Read Cadence (Ruby Riot Book 1) Online
Authors: Lisa Swallow
Jax is quiet for a moment. “I don’t care if you go to New York. Go to the moon if you want but however far you are, you’ll have a part of me with you. If you want me.”
“I don’t want anybody else but you, but I need to be me. You can have me, but you can’t have every part.”
“I want you to be you, too. You’re bloody incredible, Tegan Hughes.”
I smile. “I know, that’s how I caught Jax Lewis.”
He takes my hands. “I mean it. Live your life. I’ll live mine. Together. We can fight to control what we want, but not each other.”
“But can we?”
“If we believe in ourselves, me and you can do anything. Isn’t that why we fit?”
“We need to take one step at a time. I can’t throw myself back into your crazy.”
“Sure, however fast or slow you want but as long as we’re together. Screw the rest of them. We’ll show the world they’re wrong about us.”
Jax wraps me in his arms and holds me close. We’re encircled by the love we've tried to prevent overwhelming us. The future that terrifies us both is a possibility, if we allow ourselves the challenge and admit this is worth fighting for.
Chapter Forty-Six
ONE MONTH LATER
TEGAN
I don’t take the position in New York. Not because of Jax, but because I won’t leave Bryn with the impression he can take over my life. When I find a permanent job, wherever in the world it is, I will do so on my merits. My first ever PR and marketing campaign came to fruition and my name is attached. People are interested in Tegan Hughes. Not because Tegan Hughes is Bryn Hughes’s sister and in a relationship with Jax Lewis, but because she has ideas and talent.
To be honest, staying in London and building on this is in my interests. I can become known in the industry circle here, watch and learn. I tell Jax that one day I’ll have my own PR firm, and he believes my grandiose plan made after five minutes working in the industry. Next, I tell him I’d go into partnership with Riley one day and laughed at the horror on his face. Then he kissed me and said whatever I did, wherever I went, I’d be awesome, and he’d be honoured to be part of my life. I think he was only half taking the piss there.
Ruby Riot is finishing the album for release in October, Jax grumbling about the delay. Jax’s view of Ruby’s imminent parenthood remains poor, but he has to accept this. I move out of Bryn’s and into Jax’s place, initially to piss off my interfering brother, and later because I want to be close to Jax. Okay, a large part of the reason I stay in London is Jax. I love him. The spoilt kid Jax emerges occasionally, but I’m as guilty of immature behaviour sometimes. We clash, always will, both of us wanting the upper hand, but working things out in bed adds fun to the situation. He now accepts that even if the rest of the world falls at his feet and does as he says, I won’t.
The guy has a big heart and he’s given that to me. We have a long way to go, but the connection between us runs deeper than the everyday. I don’t want to wake up one day and regret I never took a chance on Jax. Up front and honest, we’ve never tried to hide our true selves from each other. Some people never achieve this, even after years together. Yes, we have a lot of work ahead and challenges will be thrown our way, but we belong together.
Besides, our stubbornness is also a plus. The world wants Tegan and Jax to fail? Well, screw them. Not going to happen.
****
JAX
Tegan's laptop is open on the desk in my room, and a travel website covering the US displays on the screen. The familiar lurch in my stomach hits.
Is she leaving? Tegan said she wouldn’t. I promised her I wouldn’t freak out if she changed her mind and swallow down the fear she’s leaving.
I sit on the edge of the bed in my old student house, staring out of the window at the grey sky. The cracked plaster and tatty curtains are a world away from my life a couple of months ago, but the best part of that time is still with me. Or I hope she is.
My nights out don't end in semi-consciousness anymore. A couple of years living my life like that is hard to kick and the temptation will always be there; but when Tegan made it clear she could accept me and my lifestyle, but not this aspect, I make changes.
Once Tegan's and my relationship was on again, similar press frenzy hit for a few weeks until the interest tailed off. The trolls keep on, dissecting Tegan's choice of clothes, hairstyle, whether she has cellulite or bad skin. Bullshit we gradually learn to deal with.
Tegan and me are rarely seen anywhere interesting or controversial, but there's occasional photographers following if we're together. Seriously, they followed us to the supermarket. Twice. At one point in our shopping trip, Tegan got pissed off with the scrutiny and stopped a young guy following us with a camera to ask which brand of condoms he thought were best. I was horrified; but when the pictures hit with her waving boxes of condoms around, Tegan giggled for five minutes. This is one of the reasons I love my free-spirited girl. She won’t take bullshit from anybody, including me and that’s what I need. I understand now that if I make any attempt to constrain Tegan I’ll lose her permanently. I learn to trust myself – and her. To believe in us.
I've enough saved to tide me over until uni starts again in September - if I go back - and come October Ruby Riot is heading up again. I reckon I can cope with a few months. Poor Will and Nate have to go back, their savings skills are poor and parents not as wealthy as mine. I don't know, can't see the point when I'm not going to use my degree. But work... not appealing.
Tegan appears from the bathroom, a blue towel wrapped around her body stopping short of her knees, damp hair brushed from her face. This girl. My girl. Beautiful beyond words.
She furrows her brow and walks over to the desk, and closes the laptop. Anxiety spikes as she perches next to me on my bed. Is Tegan hiding something?
“You okay?” she asks.
“Mmm.” Her towel could easily be removed. I can distract myself with one of our favourite activities. Tegan smacks my hand as I reach for the knot.
“I have to work today.”
“Huh.” I sink back on the bed and stare at the stained ceiling.
“You're particularly monosyllabic today,” she says.
“Are you staying?”
“Today? I told you, I'm working.”
“No. Later. Like, until September.”
Tegan's eyes widen. “Ah, you were snooping!”
“You left your browser open! I just need to know if you’ve changed your mind about the States. Cool if you have, but talk to me. I promise to be mature about you leaving this time.”
Tegan scoffs and I pull at her towel. She keeps hold, lies on her side next to me, and props her head on one hand. “You're really worried about this?”
I catch her fingers as she trails them from my forehead to my chest. “You know that I don't want us to be apart. But I need some notice to get my head around you going.”
“Do you think I'm leaving?”
“No. Yes. I don't know. The States?” I indicate the laptop.
“That? I might housesit for a few weeks. Coming?”
“House sitting?”
“I was going to ask if you wanted to come once the album was finished.”
“You'll wait?”
“Yes! Silly! I have to clear with Tina the time off work anyway.” She flicks my nose and I seize her wrists, so she tumbles onto me.
Tegan's damp hair brushes my face as I kiss her. “House sitting for who?”
“My big brother, of course. He's staying in London because of Avery and has a nice, big, empty house over there.”
“Where?”
“LA.”
“Serious? And he's fine with us staying?” Tegan grins and wiggles her little finger. “You’re devious. You do realise you can have any man wrapped around that finger?”
She smirks. “The important ones. The rock stars.”
I growl and tip her over onto the bed. “Not me. I'll do what I want.”
Tegan catches my hair and pulls my face close to hers. “The only person who can to tell me what to do. Sometimes.”
“That's because I'm a fucking rock star.” I catch Tegan’s wrist again and pull her to me, kissing her until she gasps for breath. The damp towel unravels beneath us and her soft, fragrant skin begs for my mouth.
“Mr. Ego,” she breathes out as I switch from her lips to her neck and head downwards.
“Remember I promised. I will always make being with Jax Lewis worth your while.”
I know what the world says about us. I hear whispers of doubt from people close to us and from the ones trying to catch me out and make a story from our inevitable break-up they predict. Some days, life with Tegan is bloody hard, but that’s what makes her right for me. The passion we share for life and each other is channelled into building a relationship to face the new world together.
I’m not stupid. I know life will never stand still for me now; but wherever I am, Tegan will be with me. Throughout our lives, people have doubted our plans. Every time others told me I wouldn’t succeed and my dreams would come to nothing, I tried twice as hard to prove them wrong. Tegan’s the same. We never give up on what we believe in and I believe in a future with Tegan. She shares my passion and determination, in life and our relationship. We’re not like the rest of the world. We never will be. Their rules don’t apply to us.
I love Tegan. Wherever she is, wherever I am, as long as the stars shine in the sky above, I’ll love her. So, pretty much forever.
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Shuffle (Ruby Riot #2)
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Summer Sky (Blue Phoenix #1)
Summer Sky (Blue Phoenix #1)
Sky changed her life for a man once, and she has no intention of doing it again - even if he is a six foot, tattooed rock god who makes a mean bacon sandwich
Sky Davis is fed up with boyfriend Grant taking her for granted and when she comes home to find him wearing a girl, Sky suspects the relationship is over. She takes an unscheduled holiday and leaves the life (and guy) she hates behind.
Rock star Dylan Morgan is struggling with fame and infamy, sick of his life being controlled by other people. Dylan cuts his hair and walks away from his role as lead singer of Blue Phoenix, leaving chaos and speculation behind.
Outside the English seaside town of Broadbeach their cars and worlds collide.
Chapter One
You know that moment when you meet someone, only to discover they're the most arrogant, self-important asshole who you've had the displeasure of colliding fates with? Somewhere, on the edge of my normal life, this just happened to me.
Three hours driving non-stop from Bristol to Broadbeach, and I’m in a crappy mood. This trip would take three hours if every traffic cone in England wasn’t blocking the motorway, therefore forcing all the cars into a ‘traditional English traffic jam’. Or if I didn't get stuck behind the slowest tractor in the world, after I had the bright idea of leaving the motorway for country roads to speed things up.
I whined when I was dragged to Broadbeach on summer holidays with my parents as a teenager, every time. At that age, the quiet seaside town was the armpit of the universe and no longer the sandy playground by the beach I loved as a little kid. There's no place I'd rather be now, than the small house on the edge of the dunes. When I finally bloody get there.
Frustration mounts as the afternoon grows late, and skipping lunch to get away from Bristol as quickly as possible hasn’t helped. I took a wrong turn thanks to my stupid decision to take a short cut, and I’m lost on a narrow country lane looking for a road sign. So when a fricking dog runs across the road in front of me, I'm not exactly calm about the car behind rear-ending mine when I hit the brakes. There is one screech of tyres, one exchange of alarmed looks between the black and white dog and me, and one loud metal crunch.
I glance in the rear-view mirror. Some guy in sunglasses hastily puts down his mobile phone and starts gesticulating in a way that demonstrates he's as happy about the collision as I am. Like this, is my fault? I throw open the door and slam it closed. Heading to the back of my small, silver car, I'm aware of his scrutiny as I inspect the damage. Great. There’s a broken light and a bloody huge dent.
I turn to his. I know nothing about cars but I'm sure this is going to cost him more than me. Sleek, black some-kind-of-penis-extension prestige vehicles like this costs more to fix than my I-have-no-money-and-a-crap-job ten-year-old hatchback.
The guy remains in the car, so I stomp over and indicate he should lower his window. The tinted windows seem a bit excessive in the English climate, but I guess this adds to the image of the car. All I can see of the man is dark sunglasses and spiked brown hair, with his hand waving at me to stand back. I huff and back away.
Out of the car steps a guy with an attitude as big as the dent in my bumper. He doesn’t speak, but his body language indicates an apology isn’t coming anytime soon. Six feet of tightly drawn muscles and a hard set mouth. I'm immediately drawn to the sleeve of colourful tattoos disappearing under his greying black t-shirt. Why do people get so many tattoos? They're plain ugly when there's so many they merge into one canvas of colour.
I shift my gaze to his face. His sunglasses remain in place, and I can't see much beyond his sharp jawline and the fact he really needs a shave. My first impression is he's trying to cultivate some sexy, edgy image to match his sexy, edgy car. The guy whips off his sunglasses revealing bright blue eyes circled by tired black marks. The looking rough is more than an image then. I figure he's in his twenties like me, but his exact age is difficult to tell beneath the exhausted face.
Without a word, he stalks to the front of his car and rubs the dented paintwork, sucking air through his teeth. Flakes of silver paint from my car drop to the road. I take the opportunity to size him up. He's grungy in an attractive way; or the way attractive people can be as scruffy as hell and still look okay. He looks more than okay. I'm momentarily distracted by how his dirty jeans hug his backside but blink the image away.
"It's your fault if you ran up the back of me," I inform him.
"You stopped without any indication!" he retorts, straightening and turning back to me. His accent is odd – English but as if he’s lived overseas too long and lost part of it.
"A dog ran out in front of me."
He looks into the road. "What dog?"
"The dog’s not here now. I don't think the dog realised it needed to be a material witness and ran off!" I narrow my eyes at him and he deliberately looks me up and down. I’m wearing a short floral summer dress. Hardly sexy, but his scrutiny makes me feel exposed. I cross my arms over my chest.
He hesitates, tapping his fingers against his teeth. "I wouldn't normally do this, but I'm in a hurry. Forget the insurance, I'll give you the money. How much do you think it'll cost to fix your car?"
Do what?
"I don't know."
Cocking his head, he studies the car. "Not much, I think. It’s an old model. Was the paintwork that bad before I hit you?"
Cheeky bastard.
"I'm not taking your money. Repairs might cost more than you have! If you give me your name and number, we can sort the insurance out the proper way."
He laughs. "Very fucking clever. Do you think I would?"
I'm taken aback at his attitude and language. "Swapping details is a strange and ancient custom which occurs when dickheads on mobile phones rear-end the car in front."
For a moment, he looks as if I slapped him across the face, and he’s rendered speechless. I mentally clap myself on the back. If he can afford a car like this, I bet people in his life rarely call him a dickhead. At least not to his face anyway.
"I don't give people my personal details." As he speaks, he scrutinises my face and something in his ocean blue eyes prickles the back of my neck.
Oh, I see, turn the smouldering on and get me eating out of your hand. Forget that, buddy; men aren’t my favourite species currently.
"What makes you so special?" I snap.
A slow smile spreads across his face. "Nothing, what makes you so special?"
He traps me in a well-practiced seductive gaze, accompanied by the grin sharpening his stubbled features.
Not going to work…
"Do I have to call the police?"
His brow tugs together and he responds with a sharp. "No. Wait. Okay."
As he turns and goes back to his car, my heart rate picks up. Shit. Maybe he's a drug dealer. Or has a body in the car. And he's got a gun. And he's going to shoot me. Or maybe I watch too much CSI. Time to leave.
I attempt to memorise his number plate as I jump back into the driver's seat. Jamming the car into gear, I take off as fast as my not very fast car will take me. Through my mirror, I see six feet of muscled, tattooed, blue-eyed hotness (possibly with a gun) watching me drive away.
*****
The house by the sea never changes, inside or out. Or in my mind it doesn't. The whitewashed building belongs to my grandmother, and has been in the family for years. The house nestles between the sand dunes and the town, isolated from the neighbours but close to the track running up the hill to Broadbeach.
My heart rate won’t slow following my accident and encounter with the other driver. Why is my day going from bad to worse? I push the incident out of my mind; I'm here now, things will change.
I park my poor, mistreated car on the side of the track and climb out, inhaling until my lungs are full of the sea air. Odd how somewhere I resented so much is now a symbol of sanctuary. The sandy front garden is overgrown, weeds now resident in the huge terracotta plant pots full of geraniums. I tip the largest to one side and pull out the spare key. Gran needs to learn spare keys under plant pots don't equal good security, but I suppose security isn't as big a concern in Broadbeach as in Bristol.
A musty, familiar smell greets me as I push open the front door. Old books, lavender perfume and the seaweed smell of the sea. The mix of scents transports me back to summer days playing in the sand dunes and getting into trouble for sneaking off to the nearby shop for ice creams. The house is a few hundred metres from the beach. A small path and the dunes I rolled down until my knickers were full of sand, lies between the house and the shore.
Nobody has rented recently, and the house is cold and clean. I’m lucky to be able to stay here, especially as I phoned and asked to stay at short notice. Early June and heading into summer holiday season, Broadbeach is quiet. A week’s solace should help with the break-up from Grant.
Grant who took me for granted; who I changed for, morphing into someone I didn't recognise. I came home one day last week and found him with someone else. Such a fucking cliché, Grant knew I was due home, so he either decided to live dangerously or didn't give a shit. Personally, I think being told the relationship is over beats coming home to find a girl wrapped around your boyfriend of five years.
I left him (and attached girl), and slept at my best friend Tara’s for a couple of nights. But this wasn't far enough away from Grant. So I walked away from my job at his parents' finance company and headed to Broadbeach for some 'me' time. Some 'find me' again time. I've left behind the consequences of losing my boyfriend and probably my source of income.
I head upstairs with my stuffed blue rucksack and dump the bag on the bed. The duvet cover is seashell patterned, and the curtains match, the same bedding has been used for years. A local painting of the coast hangs on the cornflower blue wall. In a fit of glee, I tip the contents of my rucksack on the bed. Clothes go everywhere. I giggle. Grant hated my mess. Picking up underwear, I drop items around the room, and then scrunch back the bed covers. Now, the place is lived in. Imperfect. A little voice in my head whispers: "Fuck you, Grant."
The view from the window is what I dreamt of in the traffic jams on the way down. Unspoilt after all these years, the sandy beach stretches to the sea. Closing my eyes, I imagine I can hear the waves but I'm too far. The absence of sound is somehow louder than the traffic noise from my house back in Bristol. My ex-house.
One disadvantage of being the first guest of the season is there's nothing in the fridge or freezer. Zilch. Nada. I once came at the end of the season and the assortment of items in the cupboards and fridge kept me going for days. Unopened packets of cold meats, frozen bread and UHT milk conveniently located next to the teabags in the cupboard. One year someone left frozen pizza and two bottles of expensive wine. Win. This time? Big lose.
Pouting, I open the plastic bag I packed my lunch in. Pulling out the banana peel left from my emergency refuelling as I was driving, I discover the bottle of juice I packed has leaked all over my cheese sandwiches.
I don't want to drive anywhere again in a hurry, but a trip to the new out of town supermarket is needed. I need supplies. Lots of unhealthy, relationship break-up goodies. Guilt follows me out of the seaside town, away from the local shops in need of my money. However, I’m too tired to face twenty questions from Mrs Hughes or see the weird guy at the newsagents who never speaks. I'll spend money there too, of course; I’m here for a week. But tonight, I need bulk amounts of chocolate, crisps, ice cream and wine. So Asda is the place to go. Sorry, Mrs Hughes.
****
Evening encroaches as I return to the house; I spent more time and money than I expected at Asda because choosing the right wine for wallowing is important. And don’t get me started on the number of ice cream flavours to choose from. I bought the hottest pre-packaged curry I could find because I couldn't eat curry around Grant. He didn't like the smell. Add wine and a juicy new book for an awesome evening ahead.