“It was a test?”
“Sort of,” she says. “Even though things aren’t perfect between Ryder and me right now, it was right you told him. Tells me you really care for him.”
“Which is why I’m not leaving.”
“If you’re not going to follow my advice, then why call me?”
I open my mouth to retort, but have nothing of substance to say. That’s a good point she made. Still, I won’t concede. “You’re useless,” I say, getting to my feet.
“Where are you going?” she asks, following me.
“There has to be a screwdriver around here somewhere. I’ll take the damn door off the hinges.”
She laughs, like actually laughs, something I didn’t think she was capable of. “You’re pregnant!”
“Right, so don’t mess with me!” I bark.
“Fine,” she says. “Come on.”
Maggie heads up the stairs, and I follow her. I have no idea what I’m going to do when I get to the door. I didn’t get a screwdriver and despite my little display downstairs, I’m not feeling as badass as I pretended to be. Honestly, I wouldn’t know the first thing about taking down a door.
We reach the top of the stairs, and Maggie knocks on the door. “Ryder, it’s me. Open up.”
“He hasn’t been answering,” I whisper.
She knocks again. “Answer the damn door.”
“Tried that,” I say.
She bangs on it this time. “Unlock the door, or I’ll call 911—and then you’ll get paparazzi and more bullshit to deal with.”
Why the heck didn’t I think of that?
We hear the door unlock, but it doesn’t open. Maggie holds her arm out to me like she’s Vanna White. Is this another damn test of hers?
When I called her, I thought she’d go in, talk to him, figure out what was wrong and fix it. Because that’s what she does, fix things. Now she’s passing the buck to me.
Taking a deep breath, I place one hand on my belly, letting my unborn baby know I’ve got this. I place the other hand on the doorknob. The metal feels cold underneath my fingers, sending a chill down my spine. Hell is thought to be a hot place, so why are scary things bone chilling? I don’t have any idea what I’m going to find when I open the door—is he drunk off his ass, high as a kite, crying? Although, I can’t imagine a big, strong man like Ryder crying.
Slowly, I turn the knob, giving one more glance to Maggie as I step inside. Her brown eyes hold mine. She’s not going anywhere. She’s staying in case Ryder needs her. I take one more deep breath.
Stepping inside and closing the door behind me, I find the room is dark. There’s only one small desk lamp on. There are papers spread out all over the floor, the piano, covering most every surface. I spot Ryder through the glass, in the recording booth, brightly lit up. He’s got a guitar pick between his teeth, and he’s scribbling something on a sheet of paper beside him on a stool.
Ryder always has a rough edge about him, a danger. It’s the rebel in him. The side that punches reporters. But he looks rough in a different way now. His hair is more messy than usual. The stubble on his face seems longer, but it’s his blue eyes that have changed the most. He looks like he’s seen hell itself.
You always hear about tortured artists—is this that side of Ryder? I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t concerned seeing him like this. He’s the father of my child, the man in my life. Some women might go running for the hills, and maybe I should, but seeing him so vulnerable, knowing he’s hurting. I can’t leave. If I thought for one second me or this baby were in danger, I’d leave without a second thought, but I know this man—this tortured, beautiful man. And he’s worth staying for.
I slowly walk to the door of the recording booth, and his eyes spring up, stopping me. We just stand there, staring at each other, a wall of glass between us.
We’re close. We can see each other, but we can’t reach one another.
His eyes lower to my neck. The red marks are gone. I move to go inside, but he shakes his head at me. I once followed his tour around from city to city to find him. Does he really think he can keep me out with a mere shake of his head?
As soon as I step inside, he steps back. “Talk to me, please,” I say.
He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t even look at me. I’ve got a degree in communication disorders, and Ryder clearly could use a few lessons. Still, his downcast eyes and tense shoulders are saying a lot. It looks like he’s gone twelve rounds in a title fight, exhausted but also wired at the same time.
“I’ve missed you,” I say, looking around at the mess of papers on the floor.
“Writing,” he says.
Among the sea of papers, I see guitar picks scattered around, each one with J. C. printed on it. I pick up a sheet of paper, reading the scribbled lyrics. You should’ve never found me. My heart starts to ache, and I pick up another. Letting her go. And another. Promise to a ghost.
“You’re scaring me,” I say softly.
“You should be scared of me,” he says.
“You were dreaming,” I say, tilting my head up so he can see my neck. “Not a mark.”
“You shouldn’t be in here,” he says.
“I’m not walking out of here unless you’re holding my hand,” I say.
“Christ, I could’ve snapped your neck!” he yells, slamming his fist on a stool.
“Do you remember the dream?” I ask, inching closer. The way his blue eyes are boring through me, I know he does. “Tell me.”
“Leave it!” he barks loudly.
“No,” I say, keeping my voice soft.
“What the hell are you thinking, coming in here after what I did?”
“I’m thinking you need me.”
Ryder runs his hands through his hair frantically. “Would you run in front of a moving train? I hurt you!”
“To get to you, yes, I would.”
He looks at me like that surprises the hell out of him. How long has it been since someone has loved him like that? Someone other than his family?
The first time my mom met Ryder, she told him that I love with every fiber of my soul. At the time, I was mortified she said that, but it’s true. I love hard, and when I love a person, I seldom let go.
“Talk to me,” I beg softly.
“You had a guitar string wrapped around your neck,” he whispers, his voice cracking with every word. “Choking you.”
He dreamed my death. Goosebumps cover my arms, and I suddenly feel a chill come over my skin. “Remember anything else?” I ask, wondering about his ramblings about love. Were they about me, or someone else?
“No,” he says. “Only the string. You.”
I take another step to him. “You were trying to save me?”
He nods. “But the string just kept getting tighter and tighter. No matter what I did. No matter how hard I fought against it.”
“Ryder, we had a scare the other day. You’ve been worried sick, watching my every move. I’m sure that’s where this dream came from.”
His eyes close. There’s more. There’s something he’s not telling me. Something big. I can feel it. Nightmares don’t shake a person for this long, cause this kind of reaction unless there’s something else.