SPARKED: A Bad Boy Rockstar Romance (With bonus book, PERFECT) Page 18

  I turn my focus toward my destination and see George, looking proud and handsome in his suit. And behind him, Billy. I almost don't recognize him. I've only seen Billy in jeans, and sometimes in muddy boots, and even with mud on his face. But now he is wearing a fitted light gray suit that further accentuates his broad shoulders. His dress shirt is bright white against his tanned skin, and his normally tousled hair is styled is handsomely tamed. He looks good enough to be the groom himself, and I have to look away.

  But before I do, I see the expression on his face as watches me approach. His eyes are bright with appreciation, and it makes me a little weak in the knees. Has Clay ever looked at me that way?

  I reach my spot and turn to watch for the bride. The Bridal Chorus begins, and my mother appears. All lingering conversation stops as everyone turns to see her. I look over at George and melt at the love I see for her in his eyes. I want what they have.

  I look toward Clay. He's standing, turned in the direction of the bride, but he's not looking at her. His head is angled downward, and I get the impression that he's looking at his phone.

  My mother moves gracefully up the aisle, hands me her bouquet, and the ceremony begins. I manage to hold back tears until they are pronounced husband and wife, and then I can't help but let a few slip out. They kiss, the guests cheer, and it's time to leave the ceremony. This time, I'm not walking alone. After my mom and George depart, I'm facing Billy, who offers his arm.

  I wipe away the few remaining tears as I put a hand lightly on his forearm.

  "You okay?" he asks. His expression is so kind that it makes me want to cry some more. Instead, I take a deep breath, nod, and smile at him, and then we follow our parents down the aisle.

  15

  A breeze picks up while we're standing in the receiving line. There's no sign of rain, but the temperature drops noticeably and I can see tablecloths fluttering under the tent. As soon as I can get away, I hurry off to make sure things are secure and to check on other details for the reception.

  After I check in with the bartender and the musicians, I swing by to visit Clay, who's sitting at a table by himself.

  "Hey, beautiful," he says.

  "Hey, yourself. Did you get some appetizers?"

  "Two plates full." He smiles briefly and then his smile deflates.

  I move behind him and rub his shoulders. "I'm sorry to leave you alone so much. I know you're probably bored."

  "It's fine," he says, but his protestation sounds hollow.

  I lean down to wrap my arms around him and kiss his cheek, feeling like I need to do something to patch over the cracks that I keep feeling between us, when a gust of wind raises goosebumps on my arms.

  “Would you mind if I borrowed your jacket?" I ask. His suit jacket is draped on the chair behind him.

  He leans forward, but there is a reluctance about his actions. I slip his jacket over my shoulders anyways, feeling awkward. "Thank you. I'll be back soon. I promise." I give him another quick kiss and cross the tent to check the buffet table, then I head to the house to find the caterer and make sure more food is on the way.

  As I cut across the yard, I'm grateful for the warmth of the jacket. The day is still bright, but a stray cloud has moved over the sun, and the sudden shade makes the air feel cooler still.

  I meet one of the catering staff as they're coming out of the house. As we're talking, I feel a vibration against my hip and it registers in the back of my mind that Clay's phone must be in the pocket of his suit jacket. I carry on with my conversation, wanting to make sure that someone will monitor the chafing dishes in case the wind extinguishes the heat sources, but when the phone vibrates a reminder, I take it out and glance at the screen without thinking about what I'm doing. I look at it out of habit, as if it's my own phone.

  But it's not. It's Clay's. And there's a message from someone simply identified as "N" who has written, "I miss you. Will I see you tomorrow?"

  I excuse myself abruptly from the caterer and step around the corner of the house, out of view entirely from the reception. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest as if I'd just been running.

  I didn't mean to look at his phone. I'm not the type to snoop or pry. But I can’t just put the phone back into the pocket after seeing the message. With everything that’s happened, I feel justified in playing dirty to find out what's going on.

  I type a response: "Maybe. What's up?"

  "I hope you can come by and see me. I'll make it worth your while,” writes N.

  N? Is this Nikki, the admin at his office, the woman he claimed he was “comforting” that night at the pub? I scroll up to look for previous messages between them, but there aren't any. I pause, wondering what to write to elicit more information, but it turns out I don't have to say any more, because another message from N. buzzes in: "I've been a naughty girl, and I think you need to spank me again.”

  Goddammit! I am the biggest fool, and Clay is the biggest asshole! I roll my shoulders back so that his jacket falls to the ground. I am no longer cold; I'm burning with anger and something that feels strangely like relief.

  I round the house and head toward the reception tent, intent on telling Clay off, once and for all. On the way, I catch sight of my mom and George talking with well-wishers, and my pace slows. I realize that I don't want to make a scene; I don't want to ruin their day.

  I reverse course and head back to the house. Clay's jacket is lying in a bit of mud. I step on it, grind my foot down, then pick it up, rolling it into a messy ball. I slip into the house and head upstairs unnoticed, where I throw Clay's belongings into his travel bag and stuff the dirty jacket on top of everything.

  Back downstairs, I step out onto the front porch and hurl his bag in the direction of his car.

  Returning to the reception, I walk at a calm pace. I unclench my jaw and paste a smile on my face as I approach my lying, cheating, never-again boyfriend.

  Clay looks surprised to see me. "Back so soon, babe?"

  "Yeah, babe." I'm sure I sound extremely sarcastic, but he doesn't seem to notice. "I need your help with something. Can you follow me?"

  I watch him get up. He does that annoying thing where he pushes the front of his hair up and then sweeps it to the side, checking to make sure it’s all still neatly in place. It’s so vain and and I can't figure out what I ever saw in him.

  I lead him to the front of the house and turn on him as soon as we're out of everyone's view.

  My eyes are narrowed and my voice is cold. "I need you to leave right now, and I never want to see you again. Your bag is over there—" I gesture to it, and am tickled to notice that it also is lying in mud. "And here's your fucking phone." I jab the device into his chest and then I turn and leave. He starts to speak but I interrupt him. "I don't want to hear another word from you. Ever." I yell this at him as I walk away without a backward glance.

  16

  I'm proud of myself for holding it together long enough to kick Clay to the curb, but as I watch his car pull out of the driveway, I break down. I go back upstairs to the guest bedroom, thankful for the privacy of the quiet house, and I sob until my head hurts.

  I'm not upset that he's gone. At the moment, I can't imagine missing a single thing about him, but I'm wrecked by the realization of how stupid I've been. I saw him at the bar a month ago — with "N." apparently — and I let the asshole sweet talk me into thinking my suspicions were my problem. He made me think I had trust issues, when in reality, I was too damn trusting! He manipulated me, and I let him.

  I think about him spanking her, and I feel so disgusted I could spit. I get up and start pacing the small room, when there's a knock at the door.

  "Kate? Are you okay?" It's Billy.

  I try to make my voice even. "I'm fine."

  There is a long pause, then he says, "That's clearly not true." His voice is low and sounds muffled, as if he's leaning in close to the door.

  "Are you alone?" he asks.

  "Yes. I'll be out soon, Billy."


  There is silence outside the door. I bring my thoughts back to the wedding, and then think about what my face must look like after all the crying. I'm hopeful that a cold washcloth and a full makeup reapplication will set things straight.

  I wait a few more minutes in my room, hoping that Billy has gone away quietly, but I know that's not going to be the case. I find him leaning against the wall opposite my bedroom door. He jerks to attention when he sees me.

  "What happened?"

  "Oh, I just finally wised up, that’s all. About a month too late," I say. I try to smile, but it doesn't quite happen.

  "What did he do?" Billy’s jaw is clenched. He sounds murderous.

  "He didn't do anything today, but apparently he's been doing someone named Nikki for who knows how long." I manage a bitter laugh. Something about Billy's presence and his clear concern for me is comforting.

  “I’ve been wondering what you were still doing with him," Billy says, his voice softer now.

  "I know. I was an idiot. He told me a story and I believed it."

  He steps forward, puts an arm around me and pulls me close. "That does not make you an idiot."

  I lean into his embrace for a moment, breathing in his scent and relishing his comforting warmth, but then I gently push away from him, aware of the fact that I sought comfort in his arms the first time I found out Clay was betraying me, and that didn't turn out so well. "I need to clean up and get back out there," I say.

  "Okay, let me know if you want to talk later," he says.

  "Thanks." I start for the bathroom but then stop and turn back to him. "I just remembered. I rode here in Clay's car. I don't have a way home."

  "That's not a problem. I'll take you."

  "Are you sure?" When he nods, I continue, "Thank you. I'd really appreciate that. I don't want to tell my mom what happened yet. I don't want to worry her today."

  I tell my mom that Clay had a weekend work emergency, and I make up a story about allergies to explain the puffiness that remains on my face. I’m not sure she buys my story, but she doesn’t push for details. I’ll correct my white lies when she and George return from their honeymoon.

  The reception continues without any problems despite the windy day, and I even manage to enjoy myself. Any time thoughts of Clay arise, I focus on the relief I feel that I'm through with him. I realize how much I’d been forcing myself to be with him because he seemed right for me on paper. And because, I will admit, that I enjoyed having someone there that I could rely on. Or so I thought. Anyway, he can't hurt me again. I won't let him.

  In what seems like no time, the sun starts to sink in the sky and guests begin to leave. The caterers and the musicians pack up, and soon it's just Billy, Tommy, and I, and a few close relatives gathered to say goodbye to the bride and groom, who are headed to a hotel for the night, and then they’ll be off to Hawaii in the morning.

  After they leave, Billy tells me that he's made arrangements for his aunt and uncle to stay with Tommy while he drives me home. I change into comfortable clothes, pack up my things, and find Billy downstairs. He's changed into jeans and flannel, and as good as he looked in his wedding finery, I find I like him even better in his everyday clothes.

  He leads me out to his truck, which triggers a flashback to our night in the parking lot. This time I'm climbing inside the cab — not an easy task — and when I'm perched inside, I feel like a kindergartner in a giant school bus. Billy slides in behind the wheel, and puts the key in the ignition. He seems to hesitate, turning towards me as though he has something to say. But then he seems to stop himself. I jump as he starts the truck’s noisy engine and then we're city-bound.

  "You doing okay?" he asks, when we're just a few miles into the trip.

  "I've been better, but I've been worse,” I admit.

  After a minute of silence, Billy asks, "You want music?"

  "Whatever you want."

  He turns on the radio and country music fills the cab. It's not my favorite, but it's not unpleasant. He turns the volume down so it's more like background music.

  "I hope you don't mind me saying this," Billy says. "I'm sure he must have had some good qualities, because I know you're a smart woman, but Clay was a jerk and you are better off without him." There is anger in his voice that makes my heart flutter. His comments seem tinged with something more than just a simple statement of fact. That he is angry on my behalf makes me smile.

  "I don't mind you saying that. He was definitely a jerk." Billy smiles back, but still wears a concerned expression. "We don't have to talk about him. I'll be fine,” I say.

  Aside from the twangy descriptions of heartbreak coming out of the speakers, we ride in silence for several miles. I shift somewhat uncomfortably when we pass the bar where we'd met, and I'm grateful when Billy doesn't acknowledge the place.

  After we merge onto the highway he says, "The wedding went really well. You and your mom did a great job planning it."

  "Thanks. That's my job. Not weddings, but big events."

  "That's what Rebecca told me. What's that like?"

  We talk for a while about my work at the museum, and about the types of events I arrange. Then talk shifts to Billy's work and his current living situation, which is part time at George's, and part time with a friend of Billy's in town. I'm curious about what his plans are for the future, but I don't want to let on that my mom and I have talked about him. I just let him tell me what he chooses to, and by the time we reach city limits, I realize that he's mostly asked questions and let me do all the talking while he's been a good listener.

  I direct him through the highway interchanges and surface streets until we arrive at my building.

  "You can drop me off out front," I say.

  He arches a brow. "Did you forget that I’m a gentleman? I’ll escort you to your apartment."

  It occurs to me that having him come inside might not be a good idea, but I'm oddly flattered by his insistence. There had been nights when Clay dropped me off out front and drove away before I was in the door. It's nice to be accompanied by a man with manners and courtesy for a change, even if that man is, as of today, officially my stepbrother.

  17

  Billy looks so out of place in the elevator. I typically share the space with women in dresses and men in suits. Even on a weekend, his jeans, flannel and boots make him stand out.

  We ascend to the twelfth floor and as we walk down the hall to my unit, I realize how rude it would've been for me to send Billy off without inviting him in to rest for a while after the long drive.

  "Would you like something to drink?" I ask.

  "Sure."

  I unlock my door and flip on the light. My apartment looks so small after spending time at George's big farm house with all of its room and its wide open spaces. I like to think of my place as "cozy" but with someone of Billy's size inside of it, the place just looks cramped.

  He sets my bag on a chair. He'd insisted on carrying it for me, claiming it as another obligation of being a gentleman. I watch his head slowly turn as he looks all around my apartment and I wonder what he thinks of it.

  "What would you like? Soda, tea, coffee?"

  "Coffee would be great."

  "Have a seat." I gesture to my trendy little couch and suppress a giggle at the thought of his bulky frame trying to get comfortable on it. I heat up my single-serve coffee maker and pull down a mug. I get a glass of water for myself.

  "What do you take? Cream? Sugar?" My kitchenette is mere steps from my living room. I don't even have to raise my voice.

  “Just black," he says.

  I bring Billy his coffee and sit in the chair opposite him. He does look awkward on my small furniture, even though I can tell he's doing his best to act like he's comfortable.

  "Thank you very much for the ride, and thank you for being a good friend," I say. "I'm really grateful that you were there for me today."

  He takes a sip of the coffee, which must still be scalding, then says, "I care about you
, Kate." He looks into my eyes and I have to look away briefly before I reply.

  "I care about you too, Billy. I'm glad we're family." A part of me knows I'm mentioning family to remind myself as well as him that we're practically related. There's no denying that my stomach fluttered when he said he cares about me, but I'm not supposed to be admiring my stepbrother’s body and wishing his strong arms were wrapped around me. "It's going to be really nice to have brothers,” I continue.

  He sets his mug on the table and leans toward me. "I'm not interested in being your brother, Kate. In case you hadn’t noticed, I'd like to have a very different kind of relationship with you."

  His eyes pierce into mine, and I have to look away. There is fire in them, desire that sends a shiver down my spine. I try to think of an effective response, something that will reset us both on the path of clear thinking. Something that will make him realize that what he has in mind shouldn’t happen. Cannot happen.

  I meet his gaze and he's still staring at me. How am I supposed to be the strong, logical one when he's sitting so close and looking at me like that, like he wants to pick up exactly where we left off in the parking lot a month ago?

  I wonder if it's just sex he wants. And if we were to finish what we started, would it get it out of both of our systems, so that we could move on with our lives and not be left wondering how it would be? I know men love the conquest, and I know that leaving him mid-action during our first encounter must have left him frustrated. Maybe if we… continue… and reach a, ahem, conclusion, maybe he'll no longer be frustrated.

  The mere thought of continuing with him is enough to quicken my pulse and send a rush of heat downward in my body. The rational part of me is still here but there’s another part, the one that was awakened in that parking lot at the hands of Billy, that needs to find closure too.

  I feel my face flush and I'm sure he can see me turning red.