Chasin's Surrender (Gemini Group Book 5) Page 2

  Okay, if I was being honest, I was a little scared, too. But I wasn’t admitting it because my best friend was overprotective, and if she knew how freaked out I really was, we’d be on a jet to Siberia. I didn’t want to live in Siberia so I was keeping the nightmares to myself.

  Though with Chasin in my bed, I hadn’t had a single bad dream.

  God!

  Why were people such assholes?

  I trudged up the stairs thinking I should be thankful I’d gone downstairs to get a drink of water, saw I had two missed texts from Bobby and called her back, because now I knew I was wrong about Chasin.

  But what if I’d ignored Bobby and gone back to Chasin?

  God, I was stupid.

  Once I hit the landing, instead of going left to the master I went right into one of the smaller bedrooms where I’d set up my guitars. Just because I was in hiding didn’t mean I wouldn’t be working. My publicist was a genius—she’d spun the story that I’d disappeared to write my next album. To make that true, I needed to work.

  I may be a coward, hiding out in this big, huge, cold mansion, but I wasn’t the liar Chasin had accused me of being.

  I walked to the stand and picked up my favorite PRS guitar. Everything about this instrument was pure beauty, from the sound, to the Macassar ebony headstock, ebony fretboard, the vine and flower abalone inlays, all the way down to the curly maple body and pauna purfling.

  I owned more expensive guitars but this one was my favorite. I’d bought it from the man who’d commissioned it from Paul Reed Smith. It wasn’t just a guitar, it was a work of art.

  I plopped my ass down on the edge of an old wingback chair, curled my hand around the neck, and felt my soul settle.

  This was what I needed.

  Without thought, my fingers worked the fretboard, and on instinct, they found the chord shape. My eyes closed and my right hand plucked the strings, my left ring finger slid down to the third fret still holding a B. On the up strum it glided back up the second fret. From there, I was lost in the best song ever written.

  And not for the first time, I thought that John Rzeznik was a genius. Then as I hummed along to a song I wished I’d written because I felt every word—every single one—in a place so deep and private it was mine and mine alone. Yet, I wished with everything inside of me there was someone I could share it with.

  I got to the second verse, gave up humming, and started singing about a world that didn’t see me, a world that would never understand, and just like what happened with Chasin, everything was meant to be broken. Even if I wished with every cell in my body that he would’ve seen me, he didn’t. And just like Rzeznik’s lyrics, I didn’t need to fight the tears that weren’t coming.

  I was used to this—this was my life.

  No one saw me. Not even Bobby anymore, and she was not only my assistant but my best friend. She knew me before I was famous. She knew me when I was working two jobs, dead on my feet, trying to find my break.

  But that was my fault.

  On the surface everything was okay, she pretended right along with me that I hadn’t retreated so deep inside of myself, I was mostly gone. I sang, I wrote, I performed, but that was it. I was dead inside.

  My parents had finally succeeded in killing the last twinkle of hope that there was something good out there for me. My parents were soul-sucking, money-hungry mooches. Drunken deadbeats who thought the world—meaning, first my father’s family, then me—owed them something.

  My mom’s family had been dirt-poor, she’d married rich and thought she’d hit the jackpot with that, and she had. My grandparents were generous. Until my parents’ drinking got out of hand. They drank more and more, lost jobs, and turned into drunken, foul, nasty people, then my father’s family cut them off, and that meant I was cut off, too.

  At ten, I didn’t know or care about money, all I knew was Granddad and Grandmom were gone. That was by my parents’ decree unless my grandparents paid for the privilege. No, that wasn’t right, Granddad could’ve saved me, but he didn’t.

  So after all of that, my parents being the biggest assholes on the planet, and my granddad caring more about protecting himself than me, I had no family.

  My uncle was cool enough to let me stay in his house, but that wasn’t because we were close, or he cared about me, it was simply because he didn’t care about the house. It had been left to him when my grandparents died. The house meant nothing to him and neither did I.

  Family sucked.

  Men sucked.

  But in the end, I’d made it on my own.

  I’d proved that I was better than the drunks who had raised me.

  I worked hard, I was honest, and I was a good person.

  And that was a little bit of all right in my book.

  But still, no one saw me.

  I finished the last line of the Goo Goo Dolls song, “Iris,” letting the final chord play, then I hung my head and stared at the worn floorboard under my bare feet and wondered why I wasn’t worthy.

  I had more money than I could ever spend, my fans filled stadiums to hear me sing, I had people who would jump if I asked—not that I would because that was seriously yucky—but they’d jump and kiss my ass, and give me anything I wanted.

  And not a single fucking one of them saw I was dying inside.

  I just wanted someone to know who I was.

  Me.

  Genevieve.

  I’d never have that. My money couldn’t buy it, my fame couldn’t get it for me, and since those were the only two things I had going for me, I was giving up. I was locking my need up tight where no one would ever know how lonely I was.

  I slipped into Green Day’s, “Boulevard of Broken Dreams.” My mind blanked, my fingers moved, and my voice filled the house. Four minutes and twenty-three seconds later, my throat was raw when I set my baby back on her stand and slogged my way into the master and climbed into bed.

  The sheets smelled like Chasin.

  But it’s not me who’s gonna fuck you.

  As was my way, when something was on my mind, I laid in bed wide awake.

  But it’s not me.

  No, it wouldn’t be him.

  Then I threw the covers back, my feet hit the floor, and I went back to the other room, grabbed my notepad, and started to write lyrics I didn’t want to write.

  Somebody’s gonna hold you tight.

  But it’s not me.

  3

  Chasin sat in his office, his phone to his ear, clicking through junk mail, half-listening to his mother yammering on about him not visiting when he’d driven through Ohio two days before. His first mistake was answering his phone without checking who was calling; the second was mentioning to his dad he’d been in Ohio picking up a bond skip.

  The first because he avoided speaking to his mother the best he could, the second because his father was weak and cowed to his wife under the slightest pressure. Part of why he avoided both of them. His mother he could barely stomach, his father he couldn’t respect.

  Nancy Murray was a lying, scheming, cheating bitch. Some of Chasin’s first memories were of men who were not his father exiting the bitch’s bedroom. A room she’d shared with her husband yet defiled in the grossest of ways.

  “It’s been a year, Chasin. A solid year since you’ve been by to see us.”

  “Yep,” he returned.

  It had actually been fifteen months since he’d had to look at her face, but he wasn’t going to correct her. And during his last visit, seeing his father bow down to the bitch, had been the last straw. He’d decided then and there, his once-a-year visits would be pushed to once every five years.

  Chasin couldn’t fathom why people cheated. To him it was simple. If your partner wasn’t giving you what you needed—leave. If you no longer loved the other person—leave. If you felt like fresh and new or you got off on the chase—leave.

  The fuck of it was, his father knew his mom banged a variety of men. That shit had started early on in their marriage. He k
new because his parents got married because his mother was knocked up with him and that was two months after they’d done the deed—on their first date. The first time Chasin saw a man who was not his father in the house he was maybe three. Nancy was a bitch who fucked whoever she wanted, not caring her toddler was in the living room unattended watching TV.

  As a grown man, Chasin got that shit even less than he did when he was a teenager and heard the fights. His mother might’ve allowed anyone with a dick into her bedroom, but her taste in men sucked if all they were giving her was the ten minutes they needed to get off and get out. Which meant she wasn’t getting hers. The very thought made his stomach roil, but there it was. His mother was a skank who got nothing in return for spreading her legs. And Chasin knew it because as he’d gotten older, maybe six or seven, he knew those men were only in his mother’s room ten, fifteen minutes, tops.

  They’d come out, head to the door, not sparing him a glance. A few minutes later, his mother would come out and remind him not to tell his father that she’d had company.

  Company.

  Sick bitch.

  As confused as Chasin had been when he was a child, he’d known one thing for certain, he would never have a wife that cheated on him. In high school, if a girl even turned her eye to another guy she was gone. He’d also made it abundantly clear to the one long-term girlfriend he’d had that infidelity was a deal breaker and that break would be ruthless. Molly hadn’t heeded his warning and a year and half into what he’d thought was a solid relationship he’d found out she was “friends” with a guy from work. That friendship entailed flirty texts back and forth and drinks after work. No amount of begging or apologizing had swayed Chasin’s decisions to cut her loose. After that, he kept every encounter casual, no promises, no commitment, no worries about finding out his woman was spreading her legs or giving her time to someone that was not him.

  “We’re not getting any younger, Chasin,” Nancy snapped. “You need to visit more.”

  “Not gonna happen.”

  Chasin closed the lid of his laptop and glanced out the large window. His view was partially obstructed but he could see part of the big, green, cast iron fountain. Kent County was not a place Chasin had ever thought he’d live. Hadn’t ever heard of the rural community until his buddy Nixon Swagger had moved back to the farm he’d grown up on, then asked Chasin, Weston, Jameson, and Holden to move to Maryland and start the business they’d talked about while they were all still in the Navy.

  But now that he was there, he understood the charm. The downtown area, which was nothing more than a town square, looked like it had been frozen in time. Sure, the shops that lined the streets were modern, but the buildings were not. Everything about the area screamed to slow down, relax, grab a bushel of crabs, a beer, and stay awhile.

  Chasin was going to stay awhile, not only because he was part owner of Gemini Group but because he didn’t have anywhere else to go. He sure as fuck didn’t want to be anywhere near the dysfunction of his family.

  There was movement at the door and Alec Hall stepped into his office. The man wasn’t one of the original owners of Gemini Group. Unlike Nixon, Jameson, Weston, Holden, and Chasin, Alec had gone to work for the government when he’d separated from the Navy. Thankfully, Alec had stomached all he could, left DHS, joined Gemini Group, and was now an equal shareholder.

  “Sorry to interrupt. Our client’s early.”

  “I have to go,” Chasin said into the phone and pulled it away from his ear before his mother had time to respond.

  Was it rude? Hell, yes. Did he give a fuck? Hell, no.

  If Nancy wanted love and care from her son, she shouldn’t have been a cheating twat.

  Chasin pocketed his phone, turned to Alec, and admitted, “I haven’t had time to go over the file.”

  He’d been gone for four days, got in late last night, and it had taken the better part of the morning to clear out his emails. He hadn’t even opened the file Nixon had left for him.

  “No worries. Not much in the file anyway. Record label needs protection for one of their artists—some big-time country star.”

  Perfect. After the week from hell, the last thing Chasin wanted to do was deal with some spoiled musician and uppity label people.

  “Awesome,” Chasin muttered and Alec smiled.

  Some of the tightness in his stomach waned, it was nice seeing his friend happy. Life had thrown Alec a curveball. Not that it wasn’t the best kind the universe could throw, but still, having a baby dropped on your doorstep, one that you hadn’t known you created, would’ve sent a lesser man into a downward spiral.

  Sure, Alec had struggled the first few months being a single man in his upper-thirties—what the hell had he known about raising a daughter? However, Alec being Alec, meaning he was sharp and resourceful, had figured it out. Jocelyn was his world. Then he’d met Macy, and with her came her kids, Caleb and Rory. Now Alec’s world was complete.

  Lucky bastard.

  “When you’re ready to talk, I’m ready to listen,” Alec said as he turned to leave.

  “What?”

  “Just because none of us have said anything, doesn’t mean we don’t know something’s up with you. Whatever happened last week that’s got you tweaked, I’m here when you wanna talk about it.”

  Fucking Genevieve Ellison.

  That’s what happened to him last week. And seven days later, Chasin was still chewing on it. The woman plagued his dreams, invaded his thoughts, and the more he thought about her, the more pissed he became.

  The bitch had turned him into the one thing he hated more than anything—a cheat. He didn’t care he wasn’t the one in a relationship, he’d still fucked another man’s woman. And if that wasn’t bad enough, he’d spent time with her, made her laugh, and started to fall in love. They hadn’t spent a great deal of time together, but enough to know he wanted to get to know her better.

  They’d connected.

  At least he thought they had.

  Memories of that night churned his gut, yet every time he thought about her pretty smile, husky laugh, quick sense of humor, the way she kissed, tasted, felt wrapped around him, his dick got hard and his chest burned.

  The woman he’d spent the last week trying to forget, yet knew he never would. She belonged to someone else, was the type of woman he despised. Yet, in some place deep inside of him, Chasin couldn’t shake the feeling that she was perfect for him.

  A therapist would have a field day with this shit. Talk about mommy issues—son falling for a cheating liar just like mommy dearest.

  What the fuck did that make him?

  Weak.

  “’Preciate it. But there’s nothing to share. Got played by a bitch. I’m over it. Let’s get this done so I can get home and get some sleep.”

  Alec took in Chasin, assessing the veracity of his answer, quickly calculating the lie. Alec gave him a curt nod. “We’ll talk after the meeting.”

  Again, awesome.

  Chasin hit the lobby and jerked to a halt.

  What the fuck?

  Genevieve.

  In the flesh—standing right the fuck in front of him.

  Long brown hair, straight as a pin, and he knew she didn’t do anything to make it that way. A sexy sleeve of tattoos twined around her right arm—ivy, orchids, sunflowers, daisies, gardenias, a medley of flowers from wrist to shoulder. All vibrant colors that at the time Chasin had thought fit her personality. She was in cut-off shorts, cowboy boots, and some flowy top that hid her breasts, yet still managed to tease.

  Chasin’s jaw tightened, and it proved he was a son of a bitch when he didn’t bother trying to shove away the images of those thighs pressed tight against his head, or her long, sexy legs wrapped around his hips. He didn’t bother because he knew from the last seven days that when the memories started to invade his thoughts, there was no use trying to stop it. They’d push in like an assault team and wouldn’t quit until he could think of nothing else but her.

&
nbsp; Then the golden eyes he wanted to forget but couldn’t snapped to his. Genevieve reared back, lost her balance, and stumbled. Nixon’s hand shot out and he caught her by the bicep. Something ugly curled in Chasin’s stomach. Something that felt like jealousy—an emotion he had no right to feel.

  The woman wasn’t his and never would be.

  What was wrong with him?

  Chasin knew the answer to that—not only was the woman sex on legs, but he’d grown soft. He’d watched his friends find women and fall ass over tea kettle in love. He’d thought that shit was like magic and it would somehow happen to him. Then when he’d pulled Genevieve from the river, he’d thought he’d been struck by lightning and his dream woman had literally fallen right in front of him. All he needed to do was rescue her from the chilly water and they’d drive off into the sunset.

  “Chasin?” she whispered.

  Fuck him.

  That voice gutted him.

  Hurt mingled with irritation—he’d been played. How was it possible for her to be under his skin in a way no other woman ever had been? Hell, yesterday he’d had to change the radio station twice because he could swear the woman singing sounded just like Genevieve.

  “Why are you here?”

  Nixon’s hand had fallen away but he was still standing close. As irrational as it was, Chasin wanted to demand that his friend step away from Genevieve, even if Nixon was happily married and was not the type of man to stray.

  “Is everything okay?” a woman asked.

  Chasin’s gaze slid to the woman standing next to Genevieve long enough to note she was short and blonde. Not giving her anymore of his attention, Chasin’s eyes went back to the sexy brunette he couldn’t stop thinking about.

  “Yeah. Everything’s fine, Bobby.”

  Bobby.

  I swear I’m being careful. It’s only a few days, Bobby, then you’ll be here.

  The air around him turned stifling, his heart pounded against his ribs, and suddenly Chasin couldn’t swallow past the lump in his throat. Genevieve was staring at him with a mixture of hurt and triumph. She knew he knew he’d fucked up.