Ryder (A Merrick Brothers Novel) Page 3

  “You shouldn’t have come here,” I say, stepping back, watching his fingers fall away from my stomach.

  Releasing a deep breath, he looks into my eyes, saying, “I have a benefit show I’m doing tomorrow night. I’ll leave a seat open for you. We can have dinner after and . . .”

  “Go to hell!” I say, struggling to keep my voice strong when I feel anything but, before opening my door and leaving him standing on the stoop.

  “Kailey,” he begs, knocking on my door. “You’re not getting rid of me. I’ll leave a seat open for you for the rest of my life if I have to.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I was the jock

  You were just the trouble I was looking for

  Ryder

  Front row seat all the way at the end of the row—stayed empty all night. She didn’t show. How the fuck can she not show?

  And now I’m heading to do the interview that I skipped last night—some talk show to discuss the end of the tour, what my upcoming plans are. Staring out the window of the limousine, I consider my next move, trying to ignore Maggie sitting next to me.

  A baby? My baby?

  In theory, a guy knows that when he has sex, pregnancy is always a possibility. It’s just we choose not to think about that as soon as our dicks get hard. I know jack shit about babies and pregnancy. My mom died when I was very young. After that, it was just me, my younger brother, and my dad. There was a lot of testosterone in that house.

  The only thing my dad ever taught us about babies was to avoid making one. And come to think of it, it was more of a threat than a lesson. Apparently, I failed. Another example in the long line of me disappointing my old man, only he’s not around to see this one, having passed away several years ago.

  Some men in my position might be grateful the woman didn’t want anything to do with them, be glad to be off the hook. I’ve got my reasons for wanting the opposite. Things I don’t talk about. I also know what it’s like to not have an intact family. No kid should go through that. I won’t let my kid feel that kind of pain or rejection. No fucking way.

  I should really be thinking about the interview I’m about to give, but instead, I pull out my phone, hitting the built-in reading app. I write my own music, which means I like words. I’ve read everything from classics to poetry, but right now I’m searching for something else.

  Pregnancy books.

  Pregnancy for Dummies. That seems appropriate. One click, and it downloads right to my phone.

  “Make sure to apologize for cancelling last night,” Maggie says, raising the privacy shield between us and the driver. “I’ve told them not to ask you about it.”

  When I don’t give her more than a nod of my head, she sighs, but I’ve got bigger things on my mind.

  “Just promise me I won’t wake up alone,” Kailey had whispered as I kissed her neck. One night, that’s all we had, but I’ll never forget the promises I made to her.

  It wasn’t until she said those words that I realized where things were going that night. Honestly, I didn’t plan on taking her to bed. Of course, that’s what I wanted, but she was different than other women. I would’ve waited for her. From the moment I pulled her out of the rain, I’d known there was something different about her. Maybe it was that she had no clue who I was. Maybe it was she looked like she needed a rescue. Hell if I know. But it was just a feeling I had—and, like many artists, I’ve lived my life by my feelings, for better or for worse.

  “Promise me you’ll call me,” she’d moaned.

  I broke both of those promises, but I didn’t intend to. I wasn’t lying when I made them. My broken promises weren’t meant to hurt her. But I know they did.

  “You know she’s probably lying,” Maggie says, touching my forearm. “This kind of thing happens all the time. She might not even be pregnant.”

  “She’s not lying,” I say simply, downloading a couple more books on pregnancy and childbirth. What the hell is a doula?

  “Even if she is pregnant, you can’t be sure the baby’s yours.”

  “It’s mine,” I say, moving my book search to something else. Something that I won’t download. I know exactly which ones I want to order. It only takes a few seconds.

  “Ryder,” Maggie says. “She’s playing you.”

  I lean my head back on the seat. “I don’t think so.”

  Maggie throws some papers at me. “I did some digging. She’s unemployed. She just wants to cash in.”

  I toss the papers aside and stare back out the window of the limo, the entire city covered under a blanket of shadows. Los Angeles is known as the city of angels, but even the angels know to hide when my demons come to town. “She just graduated. That’s why she doesn’t have a job,” I say.

  “And if you pay her, then she won’t have to get one.”

  “She hasn’t asked me for a dime!”

  Maggie’s hand lands softly on my knee. “Ryder, part of my job is to protect you.”

  Maggie’s been with me since before there was a “me.” She’s more than my publicist. Not much in my career gets decided without her input. She’s the first person that listens to anything new I write, the person who cleans up my messes, and hides all my secrets. I’m always her top priority. As her only client, I should be.

  “I know that look on your face,” she says. “You’re not going to let this go.”

  I never intended on letting Kailey go in the first place. The fact that she’s stumbled back into my life means something. I feel it deep in a place that I thought I buried a long time ago.

  “I’ll handle it,” Maggie says, pulling out her phone like my unborn child is a potential scandal that needs to be managed.

  “No,” I say firmly.

  I understand where Maggie’s coming from. When you live your life in the public eye, scandals happen. People try to take advantage. But the tears in Kailey’s eyes were real, her nerves weren’t fake, and neither is this pregnancy. She could’ve demanded money. She could’ve gone to the press. She could’ve taken my ass to court, but she didn’t do any of those things. Instead, she probably maxed out her credit card to sit in the front row of my show, hoping I’d recognize her. That’s not the action of someone who’s lying.

  “Let me do my job,” Maggie says. “I’ve been pretty good at shielding you from scandal for this long.”

  My body goes rigid, and I flash her a look. That’s hitting below the belt. There are things we don’t discuss. Things that live between us, but aren’t acknowledged.

  It’s the things we don’t say that define us.

  She stiffens her spine. “I just meant this is what I do.”

  “I’m telling you not to do anything.”

  “Then what are you going to do?” she asks, her eyebrows raised in a cocky look.

  “First, I’ve got to get her to talk to me,” I say.

  “Why not just leave it alone? If she truly doesn’t want anything from you, why not just count your blessings and move on?”

  “She’s carrying my kid!” I snap. “You think I can just walk away?”

  “So it’s about the baby?” Maggie asks, leaning closer. “It’s not about the woman.”

  “Her name is Kailey.” Leaning my head back, I say, “I have to be there for her.”

  “Ryder, this isn’t like . . .”

  “Maggie!” I snap. “I’m doing this, so I suggest you get on board.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Kailey

  Have you ever Googled yourself? I haven’t until tonight. There are exactly three mentions of me in cyberspace. My high school graduation, my college graduation, and the registry for the wedding that didn’t happen.

  Google Ryder Merrick, and it’s a very different story. There are literally millions of references to him online, but the most common by far reads:

  Ryder Merrick—the bad boy of country music.

  I look over to Addison. She’s on her laptop, I’m on my desktop, and apparently, Ryder is on top of anything in a skirt.
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  “Is being a man-whore genetic?” I ask, rubbing my baby bump.

  “You don’t even know if you’re having a boy,” Addison says, rolling her eyes. “So he’s a bad boy. Bad boys can be good dads.”

  “Sometimes a bad boy is just that—a bad boy!”

  “A bad boy who does good things between the sheets,” she teases me.

  I toss a pillow at her head. I never should’ve told her about that night, but I was such a wreck, I had to confide in someone. Plus, she’s my big sister. She always has a way of dragging things out of me. She had her share of one-night stands before she got married, so I knew she wouldn’t judge me. Not that I was aware at the time that I was having a one-night stand. Stupid me, I thought he actually felt something for me.

  “Look at this article,” Addison says, turning her laptop toward me. “It claims Ryder always takes one woman on the road with him on his tours. Some source says he fucks them for the length of the tour, then that’s it. Makes them sign all kinds of waivers and shit.”

  “Do you think that’s true?” I ask, wondering who exactly I let into my bed.

  “It’s on some scary looking site that probably will give my computer a virus, but who knows.”

  “Wonder where his tour fuck buddy was the night he was with me?” I question.

  Addison gives me the most pitiful look. I hate it. “You sure you’ll be alright here alone? Owen and I can take Tinsley to the amusement park another weekend.”

  No way am I going to deny my sister and her husband taking my precious little niece away for the weekend.

  “I’ll be fine,” I say, further scanning the article about Ryder’s sexual proclivities. I’m not sure what hurts the most, knowing I was just another easy conquest, or realizing I really fell for him.

  I feel myself spiraling when Addison screams my name, turning her laptop toward me, a taped interview from the night before playing on the screen.

  Rushing to take a seat beside her, my stomach twists. If I didn’t know better, I’d say our baby just moved, but I know it’s my own nerves. Addison pushes the button on her laptop, turning up the sound. Ryder’s handsome face covers the screen. The stubble on his face only adds to his rugged good looks. He’s dressed in a blue button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up and the top few buttons undone, which is a sharp contrast to the interviewer’s pinstripe suit.

  “You’ve been voted sexiest man in country music. How does that feel?” the interviewer asks.

  Ryder simply shrugs in that not a care in the world way that only he can pull off.

  “Really? Not flattered?” the interviewer persists.

  This time Ryder adds a coy smile to the shrug. He’s either a terrible interviewee, or the most smug man on the planet.

  “You’ve had some pretty beautiful women on your arm, can’t be all bad.” When Ryder doesn’t give an inch, the interviewer looks down, shuffling some papers. “Okay, let’s switch gears. Recently, an article came out pegging you as one of the most private people in music today. Went on to say how you won’t even do shirtless photos.”

  Ryder shifts slightly. “I appreciate all my fans, but that doesn’t mean they get to know my every move or see me half naked.”

  “You sound bitter.”

  “I’m not one of those famous people who’s going to complain about the fame. But I’m not one of those reality stars, either, who simply wants to be famous. I play music because it’s in my soul. It’s what I was made to do. I can’t imagine doing anything else, and I make a really good living at it. I didn’t sign up for all the other nonsense, it’s just an unfortunate byproduct of my job.”

  “So you don’t enjoy the fame?” the interviewer asks.

  “It depends. When I’m courtside at the Lakers, sure I do.”

  “But other times?” the interviewer presses.

  Ryder looks away from the camera and interviewer. He looks completely lost, and I wonder if I’m what’s on his mind. I find myself leaning a little closer to the screen. The interviewer leans forward, too, sensing he has Ryder in a weak moment. But Ryder’s eyes turn to him, hard and cold.

  “Other times, I’d appreciate the world not commentating on who I’m . . .”

  They bleeped out the word “fucking,” but it was obvious what he said. Addison grabs my hand.

  “Seems like you’ve got someone particular in mind.”

  He can’t be talking about me. He’s not going to mention my name, is he? Yes, we slept together, but he wouldn’t talk about it on national television, would he?

  The interviewer puts his hand to his earpiece. “Are we talking about this girl?”

  A huge picture appears of Ryder and me kissing in the rainstorm at the music festival. How’d they get that?

  “Oh my God!” I cry.

  “Holy shit!” Addison says. “That’s you!”

  “What’s he doing?” I ask, grabbing the screen.

  Ryder stares at the picture, his eyes visibly glassy. Did he arrange this? Doesn’t he realize he’s putting me in the spotlight? Is he doing this on purpose? I can’t be sure, but it doesn’t seem so. He seems jarred by this. He’s shaking his head slightly, pulling himself together.

  “Is that a yes? This is the woman?”

  Ryder remains coy and doesn’t answer, but the damage is already done—at least to me. The interviewer smiles broadly, clearly happy he’s cracked this tough nut.

  “Looks like a yes to me. Pretty open forum here if there’s anything you want to say to her.”

  “She already knows,” Ryder whispers softly then removes his microphone and walks off the set.

  Addison turns off the computer, but I remain fixated on the blank screen, my mind trying to absorb what I just heard. What am I supposed to know? He left me alone in an empty hotel suite. The only positive thing I can say about the morning after is that at least the room was paid for.

  “Kailey, that picture is all over the tabloid sites and channels. Some people are running contests to find the mystery woman,” Addison says. “What if someone recognizes you?”

  The only people that I’ve told about that night are my sister, who I’m sure told her husband, and my parents, and that was only after the positive pregnancy test forced my hand. And I’m confident none of them are alerting the media to my identity.

  “I’m sure it will all blow over,” I say, fairly sure no one will identify me from that photo. It was raining. It’s a side shot. Ryder mostly covers me. There’s no way anyone would make any connection between me and one of the country’s greatest heartthrobs. “Probably just some sort of publicity stunt.”

  Addison raises her eyebrows in disbelief, but I encourage her out the door, reminding her she’s leaving early in the morning for her family getaway, assuring her I’m fine. I’m not going to obsess over him. I’ve done that enough. Yes, I’m carrying his child, but that doesn’t mean I have to carry him in my heart one second longer.

  *

  My promise not to obsess over Ryder was so successful that I got less than two hours of sleep. Oh well, broken promises seem to be the name of the game these days. I lay in my bed in the guest cottage of my sister’s house, staring up at the ceiling. I don’t feel pregnant. Sometimes it’s hard to believe that I am. If I hadn’t seen the positive pregnancy tests myself, I’d think I just ate a big meal—okay, several big meals.

  Single mom? That phrase rings in my head daily like a cuckoo clock whose neck you want to break.

  My heart squeezes in my chest. It’s been doing that since the morning I woke up alone in his hotel suite. If only I’d known exactly how little that night meant to him, but I hadn’t. It seems stupid now, but I fell for him. And when you fall, your vision blurs, and it’s harder to see the world around you. Waking up alone was like faceplanting in concrete.

  If he only wanted one night, he should’ve been honest, and let me decide for myself. I guess he realized that’s not normal behavior for me, and the only way to get me in his bed was to lie to me, make m
e believe what was happening between us was the stuff of legendary romances. The stuff of the fairy tales I used to love as a little girl.

  But I’m not a little girl anymore. Maybe it’s time to stop believing that love conquers all. Being a hopeless romantic seems to only bring heartbreak. It’s like when I was little and we’d gone to pick out a new puppy, and I’d picked the runt of the litter. I was just setting myself up for heartbreak, believing I could love that little puppy to health. Didn’t work out then, but it’d clearly taught me nothing.

  My heart jumps again, but this time, it’s a loud banging on my door that causes it. Addison and Owen should be gone by now, so I’m not sure who it could be. Please, dear God, don’t let Mom and Dad be outside. They only live a few hours away. If Addison called and told them she was worried about me, they’d be here in no time. That’s just the way they are. I really don’t want to see anyone. For the next few days, I want to hibernate, cocoon in the safety of my bed, and figure out what to do with the rest of my life because clearly, my previous life plan is up in smoke.

  I’m not going to answer—I hope they go away. I have other things to do, like finding a job. Ideally, I’d want to find something in my field of study, communication disorders—like speech therapy, or hearing specialist—but I’m not going to be picky. I just need to find something, even if that means I wait tables until something better comes along. The banging begins again. Then again.

  I can’t take it anymore.

  Yawning, I stretch as I make my way to the front door. I’m too tired to deal with my parents or an upset neighbor. I open the door, my eyes landing on the chest of a man roughly the size of a mountain. Looking up at him is like looking up at a skyscraper. He removes his sunglasses, his eyes a soft brown that contrast his hard frame.

  Pulling out an ID, he says, “I’m Geoffrey Reynolds, head of security for Ryder Merrick.”

  His voice is low and deep and demands respect. I take his ID, examining it, knowing I couldn’t tell the difference even if it was fake. “Can I help you?”