
Then there’s his eyes. Green like poison.
He’s hot for all that. Mind-numbingly so, in a way that makes me forget to breathe.
It’s probably a good thing when the sandy haired behemoth blocks the view.
I inhale deeply. He offers up a sheepish grin.
It makes him look as if he’s contemplating eating me but is trying to be polite about it.
He towers over me, casting a shadow. I snatch the tea towel from him as if it might provide protection.
“I’m Max.”
Yes, yes, he is. In every sense.
“Max Eden.”
Lucidity’s drummer. My knees quake. Reading his vital statistics online isn’t the same as experiencing them in real life.
“And you’re?”
“Iris,” I gulp after the prompt. “I’m…I’m Iris.” I set aside the tea towel and thrust out a hand.
Max grins. He forgoes my handshake. Instead, his two tree-trunk arms wrap around me and crush me to his solid chest. “You’re okay now. I’m so glad you’re okay, Iris.” He pats my back as he squeezes.
This is surreal. The world has surely tipped on its axis.
Max holds on, keeping me trapped between the cupboards and the solid wall of muscle that is his person, squashing the air out of me.
But you know what? He smells good. A little spicy, a little citrus, undercut with his own signature musk.
Is this the time to be thinking such things?
I’m almost out of oxygen. And oh, hello, there’s something maxi-sized hitting me in the hip.
“She might need to breathe, Max.” A third man says. The last of the trio.
“Shut up, Reid, I’m counting.”
Only instead of counting, Max mutters the lyrics to November Rain, that old Guns and Roses song my dad liked. Okay, I like it too, it helps me remember him.
“All done,” Max says, releasing me at the end of the first verse. “Longer hugs are better for bonding. We all need to hug for longer. It’s a fact.”
“Right,” I croak. I’m awash with something. Not sure if it’s endorphins or terror. I gulp down air as I take a sly look at the area below his waistband and confirm what I already know. There’s quite a package there.
“It’s bollocks,” Wynter remarks.
“It’s scientifically proven, Wynt.”
“It can be both those things at once,” Reid diplomatically contributes.
Now that Max has released his grip, I can see around him to get a look at the band’s lead guitarist. Reid Rushmore is wearing sweatpants that have holes in the knees, two odd socks, and a raglan shirt with grass stains up the sleeves, and wet patches across the front as if he’d recently gulped a bottle of water and mostly missed his mouth.
“All right, Ariel,” he says. His grin is wide and utterly endearing, his hair a tangle of unruly brown strands inclined towards ringlets at the ends.
“Um, it’s Iris.”
“Don’t bother,” Wynter remarks. “He’s convinced you’re his personal Little Mermaid. Max, brunch for our guest, yeah.”
“Right.” The giant vacates his position looming over me and starts rummaging through the fridge.
“Any requests? Or you’ll be getting the full works.”
“Toast will be fine.”
“Ah, now you’re insulting him. Full works, Max. Why don’t you bring your brew into the lounge, Iris, and give the man space to do his thing, and maybe you can tell us how you wound up here.”
I’m not sure I have a definite answer. I can only surmise what happened after I hit the water.
Nor am I sure I want to revisit the part that led to me jumping from the pier.
My reluctance to part ways with the cupboards keeps me still, but it’s soon obvious that Max needs the stretch of countertop to deliver whatever culinary masterpiece he’s set on creating. The kitchen isn’t large.
“Got a spot right here for you, Ariel,” Reid calls.
Nervously, I follow Wynter back into the open plan living area.
“Reid,” he snaps at his band mate, prompting Lucidity’s lead guitarist to compact himself, ensuring there’s room for me to sit. I do so warily, bottom perched on the edge of the leather, the remains of my brew still clutched tight in both hands.
“Thank you,” I say, when neither of them speak. “I’ll get out of your hair as soon as my stuff dries.”
“No rush. It’s not like we’re busy, or anything,” Wynter remarks, a thread of sarcasm lacing his words, so that I’m not sure if he’s narked about the interruption I’ve caused or not.
Guess he has a sharp tongue to go with all those impressive edges.
In contrast, Reid, the man beside me on the sofa, is like an oversized golden retriever.
Scratch that, he’s nothing so pedigree. He looks as if he’s been dressed by a toddler and ate his last meal with one too, but warmth exudes from him like pheromones.
He idly scratches an armpit, then widens the hole in the knee of his joggers.
“I appreciate the clothes and stuff.” And them rescuing me.
“It’s fine,” Wynter says.
Reid flashes me a grin. “It livened up the evening no end.”
I’ll bet.
“Provided all sorts of inspiration.”
“Lyrics?” Wynter quirks one of those evil villain brows.
Reid laughs.
“Fucker! Don’t you fucking dare assault my eardrums with your fishy fantasies.”
“Huh?” I contribute.
“Well, Ariel,” Reid claps his hands and rubs his palms together.
“Someone set the table,” Max hollers from the kitchen, cutting off whatever explanation Reid was about to give.
Judging by his impish grin and the way he’s unsubtly checking me out, that’s maybe a good thing.
I’ve a feeling whatever inspiration I provided in my comatose form may have leaned towards the sordid.
After all, at least one of them got me naked.
Was it Reid Rushmore, giant Max, or mister sharp edges?
The guys set about doing as Max asked. I sit back, after they wave away my attempt to help, and watch them work.
They dance around one another in a well-practised rhythm.
I still feel out of phase with reality. How can this be real?
Last night was a nightmare, and now I’ve woken in heaven.
Maybe that’s it. Maybe I actually drowned.
I give myself a sly pinch and instantly regret it.
I have bruises that, in several places, such as my right thigh, have turned my skin into an abstract canvas of mottled blues and purples.
If this was the afterlife, I’m sure I wouldn’t feel so sore.
“Grub’s up.” Max arrives carrying all four breakfast plates at once.
It’s a fry-up. The sort of breakfast my dad used to make.
Full of things that are bad for you but taste like heaven.
I realise as the scent of eggs and bacon wafts up off the plate exactly how ravenous I am, and how desperate to tuck in.
I skipped a meal last night, and lord knows where my next one will come from.
Max pulls out a chair for me and pushes it in once I’m seated.
The guys ply me with both orange juice and a fresh brew, but despite the fact they obviously have questions, they don’t press me while I eat.
Only after I’ve set my cutlery down and pushed away my plate with a contented sigh do they give in to their curiosity.
“How’d you end up in the water, Iris?” It’s gentle giant Max who asks, and after the feast he’s just served, I’m favourably inclined towards him.
“I jumped off the pier.”
“Jumped jumped?” Wynter asks. “Or like jumped for a dare?” He exchanges concerned looks with Reid, whose brow furrows as he returns the gaze. I swear a whole silent conversation occurs between them.
“There was a guy following me,” I admit, mostly because I don’t want him to think that I’m suicidal.
“You fucking what?” Wynter growls. Apparently aloofness and sharp edges don’t restrict his sense of moral outrage.
“A guy you know?” Reid’s hazel eyes are riddled with curiosity.
I almost shake my head, before I cave and give a nod.
Why pretend. “My stepbrother. He was waiting for me when I left work. Said he was there to make sure I got home safely.” But the only danger was the one he posed.
“I told him I could get home fine alone. He made a point of stalking off.” I should have known better. He hadn’t gone far.
“Do you live with him?”
I wobble my head from side to side. “Sort of. He was at uni, but he’s recently come home.
I live with his mum. Her and my dad married shortly before he passed away.
It was okay, just the two of us, until Harrison came home.
He’s fine when she’s there, but she’s hardly ever home.
” Happens that she also thinks the sun shines out of her darling boy’s arse.
How can someone be so blind to a person’s faults?
Harrison is a misogynistic arsehole, who’s been on my case ever since I first turned him down, which was precisely thirty seconds after he introduced himself as my stepbrother.
“So, you’ve nowhere to go?” Max says.
“I’ve been saving towards getting myself a place.
” I’m a way off having enough. I wonder what happened to my phone, my things.
The bag with the novel I’d half-read. My bank card.
Hell, even my house keys. Then again, maybe they don’t matter, as I’m not setting foot there again, not even to collect my stuff, not when there’s even a faint possibility of him being there.
“Do we need to call the police?” Wynter asks. “We didn’t when we found you because…”
He doesn’t impart a reason, and nor do the others. Doesn’t take much fathoming out. If they had, it’d now be front page news that they’d found me, and I’m guessing they’d rather not have their whereabouts advertised.
“We will, obviously, if you want,” Wynter says, his delicious voice full of hesitancy.
I shake my head. “No one saw anything. It’d be my word against his, and he’ll say that I jumped of my own accord, and that he tried, but couldn’t stop me.
” It’ll even be the truth, of sorts. “You guys have been really kind, but I don’t want to make things difficult for you.
Seriously, you don’t need to worry about me.
Once my stuff is dry, I’ll get out of your way. ”
“And go where?” Reid asks, there’s something shrewd about the way he looks at me, that convinces me there’s a sound mind lurking beneath his shambolic appearance.
Fact is, I don’t have an answer. Tears well, but I avoid their gazes, so they don’t see them.
“That’s what I figured. You’ll stay here until you work it out.”
“What?”
My surprise is echoed by Wynter. “Reid, what the fuck? You can’t just make that decision for us. No offence, Iris, but we don’t know a fucking thing about her. She could be anyone, and in case you’ve forgotten, our position is precarious. We don’t have time for this shit.”
“I’m making time.” Reid stretches an arm across the table to claim my hand.
“Me too,” Max rises. He’s tall enough that he casts a shadow. Wynter fails to quake in his boots. His sharp features transform into a scowl. “Guys!”
“What harm’s she going to do? She’s a little itty-bitty thing,” Max insists.
“She could steal….”
“We’d have to have something worth nicking for that.
” Reid walks around the table. He puts his hands on my shoulders.
“A little empathy, huh, Wynt. We fished her out of the fucking ocean eight hours ago. She’s obviously been through hell.
She’s not got a phone or anything and has a cunt for a stepbrother.
In comparison, our problems are a joke.”
Wynter grumbles. “We need to focus.”
Max starts stacking plates.
They’re obviously here working, and I know nothing about the music business, but I know that studio time doesn’t come cheap.
“Sure, and I’ll do that better knowing she’s here and safe than out there friendless, homeless, and fucking penniless. She stays.” Reid kisses the top of my head, only to recoil. “Ariel, my sweet, you need a shower. Eau du seaweed is unbecoming on you.”