Chuck tapped his fresh bottle of water against mine. “To pretty ladies with pure hearts.”
I shook my head, not really understanding the comment. Oh. Aya. My eyes widened.
Cam laughed, turning me back toward the elevators. We rode down to the lobby, and when we exited, Chuck helped us ignore the crush of photographers and screaming women who begged for Cam’s attention.
“Where are we going?”
“To grab a bite. I’m starving,” Cam said.
I smiled. I was, too, and I liked getting out of the hotel. I also liked that Cam didn’t fill his suite or floor with fans and partiers.
“What did you think about boxing?” Cam asked once we were settled in the vehicle.
“I like it.”
“Chuck thought you might.”
I smiled, feeling warmth in my chest. Cam liked me for me. I wasn’t simply a tool to be used. He was like having a much older brother.
My chest ached. I’d always miss Lev, but Cam helped fill that gaping, ragged hole. And he seemed happy to do it. Just like Aya. She was a part of me—a deeper, more integral part, than Cam could be—which was why I wanted to share my successes with her. I remembered how good she felt in my arms, her soft hair tickling my skin, her fresh scent teasing my nose.
I’d already claimed a relationship with her. Now I had to make sure we could be close and not break apart, chip away at each other like my parents had.
“I’m definitely going to invite Aya to hang out again,” I said. The decision was obvious now that my head was clear.
“All right,” Cam said. “Just don’t push for more’n you’re ready to take on.”
“Is that what you did?” I asked.
Chuck growled from the driver’s seat, and Cam got a far-off look in his eyes. He pulled a candy from his ever-present stash and sighed a little when it hit his tongue.
“Oh yeah.”
17
Aya
As Nash appeared backstage with Cam at Madison Square Garden, my pulse raced and my mouth dried out. He wore his favorite red Chucks, dark wash jeans, and a soft gray T-shirt with an Austin logo I’d bought him for the occasion.
“My good-luck shirt,” he’d said with a grin and a wink. “From my pretty girl.”
He shoved his guitar back and pulled me into a tight embrace. His mouth sought mine, and I held still, one breath, two… His tongue caressed my lip, and I opened for him with a throaty gasp. I gripped his biceps, my head spinning. I whimpered as his tongue slid over mine in a long, slow swipe. I shivered, needing to be closer.
He pulled back, his hand on my chin, his gaze firm and filled with desire. “I could kiss you all night.”
“After you kick ass on stage,” I said.
He pressed a kiss to my temple. “Also for good luck,” he murmured. Then he stepped back, leaving me shivering, missing his heat.
I huddled in my jacket, arms wrapped tight around my waist as he followed Cam toward the stage. My gaze slid down his broad back to the taut muscle under the soft denim. Damn, he looked good.
Nash settled into the spot next to Cam with an assurance that came from consistent rehearsals and performances since he’d left me in Boston a little over a month ago. In that time, his charisma had grown, and now he, like Cam, could carry the audience.
They started with “Sweet Baby Home,” their harmonizing bringing tears to my eyes. After the song finished, Nash ribbed Cam about the intricacy of the guitar picking, even as he showed off his ability with an easy flourish that caused the crowd to hoot and holler in appreciation.
“Y’all wanna hear more from this guy?” Cam asked.
The crowd grumbled a little, but Nash picked and plucked his guitar faster as he hummed—that mesmerizing hum that made my knees weak and my body warm. He hummed a bit louder, the melody to the song he planned to play.
The crowd wavered, and the women began to holler and scream for more, more, more! Then Nash played in earnest. Cam stepped back, taking the rhythm-guitar role. When Nash leaned into the microphone, I would have sworn he’d been performing for years. He wasn’t just a natural; he had an innate instinct for how to lift the crowd, how to create a fever pitch of emotion, and how to soothe them back into harmony. I pressed my clasped hands to my chest, tears pooling in my eyes.
Nash Porter, superstar, was born tonight, and I couldn’t have been prouder. While I was the first one Nash hugged when he strode off stage, sweaty from the stage lights and clearly high on adrenaline, Steve was there, too, pulling him into a hard embrace. He thumped Nash on the back.
“Damn, you’re someone a man can be proud of,” Steve said, his voice wobbly.
Nash cast him a questioning look just as he was caught up by Chuck in a bone-crushing hug.
The night turned into a whirl of people congratulating Nash, of girls yelling his name, of reporters shoving closer to us as they called out questions, trying to scoop everyone else with the story of the new rock god—and get the real story behind Nash and Quantum’s success.
Nash and I had talked about that over the past few weeks, and Nash had also spoken with Cam. Nash had chosen not to comment on his father or his father’s band with the press, but Cam and some other stars, including Asher Smith, had questioned Brad Porter’s composition skills—and whether he’d stolen his son’s work.
Nash had blocked his father from his phone and social media, a bold but necessary step. While it made things more peaceful now, I wasn’t sure what would happen when we returned to Austin—how Brad would handle the fallout from his ailing tour in combination with Nash’s rising stardom. My guess was not well.
Nash handled his new fame with an ease I found disconcerting. Even now my skin itched, and I wanted to shrink away—except Nash had his arm around my shoulders, snuggling me against his side.
“Who’s the girl?” a reporter yelled.
I cringed, and Nash looked down at me, his gleaming eyes dimming as he took in my uncertainty.
“Is that your girlfriend?”
“What’s your name?”
“Smile for us, sweetheart.”
“Why don’t you give him a kiss?”
“Ignore them,” Nash whispered.
I nodded, but unease crept through me because I knew the reporters would find their answers eventually—and I knew Nash’s new fan base would work to tear me apart.
18
Nash
My adrenaline high lasted through the rest of the evening, even as I tried to fully appreciate the iconic venue. Madison Square Garden—I’d just performed my own song here. Holy hell. Life was amazing. But the best part was Aya. She never left my side, and I liked her there. I held her hand on the way out of the building to the tour bus parked in the lot.
The song I’d shared tonight was a piece of me, one Aya held safe and close, inside herself. She understood the longing, the fear, the joy of whatever this was we were doing. And because she shared it, she made me feel brave enough to offer it out to the world.
Tonight I’d shared something, and it had proved magical, but I’d need to guard against the desire to offer up too much more. I could hear my mother’s voice in my head. No need to leave myself vulnerable.