Page 28 of Speak of the Devil

“Living by the beach might help.”

He nods. “When I’m home for longer periods, I’ll hit the waves with Laird sometimes.”

I take a left, driving higher into the hills. “I’m failing in my stalking duties. Hope you don’t mind the questions.” That earns me a smile.

“I don’t.”

“Do you tour a lot?” I try to keep my eyes on the road but prefer looking at him. He’s a very attractive . . .friend, I remind myself once again.

“The band always tours during the summer months, but we’ve been going since April of this year.”

“It’s August.”

His head drops back on the headrest. “Yeah, it was a world tour to support our new album,” he replies, staring out the side window. “It ends next month.”

“Now I understand why you’re exhausted.”

“I love what I do.”

“I’m sure, but it doesn’t mean you don’t burn out.” I pull in front of a gate and brake. “How long are you home?” I ask, sounding very stalkerish.

Maybe he felt the same way because of the grin leading to a soft chuckle. “I leave tomorrow morning.” He still answered without hesitation.

Shifting into park, I angle toward him. “Am I reading you all wrong? You said you love what you do, but you don’t seemexcited . . .” When his eyes connect with mine, I whisper, “Or happy.”

He shifts a wry grin into place, but it isn’t natural. Not when deeper emotions hide in the depths of his eyes. “I’m about to get a divorce. What’s there to be happy about?” He chuckles, but it’s kept under wraps before humor has a chance to amp it up. He looks at the iron gate, a wall of steel blocking the view of the property. “You know where I live now.” He gives me a wink along with a click of his tongue. “Don’t break in and murder me in my sleep, okay?”

“If I were breaking in, I wouldn’t murder you.”

“Oh yeah? What would you do to me?”

I raise a finger in the air, laughter getting the better of me. “I think this is when I should say goodbye. I have a busy day ahead.”

He pops the door open. “That’s too bad. I was about to invite you in.” Shutting the door behind him, he crosses in front of the car and punches in a code on the keypad I’m parked next to.

I’m still trying to convince myself that us becoming friends is a nice consolation prize.Screw it.Rolling down the window, I say, “Funny enough, my schedule just cleared. Want a ride to your mansion’s front door?”

His laugh is bold and hearty as he stands in front of the gates as they open. “I think I can manage. I’ll see you up there.”

I watch him start up the edge of the driveway. It’s not particularly long compared to what I imagined, but the house does not disappoint. It’s smaller than I pictured in my head.I like that.A lot. Like he didn’t sell his soul to LA yet. I’d say give him time, but he’s had twelve years, and he still chose a modest house compared to Hollywood standards. I park and get out just as he walks up a short sidewalk to the front door.

The home is the opposite of modern on the outside. Greenery climbs the grayish bricks; French blue accents trim the rooflineand highlight the front door. I assume he purchased it as is, but I’m still curious. “I love the house.”

“Thanks. I had nothing to do with it. It came this way.” He opens the door and waits for me to enter. “I knew it was the one when I saw it, though.”

“But you kept it this way, so some credit is due.” Across the living area, I’m hit by an incredible view of the city, causing my breath to catch. “Wow, that’s . . .” I keep walking as if drawn to the light. “That view is everything.”

“The house is unassuming in the front, which was what drew me to it. And then you walk in, and it’s updated and bright, has a pool, but that view.” He nods, staring through the glass. “That’s why I bought it.”

I look around the living room and back toward the kitchen. White walls surround serene furniture. A wooden coffee table accents a neutral beige couch, and a plush leather chair rests on the hardwood floor nearby. The sterile aesthetic feels more akin to the nursing home than a rock star’s crash pad. Sparse furniture and a painting on the wall don’t make it a home. I glance at him, not feeling like this place represents him at all.

“My bedroom is down the hall on the left if you’re taking notes.”

“Good to know.” I smirk, giving him the satisfaction. Tapping my temple, I reply, “It’s all up here for future reference.”

Grinning like he has a juicy secret, he asks, “What can I get you to drink?”

I like the time together without the pressures of trying to save a house or convincing people to help us. I still feel sick over losing the earnest money, but there’s relief found in the slowdown of knowing it’s over. The fight, the battle, the war was lost. “I’m good right now. I guess we should talk about how to proceed from here, though?”

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