Beauty (A Midsummer Suspense Tale) (13 page)

None of it his. None of it familiar. He had a house, sure, and his own things, but most of it didn’t
feel
like his. Filled with stuff he didn’t care about, stuff he barely saw because he had to travel a lot. No different than this rented place, actually.

He said none of this to her—poor little rich boy whining about his privilege. He wasn’t unaware of how it would sound and truly he was grateful to afford so much when he knew so many others had so little. He’d grown up poor, after all.

Sawyer shook his head. “After a while, you’ll care. They get more invasive. It just never stops.”

“So you go on vacation and then oops, here’s a beach party, and a girl, and a lake, and now everyone knows where you are.”

A smile tugged at his lips. “Yeah. That.”

“You haven’t packed up to leave yet, though.”

He gazed at her and waited until she looked back at him. “I like the company.”

She grinned in return.

“Do you want to use the phone? Call your family?”

Bryar waved him off and took another sip of her drink. “No. They’re asleep by now anyway. I must seem like such a dork, sneaking out after dark.”

“I have snuck out of my fair share of places and away from people. Sometimes it’s necessary.”

“I’m hoping in a few months I can get a place in town on my own. Then maybe leave after I’ve saved up.”

“And go where?”

She shrugged and drained her glass, setting it on her knee with the ice clinking. “I don’t know. Move around. Take odd jobs. Still be directionless but at least on my own terms, I guess.”

“You’re done with school?”

Her mouth twisted bitterly. “School’s done with me. Things didn’t go well there. I guess you skipped that?”

“I still want to go. To university, I mean. I don’t know for what, but I missed out on...normal stuff. I graduated high school from having tutors on the road with us.”

She was leaning closer to him now, the pair of them slouched casually on the couch. When he lifted his arm in invitation, she snuggled against him, resting her head against his chest. His arm came down over her shoulder and a deep, contented sigh escaped him. She felt right there, tucked against him.

“What will you take? In university, I mean.” She asked it like it was a given, like it
was
something he’d do—usually when he mentioned it in passing, people said “what
would
you take?” as if it was merely a hypothetical and never a possible reality. Part of him felt like it was too late in life for that even though logically he knew plenty of older students went back to school. But saying “will”, that simple innocuous word, seemed to lift some of the automatic pessimism always surrounding the thought for him.

“I don’t know. Music theory, maybe? Just because my band was manufactured and controlled doesn’t mean it’s not something I still want to do. Everyone else I know is all doing solo albums and stuff but I’d rather just...take time off. Relearn everything. See where it goes, see what I even
like
. You know?”

“Yeah...I think that was part of my problem with college and why I won’t take any courses now—my aunts are so focused on it having a purpose. I just wanted to take art classes. Art history. Graphic design. Fine arts. Just everything and figure out where I fit with it.”

“But you couldn’t?”

She tensed a little against him, enough that he knew he’d struck a nerve somehow without intending to.

He held her tighter, found himself absently kissing the top of her head reassuringly. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Bryar snuggled in deeper, her voice strained but body relaxing somewhat. “I had an issue with a teacher at the end of my first semester. I was failing. He invited me into his office to talk and offered to raise my grade if I fucked him.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah. And, I mean, he was hot and not that old—I
probably
would’ve fucked him if he’d just not been a dick, I don’t really have ethical problems with that, but extorting me? Uh, no way. So I ran my mouth off and told anyone who would listen, and it turned out no one
wanted
to listen. And then suddenly there was a rumour that I’d made a pass at him and since he wouldn’t bump up my grade, I’d tried to ruin his career with false accusations. Even my aunts believed it. So as I said...school is done with
me
. Didn’t go back after all that bullshit.”

“I can’t blame you for that.” He nearly offered to go find this college professor and beat the hell out of him.
That
would make for quite the tabloid fodder and Sawyer honestly didn’t give a damn.

He’d been cognizant of power dynamics ever since SkyHigh first became popular—saw power abused by producers, saw it trickle down with his bandmates using their influence to get what they wanted. And he’d been determined to never give in to it, to try to remain aware—no matter how badly he fucked up elsewhere—of not abusing the position of privilege he was in. Of course he knew that went on all the time—teacher trying to coerce a younger student was an old tale—but the mere thought of Bryar going through it had his blood boiling. He kept his mouth shut, not wanting to go all douchebag protector knowing she’d probably just roll her eyes at him anyway, but he couldn’t deny the desire to track the guy down and have a little “chat”.

“Anyway.” She tilted her head to look up at him and met his eyes. “Let’s forget about that.”

“Any suggestions as for how?”

“Kiss me.”

“Happily.” He set the empty glass down on the coffee table and leaned close to her, cupping her jaw and capturing her mouth with his. Their kiss was warm and slow, languid rather than the frenzied passion from earlier, each taking time to taste and enjoy one another. “Stay here,” he whispered against her lips, their noses brushing. “For tonight. You can even have your own room.”

“Are you a diva who doesn’t want to share his bed? Hiding something in there? Like weird fetishes? Do you sleep in a mascot costume or something?”

Sawyer chuckled and kissed her again. Her arms wound around his neck, the ice of the glass still in her hand clinking. He managed to get the glass himself and blindly set it on the table, then pulled her closer until their chests were flush and he could better feel her body respond him.

“I’ll be a gentleman.” He kissed her softly again. “You can have a costume too.”

Bryar smiled up at him—a real, genuine smile that was worry-free and relaxed, the first one like that he’d seen since she’d arrived. And it scared him how much he wanted to wake up to it and never have it go away.

Chapter Eight

Bryar woke with a warm body against hers.

Light pressed against her eyelids, not harsh but enough to remind her the sun was up. Sawyer was flush against her back, his arm draped over her waist, and warm breath hitting the back of her neck. From his breathing, she knew he still slept, and she kept her eyes closed and relaxed.

They hadn’t had sex the night before, just fell into his bed tangled together, the embrace a comfort she hadn’t realized she needed but now wanted just the same. And given how comfortable the mattress was, she hadn’t even
thought
about doing more—between it and the plush pillows, she happily slept soundly all night. She wore one of his T-shirts, which was oversized on her, and just her panties. Her clothes hung over the arm of a chair in the sitting area across the room, she recalled—everything she’d been wearing yesterday, so she might have to go home to get something else to wear for work, depending on the time.

But she didn’t want to think about that right now. Right now she wanted to enjoy this bed and the feel of the man holding her.

She felt more rested than she had in ages. Completely at ease. How he managed that, she didn’t understand. She’d only known him a few days and he really seemed to
get
her, get her in a way no one else did. He didn’t care when she put her foot in her mouth, didn’t judge her for the things she’d done. Granted, he had a much more troubled past than she did—she knew that with just glimpses of it, not even the full picture. Maybe that was why they seemed so in tune.

Sawyer shifted and sucked in a breath, then yawned. His arm tightened around her and she snuggled in.

“Good morning,” he mumbled and kissed the back of her neck.

“Morning.”

“You sound awake. More awake than me.”

“Mmm, just a few minutes.”

“And here I thought I was going to be clever, sneak out to make breakfast, and return with coffee for sleeping beauty.”

“I will pretend to sleep if you’re going to do that, actually.”

“What time do you have to work today?”

She liked how he asked about it, that he wasn’t so caught up in being rich that he forgot normal people had jobs and stuff. “Afternoon. It’s not that late yet, is it?”

“Lemme check.”

He released her briefly to twist in bed and then the drawer of the nightstand rattled.

Bryar opened her eyes at last and yawned, taking in the room during the bright light of day. Sheer drapes ran along the massive windows and glass door to the balcony, filtering the light so it was less harsh. The room was white and airy, vaulted ceiling above her making the space seem even larger.

So this is how the other half lives
. Honestly, she’d never really considered herself the material type, but she could get kind of used to this. If someone delivered her food in bed, she might never leave.

Sawyer settled back against her with his phone in hand this time, his body once more flush with hers but arm extended so she could see the screen. It was only ten-thirty—she had three and a half hours before she had to be at Gina’s.

“I have a while before I have to be there,” she said with a yawn. “Think everyone’s left the store alone yet?”

“Let’s check.” He leaned over her, his head nestled against her shoulder, and managed to thumb through some apps on his phone with just the one hand. He paused on his Twitter feed where he’d been tagged in various photos.

A handful were of her—some at the bakery, in fact it looked like the same picture shared over and over again, while another was her shocked face standing outside her cottage last night.

Sawyer sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“At least my hair looks good.” A few more had her being dragged in the house, her aunts fully on view. So their privacy was officially out the window too. Oh joy, that would go over well.

There were more, too, of Sawyer in town—right around the bakery. Oh Christ, thank God the door was closed and curtains were done—no one saw their dalliance in the kitchen.

“Shit,” he muttered at the sight.

“Yeah, Gina’s is gonna be real popular now. Hey, maybe I’ll get more hours. You could do some kind of endorsement, too. Stand out front waving her cookies around?”

He snorted a laugh and scrolled down a bit further, all the headlines questioning “Sean Philip Sawyer Seen in Midsummer?” and variations thereof, a few simple and others a little weirder, suggesting there was some conspiratorial reason he was hiding there.

“Oh oh, stop there, I want to read the one about our secret love child,” she said with a giggle.

He blew out a breath, turned off the phone, and cast it on the bed beside her. “No, you don’t, they just recycle the same story over and over. I have about fifteen secret love children all over the globe now. One time this girl must’ve been pregnant for at least sixteen months the way it kept popping up in the tabloids.”

“No real secret love children, then?”

“Nope. No secret boyfriends either. Or non-secret boyfriends. Or non-secret love children. Or jail stints. I’m a lot more boring than I seem.”

He went silent and so was Bryar, thoughts of everything else she’d read spinning around her mind. Part of her wanted to ask but she clamped down on the question—it just didn’t seem appropriate to pry.

But he tensed behind her, his arm coming to rest carefully at her side, and after a moment he asked, “You know, don’t you?”

She weighed the question for a moment, wondering how to respond. “I read...a couple of things. I wouldn’t say I know anything about it, though.”

“Do you
want
to know what happened?”

Yes, because I am too goddamn nosy.
She cleared her throat. “If you want to tell me.” Realistically, he didn’t owe her an explanation about his life any more than she would’ve, despite the fact that she’d already shared a lot with him.

Sawyer said nothing for several minutes, just held her. She wished she faced the other way, so that she could see his expression or read his eyes or guess
at all
about what he was thinking, but instead she stared ahead at the window and the distant water past the gauzy curtains.

“My buddy Nicky is about seven months older than me,” he said at last. “I’m the youngest member of SkyHigh—we were fourteen when they picked us. There were auditions and Val drove me up there—we lived in the middle of nowhere, and gas was really expensive, but she thought I could sing and wanted to give me a shot. That’s how they formed the band, auditions for young boys who could sing, and then they threw us together. They dressed us, gave us labels—I was supposed to be the quiet studious one, Nicky was the pretty good boy. That stuff. Literally manufactured.

“Stuff happened to Nicky. Maybe before he was even picked, or maybe after. I don’t know for sure. But he really easily got into drugs after that. Booze first. Skipped weed, went straight for cocaine. Some heroine. A lot of users end up with their drug of choice, but not Nicky—he’d take whatever you threw him. Three years ago he ODed before a concert, which was canceled, and ended up in the ER and that was the first time we broke up.”

He went silent again and she said nothing, just listened, just felt the rasping of his breath against her neck as he struggled with words.

“So afterward, he went to rehab, and it stuck. And we had a rule then: no drugs at parties. No drugs anywhere
near
Nicky. And I liked the guy, always had, I guess ’cause we were close in age so better friends than with the older guys. So I always enforced that rule. Even if Nicky wasn’t
at
a party, no drugs. You were kicked out if you were found with them.