Page 11 of For Puck’s Sake (Seattle Vipers #2)

TEN

brEA

I have a stalker. I can feel his eyes on me wherever I go. It’s been a week since our chance meeting on the dock, a week since we’ve been forced to practically share the same plot of land. Only the thin walls of the guest house separate me from my sadness and a mountain of heartache. I reviewed every word I said to him on repeat, analyzed, and overthought my reasons, and in conclusion, I should have handled it differently. I told Ridley I owed him nothing, but I was wrong, I owe him an explanation. I owe him my reasons, my fears, and my self-doubts. I owe him all the words I couldn’t say through my tears the night he held me in his arms and told me, no, begged me to let him make it better. As I cried with my back against the front door of the guest house the other night, I wanted to crawl out of my own skin for keeping my mouth shut, for not looking at him, for not being brave enough. Ultimately, rumors or not, Ridley doesn’t owe me anything after what I did. He had every right to move on. The way he did it stings but how can I punish him for reacting badly to my leaving him? For all intents and purposes, it’s me who should be groveling at his feet and asking for his forgiveness, not the other way around. But I stand firm in my convictions—removing myself was for the best. Yeah, swallowing my pride and owning up to it in private is one thing, admitting it to the man I still love is another.

So, I’ve been avoiding Ridley, and at first he avoided me too. I forced myself into a routine of early morning jogs to build my stamina for my upcoming tour. I threw myself into every promotional interview my label scheduled for me. After some convincing from one of the town’s council members, a friend of one of my mother’s, Mrs. Jordan, I even signed up to teach a music class at the community center once a week until I leave. I’m sure my mother had everything to do with her cornering me one night after another performance at Red’s, but giving back is something I love to do, so I couldn’t say no. Anything to avoid my parents, at least for a while longer. I know the confrontation is coming, and as dramatic as I know my mother can be, she will show up with my father in tow when I least expect it.

Avoidance. It’s what I do best. Especially now. Especially when Ridley is right here and eager to talk about us. Especially when he’s so close but remains out of my reach. Yep, I’ve gotten myself a stalker. I don’t know why he won’t just come out and confront me like before. Maybe he witnessed how terrified I was the other night and decided he needed to approach me differently. I’m not sure. But I think my time of giving him the slip has run out. I don’t know what he has planned but I am extra jumpy. Every morning this week I’ve looked over my shoulder as I jogged along the cove feeling him behind me, but when I checked my surroundings, no one is there. I can feel him in the crowd during my concerts at Red’s, but when I sing to the crowd, my eyes searching, he’s not there. Is he trying to wear me down? It’s working. Fuck, I’m beginning to think I’m imagining it. But even two years apart can’t strip away the memory of what it feels like to be in his presence, to know he’s looking at me and only me. With the hockey camp starting this week, I’m hoping for a reprieve. He will be so engrossed with teaching he won’t have to time to be my invisible man. Or at least, that’s what I keep telling myself. Old habits and all of that.

“Lavender latte, extra shot, with almond milk for Brea Brookes!” Charlie shouts my drink order to an empty coffee shop with a satisfied smile on her face. I jump, looking around the coffee shop, instinctively looking for Ridley over my shoulder. Then turn my frown back to the woman behind the counter. Her honey blonde hair is up in a sleek high ponytail with various pencils sticking out of it.

Some things never change. Her intentionally splatter-painted apron rocks a cackling coffee cup on the front with her name graffitied on her name tag. Like her shop, Charlie is bright and bubbly, always the life of the party. We became fast friends in high school, and like so many of us who were raised up on the hill as we like to call it, she took her Ivy League education and came back to Lark Bay to open her own business. Like Red, her parents weren’t happy when she turned her back on the family’s law practice to serve coffee instead.

Cackling Charlie’s is a tourist spot in its own right. With its exposed black brick walls that depict Banksy-style graffiti images of people laughing into their cups of coffee painted in various tableaus on each one. The colorful hand-painted round cast iron tables give the place a whimsical feel. Well, that and the knock-knock jokes painted on the floors. This place will wake you up just by walking inside before you even take a sip of Charlie’s delicious brew. It’s lively, eclectic, and very empty for this time of morning. The two people in line before me, now long gone and off to work or touristy things around the area. In a small town like Lark Bay, Charlie’s isn’t heaving with customers, not yet anyway. Give it an hour or two and the place will be bustling with people. To her parents’ surprise, business is booming. Last I heard they are trying to get her to open a few chains in Seattle. I’m all for it. Charlie is just another example of going after what you want, living the life you choose, instead of the life your parents planned out for you. It's safe to say Dulce, Red, Charlie, Tasha, and I all have mommy and daddy issues. We’re a therapist’s wet dream .

“What was that for, Charlie?” I arch a brow suspiciously as I approach the side of the counter where she places drinks for pick up. I let my eyes wander over the delicious pastries from Dulce’s, of course, and decide to have a bagel with honey and cinnamon cream cheese while I wait for Dean. He’s been on his best behavior since my last warning the other night, so we are meeting to talk through some new additional stops on my tour.

“Hey, let me say your name out loud for as long as I can. It’s been good to have you home, even if it’s temporary. You know once you go on tour, eventually win a Grammy, you will forget about us little folk.” She smiles as she wipes down the glass counter before placing my bagel down beside my coffee. I scoop up my plate, mouth watering as the scent of the toasted bagel hits my nose, I all but float to the nearest table.

“Charlie, you’re a goddess, how could I ever forget you, or this heavenly coffee? In fact, I may need you to grind those beans and ship them to me on the road,” I say, sniffing my coffee cup, sighing in contentment. I may do a little happy dance as I dig into my bagel as well.

“I think it can be arranged, B. Just tell your fine ass road manager to give me a call.” She all but swoons as she delights herself in how gorgeous she thinks Dean is. Damn, the girl’s got it bad. I shake my head as I continue to eat my bagel. I’ll throw his number at her, if it means he will stop giving me puppy dog eyes of longing when he thinks I’m not watching.

The bell over the front door chimes and Dean saunters through as if summoned, followed by a few other customers. He pushes his sunglasses into his curls and smiles. A deep inhalation of breath alerts me, without even looking her way, Charlie spotted him too.

Dressed casually in a white linen shirt with sleeves rolled up past his elbows and a pair of khaki shorts, he looks as if he is about to walk a beach catwalk. I guess I’m a little underdressed in my red yoga pants and a cut-up old black New Edition concert t-shirt with my running shoes. When I say cut-up, I mean, cropped to my waist, ratty, and older than me. I swear Charlie purrs behind me as Dean pops those dimples in her direction before his eyes turn toward me. His smile falls infinitesimally, but I notice the change, he keeps it nice and fake for me as he walks my way. I’m trying not to be petty, so I shrug, but damn, I want to. I’m fine not being the object of his affections. God, please, let his eyes fall on someone else, preferably my coffee-making-business-owning friend.

He clears his throat, and I have to fight an eye roll. As if I didn’t see him walk through the damn door. “Brea,” he says in greeting as he pulls out the bright yellow chair and takes a seat in front of me.

“Good morning, Dean,” I reply taking another fortifying sip of my coffee. I watch him pull out his phone as he places it on the table. Charlie comes over a moment later and places Dean’s coffee in front of him with a wink.

“Thanks, Charlie.” He nods in her direction as she walks away to attend to other customers, sighing dreamingly as she retreats. He watches her walk away and I can’t help my knowing smirk as his eyes practically eat her up. Oh, this is good. Watch this space, then. I may not need to play cupid after all. His gaze lingers way longer than my nerves can stand, blatant, as if his perusal would get to me. Sadly, he doesn’t get the reaction he thought by the blank stare he sees on my face when he glances back at me.

It’s my turn to clear my throat, because, hey, I can be an asshole too. “So, what’s the schedule?” I ask, drumming my fingers on the table, eager to get right down to business this morning, while keeping my eye on the door and beyond. Dean begins to speak as I get lost in the onslaught of pedestrians and familiar faces passing by. Of course, I’m looking for my ex-fiancé, turned stalker pain in the ass. Unfortunately, he’s not visible. I have a feeling he is close by, but it’s impossible to find anyone with the influx of people on Main Street now. As if by some magical clock, the entire town has come out in full force, tourists, dog walkers, kids laughing on bicycles, and parents yelling for them to slow down. The more I watch, the more I get lost in imagining the life I could have had if our situation had been different—if I’d found a way to juggle my music, support the man I loved, and accept the baby growing in my belly. Back then, all I felt was loss and resentment. Love, Brea. Love. I never stopped loving him, I think as I watch Dean’s lips move, his words drifting in one ear and out the other. My focus is elsewhere.

By now, Ridley and I would have a toddler—boy or girl, it wouldn’t have mattered. He’d be on summer break, fresh from his Stanley Cup win. I could still have sung the national anthem, joining the others with our child in my arms, wearing Daddy’s jersey, ear protectors on their little ears as we cheered Ridley on. Wishful thinking and pipe dreams, but I let it all play out in my mind. I can see us loading up the jeep, setting off on one of those surprise road trips he used to tell me about when he talked about his parents. “It’ll be our tradition too one day, Luna—you, me, and whatever little ones we’ll have,” I remember him saying when we spoke of our future together. Yeah, the future. The future died when I lay in a pool of my own blood on our bathroom floor, writhing in agony. The future—that damn future—is beyond my reach. No, this is my future. My reality.

I blink, refocusing on the excitement in Dean’s voice as he fills me in on the added dates in New York City around Thanksgiving and how the label booked me to perform for a charity ball I didn’t catch the name of. I nod my head in acknowledgement as he moves on to added dates in Chicago, Houston, and a few other cities.

“This is great news, Brea. Concert tickets are selling out and everyone at the label is ecstatic about the next few months. Your fan base is growing exponentially and there’s talk about Europe as well,” Dean says enthusiastically, taking a sip of his coffee, eyes trained to his phone as he continues to talk a mile a minute.

This is what I wanted, right? I should be as excited as Dean, if not more. But— A shriek of laughter pulls me back as a little girl, no older than three, runs past the window, a man I assume is her father chasing her down. He catches up to her, scooping her over his shoulder, her giggles infectious. I find myself smiling and chuckling softly as I watch them walk away.

I sigh. Life. I’ll never tire of watching people enjoy theirs. It’s the best inspiration for music, in my opinion—well, besides purging my pain and heartbreak. All the things I gave up for my music, for my dreams. All the what-ifs and could-haves are irrelevant because this is my truth: a broken musician with only my music to keep me company. I quickly dismiss the last thought, determined to be in the moment and enjoy the happiness I feel for the first time in a long time. Not because of anything in particular—just being here, in Lark Bay, watching the world go by.

“Brea, are you with me? Or are you somewhere else? I don’t think you’ve heard a thing I’ve said.” Dean waves his hand in front of my face. His lips turn down in disapproval as I focus my attention on him again.

“I’m sorry, what?” I ask, giving him my full attention once more.

“Look. I’m doing what you asked of me. I’m keeping my distance and being,”—he air quotes with his fingers—“your road manager. I am keeping this professional and trying hard not to notice how distracted you’ve been these past few days. I’m trying Brea, even though my heart?—"

“No.” I shake my head because I don’t want to hear what he has to say.

He arches a brow at my dismissal. “What do you mean, no? I have a right to tell you how I feel, how I’ve felt for months. Yes, I know we are no longer together.” Dean lowers his voice and leans in for privacy. “But it isn’t easy to let you go.”

“We were fucking. Clear and simple,” I say through clenched teeth, not giving two shits if I sound callous in my delivery. I try to keep my voice even and low in a room full of people, but, fuck it, I’m done being gentle. “I crossed a line with you and I shouldn’t have. I put a stop to it months ago, Dean. Six months ago, to be exact. I can’t tell you how to feel or how to handle your feelings for me,” I say as the noise of the growing customers inside Charlie’s masks my words. “I don’t want to hurt you, but all I feel for you is friendship. It’s all the explanation I will give you. I told you the other night, if you can’t handle working together anymore, then you know what you need to do.” I let my words settle, harsh, but necessary.

He leans back and studies me, then he nods his head as if he finally understands nothing will happen between us. Not now, not ever. I almost blow out a breath of relief. I guess this conversation, no matter how short, needed to happen. I don’t want to lose Dean, he is good at his job, a good musician, and my friend. My only friend for the past two years. But you know what they say about people coming into your life for a season, well maybe the seasons are changing.

Dean chuckles suddenly, the sound low and bitter to my ears and I know he’s about to put his foot in his mouth. I cross my arms over my chest protectively for what I know is coming, holding myself and my anger at bay.

“Like I said, I noticed how distracted you’ve been. I say this as a friend,” he practically spits out the word friend like it’s poison as he continues, “I don’t want you to lose everything you’ve worked for because of him. You can’t possibly want the life he was trying to offer you, Brea,” he scoffs in disgust. “You’re not some athlete’s arm candy—his jersey-wearing wifey who sits at home while he travels around the country playing hockey. All the while, you sit, waiting for a crumb of his attention, and you get what?” Dean snaps his fingers then waves them at me at the question. The move is condescending, dripping with sarcasm and I know what he is about to say is going to hurt.

“You get to play Bessie, all alone, to no one but the night sky and the stars above. Your life, perfect.” He finishes with a gesture of a chef’s kiss and stands. I open my mouth to call him a motherfucker, but he stops me dead with his next jab. “Your words, remember? Your fears, remember? Where’s the lie, B?” He raises a brow in challenge. He looks around with a smirk, knowing I can’t make a scene. My rage rattles in the cage inside of me, but I only tighten my arms around myself.

“Now that you’ve got that off your chest. Don’t ever come for me in public again. I promise you, Dean, next time I will dance on your broken bones as I make a spectacle of embarrassing the fuck out of you.” I lean over the table to keep everything I say between us. “You only get one more with me. This is your second strike. I hope it was worth it.” I pull away, pushing back into my chair, pursing my lips. Attitude on full display. If looks could kill, he would be flayed at my feet.

Dean smiles, keeping up the false pretense of an easy conversation. “You want to be friends, fine. So, take my friendly advice and put the distractions to bed. Because he is a distraction you don’t need. You have a show in seven hours. I’ll see you at sound check.” Dean reaches into his pocket and drops a ten-dollar bill down on the table, then turns and leaves without another word.

I watch him go, not even a little stunned by the blows he landed. Everything he said was something I had already expressed to him countless times. My drunken ramblings, my justifications for leaving Ridley. Fool me for disclosing information about my past relationship. He didn’t know about the miscarriage or my possible inability to have more children, no, that remains and dies with me. He threw my words back in my face to hurt me because he is hurting. Well, as mad as I am, I know better than to lash out in public. The last thing I need is a random video on social media of me knocking my road manager out cold over the head with my coffee cup. I can get creative when I’m pissed off.

For now, I’ll let him have this one. He’s been warned. Next time though, all bets are off, and I won’t care about it being in public. With this being a small town, I expect gossip, or shifting eyes to be cast in my direction, but to my surprise, no one is paying me any attention. Thank goodness for small mercies. I stand, grateful I enjoyed my bagel and coffee before Dean decided to open his mouth and spoil my time at Charlie’s.

I wave goodbye to my friend and with a promise to stop by tomorrow, I head outside into the morning sun. With nothing more to do until soundcheck later, my intent is to head back to the guest house. I want to brush off Dean’s words, forget the lingering memories sitting inside the coffee shop brought forth, but I can’t. My fingers twitch with the need to console myself with Bessie and play the rest of my free time away. My phone, on the other hand, has other ideas as ‘I Love Every Little Thing About You’ by Stevie Wonder begins to play, stalling my steps. Mood lifting from the sound of one of my favorite songs, I pull my phone from my back pocket. Heading in the direction of my jeep, I circumvent the crowds of people, waving on occasion to someone I know as I step off the sidewalk and pause to read the incoming message.

Unknown: I don’t like that look on your face, Luna. What can I do to bring your smile back?

Me: Who is this?

My lips lift a fraction, there’s only one person who calls me Luna, I know exactly who this is, but a girl needs to make her stalker sweat, right?

Unknown: Oh, Angel, there’s only one man who calls you Luna. There’s only one man who gazes up at the night sky with you in mind. Unless there is something you want to share with the class?

I jump into my jeep, shaking my head with a laugh. He pulls out the big guns calling me Angel. I let my eyes close slowly, memories of tangled limbs, hungry kisses, and whispers of Angel on his lips has my stomach flipping with anticipation. He knows it’s my kryptonite.

Me: You’re not playing fair, Ridley. But if you must know, I think I’ve got a stalker. He calls me Luna, too. Angel though, Angel is all you.

Unknown: So, she remembers. Good girl.

Okay, I may need an extinguisher for my panties. I can almost hear the deep penetrative growl of his voice. Shit, I said penetrative. Oh, lordy, lordy.

Me: Ridley?

Unknown: Luna?

Me: Why are you following me around? Did you not think I wouldn’t sense your presence?

Unknown: We have unfinished business, baby. Plus, I need to keep an eye on what’s mine.

Me: Yours?

Unknown: Yes. Mine. I’ve been trying to find the best way to approach you. Hence, the stalking. But I’ve decided to just come out and make my intentions known. What if we started over? Let’s put the past in the past. There’s no way to change what we went through. It was out of our control. But don’t we owe it to each other to try to remain in each other’s lives? If not lovers, then at least friends. I miss you, Luna. I miss having you in my life. What do you say? Let me make you dinner, lunch, or breakfast. Your choice.

I stare at my phone, my words, well, my fingers fail me as I pause over the screen. I know I can no longer avoid Ridley, if anything, this conversation is long overdue. To put our past behind us, to remain friends, would be a great way forward. I have a decision to make. I can think of all the reasons why something as simple as making amends won’t work. Start over? Easier said than done. Putting an end to our proverbial standoff has the potential to unravel everything I’ve worked so hard to reclaim. But what if?

What if we can pick up our tattered pieces and jagged edges, forge them into something unbreakable. Haven’t we reached rock bottom? There’s only one way to find out if we can both climb up and out of the mire together. It all begins with something I’ve denied Ridley for far too long—communication, and dinner.

Wait, Ridley is not the best cook, but he can make a mean sandwich.

Me: Ham and Cheese?

Unknown: Ham and cheese are my specialty (smiley face emoji)