The Wedding Band (27 page)

Kota said, “Smile,” and Cy smiled. “Bark,” and Cy barked.

The reporter flung himself back into the van. The van patched out.

Kota scratched Cy's ears. “Good job, buddy. I think the dude wet his pants.”

And he set out for Christy's, his bodyguard trotting happily beside him.

 

Chapter Twenty-Nine

W
ITH THE SOUND-­DEADENING
headphones blocking out the commotion in the street, Chris felt strangely peaceful. Like she was underwater, or suspended in another dimension where no one could reach her and no problems could touch her.

Secluded in the bubble, it was easier not to think about Kota, about the plans she'd begun to make. Not big plans, not forever plans. But plans nonetheless.

And it was easier not to fume at Ray. She'd obviously spilled her guts for money and revenge. The resulting media blitz had plugged up Chris's narrow road so completely that the cops had given up trying to disperse the crowd and begun diverting traffic.

But safe in the bubble, she could remind herself that it was only temporary. Kota wouldn't feed the media frenzy. Neither would she. With a freezer full of frozen pizza, she wouldn't have to open her door for a month.

By then, the press would have moved on to the next big scandal.

And she'd move on too, out of Cali-­fucking-­fornia. Maybe to Maine. Yes, Maine should be far enough away.

She'd find a nice place for Emma out in the countryside and buy a dilapidated farmhouse nearby. Once she restored it, she'd fill it with animals no one else wanted. The rejects. The halt and the lame.

And she'd live in peace and tranquility, with no chance of bumping into Kota at a traffic light.

Until then, she was stuck. She needed something to do besides nurse her broken heart. Something absorbing. Something meaningful.

Opening her laptop, she faced the document already up on her screen:
Reporting Live from the War Zone, This Is Emma Case.

She deleted it.

Then she flinched, waiting for guilt to crush her like an anvil. Her finger hovered over Undo.

But seconds passed, and . . . no guilt. In fact, she felt lighter. As if a weight she'd borne for years had floated off her shoulders.

She closed her eyes, releasing the breath she'd held pinched in her lungs.

Someone else would write Emma's story, someone more objective. Maybe Reed. He'd loved her—­he still did—­but he was a journalist to the marrow. He'd be evenhanded, analytical, while Chris could be neither where her mother was concerned.

She drew a deep, steady breath and opened her eyes. The screen before her was blank. Hers to fill with whatever moved her.

For a long, pregnant moment, she stared at the blinking cursor.

Then she began to type.

C
HRISTY'S STREET W
AS
a scene from Kota's own personal nightmare. News crews, spotlights, TV trucks with satellite dishes poking up like periscopes.

He paused in the shadow of a palm tree, taking in the chaos, and his blood ran cold. Charlie had lived just a few streets away, and Kota had seen his house surrounded just like this.

The memory turned his stomach.

Charlie was dead by then, beyond Kota's help, but the press was stalking his aunt, who'd come from Vermont to pack up his things. She'd forgiven Charlie years before, the only family member who had, and for her kindness and grace, she'd been hounded by the press.

He'd seen the stark fear on her face that day, and fury had lit a fire in his breast that still burned bright.

He'd shouldered through the idiots and hustled her out of the house, driven her to the airport, and watched her leave L.A. in tears. Then he'd cleaned out Charlie's house himself, a lonely, heartrending task. Penance for his own arrogance, and for the foolish pride that had set off the fatal chain of events.

Sure, he'd taken a stand against haters who wanted to divide the world into straights and gays, but he should have considered that others might pay the price for his actions.

Now Christy was paying for his latest blunder. Pinned down, probably scared shitless, she needed rescuing too.

So Kota did the one thing he never imagined he'd willingly do.

He stepped into the center ring of a full-­blown media circus.

Sweat beaded his hairline and prickled his armpits. But his muscles responded to stress as they always did, going loose and limber, primed to react as required, to lift or carry or punch anybody who asked for it.

He'd rather not hit anyone tonight. It would only fuel the flame. But if that's what it took to get to Christy, somebody was going down.

He arrowed straight for her house, and at first, no one noticed him. He was just another body in motion.

Then someone shouted, “Dakota!” Others took up the call. Every head swung his way, and the whole horde surged toward him.

This was no red-­carpet event, where the media was leashed and fenced. It was a bloodthirsty battle for ratings and revenue, a full-­on feeding frenzy.

They were the sharks; he was the meat.

But he wasn't in it alone. As they closed in, waving their mics in his face, he said, “Smile,” and Cy smiled. “Bark,” and Cy barked.

Miraculously, a path opened before them, and Kota marched to the door unimpeded.

C
HRIS FELT, MORE
than heard, the fist pounding her door. It rattled the china like a minor earthquake, 3.1 on the Richter scale.

Tri blasted off the couch like he was shot from a cannon, barking insanely, scratching at the door. Chris pulled off her headphones.

It couldn't be.

“Christy, open up!”

It was.

She tiptoed to the kitchen window, as if Kota could hear her sock feet over the pandemonium outside. She peeped through the curtain. Reporters formed a semicircle ten feet from her front door, shouting questions at Kota where he stood with Cy on the stoop.

One daring soul stepped forward. Kota said, “Bark,” and Cy barked. Chris smothered a laugh as the woman leaped back into line.

Then
bam bam bam
. “Christy, open the door!”

She opened it, but before he could steamroll her, she stepped outside and closed it behind her.

“Hello, Kota.” It felt like she was pushing her voice over gravel. Like she hadn't spoken in a week.

He locked onto her eyes, dropped his voice ten decibels, from a roar to a murmur. “Let's take this inside.”

Sweat dampened her neck under the mass of her hair, but she crossed her arms and said coolly, “I'm good right here.” If he had something to say, let him say it in front of the cameras. That would keep it short and sweet.

He glowered down at her, all squints and hard angles. Lesser mortals would pee themselves.

But Chris was unmoved. “Did you want something, Kota? Or were you just out walking Cy?”

“We need to talk,” he muttered for her ears alone.

“I have nothing to say to you,” she said loud and clear. “But if you're compelled to unburden yourself, I'm all ears.” She propped her shoulders against the door as if she had all night.

His jaw ticked. Flattening one palm beside her head, he dropped his voice even lower. “I'm sorry—­”

“You're sorry?” she repeated loudly. “For what?”

His eyes seared her. “You're gonna make me do this out here?”

“You mean
out here in front of the cameras
? So
TMZ
can run the clip backwards and forwards, with their pithy asides?” She cocked her head. “Yeah, that's what I mean.”

Color climbed his neck, then his face, all the way to his hairline.

That was a good start, but it was far from enough.

“I thought . . .” He paused and threw a glance over his shoulder at the mob. As one, they leaned forward, hanging on every word. He turned back to her, visibly girding his loins. “You know what I thought. I was wrong. And stupid, and cruel.”

She waited, not nearly satisfied.

“I'm sorry I left you. And I'm sorry about your purse. I didn't know it would . . .” He did an exploding fist.

She waited.

He pushed his fingers through his hair. The torment on his face plucked at her heartstrings.

She ignored their sad song.

“Ma tore me a new one,” he went on. “Even Pops got into it. Sasha too. And Maddie.” He winced. “She's got a tongue like a buzz saw.”

Chris smirked, recalling their conversation on the plane. “Still think you can have her whenever you want?”

He went redder, probably picturing Adam's reaction when he heard that on TV. “The point is,” he said quickly, “I know I was an asshole, and I'm sorry. I'll never do it again.”

She waited.

“Forgive me?” He tried to sell it with a charming smile.

She wasn't buying. “Forgive you for ditching me? Or for doubting me?”

“For ditching you. I'm not apologizing for doubting you. It's not like I don't have reason.”

Her heart sank. “Then I guess we're done here.” She put her hand on the knob.

He covered it with his. “Not so fast.” His eyes glinted. “You wanted to do this out here. Let's do it. Let's talk about trust. Let's talk about lies.”

She faced him. “I paid the price. I apologized. You forgave me.”

“No, I fucked you.”

She gasped. Heat swept her skin like a blowtorch. She tried to flee inside, but he held the knob fast.

“I fucked you because I couldn't help myself.” He crowded her, invading her space. “I couldn't help myself because I love you.”

She gasped again.

“Is that what you want?” he said. “A public declaration? You've got it. I love you.” He said it loud and clear.

Words failed her.

But he was suddenly loquacious. “I love you, but I'm having a hard time trusting you. Part of that's on me. I've got trust issues, and I'm working on them.”

He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “This is on me too. Which is why I'm standing here making a fool of myself. But baby, you gotta meet me in the middle.”

The middle? Where was the middle? The line kept moving.

He waited.

She gazed up at him, helplessly. “What do you want me to say?”

He smiled again, gorgeously. “Say you love me.”

“I love you.”

He turned, spreading his arms to the cameras. “Did you get that?” he called. “I love her. She loves me. We're getting married.”

 

Chapter Thirty

“T
HAT GOT 'EM
moving,” Christy said. “But talk about a whopper.”

Kota watched the reporters scramble to their trucks to break the story. Then he turned to Christy. Her cheeks were pink. A half smile curved her luscious lips.

“It wasn't a whopper,” he said. “I was serious.” He might've been shooting from the hip when he threw it out to the reporters, but it felt absolutely right.

Her brows went up. “I don't remember a proposal.”

“Okay. Let's get married.”

“No.”

His face fell. “Why not?”

Her expression said he was nuts. “We've known each other for three weeks. For most of that time, you hated me. And for the last twenty-­four hours, I hated you.” She shoved his chest. “Go home, Kota. We'll call it a draw and get on with our lives.”

“No.” He wouldn't let her push him away. Something important was happening here. They had to see it through.

But not in front of the press.

Reaching around her, he opened the door and hustled her inside. Thankfully, the kitchen lights were down low. It would be easier to say what he needed to say if Christy couldn't read the shame in his eyes.

“Listen,” he said before she could lay into him for barging into her house, “I've never been in a relationship before. I thought it wasn't in the cards for me.”

That startled her. “Why not?”

He spread his arms. “Look at me. I'm a brick shithouse. I can lift and carry and fuck all night. I'm built for physical stuff. But I'm not built for love.”

“That,” she declared, “is the dumbest thing you've ever said. You're the most loving person I know. The way you love your parents, your brother, Em. It's staggering. And the animals, my God, the animals.” She poked his arm with one finger. “Your heart's bigger than your biceps. And that's saying something.”

He shook his head. “That's not what I mean. I can dole it out. Hell, I can't help myself there. But I do stupid shit, and ­people get hurt. Look what I did to Charlie.”

She waved that away.

“There's more,” he said. “Something I haven't told you.” Something he hadn't told anybody. “It's about my parents. My birth parents.” He took a deep breath, made himself say it. “I told my mother where the money was.”

The truth burned his throat like a flame. He'd never said it out loud, his darkest secret, his deepest shame. “She was tearing her hair out, scratching the skin off her arms. So I told her where Dad hid it. Because I loved her, and she was suffering, and I hated seeing her like that.”

He swallowed, his mouth dry as ashes. “I made a snap decision without thinking it through. And she ended up gone, and my Dad ended up dead.”

“Oh, Kota.” Christy touched his cheek with her fingertips. “You were a little kid. You saw your mother in pain. You wanted to stop it.” Her fingers were cool on his fevered skin. “Think about it. What if Tana had been the one to tell her? Would you blame him? Would you want him to blame himself?”

“Of course not. But it wasn't Tana. It was me.” How could she not understand?

“And Charlie,” he said, the words sticking in his throat. “You can blow it off, but that was my fault too. I wasn't a kid. I was twenty-­five, old enough to know better. But I thought I was smarter than everybody else. And he died because of my stupid ego.”

For a long moment, Christy looked into his eyes.

Then she took a step back, cocked her head to the side. “You know, you're right,” she said. “You should've seen that coming. You should've known that if you refused to deny you were gay, Charlie would end up dead in his swimming pool.”

She shrugged like it was a no-­brainer. “It was inevitable. Because everything's all about
you
. It's Kota's world, and we're all just living in it. The reporters had no free will. Neither did Charlie. They were just action figures, while you”—­she jabbed his chest—­“make the whole fucking world go round.”

He held up his hands. “I hear what you're saying, but look what I did to you. I went off half cocked, and you almost got nailed by a Suburban. You could be dead right now.”

It stole his breath. His palms went clammy.

She laid a hand on his chest. “You were an ass, Kota. But you didn't push me out in front of that Suburban. If I got nailed, it would've been my own fault. I could've asked a cop to stop traffic while I picked up my things. But being just as pigheaded as you, I blundered out into the street without engaging my brain.”

She shook her head. “You're a good man, Kota. You just need to accept that you can't control everyone else. Just like you can't control the weather, or the stock market, or a virus that could turn us all into zombies. Because life isn't a movie. You can't squint us into submission, or shoot everybody who crosses you, or have sex with every woman you meet.”

She paused. “Well, maybe that last one.”

He laughed. So did she, and it felt good, so good, to laugh together again.

Gazing into her warm caramel eyes, he could believe that anything was possible. That he could love her without killing her. That they had a chance at happiness.

His chest swelled, and he pressed her hand to it, flattening her palm so she'd feel his heart beating.

“Christy Gray, I've been waiting all my life for you.”

C
HRIS'S HEART FLUTT
ERED.
Her knees went weak.

But she stiffened her spine and took another step back, reclaiming her hand, leaning her hip on the counter. “There's more to a relationship,” she said, “than declaring our love and riding off into the sunset on Sugar. We're fundamentally different ­people.”

He spread his palms. “Sweetheart, that's a good thing. Why would I want to hook up with another asshole like me?”

“Good point. But assuming for the sake of argument that I'd jump at the chance, you'd have to dial down your control freak.”

“Sure, no problem.” He did his most disarming smile.

She gave him a pitying look. “Listen, I get it. You had a crappy childhood where nothing was in your control. So it's only natural that as an adult you'd react by trying to control everything.”

“You sound like Em.”

“You're not that complicated. The problem is, you like order and predictability, and I'm chaos. In the last three weeks, I snuck into a celebrity wedding, fell in love on a desert island, got kicked off the island by the men in black and ditched on the sidewalk by the man I love.

“If that wasn't enough, I quit my job, got sued by a senator, shit on by my roommate, chased by
TMZ
, lampooned on late-­night TV, and now my house is surrounded by paparazzi.”

He shrugged. “So things are a little crazy right now. They'll settle down.”

“Maybe someday. But my life's up in the air. I'm working on sorting it out, but it's a process.”

“I can help.” He glanced at her laptop, open on the coffee table. “What're you writing?”

“A screenplay.” Her face flushed hot. It was so clichéd. Everyone in L.A. was writing a screenplay.

She brazened it out. “It's about a girl I met in a refugee camp. How I imagine—­well, how I
hope
—­her life turned out.”

“Sounds original. You'll probably want to go indie with that. I know some ­people—­”

She growled low in her throat.

He shrugged. “Fine, do it the hard way. But if you change your mind—­”

“Kota, you have to let ­people sink or swim on their own. You're not responsible for what the rest of us do.” She threw up her hands. “Shit happens. I could get into a car accident on the way to see you. Or get food poisoning when we eat out somewhere.”

He paled. “How about you move in with me? Then you won't have to go anywhere. And I'll cook for you every night. No restaurants.”

She let out a laugh, because he was funny, and more than half serious.

He closed the distance between them, brought one hand up to cup her face. His thumb stroked her cheekbone, the lightest caress. “I know what you're saying, sweetheart. Everything doesn't revolve around me. And I'm learning. I'm letting Tana fend for himself while I go off to school. That's progress, isn't it?”

“It's a start.” She rested her hands on his waist. His heat soaked through his shirt, warming her skin. Warming her heart.

He lifted her chin and kissed her, a light brush of his lips. Then he wrapped his arms around her, gently, like she might take flight if he moved too suddenly.

“You snuck into more than a wedding, darlin'. You snuck into my heart.”

T
HERE WAS
ONLY
one way to carry Christy up the corkscrew staircase—­over his shoulder.

“You know I'm not crazy about this form of transport, don't you?” Her voice vibrated with every step.

“All the more reason to move in with me. My bedroom's on the first floor.”

“It's too soon.”

He opened his mouth to override her objections, to point out the many advantages of his estate, number one being that it was paparazzi-­proof . . .

Then he clammed up without a word. She was right; he was a controlling son of a bitch. Sure, he only wanted the best for everyone, but if he'd learned one thing this October, it was that ­people had their own ideas about how to live their lives.

Which meant he had to let Christy decide for herself when to move in with him. Not that he wouldn't do everything he could think of to tempt her. But he could be reasonable.

Hell, he'd even let her set their wedding date.

She pinched his butt. “Put me down.”

He stood her on her feet beside the bed. Eyed her in the moonlight streaking through the windows.

“Nice dress,” he said. “Take it off.”

She lifted it over her head.

“Nice shirt.” She tapped his chest with one finger. “Take it off.”

He ditched it.

“Nice bra.” He flicked it open. Her tits spilled into his hands.

He thumbed the nipples, smiled at her sharp sip of air. “I thought they didn't do much for you.”

“That was before they met you.” She covered his hands with hers, feeling herself up with his palms.

Hot. Very hot.

His Levi's shrank two sizes too small.

She dropped her hands to her panties, shimmied them off, and pushed them into his pocket. “A souvenir.” Her voice had gone husky. “Meanwhile, your pants.” She unbuttoned the button, tugged on the zipper.

He did the rest, then pulled her down on the bed, caging her under him, gazing into her face. There were stars in her eyes, or reflected in her eyes. Either way, she sparkled.

“I love you,” she said, and he breathed it in. It swirled through his chest like sweet smoke, making him high.

He breathed it back to her, “I love you,” and she drew it in, closing her eyes, smiling softly.

His arms circled her head where it lay on the pillow. She seemed small beneath him, but the furthest thing from weak. With one fingertip, she could move his two hundred pounds of muscle and bone. He'd be helpless to resist her.

Talk about control.

He slid a knee between hers, spreading her legs. And she put that fingertip to work, pushing him off, rolling him onto his back. Then she climbed aboard, taking him inside, all the way in, palms on his chest, skin gleaming in the starlight.

It was her ride, her rodeo, and she set the pace, slow and easy, while his fists bunched the sheets.

She smiled, locking onto his eyes. “You're dying to flip me, aren't you?”

He nodded. Sweat beaded his chest.

“You want to hold me down and hammer like Thor.”

Sweat slid off his temple.

She rolled her hips, testing his mettle. Her head fell back, the column of her throat pale in the moonlight. He must be part vampire, because he thirsted to bite it.

Then—­
thank you God
—­she picked up the pace. Faster, and faster till sweat glistened between her breasts.

He abandoned the sheets and gripped her hips, urging her on, driving her higher. Everything in him screamed to roll her, pin her down, take her harder, claim her fully.

But he held the line, even as she strained, as she moaned.

Then her head dropped forward, a cascade of mink sweeping his chest, sticking to her skin. His hands slid up her sides to palm her breasts, slippery and full.

“Babe,” he ground out through his teeth. “I'm dying here.” Drawn up tight and ready to explode.

“Then come.” She shook back her hair. Her neck stood out in cords. “Come with me.”

And she ignited, pure fire, sucking him into the blaze until they burned as one, searing through all that divided them, clear through their skin to sheer flame.