Dangerous Games: A Standalone Second Chance Romance Read online

  “I’m not asking you to forgive me for my lapse of judgment.” His words force my attention back to him. I attempt to argue once more, but he holds up his free hand, interrupting me. “Do you have any idea how many times my finger hovered over your contact in my cell only to chicken out at the last minute?” His tone grows impassioned. “God, Izzy. So many times. I’ve wanted to apologize for years, tell you how ashamed I am of what I put you through. Tell you—”

  “You have nothing to apologize for.” Although I didn’t make him believe so at the time. It was easier to use his supposed infidelity as the catalyst for our breakup instead of admitting the truth to anyone, including myself.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Same Jessie York. Still always has to have the last word.”

  “Same Isabella Nolan. Still always trying to see the good in everyone. Even someone who doesn’t deserve it. Not after what I did.”

  As much as I doubt I’ll ever be able to tell Jessie the real reason I walked away, I hate the idea of him shouldering the blame that seems to still eat at him.

  “Fifty-fifty split?” I offer with a smile.

  He furrows his brow, seemingly confused by my statement. Then realization kicks in, as I knew it would.

  Whenever we had a disagreement, we’d inevitably apologize, both wanting to bear the majority of the blame for the argument. Although back then, it was usually over my family’s love of the Mets and his love of the Red Sox. I could never bring up the year 1986 without it igniting intense emotions. That was the year the Red Sox got so close to winning the World Series, until an error allowed the Mets to take it. Regardless of the reason for the fight, we always agreed to share the blame equally. It was what made our relationship work so well.

  Until it didn’t.

  Smiling, he extends his hand toward me. “Fifty-fifty split,” he repeats. I allow him to shake my hand, as we always did to solidify our agreement.

  I’m about to make a crack about Billy Buckner when he cuts me off.

  “I know where you’re going, and I don’t want to hear it. It’s still a bit of a sore spot, even though the curse is broken.” A hint of his Boston accent shines through in his words.

  I laugh, any lingering unease melting off as I joke with him. Like we used to. We always were good friends. I often thought we were better as friends than as a couple.

  “I didn’t think I’d ever get to hear that again,” he remarks thoughtfully.

  “What?”

  “Your laugh.” He smiles a pained smile. “Still as beautiful as you are.”

  I lower my eyes. No other guy I’d dated ever admitted their feelings so unabashedly. With Jessie, there were no games, no questioning where he stood. After what I’ve done, I don’t feel like I deserve his compliment.

  “You must be wondering why I called,” he says after a beat.

  “It wasn’t to apologize?” I ask timidly.

  “Well, yes and no.”

  “No?” A knot forms in my stomach, my trepidation increasing with each silent second. Every sound is heightened. The clink of ice against glass. The occasional chuckle. The melody of Ella Fitzgerald’s voice as she sings about how much she loves the city of Manhattan.

  A laugh rips from his throat. It’s not filled with humor. But not quite sarcastic, either. It heightens my anxiety even more.

  “I never thought I’d reach a point where I’d have this conversation with you.”

  “What conversation?” My words are barely audible, a weight bearing down on my chest.

  “You’re going to think I’m crazy. But I’m left with no choice…” He trails off.

  My heartbeat echoes in my ears, the hairs on my nape standing on end. He knows. He must. Maybe his apology was a front. A way to lull me into a false sense of security before he pounces, forcing me to reveal the secret I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep forever.

  I wonder if this is how condemned prisoners feel when they’re led to the execution chamber and are asked if they’d like to make one final statement. No wonder many don’t. What is there to say? The people watching have already made up their minds. Nothing the accused says will change their opinion. Just like nothing I say to Jessie will lessen the sting of my actions. All I can do is beg for forgiveness.

  “It’s about Asher.”

  “I can explain,” I interject. “It didn’t—”

  “He’s blocked,” he interrupts before I can incriminate myself.

  Stilling, I blink. Once. Twice. Allowing my brain to process his statement. “Blocked?”

  “He’s missed the past three deadlines. I don’t know how much time the label’s willing to give him. This next album can make or break his career. Can turn him from a one-hit wonder into a household name. Well, even more a household name than he’s already become, considering you can’t turn on the radio without hearing ‘Amante’.”

  I swipe up my martini glass, gulping down the liquid. “What do I have to do with any of this?”

  On a long sigh, he reaches into the inner pocket of his suit. “This.” He tosses a folded piece of paper onto the table. But it’s not just any folded piece of paper. It’s folded into the shape of an origami dove. Something Asher and I always did as our way of apologizing after we’d gotten into an argument. Jessie and I had the fifty-fifty split. Asher and I had origami doves.

  I look at the paper, able to make out a music staff and notes scratched on it, most likely discarded versions of a song Asher’s trying to find. “I’m not sure I—”

  “Every song he’s written lately ends up as an origami dove. I know this was a thing between you guys. I didn’t realize you two were still in touch.”

  “We’re not.” A sour taste fills my mouth. It’s not a complete lie, but not forthcoming, either.

  “Then why is he making these damn origami doves? He’s refused to give me answers, so I figured I had no choice but to go to the source.”

  “How should I know?” I peer into eyes that are borderline accusatory. “Maybe he’s feeling a bit nostalgic. Wishes things could return to the way they were before he had all this pressure on him.”

  He squints, seemingly toiling over this explanation for validity. My mouth grows dry and I take another large sip of my drink, but nothing settles my nerves at the prospect of Jessie putting the pieces together. Then his shoulders fall.

  “I remember how you guys would stay up all night working on music. I guess that was one of the things I was always jealous about.” He laughs slightly. “I hated the mere thought of him stealing you away, although he’d never do that. But all I saw was my brother and girlfriend sharing a bond I’d never have with either of you. I’ve never exactly been…musically inclined.”

  “You don’t say,” I tease in an attempt to lighten the mood.

  While Jessie’s always had a great ear for music, he couldn’t hold a tune if his life depended on it, growing frustrated whenever I tried to teach him the basics of playing the piano or guitar. It’s all further proof that he and his brother truly are complete opposites. Whatever Jessie excelled at, Asher struggled with, and vice versa. Together, though, they’re a force to be reckoned with. Which is why Asher’s rise to stardom over the past year has been rapid. He writes addictive songs and performs them with a soulful presence you can’t help but be drawn to. As his manager, Jessie knows how to market his sex appeal and beautiful music to the masses.

  As much as I’ve tried to avoid everything to do with both Asher and Jessie York, it’s grown increasingly impossible, particularly once Asher’s first album dropped and he made the rounds on the talk show circuit. Whenever I caught him on TV, I couldn’t help but stop and listen to him tell the story of how he got his big break. How he was about to throw in the towel when he received the phone call that changed his life.

  One of the members of Fallen Grace, the biggest boy band around today, had seen Asher perform at a local club. After playing Asher’s stuff for the rest of the band, they approached him with a proposition. They�
��d been searching for a newer, less boy-band-esque sound, and Asher had exactly what they’d been looking for.

  When they asked him to write the songs for their new album, Asher agreed, thinking it would be his only claim to fame. But once the band went public with the brains behind Fallen Grace 2.0, as they’d referred to it, record labels knocked down his door, begging for him to sign with them. In a matter of months, Asher went from nearly giving up on a music career to having all the major labels fighting over him.

  “This is why I need you, Iz. All the songs Asher released on the last album were ones he’d written when you were in the picture. Trust me. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t necessary. I get the feeling all these damn doves are a sign. An S.O.S., so to speak.”

  “S.O.S.? What are you talking about?”

  He drags his fingers through his perfectly groomed hair, tugging at it. It’s clear whatever’s blocking Asher plagues Jessie, too.

  “Asher plans to head up north in a few weeks to work on the new album. To Grams’ lake house, where he wrote so many of his old songs. Where you helped him write so many of his old songs. I want you to…hang out with him, like you used to.”

  My face heats, limbs jittery as I listen to Jessie’s proposal that I go up to the lake house and spend time with Asher. If he knew the truth, he’d be singing a different tune.

  “I didn’t do anything. I’m sure if he goes up there on his own, he’ll find that inspiration. I have commitments here. I can’t ignore those.”

  “We’ve tried that, but it didn’t work. We recreated everything. Except there was one thing missing. You.”

  I’m about to protest, but he interrupts.

  “I understand I’m asking a lot of you, considering our…past. I’m sure the last thing you want to do is hang out with your ex’s brother at his grandmother’s lake house in the dead of winter.”

  I remain straight-faced, not wanting him to read between the lines of my expression.

  “That’s why I’m willing to compensate you for your time.” He reaches into the messenger bag at his feet, withdrawing several papers and extending them toward me.

  “What’s this?” I ask, my eyes scanning the pages, which could be written in a foreign language as far as I’m concerned.

  “A standard royalty distribution arrangement. I want to buy some of your time.”

  “I’m not sure I—”

  “You’ll get points on the album.”

  “Points?”

  “Yes. In layman’s terms, a point is a royalty percentage. I’ll give you two points, or two percent of every album sold. Same goes for streaming royalties. Taking the numbers from his debut album, that would have already netted you nearly fifty grand.”

  My eyes widen as I choke on my own saliva. “Fifty grand?” I knew Asher was doing well for himself. He’s been lauded as the next John Mayer, albeit with a more soulful and bluesy vibe. I didn’t realize he’s already become the next John Mayer. If two percent of sales equals fifty grand in six months, I can’t imagine the money Asher is pulling in.

  “And early projections look like this upcoming album will easily be four times that, possibly more.”

  My jaw drops. “So you’re offering me potentially two hundred grand just to spend time with Asher?”

  “More or less.”

  I blink, struggling to wrap my head around this. “This is an incredible offer, but I—”

  “There’s more. An extra…incentive.”

  “Incentive?”

  “Like I mentioned, we’re past deadline here. This album was supposed to come out at the beginning of this year in order to help with notoriously low first quarter sales. The label gave us an extension, but it needs to drop in the second quarter. So I’m willing to offer you an additional twenty grand, payable at the end of his time up north, contingent on him writing a full album worth of songs by the time he’s set to go into the recording studio.”

  “And when is that?”

  “March first.”

  “It’s already the middle of January, Jessie. You want me to find some way of inspiring him to write a dozen or so songs in a little more than a month?”

  He shrugs. “He’s done it before when you were around.”

  I shake my head. “It’s been years. I don’t—”

  His hand covers mine, squeezing. “Please, Izzy.” His words are laced with desperation. “I’m out of options. I need you. Asher needs you.”

  “This is crazy. What am I supposed to do?”

  “Whatever it takes. Within reason, of course,” he adds quickly. “I’m not paying you to sleep with him like some managers hire girls to spark their client’s inspiration. Not that Asher would do that anyway. Not with our past.”

  “Of course not,” I say with a tight-lipped smile, doing my best to keep my expression neutral. I feel his eyes skate over my face, the seconds seeming to stretch.

  “Just… Do whatever you used to do whenever you guys burned the proverbial midnight oil. That’s what I’m trying to recreate here. Those nights you both stayed up until all hours, which always seemed to result in him writing yet another song.”

  I focus on the papers, the words bleeding into each other. This entire scenario seems absurd. The last thing I expected when I agreed to meet him was this kind of proposition. But no amount of money would make me agree to this proposition.

  I close the royalty agreement and push it back toward him. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. Can’t you hire some songwriters to compose the songs for the album?”

  “I tried. Asher refused. Said he’s a songwriter first. Performer second. It was part of the deal he made with the label. Only his material. He’d sooner give it all up before performing someone else’s song because some fuckhead in a suit told him to. His words, not mine.” He rolls his eyes. “According to Asher, I’d probably fit into that fuckhead in a suit category.”

  I laugh, able to picture Asher saying those precise words.

  “Please, Iz,” Jessie implores again, his voice turning serious. “At this point, I’m out of options. And time. If this album doesn’t drop soon, Asher’s career will be over. He’ll lose everything. His contract prohibits him from being picked up by another label or releasing independently for two years. By that time, he’ll no longer be current.”

  “So if he doesn’t release this album, it’s all over?”

  He nods. “Most likely. This industry is cutthroat enough as it is. If he disappears for two years, he’ll lose all his forward momentum. He’ll be starting from scratch. You know how much he wants this. How long this has been his dream.”

  “I do.”

  “Listen…” Jessie pushes out of his chair and stands, leaving the contract with me. Retrieving his wallet, he throws several bills down, enough to cover our drinks and a rather generous tip. “Don’t do it for me. Do it for Asher. Just…” He exhales a long breath. “Just look over the agreement and take some time to think about it.” He cracks a small smile. “But not too much. Time is at a premium. Can you promise you’ll do that? That you’ll think about it?”

  I exhale a long breath. “Okay.”

  “Thank you.” He turns, and I watch him make his way through the lounge, everything about his stride and the way he carries himself confident and mature.

  “Hey, Jessie?” I call out before he can disappear.

  Stopping, he glances over his shoulder with an arched brow.

  “You were good to me. Just wanted you to know that.”

  A smile tugs on his mouth. “Thanks, Iz. I needed to hear that.” Then he continues out of the bar, leaving me alone to consider his proposal.

  But there is nothing to consider. I can’t bring myself to fall into Asher’s world.

  Not after I made the mistake of sleeping with him a year ago.

  Chapter Two

  One Year Ago

  “Well, thank God that’s over.” Chloe spun on her heels, hurrying toward the bank of elevators, as if it were a race.

&nb
sp; I couldn’t blame her. After the past several days of being stuck at the bachelorette party that never ended, I wanted to get as far away from the clanging bells of slot machines, too.

  I never thought I would have been the type of person to be in Las Vegas for a bachelorette party. Certainly no one within my tight-knit circle of friends had any desire to celebrate their upcoming nuptials with such a cliché and overdone event. But that was before I’d received a phone call out of the blue from my childhood friend, Hannah.

  I’d all but forgotten about the adolescent pact Chloe and I had made with her to be in each other’s bridal parties if the day should ever arrive. Despite having grown apart from Hannah since then, Chloe and I honored our word and hopped on a plane bound for the tenth circle of hell.

  “I swear, if one more guy approaches me thinking I’m a prostitute because my hair’s a different shade, I’m going to lose it. I’m not the first person to color my hair gray and lilac, for crying out loud.” She gestured to her wavy locks that fell to her mid-back.

  I must admit, it took me a while to get used to the color, knowing I’d never be so daring as to change my hair to such a unique tone. But that was Chloe. Bold and a bit reckless. Plus, her natural shade of blonde made it easier to do something like that. There wasn’t much I could do with my nearly jet-black hair. As far as our appearance went, Chloe and I were as opposite as could be. She was short and petite, the picture of an all-American girl, aside from her choice in hair color. I was on the taller side with curves and olive-toned skin, thanks to my Latina heritage.

  “You know how this place can be,” I responded when I caught up to her. “It’s bachelorette party central. You saw how the girls behaved. They’re away from home and responsibility, so they throw common sense out the window and flirt with anything with a pulse. Same goes for the men here for bachelor parties. And, as we all know, men aren’t nearly as intelligent as women, so they say and do even dumber things.”

  Her laughter filled the elevator vestibule, overpowering the abrasive noise of the casino. “You’ve got that right.” When a car arrived, she slung her arm over my shoulders, which proved slightly difficult due to our height difference, her five-two to my five-seven, but we managed. Like always.