The Things We Knew (23 page)

G
ray woke up drenched again, shaking, desperate to push off the cloying darkness that clouded his mind and tugged him
back to places where he could forget everything. All it would take was a few hundred bucks, a couple of snorts, or a shot in the arm.

He pressed his fists to his forehead and shut his eyes.

No, no, no. He wouldn't, couldn't, go back down that road. It would kill him.

Literally.

Lynnie had scared him half to death, with that whole not-breathing episode on Friday night. The last time he'd seen her like that was after Mom's funeral. He hadn't known what to do then either. But she was home now and seemed back to normal. He wouldn't survive if anything happened to her.

Once daylight flooded his room, Gray forced himself out of bed and stood for a long time under the lukewarm shower, listening to the pipes screaming at him. It was better than listening to the screaming inside his head.

He needed to talk to someone.

Sunday. Dr. Miller might be on call. He couldn't remember. He could call his new AA sponsor, Doug. An older guy, reminded him way too much of Pops. If those options didn't pan out, he wasn't above hightailing it down to that church Lynnie toddled off to almost every week.

Pastors were supposed to help the afflicted.

Gray dressed, glanced around his bedroom, and tried to keep his mind on track. Maybe he'd take Pops for a walk on the beach later. He seemed to like their little adventures, and to his surprise, Gray found he enjoyed his father's company, even if he wasn't all there half the time.

He wandered down the hall on the second floor, peeked into rooms until he came to the one Victoria had been occupying. A suitcase lay open on the bed.

A thousand regrets launched, and he gripped the side of the door for support. “Tor?” He shuffled into the room, glanced around. No sign of her. Her musky perfume hung in the air, tapped at the rusted locks around his heart, and made a flagrant attempt at prying them loose.

She liked it here. He could tell. She'd started singing again.

But he'd known she'd leave eventually.

Three framed photographs sat on the chest of drawers by the window. They went everywhere with her. Gray stood in front of the dresser and stared at the images.

Her parents. Good people. They'd liked him at first. The photo was a few years old, before all the trouble started. A much younger Victoria stood between them, smiling, happy. And totally oblivious to the tractor-trailer load of pain headed her way.

The second photo was of him.

Gray let out his breath, not sure when he'd been that young and carefree. The first year they'd met, maybe. His hair was longer, and he'd had that awful goatee thing going on she'd quickly convinced him to get rid of. He sat at a piano, glancing over his shoulder at the photographer with a grin that said life was good.

And it had been.

Gray closed his eyes. Much as he was loathe to, he knew it was time to undo those locks that confined his memories and remember when it all began.

Gray played a few chords. Scribbled on the sheet music in front of him and tried again. They'd had their first gig the previous night. A small bar in LA, but the place was packed out. Neil was ecstatic, already on the phone booking more gigs. A record producer had been in the crowd. They were meeting with him later that afternoon.

Neil convinced the hotel manager to give Gray use of the piano in the ballroom for a couple of hours. They'd made mistakes last night. That couldn't happen again.

Gray concentrated on the music and tried not to think about what might come next.

The sound of someone clearing their throat stilled his fingers and forced his eyes upward. A young woman stood in the doorway, watching him.

Gray blinked as she came into the room. She was short, but walked with a self-assured air that told him to pay attention. Her jet-black hair hung straight, rested on slender shoulders, and framed a pale, perfect face. Luminous eyes the color of caramel looked him up and down. And then she smiled.

Holy Mother of Wonderful.

Gray sucked in a breath and steadied himself on the bench. “Do I know you?”

“Not yet.” She came a little closer. “I hear you're on your way to becoming the next Springsteen. Thought I'd come see for myself.”

He managed to get a grip as he checked her out. She was hotness to the tenth degree. Tight jeans, a well-fitting T-shirt, and Chuck Taylors. A bit too much makeup, but it didn't matter. She had the most beautiful smile he'd ever seen.

A grin tickled his lips. “You don't look old enough to know who Springsteen is.”

Her laugh was even more enticing. “I'm from New Jersey. It's in the first-grade curriculum.”

It was his turn to laugh. “How did you get in here?”

“My cousin is the concierge.”

“I see.” Gray pushed his arms high above his head and worked the kinks out of his neck. “So what can I do for you, Miss—?”

“Montgomery. Victoria.” She came forward and stretched out a hand. “Actually, the question is, what can I do for you?”

“Really.” Gray smiled and took her hand in his. The minute he touched her, electric fire filled his being. He let go and cleared his throat. “You should probably elaborate.”

She nodded, folded her arms, and put on a businesslike expression. “You're going to need a manager.”

“I have an agent.”

“Yes. And Neil Downs is one of the best. Which tells me a lot about you. He's also extremely busy. He'll book your gigs, concerts, work out your deals, but he's not going to follow you around and remind you where you have to be when.” She tapped a long red fingernail against her forearm. “He's not going to tell you that you could use a haircut or that your wardrobe could stand a complete overhaul.”

He wanted to ask what she knew about his wardrobe but was having way too much fun counting the flecks of gold in her eyes.

“Are you listening to me, Mr. Carlisle?”

Gray pulled his feet up onto the bench and hugged his knees. “I'm hanging on your every word.” He expected some reaction, but she stayed quiet. “Am I correct in assuming that you think you'd be perfect for the job? You want to be my . . . manager?” He almost laughed, but she was so serious he didn't dare.

“You could hire me on a trial basis. Three months. If it doesn't work out, no hard feelings.”

Gray stood, rounded the piano, and leaned over it. “How old are you?” He'd just turned twenty-one, and she didn't look anywhere near that.

“Twenty-two.”

“Lower.”

Her cheeks lifted with her smile. “Nineteen. But I turn twenty next week.”

Great. He sighed and played with his grad ring. “You're not in college?”

She niggled her bottom lip with her front teeth, her eyes never leaving his. “I'm not really interested in higher learning. Of the institutional kind.”

Gray gave a low whistle. Oh, she was good. “Yeah. It didn't hold my interest either.”

“I promise you, I know what I'm doing. I have references.”

“From who? The parents of the kids you babysat for?” He let out a groan and shoved his fingers through his hair. “Nice to meet you, Miss Montgomery, but I'm kind of busy.” He moved back to the piano bench and sat.

“Gray.”

He closed his eyes. If he kept them shut long enough, she'd be gone and he wouldn't have to acknowledge what was going on here. What he'd known the moment she'd walked into the room.

A conversation he'd had with his mother years ago, when a girl he'd thought was “the one” had broken his heart, played in his memory.

“I know how you felt about her,” Mom had said. “But she wasn't the girl for you. One day, when you're older, you'll meet her, the one. You'll know.”

“How?” Gray asked.

“When you meet her, you'll feel it. Right here.” She placed a hand against his chest. “She will speak to your soul.”

“Puh-lease.” He'd rolled his eyes and screwed up his nose. Mom was always so dramatic. But something inside him said to listen. And remember.

His mother had been right.

The way Victoria Montgomery spoke his name confirmed it.

Gray looked at her again. Cursed his mother's intuition and gave in. “Does anybody call you Tori?”

“Nope.”

“Good. Well, Tori, you can start by getting me some decent coffee. I take it black. I think there's a coffee shop across the street. And grab me something to eat. But make it fast, I have an appointment this afternoon.”

“At two.” She whipped out a cell phone and punched the keys. “With Starsong Records. Which is why you're going to come with me, right now—don't give me that look. We're going to fix that hair of yours, get you some decent clothes, and find you a razor. And while we're doing all that, I'm going to give you a lesson in the finer art of saying please and thank you.”

“Dang, girl.” Gray's smile sizzled all the way down to his toes. What was he getting himself into?

“Let's go.” She snapped her fingers and tipped her head toward the door. “We don't have all day.”

Gray pushed to his feet, grabbed his jacket, and walked toward her. “Tori Montgomery, I think you're going to regret the day you walked in here and took over my life.”

His hand shook as he reached for the third photograph.

Three years old, blond hair, blue eyes, and a cheeky grin.

Guilt and shame seized him.

“What are you doing in here?” Tori marched into the room lugging a laundry basket. She set it down on the bed and winged a couple of unspoken words his way through angry eyes.

He fumbled to put the picture back in place.

She hated when he touched her stuff.

“Sorry.” He coughed and moved away from the dresser.

“Whatever.” She began to sort her clothes. There were a lot of
them. Gray picked up a black Van Halen shirt and attempted to fold it.

She allowed him to be helpful for all of two minutes.

“Give me that.” Tori snatched a thin chemise from his fingers, balled it up, and threw it into her suitcase.

Gray sank onto the edge of the bed, his heart thundering. This couldn't be happening. Once again he found himself in a situation he had no control over.

Another mess he had no clue how to clean up.

She continued her frantic folding in stony silence, although it looked like she couldn't care less how the clothes ended up in the case, so long as they got there.

“Could we . . .” Gray stayed her hand and closed his fingers around her thin wrist. Her pulse pounded through her skin and reached right through him.

“Could we what, Gray?” Those amazing eyes nailed him, challenged him, and dared him to admit his sins.

He shook his head and let her go. “When are you leaving?”

“I'm catching the ferry. I'll get a bus back to New Jersey. Should be home for supper.”

“You talk to your folks?”

“Yes.” She yanked clothes off hangers, threw them into her case, stalked the room, and began to gather her belongings.

“And they're okay with you coming back?”

“They're okay with it. They know I've been clean the past two years. I promised them I'd still get counseling. I'll get a job. They . . . they said they're willing to give me a second chance.” Her voice got muffled, like it did whenever she was working to shove down her emotions. The past couple of days, since she'd voiced her intentions to go, he could barely stand to listen to her.

“Would it make a difference if I told you I was sorry?”

She turned, clutched a photograph to her chest, and took slow steps toward him. He didn't have to ask which one she held.

“Sorry for what, Gray?” she whispered. “Sorry that you seduced me, slept with me, got me pregnant—then told me you could never love me like I deserve—that we could never have a future together? What—exactly—are you sorry for?”