Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 34760 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 174(@200wpm)___ 139(@250wpm)___ 116(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34760 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 174(@200wpm)___ 139(@250wpm)___ 116(@300wpm)
Chapter Nine
Ash
Loralei's place is a cute little bungalow at the end of a cul-de-sac, with massive rosebushes growing beneath the windows and pink shutters. Inside, one entire wall is dominated by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Her furniture is gently worn, the color scheme soft and inviting.
"Dinner is almost finished," she says, leading me into a small kitchen overlooking the backyard. My stomach growls as soon as I step over the threshold and catch the mouthwatering hint of garlic butter in the air.
"What can I do to help?"
"Mm. Set the table?" she calls over her table, her hips swaying as she hurries to the stove to deal with a bubbling pot. "I just need to finish the noodles."
"Spaghetti?" I ask hopefully.
"I hope you don't mind," she says, almost like she expects me to be offended. "I didn't have a lot of time."
"Loralei." I wait until she meets my gaze. "You worked all day, spent time helping out at the bookstore, and still made time to cook for me," I murmur. "Believe me, baby, I'm grateful."
A tiny, pleased smile twists at her lips.
"Where can I find plates?"
She points me in the right direction, and I get to work. "Have you lived here long?" I ask, laying out silverware beside our plates.
"Not really. My grandma left the house to me when she passed a couple of years ago."
I pause, startled. "It was your grandma's house?"
"Yeah," she says quietly. "I'm her only grandkid, so she left it to me. I lived in an apartment closer to downtown before."
"Were you two close?"
"We were." A wistful smile tugs at her lips. "She's the reason I got into reading. When I was little, she took me to the library every week to pick out books."
"I love that," I murmur, leaning a hip against the counter to watch her. She moves around the kitchen efficiently, mixing the sauce, then testing the noodles before turning off the burner and transferring them to a strainer in the sink. As soon as they're in a bowl, she's pulling bread out of the oven, then returning to the sauce.
"Your dad raised you, right?"
I arch a brow and then chuckle when she blushes. "Keep forgetting you're a fan," I mutter ruefully. "We never talk about any of that shit. Makes it easy to forget."
"I like this better," she whispers. "Meeting you as a person instead of a celebrity. It feels more real, you know?"
"For me too," I admit, not sure she has any idea just how real she makes me feel. I've thought about nothing else all day. With her, I'm not Ash Kilborne, lead singer of Midnight Mayhem. I'm just Ash, the motherfucker lucky enough to get to touch her, hold her, kiss her. That's more addictive than alcohol could ever be.
I've thought about that a lot today, too. When you've been through addiction, there's always this fear that you'll replace one addiction with another. I think maybe I've been doing that for a long time, working myself so goddamn hard because if I'm working all the time, there's no time for temptation. At least, that's what I thought until I was staring down a bottle of whiskey, realizing that maybe I'd worked myself into the very problem I'd been trying to avoid.
Now, I've met her, and a little part of me worries that, maybe, I'm trying to use her to replace all the other shit. Except…that doesn't feel right. This feels different than anything ever has. I don't feel like I'm running from anything with her. I feel like I'm running to something, like I'm precisely where I'm supposed to be.
And the longer I'm here, the longer I'm with her, the less I want to go back to the other shit or introduce her into it. I don't know what I'm supposed to do about that. I don't know what I should do about it. But I know I need to decide. Soon.
I glance up and realize she's staring at me, still waiting for my answer. "Yeah." I clear my throat. "My dad raised me. At least, I guess that's what you call it."
"He wasn't a good dad?"
"He tried. Here." I step forward, grabbing the bowl of pasta from her hands to carry it to the table. "He just had his own shit. He spent a long time in the military, had his own demons. He did his best, but a lot of the time, I feel like music raised me more than he did."
"He died right after your first album, right?"
"Yeah, cancer."
"I'm sorry," she says, placing her hand on my back. "Even if you guys had issues, I can't imagine losing him was easy."
"It never is," I murmur, turning to brush my fingers along her cheek, just to touch her. Just to watch her shiver and sway toward me. "What about you, baby? Where are your parents?"