Clearing his throat, Boyd reaches into the breast pocket of his pajama shirt and pulls out a little brass key. “I know I can’t make up for everything in one night. Hell, I might not ever be able to. But I would love for you to come home. Maybe one day we can even talk about the boy you’re apparently seeing.”
I take the key as he places it in my palm. “Home? I still have my old house key—”
“Not our home. Yours, if you want it.”
My eyebrows furrow. “You… bought me a house?”
“Well, I had several birthdays and holidays to make up for.”
Shock seizes my chest, and I stare down at the scrap of metal, letting his words soak in. “But what about—”
The small jerk of his chin is sharp, and his eyes meet mine for the first time since I sat down beside him. “They’re all dead, Riley. Anyone who ever might have come back to hurt you. I spent the last three years hunting them down and destroying their operation. No one is ever going to come after you again.”
He glances down at his hands, clenching and unclenching his jaw. “I know you thought I was just being a dick all this time. That I didn’t want to see you, or didn’t want you to come back. And maybe, deep down, that was a stupid part of it. But… I just wanted you to be safe, Riley. To feel safe. Now, maybe you can.”
Curling my fingers around the key, I try to let his words warm my soul. Try to think about how good it’ll feel to go back to King’s Trace, even if reintroducing myself back into the land of the living will be difficult.
But one sentence he said niggles at the back of my mind, and I note that it’s not entirely true.
I can think of one person who might come for me.
43
The people in Lunar Cove are no different than the ones in the rest of the country, I’m learning.
They’re just slower, like time travels at a wildly different rate here than anywhere else.
But now that word is out about the famous musician in their midst, the townsfolk can’t seem to stay inside. I haven’t even been to the boardwalk strip in days, because each time I’m swarmed by a mob of people begging for autographs and pictures.
Some are genuine fans—you can always tell by their reaction to you, whether they blush or stutter, or if they stand just a little too close, possibly hoping a droplet of your sweat will splash onto them.
Others, though, are clearly only interested in a cash grab. Something signed or touched or breathed on by me that they can put in their shitty little souvenir shops and sell for an outrageous price, as if my existence matters any more than the other seven billion people on the planet.
Newsflash: it doesn’t.
It doesn’t help that since Riley’s old “friend” told the Internet my geographical location, people are flocking to the little mountain valley town in an attempt to run into me, or say they spotted me from afar.
Somehow, my actual accommodations have remained a secret, though I don’t suspect they will for long.
Just as well, since I’m on a flight to New York in an hour, anyway. Due to perform on a rooftop stage, returning to my life as though I haven’t spent the last several weeks living an entirely new one.
I don’t even know the man who came here anymore.
Not because I’m any less confused, or bitter, or angry. In fact, I feel as though I’m leaving with the same amount of knowledge I showed up with.
But somewhere along the way, I’ve started to convince myself I feel a little less empty.
Liam’s voice drones on as he goes over the preshow itinerary for the fifth time, as though I haven’t done enough of these to be able to prep for them in my fucking sleep.
I’ve got an entire suitcase stuffed full of peppermint candies, the underwear I never gave back to Riley, and every other piece of my obsession with her, that I’m trying to zip up, and Liam’s incessant chatter feels like a cheese grater being dragged down my back.
“Fucking Christ, Liam.” Huffing, I give up and flip the lid back, turning to glare at him through my laptop that sits on the dresser. “I get it, I have a lot of shit to do when I land. Can’t we deal with it then?”
“Your father said the label wants to ensure you’re as prepared as possible, so as to avoid any more… hiccups.”
“Hiccups,” I repeat, voice flat. “If they think someone else is gonna accuse me of sexual assault or some bullshit again, I think we’ve proved that we’re more than capable of handling that hiccup.”
“You think that girl will ever come forward?”
My fingernails dig into my knees through my black jeans, biting against the skin. “It doesn’t even matter at this point. Those who care are always going to, even if I had her stand up on stage beside me and admit she made the whole thing up because she was in love with me and wanted my attention. Those who don’t want to believe it have already forgotten. Probably did the second another scandal hit, three years ago.”
His lips twist as if in thought, and then he jots something down on a notepad, sticking a pencil behind one ear. “You think that’s why she did it? Because she was in love with you?”
I can’t help the snort that huffs out of me, amusement bitter as it pumps through my veins. “All I know is that I don’t care.”
It’s easier to pretend that’s the case than acknowledge how insane the ignorance still leaves me. How I can know practically everything about a person—from their favorite color, the name of their kindergarten teacher, the sounds they make when they orgasm—and still be left in the dark when it comes to something as fundamental as intent.
Maybe it’s better that I don’t know the truth behind Riley’s actions. Maybe if I did, I’d see them for what they most likely are; a lost girl enjoying the embrace of a man who lost his fucking mind the second he met her.
I haven’t been the same since that night in New York.
For many reasons.
And I guess part of me is afraid to find out that she is.
Hanging up with Liam, I close the laptop and slide it into its carrier, dragging my luggage to the foyer and propping instruments against the wall. I head back into the bedroom and try my hand at closing the suitcase that would be a hoarder’s wet dream, when a soft gasp startles me.
“You did steal my panties!”
Jaw clenched, I turn as Riley strides into the room, irritation lacing her delicate face. She stomps over to the bed and hooks a finger in one lacy pair, holding them up as if I can’t see what she’s talking about.
I force a smirk. “What did you think happened to them?”
Both her hands dive in, picking up over a dozen scraps of different feminine fabrics. “I’ll have you know my friends thought I was insane when I told them my underwear drawer vanished. Fiona was threatening to schedule me a psychological evaluation if I didn’t stop claiming a ghost had robbed me.”
“Ah, well. I had to get your attention somehow.”
Perching on the edge of the bed, she continues sifting through her things, and shoots me an exasperated look. “Dude, are you a peppermint connoisseur now? You know, I don’t smell like this all the time. Just seasonally.”
“Shh,” I say, reaching down to clamp my hand over her mouth. “Don’t ruin the illusion, angel.”