A Kind of Honesty Page 6

  I crossed my sticks and tapped them together before beginning. I hit the hi-hat then the snare and repeated the rhythm to set a steady beat. Cory joined in on bass while Rand wished Benny a happy birthday and schmoozed the audience. As the cadence built, I felt my muscles relax into the familiar push and pull. All the tension of the past week melted away. The beat kept me in the moment. It always had. Past and future worries were pointless. This very second was all I could really control.

  We picked up the tempo when Isaac joined in on lead guitar. I played the simple quadruple drum pattern, adding occasional filler. I glanced up at Isaac and snickered when he rolled his eyes playfully at Rand’s long-winded speech. I turned my face to avoid cracking up and froze. It was a half beat. Not enough for an audience to catch but enough for Cory to give me a curious sideways look. I corrected my miscue quickly, but I couldn’t tear my gaze from Carter, who was standing alone a few feet away.

  I was tied to the moment in every conceivable way… by my instrument and the thrill of forbidden attraction. He was so damn beautiful. So elegant and sophisticated. Everything I wasn’t and never would be. It didn’t matter. Maybe we weren’t destined for forever. But that didn’t mean we couldn’t be something. The flicker of clarity grew stronger with every beat, and somehow I knew I was right. My certainty grew when he gave me a small smile that took the intimate feel to a new level. I could imagine I was playing only for him. It was a turn-on to know that while most everyone there was focused on Rand or Isaac, Carter’s eyes were locked on me. I gave him a feral grin and upped the tempo on my own.

  My sticks flew wildly in my hands. My so-called artistic filler took on a manic quality that didn’t quite fit the usual Spiral intro. My bandmates turned to see what the fuck I was doing. Rand glanced over his shoulder with a wicked grin and nodded. Maybe he caught the undercurrent or maybe he just liked the peppier beat, but he didn’t question my show of madness. It was just as well, because I couldn’t stop. I was driven by an unknown force, like brute suggestion via music. One that told me to take what I wanted. Fuck caution.

  Of course, that’s when his hunky date returned to his side and slipped his arm around Carter’s waist. He pulled him close, nuzzling his jaw before licking the shell of his ear. I tore my eyes away as a jealous heat flooded my face and crept under my skin. What was it he’d said? Complicated.

  It always was.

  3

  The incessant beat of a steady downpour filtered through my foggy brain the following morning. I rolled to my side, hoping to find myself alone. Yes. Thank God. I sat up gingerly, then flopped onto my back again. Fuck, I hated waking up with a hangover. I’d been so damn careful. At first. My best intentions were sabotaged when Carter and his date disappeared. I should have gone home too, but I let myself spin instead. What were they doing? Where were they going? Were they serious? Since he’d had his tongue down my throat at one point, I doubted it, but then again, that didn’t necessarily mean anything. It was just a kiss.

  To keep myself from obsessing for the rest of the night, I did what I said I wouldn’t. I drank. A lot. And as per usual, it hadn’t ended well. Alcohol diluted my sensibilities and compounded my growing neurosis and fears of isolation, loneliness, and overall numbness. A by-product of Spiral’s dance in the limelight. I couldn’t ignore the niggling feeling that I had to be careful because I didn’t know who I could trust outside the band anymore. A drink or two was fine, but when I let myself go, I usually woke up sorry. And not alone.

  This morning, I got lucky.

  My phone buzzed on my nightstand. I picked it up automatically and squinted in disbelief. Ten missed calls from my mother. Jesus, that couldn’t be good. There were other calls and text messages, but I refused to talk to anyone precaffeine. I stumbled into the bathroom first, purposely avoiding every mirror or reflective surface before making my way to the kitchen. I made coffee and had just popped two aspirin in my mouth when my phone began a new round of buzzing.

  “Hi, Mom.” I winced at my raspy voice. It was thrashed. I sounded like I’d smoked a pack of cigarettes last night.

  “Is it true?”

  I cleared my throat as I pulled out a mug. “Is what true?”

  “Did you break up with that woman? Is she really pregnant?”

  “Pregnant?” My eyes bugged. I stopped midpour and set the carafe aside. I couldn’t multitask with my mother on the line. I needed every brain cell available.

  “I was driving to church when one of those entertainment people came on the radio with news that you’d dumped your pregnant girlfriend for another woman. How could you?” Her tone jumped an octave, conveying her obvious distress.

  “Mom, chill out. Yes, I broke up with Miranda, but there are no additional grandkids to worry about. She’s not pregnant.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “As sure as a guy can be about that stuff.”

  “So you aren’t sure at all. Maybe you should call her and find out. If the news people are saying these things—”

  “They aren’t news people, Ma. They’re gossipmongers on a slow day looking for a story.”

  “Call her, Timothy. It might be true.”

  I shoved my free hand through my hair and went back to the coffee machine. If nothing else, I needed the caffeine.

  “Mom, I repeat… it’s not true. You have Liam and someday you’ll probably have more grandkids. But not in nine months. I’m only twenty-eight, and Kat is—”

  “A mess,” she finished sorrowfully.

  “She’s doing better,” I said, not sounding convinced.

  “She’s not better, and she won’t be until she finds the Lord.”

  I rested my head against the cold granite in defeat. Fuck me. I shouldn’t have answered the damn phone. A call from my mother required patience. With a hangover, it was torture.

  “How’s Liam?”

  Her voice softened noticeably. “He’s wonderful. Thank God for him. He asks about you. You should call him. It would be nice if you talked to your sister too. She’s—”

  “Liam and I text or talk almost every day. And I talked to Kat yesterday.”

  “And I suppose she said she’s fine,” she scoffed.

  “Well, yeah… but whether or not she is, I know I’m fine and I know no one is pregnant. Trust me, no Miranda in my life is a good thing.”

  “Hmph. I can’t be sure of this life of yours. If I think for a moment you’ll end up like your father or your sis—”

  “Mom, stop.” I switched gears, hoping to throw her off track. “How was church?”

  “I couldn’t concentrate. I was too worried about you and the baby. I spent the entire time praying you’d come home and just… be normal again. Get a real job. Meet a nice girl. My nerves can’t handle this.”

  I let out a deep sigh. “You’re upsetting yourself for no reason. I’ve told you a million times not to listen to rumors. I’ll tell you when something important is happening. And I’ll come home in a couple weeks to visit.”

  “Good! Liam will be thrilled. It’s been too long.”

  I quickly switched topics to her volunteer work at the hospital and various religious charities. Her anxious mood quickly lifted while mine began a treacherous decline. So much for equilibrium. If I managed to stay on my toes to deal with my family and rumors circulating about my personal life, it would be a freaking miracle, I thought with despair. I let my mind drift as my mom chatted away about people I didn’t know. My crazy ex feeding lies to the press while she posed for the paparazzi, Ella’s hopeful gaze as she clung to my side last night. And Carter. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. It was ridiculous. He was a complication I couldn’t afford in my already complicated life. I tuned back in when I heard the subtle shift in my mother’s voice.

  “You insist you aren’t a celebrity, but if I hear your life story on the news, you must be famous. I don’t understand, and I need peace of mind. I can’t get it watching television,” she complained.

  “No one gets
peace of mind watching TV, Mom. Relax. I’m not a celebrity. Miranda’s the famous one, and I was the idiot who got swept along for the ride. We broke up. End of the story. I have to get going. I’ll—”

  “Call her. And then call me back and tell me if I’m a grandmother again. I love you, sweetheart.”

  I mumbled a good-bye, then stared into space, watching tiny speckles of dust captured floating in the light streaming through the window. There was no way in hell I was going to call Miranda. I wasn’t going to engage in publicity stunts. That’s all this was. A game. And I was tired of the games. I pushed aside my coffee mug. Fuck this. I had to get out of here.

  The rain had eased to a steady drizzle by the time I hit the streets in search of exercise and a decent cup of java. Mine was perfectly fine, but I couldn’t stay home now. Not after that conversation with my mom. I needed the cacophony of city noise to drown out the voices in my head and help me reset.

  I shivered at the blast of cold air when I turned the corner onto Second Street. The temperature had dipped to Arctic levels this morning, which meant the city felt marginally less crowded than normal for a Sunday. I pulled my hood over my head and quickened my pace, dodging the occasional pack of tourists on Broadway. The faster I walked, the better. For my body and my mind. My nose was cold and my fingers were numb. I could feel my phone buzzing in my back pocket, but I was afraid to be exposed to the frigid elements for the duration of a call or a text. No one needed my attention anyway. It was okay to get lost in the city.

  I cut down Eleventh Street, walking block after block at a brisk pace. When I neared University Place, I considered veering south to Washington Square Park, but I needed to move. The longer I walked, the closer I came to finding a beat. Every musician had their own way of channeling their muse. This was mine. I’d traveled miles by foot all over Manhattan, from Battery Park to Harlem and beyond. The East Village to Greenwich trek was a short jaunt by my standards, but it was enough to get my blood pumping and turn off unwanted static.

  By the time I pushed the door open to Grinds, an artsy coffee shop on Greenwich Avenue, I felt clearheaded and calm. I jumped in line behind a man dressed in a three-piece lavender suit complete with a floral handkerchief in his coat pocket. There were a couple of young kids clinging to the woman in front of him as they gawked unabashedly at his wild getup. No doubt they were from some small town in Middle America where most grown men shied away from pastels and flashy suits. It made me smile. Baltimore wasn’t a tiny town by any means, but when I’d first moved here, I couldn’t help staring at every outlandish person I bumped into. Nothing fazed me anymore. The man in purple could break into a round of show tunes and I wouldn’t bat an eyelash. Unless he held up the line.

  I placed my order, then pulled out my cell when a pink-haired barista pointed at me and whispered to her coworker. Fuck. The fates intervened by way of an incoming call and spared me from an awkward round of “Do I know you?” I didn’t recognize the number on the screen, but I figured I could always disconnect the call and still keep my phone glued to my ear to use as a prop if needed.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Tim.”

  The voice was deep and vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t tell if that was wishful thinking on my part. “I’m sorry. Who’s this?”

  “It’s Carter,” he said. “I hope I’m not waking you.”

  “No. I—I’m actually out… um. I’m getting coffee and—” I closed my eyes for a second and willed myself to stop talking until I could find my cool. My hands felt suddenly clammy. I wiped them on my jeans and tried again. “How are you?”

  “I’m good. I was wondering if you were free for dinner this week. I think we should talk about… things.”

  I let out a half laugh as I reached for my drink. I nodded my thanks to the barista, who blushed furiously. There was a semiprivate, unoccupied section of bar space at the window next to the door. I headed toward it and set my cup down.

  “Things?”

  “Yes. Like last night.”

  “Nothing happened last night,” I replied in a stubborn tone.

  “Are we going to pretend we never met, then?”

  “I don’t know how to answer that. I’m not into secrets. Or married or attached fuck buddies,” I added.

  He went quiet for a moment. “I’m not married or… attached, and I distinctly remember you saying the exact opposite thing last night. In fact, you mentioned something about being discreet.”

  “Ahh.” I took a sip of coffee, turning to make sure I was relatively alone before I continued. “It may have been the vodka talking. I woke up with a bigass hangover and a phone call from my mother. That gruesome combination threw some perspective my way. We’re not in LA anymore. And like you said, not only do we know each other’s real names, we know we have mutual friends too. Good friends, by the way. Not acquaintances we rarely see. You’re complicated, Carter, and the guy with his tongue down your throat looked mighty attached last night, for fuck’s sake.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend. But I agree… it’s complicated.”

  “Yeah, so I—”

  “So let’s talk business.” He paused for a beat, then continued in a professional-sounding tone. “I glanced at your portfolio this morning. I’d like to offer an appointment to go over asset reallocation and—”

  “Huh?” My forehead creased in confusion. What the fuck?

  “You’re my client,” he stated casually. “Remember? You told me to look up your number and give you a call. That’s what I’m doing.”

  “It’s Sunday,” I said lamely. I was having a hard time shifting gears.

  “True. I don’t usually work on Sundays, but I noticed a couple of your higher-risk options are potentially unstable. I suppose I could have left it ’til Mark gets back from vacation, but it isn’t wise to put off what can be handled immediately.”

  “Uh… is this normal or do you just miss me?”

  “I miss you,” he said with a chuckle. “Are you free tomorrow evening?”

  “I don’t know, Carter. I—”

  “I’ll be at Marcelle’s at seven at a table for two. Meet me. Or don’t. Your choice.”

  After he hung up, I stared at my cell for a long moment before slipping it back in my pocket. This was probably unwise in too many ways to count. On some level, I sensed we both knew it. Maybe the element of danger and surprise was what made it interesting. I picked up my coffee and headed for the door, unable to curb the shit-eating grin from spreading across my face. I wasn’t sure I actually would meet him. It wasn’t a bright idea. But bad idea or not, my crappy Sunday morning was looking up.

  Marcelle’s was a New York institution in Gramercy Park. The name was synonymous with prime beef, fresh seafood, and cold martinis in an elegant setting. Everything about its old-world ambience screamed high sophistication and money. In other words, it was the last place I’d have chosen to meet anyone. I preferred simpler fare like crab cakes, schnitzels, and a homemade brew at the local fish shop back home in Baltimore. The kind of restaurant where dressing up for dinner meant throwing a collared shirt over the concert tee I’d worn all day. That definitely wouldn’t fly here.

  I caught my reflection in the antiqued mirror near the entrance. I’d paired my ubiquitous black jeans with a black, button-down oxford shirt and a dark herringbone sports coat. This was about as dressy as it got for me. Not bad. But nowhere near Carter’s league. I spied him talking to the maître d’ at the far end of the dark-paneled reception desk under a crystal chandelier. A gigantic floral arrangement partially hid me from view, so I could check him out undetected.

  He was wearing a beautifully cut navy blazer with a blue-checked shirt and perfectly pressed trousers. Traditional but chic. The expensive tailored clothes weren’t what set him apart, though. Everyone here was probably wearing a designer label of some sort. There was something in his proud carriage, broad shoulders, and the set of his sculpted jaw that made him stand out. It was difficult to see the guy I�
��d hooked up with underneath his suave exterior. This man was polished and sophisticated. Meeting someone like him in a ritzy restaurant I never in a million years would have chosen on my own made this feel like it really was a business meeting. And suddenly, I didn’t feel so comfortable.

  Carter glanced over his shoulder just then and smiled. It was a warm, welcoming ray of sunlight that struck me as the most genuine thing in this stuffy place. The sweet realness made my pulse skip and any lingering doubts fade. I wasn’t sure what we were doing here instead of his place or mine, but there was no point in denying myself an hour or so of serious eye candy. I gave him a cocky, lopsided grin as I made my way to greet him with my hand outstretched. He shook it with more pressure than necessary, his eyes twinkling with easy humor.

  “Hi there. Perfect timing. I believe our table is ready.”

  We were seated at a semiprivate table for two tucked into a corner under a large painting depicting posh Manhattanites circa 1920-something. Dark wainscoting was offset by classic cream-colored damask wallpaper that seemed to glitter under the gentle light cast by ornate brass chandeliers hung high above the white linen-clothed tables.

  “Would you care for a cocktail to start? I was going to order a bottle of wine as well.”

  I grimaced and shook my head. “I’m going to stick to water. It took me most of yesterday to shake my hangover.”

  Carter raised one eyebrow before requesting bottled water for our table in a refined tone that made me do a double take. The host disappeared only to be replaced by a waiter who magically appeared to take our drink order. A moment later water and a single martini were placed before us with leather-bound dinner menus. Carter took the general introductory bustle of service in stride, the way most people might listen to overhead announcements at an airport. It was background noise you could ignore, acknowledge, or respond to if necessary. For me, it was a series of layered distractions. I didn’t know where to look first. I turned the menu sideways, tapping it rhythmically as I observed the show like an actor standing offstage waiting for his cue. When the waiter finally left us, I stilled my hands and reached for my water.