The Complete Rockstar Series (92 page)

When I finally calm down, I decide to take a moment to explain the fallout that Abby can expect after tonight. “Can I come in for a minute?”

She nods and steps back, closing the door behind me. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah.” My voice catches, so I clear my throat. “I just wanted to give you a chance to change your mind about tonight.” Abby’s sweet face crumples and her blue eyes shine wetly.

Fuck!

“I don’t mean I don’t want you to go, Bee. I do…shit.” I drag a hand through my hair and it flops down in front of one eye. So much for taking the time to style it.

“Why wouldn’t I want to go with you?” she asks, shrinking back, her confidence broken.

I cross the foyer and pull her into my arms, burying my nose in her golden waves. My traitorous body reacts, electricity humming along every inch of my skin, and my half-hard cock stiffens again.

“Because the press was so awful that time they caught us at the Black Barn.” I lean back enough to see into her eyes, but keep her wrapped in my embrace. Our mouths are mere inches apart. My gaze is drawn to those full lips, shining with some sort of slick gloss. I shudder involuntarily.

“The press? What do you mean about the press?”

“Abby, that day in the parking lot was nothing compared to what’s going to happen tonight. We were lucky they didn’t figure out who you were after that. This time, they will. I just want you to be prepared for the fallout. You’re going to be painted as my girlfriend. Nothing we say or do to deny it is going to stop them from printing it, even if it’s not true.”

Her tight expression relaxes and the corner of that sinful mouth quirks up in a sexy smirk. “I can handle it, Hawke. Don’t worry about me.”

My arms feel cold and empty when Abby steps away to grab an impossibly small purse from the foyer table. “Are we ready?”

I glance up and down her body, memorizing every bit of fabric and how it clings to her perfect curves. “Let’s go.”

Holding out my elbow, Abby hooks her arm through mine and I help her into the car. As we pull away from the sanctuary of her little cottage, I pray I’m not making a huge mistake.

T
he line
of cars leading up to the red carpet is long. Really fucking long. It gives me too much time to freak the fuck out and second-guess everything. I shouldn’t have brought Abby. She deserves better than to be paraded in front of the paparazzi simply because I’m too selfish to let her go.

“Hey,” Abby’s sweet voice instantly calms me. “It’s going to be fine.” She puts her hand on my knee and suddenly my entire body is on fire.

“Fine, huh?” I give her a shaky smile. It’s impossible to act normal when I’m burning from the inside out from one simple touch. “We’ll see.”

My negative grousing is interrupted by the door whooshing open, followed by the deafening roar of the huge crowd. Abby cringes back in her seat before straightening her spine and putting on her game face, clearly pretending to not be intimidated by the chaos.

I grind my teeth and exhale. “Okay.” I manage to put on my stage face. “Let’s do this, gorgeous.”

Abby grins as I slide out of the car, turning around to help her exit. Right now, I’ve never been more thankful that the rest of the band decided not to arrive as a big group. As lead singer, mayhem follows Adam wherever he goes. I might have lost my shit if Abby got pulled into the screaming, crying “Adam Reynolds” fan frenzy.

Regardless, the paparazzi still go nuts snapping pictures as I take Abby’s hand and lead her down the daunting length of bright red carpet.

“Hawke! Hawke!”

“Is this your girlfriend?”

The same questions from outside the Black Barn are repeatedly tossed our way, only this time, there are hundreds of fans lining the way, adding their own shouts to the mix.

“I love you, Hawke!”

“Oh my God!”

“He’s so hot!”

Abby’s fingers tighten around mine. I lean over to speak directly in her ear. “You doing okay?”

She grins, nodding, but I can see fear reflected in her wide eyes.

“You’re doing great and you look stunning.” I resist the urge to wrap her in my arms and shield her from the never-ending onslaught of questions.

Up ahead, I catch sight of a young female pop star clad only in a few strategically placed scraps of material and my mouth falls open.
Fuck
. I know this is the VMAs and artists like to push the boundaries of appropriate attire, but if Abby wore something like that? Hell, I’d kill everyone here just for looking. That nagging, familiar word pops into my head when I think of Abby.
Mine.

“Jesus,” I mutter under my breath. Abby stiffens next to me and I glance over just in time to see displeasure on her face.

Is she jealous that I looked at the half-naked pop star? No. I have to stop projecting what I want to see when it isn’t there. We’re friends. Just friends.

Finally, what seems like hours later, the interviews are done, the never-ending photo ops are done, and the small-talk, ass-kissing, Hollywood bullshit is done.

The ceremony hasn’t even started and I’m fucking exhausted. Abby sits next to me in the theater, a calming influence on my fried nerves. I’m too anxious. Her presence isn’t enough and my thoughts begin to darken. I drum my fingers on my knee, bouncing my leg in time with the rhythm in my head.

The lighter in my pocket starts to feel like a fifty-pound weight at my side. Its siren song calls to me, urging me to flee to the bathroom, roll up a sleeve, and let the blackness drain out. Abby chooses that moment to casually lay her hand over mine, stilling the nonstop movements of my fingers. She tilts her head and gives me a reassuring smile and just like that… my demons are forgotten, replaced by a blossoming warmth radiating out from my chest.

How long will this feeling last? When I remember how spectacularly I failed at holding back my destructive behavior when we were actually together, the warmth recedes.

I wrecked us back then and I have no doubt I’ll wreck us again. It’s merely a matter of when.

“
D
r. Kessler
.”

“Good morning, Laura.” I try to sound chipper, but after tottering around on heels all evening and well into the early morning, my feet hurt and I’m exhausted. All I want to do is crawl under my covers for another seven or eight hours or so and not deal with real life for a while.

“You didn’t tell me!”

Two steps into my office, the slightly hysterical tone of Laura’s voice has me whipping around to face my assistant.

“Tell you what?” If the freaked-out look on Laura’s face means anything, I brace myself for the worst.

“This!” she practically squeals. Laura bounces over to me and shoves a newspaper in my face.

“Laura! I can’t see what you’re holding if you hit me in the nose with it.” I take the paper from her, lowering it enough to read the article my oh-so-thoughtful assistant carefully folded back to emphasize. At the top is a large color photograph.

Of me.

As many warnings as Hawke gave me about the press, it’s still a shock to see a quarter-page photograph of yourself in
USA Today
’s Life section. I stumble back until my knees hit the comfortable chair I use when in session with a patient. Without looking, I drop into it.

“Are you dating Hawke Evans from
Sphere of Irony
?” Laura asks.

“I-I… we’re not…” Laura is staring, anxiously waiting for some sort of explanation. “Ugh.” I stand up and circle around my desk, tossing the newspaper on top. “Hawke and I have been friends for a long time,” I explain. When Laura’s eyes nearly bug out of her head, I hold up a hand to stop her impending shriek. “Actually, that’s not true. We were friends when I was in college, before the band was famous.”

I glance down to take another look at the large color photo of Hawke and me on the red carpet last night at the VMAs. He’s gorgeous, as usual, and if I had to admit it, I don’t look half-bad either.

There’s more there, though. Something I failed to notice last night amidst all the chaos. Because of my crippling heels, Hawke and I are pretty much standing eye to eye. In this particular photo, neither of us is looking at any of the cameras exploding around us. No, we’re staring at each other, and the expression on my face is one of pure adoration.

I frown. I could have sworn I masked my true feelings better than that. Clearly not. But it’s not me that my eyes are drawn to. It’s the expression on Hawke’s face that has my pulse racing and my heart fluttering with hope. His face mirrors mine—his smile, the light in his eyes, the way his body leans toward me, even the way his hand curls around my waist—is it possible Hawke feels the same?

“Abby?”

Laura’s voice jerks me out of my thoughts. I tear my attention away from the photograph to lock eyes with my friend and assistant. “Sorry. I’m just… this is all a little overwhelming.” I point at the article.

“Ummmm, yeah, but it’s sooooo cool.” Laura’s wide grin drops and she scrunches her brow, confused by my less than enthusiastic response to seeing myself in a national newspaper with a celebrity of Hawke’s status.

I give her a weak smile. “Yeah, cool. Thanks for showing me, Laura. Let me know when my first appointment comes in.”

She gives me one last odd look before leaving the office and closing the door.

Alone, I open the paper and read the article. I exhale gratefully when I realize it’s just a generic rehash of last night’s VMAs. Only the caption below the picture mentions my name. But there it is in black and white. Actually, that’s not right. It’s in full freaking color.

H
awke Evans
, drummer for the multiple nominee and past VMA winners, Sphere of Irony, walks the red carpet with girlfriend, Abigail Kessler.

T
hat’s it
. One sentence. I sag back in my chair in relief.

Okay. This isn’t so bad. I can do this. No worries.

Eight hours later, I try to go home and it all goes to hell.

The hired car pulls in front of the departures entrance at LAX and idles at the curb. Dawn is still a little while off, the sky a deep violet to the west, shades of pink and orange streaking from the east.

I flick my gaze to the clock on my phone. Six a.m. Jesus. How did I go from the guy who stays up all night and fucks random chicks at after-parties to the guy who drops his date off just after midnight and goes home without getting laid?

Since you fell in love with Abby, asshole.

I bolt upright in my seat. Love? No way. I’m not still in love with her. I care about Abby and yeah, I want to get in her pants all the time, but that’s not love. She’s hot, so it’s only natural to have those urges. Besides, I can’t be in love with her. It doesn’t matter what I feel, Abby deserves better than a fucking disaster like me.

Disgusted with myself, I jump out of the backseat without saying a word to the driver. After a brief, aggravating fangirl moment with the ticketing agent, I’m standing in line at security, hoodie pulled low over my brow, staring directly at my feet so I won’t be recognized. The TSA agent who checks my ticket does a quick double-take but doesn’t say anything. Here at LAX, these guys see so many celebrities on a daily basis, they’re pretty much immune to dealing with anything out of the ordinary. The ticketing agent must be new to be impressed by me.

Forty-five minutes later, I’m sitting in my first-class seat to Denver, drumming my fingers on my knee nonstop. I keep my face tilted toward the window and tug my hood lower. Movement in the aisle next to me has me tensing up all over.

“Hi. I guess I’m your neighbor for the next two hours.” A perky female voice has me groaning internally.

Just what I need. A Chatty Kathy bugging me to be friends when all I want to do is freak out as silently and unobtrusively as possible until I can get to my house in Boulder.

The seat next to me shifts with the weight of someone sitting down. “I’m Jessica.”

Jesus Christ.
I stop tapping my fingers to dig my thumbs into my eye sockets. Fuck. As much as I want to be an asshole and ignore her, it’s better to just say hi and let her gush and squeal so I can get back to letting my dark thoughts eat away at my insides.

“Hey.” I give her a slight chin tilt with every intention of letting the conversation end there. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a pair of long, toned, olive-skinned legs. Since I’m a guy with a pulse, I can’t help but shift in my seat to get a better look, and what a good fucking idea that turns out to be. Jessica is stunning. Not only that, I recognize her.

“You’re…”

She grins widely, revealing perfectly straight white teeth, the kind that can only be achieved with expensive veneers, surrounded by thick red lips. Her dark eyes shimmer, black lashes framing them perfectly.

“Jessica Hamby,” she finishes, holding out a manicured hand. “And you’re Hawke Evans.”

I blink and take her hand, shaking it. Jessica makes no move to pull back from my grasp. Instead, she tips her head and gives me a knowing smirk.

Jessica Hamby. Hollywood’s latest “It Girl.” Gorgeous, curvy Jessica. Sitting next to me in first class, flashing fuck-me eyes my way and wearing a very short skirt.

I think I might have found a better way to get my demons out of my head. Half an hour into the flight, Jessica squeezes my knee and leans in. “I’m going to the bathroom.”

Oh yeah. This way is definitely better. Much, much better.

Work is long and I think I’m more anxious than half of my patients. I sent Hawke a text after reading the article, but haven’t heard anything back. When I checked my phone at lunch, I had missed calls from my mother, my brother Evan, and a bunch of unknown numbers, as well as several texts including one from Kate.

Nothing from Hawke.

I try not to let his silence disappoint me, but if nothing else, we’re supposed to be friends. He’s the one who invited me to the VMAs. I would think I at least rated a day-after phone call.

Whatever. I pack up my things and leave my office to head home. “Bye, Laura.” My assistant is on the phone so she gives me a tiny wave as I pass her desk.

Grateful the elevator is empty, I use the opportunity to lean against the wall and close my eyes. Exhaustion washes over me, making my limbs feel heavy and my mind drained. Maybe I’ll be so tired by the time I get home I won’t have the energy to worry about Hawke. The lobby, however, is buzzing with activity, which is unusual to say the least. Over a dozen people are crowded around the front windows.

“What’s going on?” I turn to George, the security guard for the medical office building. Only, he’s not at his desk. That’s odd. Oh well. I’m way too tired to care. I push past a large man holding an even larger briefcase and shove open the front door.

To land right smack in the middle of a nightmare.

“Dr. Kessler!”

“Abby!”

Paparazzi swirl around me in a hurricane of flashbulbs and frantic shouting.

“Are you and Hawke dating?”

“Is it true you’re engaged?”

“Are you Hawke’s therapist?”

“Did you get pregnant to trap him into marriage?”

I duck my head, fumbling in my purse for my sunglasses, if for nothing else than to block out the blinding flashes of the cameras.

“Dr. Kessler!” A large hand wraps around my arm and I attempt to jerk away. “Dr. Kessler, it’s George.”

I glance up to see George in his security uniform, towering over me with his six-foot four-inch frame. “George?” I squeak.

“I’ve been trying to get rid of them, Dr. Kessler, but they won’t leave. I was about to call you and tell you to go around the back… but I guess it’s too late.” He looks menacing and embarrassed at the same time.

“Get me out of here. Please.”

George nods, slinging an arm around my trembling shoulders. I’ve never been claustrophobic, but my sympathy for patients who suffer from the debilitating illness increases tenfold. My legs feel like jelly and I’m having a hard time dragging in a full breath of air.

“Get back!” George does his best to keep the paparazzi from crushing us, but it’s not nearly enough. One man can’t control thirty determined reporters.

By the time we reach my car, I’m stressed out beyond belief and tears are pressing hotly against the backs of my eyes. Somehow, George manages to finagle my door open and tuck me in safely. I thank him before peeling out of the parking lot with a loud squeal of my tires in my haste to put as much distance between the paparazzi and me as possible.

Once I’m away and as positive as I can be that no one is following, I pull into the nearest parking lot. The adrenaline that kept me on my feet and got me to my car has left me a trembling, anxiety-ridden mess. I clutch my chest, my heart pounding hard enough to feel beneath my hand. I gasp for breath and lean my forehead on the steering wheel, sobs ripping from my throat on each exhale.

It’s been a long time since I had a panic attack.

With fumbling fingers, I dig for my phone and dial Hawke’s number. Tears streaming down my face, I pray that he answers this time, needing to hear his voice, needing him to tell me I’m overreacting, that I’ll be okay. To calm me down from the overwhelming crush of anxiety. Once again I get his voice mail. Instead of hanging up, this time, I leave a message.

Teeth chattering, I fumble my way through. “H-hey. It’s m-me. I don’t know if y-you’re around or what, but t-the paparazzi found me at w-work and it was… it was awful. I know you said… Anyway. Okay. Okay. I’m sure you’re busy but if you could c-call when you get a chance. Bye.”

The phone falls out of my hands after I hang up, thumping to the floor mat. I mumble as I talk myself off the mental ledge I’m standing on. “Okay. It’s okay. They’ll lose interest. You can do this.”

It takes twenty minutes of rambling and deep breathing for me to get far enough back from that dreaded ledge to drive home.

Tired from my flight home, I drop my bag on the foyer floor of the condo and trudge over to the fridge to get a beer. One in hand, I change my mind and grab the entire six-pack. After twisting off the cap, flicking it into the sink, I cross to the living area and fall onto the couch, letting my head drop back on the cushion.

In between sips of beer, I close my eyes and grin. Three days of fucking the sexy Jessica Hamby in every single room of my house in Boulder was exactly what I needed to get my head on straight. Hell, I didn’t even need to go rock climbing, which was the original reason for flying to Colorado in the first place. The rush of acrobatic, near nonstop sex almost equaled the high I get from hanging off a cliff ten stories off the ground, with nothing but a metal hook and some rope to catch me if I fall.

Almost
.

The darkness is still there, even if it’s dulled. I can hear it. Shouting at me, eating away at my insides. I finish the beer and open another, quickly downing that one as well. I’m halfway through my third when the buzzer at my front door goes off. Fuck ’em. I’m busy getting hammered.

It goes off again, longer this time. Someone is pressing the button and not letting go.

“Son of a bitch!” I shove off the couch and stab the intercom. “What?”

“Hawke? It’s Kate. Let me in.”

I release the button. Kate? Why is she here? Whatever. I enter the code to let her into the lobby and prop my front door open an inch so I can flop back down on the sofa and continue drinking.

A few minutes later, Kate Davies appears in my condo, looking tall and athletic and super pissed off.
Oh shit.
“Kate? What’s going—”

I don’t get to finish my sentence, because Kate crosses the length of the room and lands a sharp kick to my shin. “You fucking bastard,” she snarls, catching me with another swift kick.

“Jesus, Kate!” I jump to my feet to avoid getting kicked again. Kate played soccer for the UK women’s Olympic team and now coaches for Rutger’s University, so her abilities aren’t to be underestimated. She’ll kick me black and blue if she chooses and there’s nothing I can do about it. Not unless I want her six-foot-three-inch, ex-bare-knuckle boxer husband ripping me to shreds.