Devils Don't Fly Page 3

  “You were chased by fans?”

  “Yup, but it only happened a couple of times. Anyway, after I quit the band and moved here, the fascination with me died down a little. That was until Wreck of the Day exploded and we started dating.”

  Saylor looks out the window, lost to her thoughts once more. I let her be. This is the most conversation we’ve had since she woke from the coma.

  “Being at Mom’s house brought back everything. All the awful memories I tried so hard to forget. It was like it had just happened.”

  A spike of rage stabs my heart. Thinking about what happened to Saylor makes me want to commit murder. If that piece of scum wasn’t already dead, I would kill him.

  I reach over and lace my fingers with hers. Her hand remains limp inside mine, but then I feel a slight pressure. I stop at a red light and looked down at our joined hands. “Did you just squeeze my hand?”

  “I-I think so.”

  “Do you think that maybe you would like to invite the girls over for a jamming session?”

  Saylor bites her lower lip, making me wish I was the one doing that. My cock twitches in my pants, even if wanting to bang my wife right now is completely wrong.

  She doesn’t answer right away, so I’m quick to add, “You don’t have to.”

  “Actually, I love that idea.”

  “You do?” I don’t want to sound surprised, but I did think she was going to say no.

  “Yes, I miss them. I miss singing.” Saylor’s eyes spark for the first time since her surgery.

  “Okay. It’s settled then. I’ll ask Allan to call them and order plenty of food. Let’s make a party out of this.”

  Saylor nods as a smile unfurls on her face. A minute or so goes by before she speaks again. “What’s the name of your aftershave?”

  There she goes again surprising me. I squint at her. “I don’t know, to be honest. It’s some fancy shit my mother sends me every year for my birthday. Why?”

  “No reason. When is your birthday?”

  “It’s coming up soon.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yep.”

  Trying to suppress a grin, I watch Saylor from the corner of my eye.

  “Are you going to spill it on your own?” She’s watching me through slits.

  “Valentine’s Day.”

  “Oh good.” She faces forward, and now she has me curious.

  “Uh, are you going to elaborate?”

  “Sure. It means I only need to get you one gift.”

  “Yikes, I never knew you be so cheap, sugar.”

  “I’m not cheap. I’m practical. Besides, I bet you get tons of gift every year from your adoring fans.”

  “It’s okay. There’s only one thing I want for my birthday, anyway.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You, naked on our bed, with a red bow on top.”

  There’s no reply from Saylor, and I realize a second later why. Me and my dirty mind, fuck! I turn to find sheer panic in her eyes.

  “Ah shit. Sorry, Saylor. Force of habit. For a moment I forgot.”

  God, I feel like the biggest arsehole on the entire planet right now. Saylor has barely recovered from her panic attack and here I am making inappropriate comments.

  “Don’t worry about it. You caught me by surprise, that’s all. No harm done.”

  She faces the window again and doesn’t utter another word until we get home.

  Five

  Oliver

  I texted Allan a few minutes before we arrived to ask him to give Saylor and me a couple of hours alone. I didn’t want her to be too overwhelmed. It’s weird to watch her walk into our home with hesitant steps and look at everything as if it’s the first time she’s been here. She only let me help her while going up the stairs, preferring to use the cane to walk around without me hovering nearby. It’s amazing how fast she’s progressed in just a week.

  She stops in the middle of the living room and scans everything—the office desks, the promotion materials stacked on top of the filing cabinet, the floor-to-ceiling inspiration wall filled mostly with pictures of Wreck of the Day. They’re mostly cut-outs from magazines or professional ones taken during concerts. The band’s official shots are also there. Saylor moves closer and scrutinizes every single one of them, lingering on the picture of the two of us singing at Wreck of the Day’s first televised performance. That’s my favorite of the bunch.

  Saylor looks over her shoulder. “That’s an intense picture. Were we already together there?”

  “Yes.”

  You would have to be blind to not see the chemistry between us in that picture. My chest is tight, my heart constricted in a painful way. I wish I could read Saylor’s mind to know if any of those images are stirring something—if not a memory, at least a sense of familiarity.

  I didn’t expect it to be so hard to keep my distance from her, to not say anything inappropriate, to not touch her. It takes a Herculean effort not to pull her into my arms just like I did earlier when she was too lost in her panic attack to reject the gesture.

  She moves on from our picture and focuses on the band’s official image. Saylor is looking fierce front and center, flanked by her bandmates. Riley Michaels did a fantastic job capturing the band’s essence.

  Saylor points at the brunette holding the drumsticks. “Who is she?”

  “Her name is Elisa Gutierrez, but everyone calls her Sticks.”

  “Is she good?”

  “The best. You’ll like her.”

  “Why do you run your business from your home?”

  There she goes again calling our home mine. I don’t correct her this time. “I bought this house with the intention of turning it into Renegades Productions’ headquarters. Now I’m realizing it wasn’t the best idea, not when the band practices here as well. It gets crowded sometimes.”

  Her eyes widen a fraction as she spins around, almost losing her balance in the process. “The band practices here? Where?”

  “There’s a studio downstairs.”

  “Why didn’t you take me there first?”

  I scratch the back of my neck. That would have been a better idea. “Uh, I don’t know.”

  Saylor crosses the living room a little faster than before, but stops short right at the top of the stairs. “Damn. This is going to be a pain in my ass.”

  Moving closer, I stop next to her and offer my arm. “I don’t mind helping you.”

  “I bet you don’t.” She doesn’t look in my direction, just keeps glaring at the steps going down.

  “I’m not sure if you’re joking right now or if you’re mad at me.”

  She faces me with eyebrows pinched together. “Neither. I’m just stating a fact. If I’m mad at anyone, it’s at myself. I’m not used to not being able to do whatever I want, whenever I want.”

  “It’s just a temporary situation, sugar. You’ve already done so well in such a short period of time.”

  Saylor lets out a deep sigh and faces downward again. “I know. I’m just cranky right now.”

  “Perhaps you want to check out your room first, get settled.”

  “Yes, that’s a good idea. I’d like to wash off the hospital’s grime too.”

  We head to the second-largest bedroom in the house, where my sister Charlotte was bunking at not too long ago. Of course, I would’ve given up the master suite if I thought Saylor would be comfortable there.

  I let Charlotte redecorate the room to her style, so it’s a bright room with the perfect mix of modern and classic furniture. The king-size bed with its million pillows and white cushioned headboard doesn’t appeal to my personal taste, but it looks comfy enough.

  I remain by the door while Saylor walks in, wanting her to know this is her space. I want her to feel at home.

  “Pretty.”

  “I’ll run to the car and get your stuff.”

  Saylor doesn’t acknowledge me. Instead, she keeps walking until she disappears inside the bathroom.

  “I ha
ve one of those shower stools,” I say loudly so she can hear me from inside the bathroom.

  She emerges a few seconds later, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I feel so tired all of the sudden.”

  “Why don’t you take a nap? You’ve been through a lot today.”

  Shaking her head, she turns to me. “I’d like to shower first.”

  “Okay. I’ll be right back.”

  SAYLOR

  I’ve been trying my best not to show Oliver how much I’m freaking out right now. Seeing my pictures on that wall in the living room made me feel like a complete stranger to my own life. There wasn’t a spark of recognition, no sense of déjà vu while I stared at myself living the dream I never thought I would actually achieve.

  While I wait for Oliver to bring my stuff, I swing my legs, trying to make the left go as high as the right. I can’t focus on the stuff I can’t do; I have to rejoice in the things I can.

  I switch my attention to my arm next. If I concentrate hard, I’m able to wiggle my fingers. I pinch the inside of my forearm, taking pleasure when I feel a little pain.

  A strand of hair falls over my face and I catch a whiff of the god-awful smell clinging to it. Shit. How am I going to wash it on my own? At the hospital, the nurses or Mom did it for me. I still have stitches on the side of my head, and a bandage covering it. Even if I could move both my arms, I would still need help.

  Oliver comes back carrying two huge suitcases. “Where should I put these?”

  “Uh, just set them by the love seat. Did you pack all my stuff?”

  “Not everything, only the items I knew you’d want.”

  “And now you have to bring everything up again. I’m so sorry for the trouble.”

  “Trust me. I’m glad to do it. You’re not a burden, sugar. I don’t want you to ever feel that way.”

  “Why do you call me sugar?” I might as well get that question out of the way.

  “You don’t like when I can you that?” he looks surprised.

  “It’s not that. I was just wondering if there was a special meaning behind it since most of my close friends call me Blue.”

  “I can’t really say there’s a special meaning. It’s one of those things that happens naturally. Plus, I like that I’m the only one who uses that endearment.”

  My shoulders sag as I stare at the floor. I don’t know why his answer is a little underwhelming. Perhaps because I have no memory of those little, natural progressions in our relationship.

  “You look upset,” he says.

  “I’m not upset.” I stand up, holding on to the edge of the bed for a moment until I trust I won’t fall. “Do you mind helping with those suitcases? I need to find clean clothes to wear.”

  “Sure, no problem.”

  Oliver opens them both, pulling out a few neatly folded clothing items, as well as a smaller zipped bag with pink skulls all over it.

  “What’s in that?” I move closer.

  “Uh, your underwear.” Oliver doesn’t glance my way. I’m glad he doesn’t, for my cheeks are probably bright red right now.

  This is so silly. He’s my husband, for fuck’s sake. Why am I embarrassed that he had to handle my panties and bras? I snatch the bag and hold it close to my chest as Oliver lays a pair of yoga pants and a loose button-down shirt on the love seat.

  “Is this okay?” He points at the clothes.

  “Yes, it’s perfect. Thank you.”

  Unfurling from his crouched position, he looks everywhere but at me. “The bathroom is stocked with everything you need. I got your favorite shampoo and conditioner as well.” He makes a move to leave the room, still not looking in my direction.

  “Ollie?”

  He pauses and I notice his shoulders tense. Shit. I shouldn’t have called him that. He looks over his shoulder, his facial expression revealing nothing.

  “Yes, sugar?”

  “Uh, I’ll need help with my hair. I can’t….” I sigh, dropping my gaze to the floor.

  “No worries. We can take care of that after your shower, okay?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  I honestly don’t know how I’ll manage to shower on my own without falling on my face, but getting naked in front of Oliver terrifies and excites me at the same time. I just don’t know which emotion is stronger.

  Six

  Saylor

  Oliver set up a makeshift hair wash station in the kitchen by placing a cushioned chair in front of the sink and laying a plushy towel over the edge. My favorite brands of shampoo and conditioner are next to it.

  “Feeling better?” he asks.

  “Much. Wow, look at that.”

  “I know it’s not hair salon quality, but I did my best.”

  “It’s wonderful.”

  Before I take a seat, Oliver wraps a towel around my shoulders, keeping the edges tied together with a large hair clip. I stare at the base of his throat, trying my best to ignore how my body reacts when he’s near me. I don’t want him to notice and get the wrong idea. He’s not just a guy I find attractive—he’s my husband. If I let my body dictate my actions, I’m afraid I’ll end up hurting him more.

  I sit without making eye contact, leaning my head back. Now I’m staring at the ceiling.

  “Are you comfortable enough?”

  No. I’m so not comfortable with this situation at all. But I know that’s not what he’s asking.

  “I’m good.”

  He pulls the strands of hair that got stuck between my back and the edge of the sink, spreading them out over the stone surface. In the process, his fingers graze the back of my neck. The light touch makes me shiver, and I begin to imagine what it would feel like if he touched other parts of my body as well.

  Shit. Why am I so horny all of a sudden?

  Oliver runs his fingers through my hair, moving the section covering the bandage on the side of my head out of the way. I bite the inside of my cheek to avoid letting out a moan of pleasure.

  “Should I try avoiding getting this area wet?”

  “Yes.” My voice is weak, nothing but a whisper, and loaded with need. I clear my throat before I continue. “Dr. Laurent said he’ll remove the stiches next week. I don’t think the bandage needs to be changed yet, unless it’s stained.”

  “Nope. No stains. That’s a good sign, right?”

  “Yes, it’s a good sign.”

  “I should know all this.” His tone is heavy with self-reproach.

  I won’t have him blaming himself for that. Feeling brave, I touch his arm. “Hey, don’t beat yourself about it. You weren’t there when I was discharged, and I wasn’t supposed to come home with you, remember?”

  Oliver stares at my hand for a couple of beats before his gaze connects with mine. “Okay.”

  I’m the first to look away, sliding my hand off his arm in the process. He turns on the water, using the faucet’s pull-out sprayer to soak my hair. “How’s the temperature?”

  Closing my eyes, I sink into the chair. “It’s perfect.”

  I can’t keep myself from enjoying the experience. I’ve always loved having my hair washed at the salon. The fact that it’s Oliver’s fingers doing the job just brings an extra layer of satisfaction.

  Careful not to get the bandage wet, he lathers my hair with shampoo, applying pressure on the right spots. I become boneless, unable to stop the little sounds in the back of my throat.

  “Enjoying yourself?”

  “Hmm?”

  He chuckles and I smile without opening my eyes. “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing.”

  I peel one eye open. “Don’t get so cocky.”

  What am I doing? Stop flirting, Saylor.

  “Sorry, sugar. I was born this way.”

  A snort escapes my lips at the same time soothing warmth spreads over my chest. “That was the corniest thing you’ve said to me.”

  “Not the corniest, but it’s up there.”

  Willing to push through my fears, I ask, “Then tell me the co
rniest line you ever used on me.”

  “Blimey. Of all the things you could ask me, you want to know that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, fine. I once tried to seduce you using a Phil Collins song title.”

  “Oh my God. Which one? No, let me guess. ‘Another Day in Paradise’?”

  “Bloody hell. How did you know?”

  I laugh and the bubble of amusement catches me by surprise. “Don’t know. A hunch?” I open both eyes and find him staring at me, an enigmatic glint in his gaze. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  There’s a noticeable shift in the air, a tension that wasn’t present before. The levity of the moment is gone, leaving me confused as hell. Oliver finishes my hair without saying another word, and his silence makes my chest heavy. My eyes burn while a wave of sadness rushes over me out of nowhere. I barely notice when he turns the water off and motions me forward to dry my hair with a large towel. Then he turns the chair around, standing behind me to untangle my hair.

  He tries to be gentle, but I flinch nonetheless when the comb gets caught in a stubborn knot.

  “Sorry,” he says.

  “It’s okay.”

  In another couple of minutes, his work is done. I don’t look in his direction when I bolt from the chair and half run to my room. Locking the door behind me, I lean against the hard surface and finally let the waterworks loose.

  What’s wrong with me?

  OLIVER

  I keep staring down the hallway for minutes after Saylor disappeared into her room. My mind is reeling, and I don’t know what I did or said that made her pull a one-eighty on me. Things were going great until she guessed the name of the Phil Collins song. Perhaps she saw something in my expression that freaked her out. Her lucky guess did take me by surprise. For a moment, I dared hope she was remembering.

  The sound of someone coming up the stairs pulls me out of my head. A second later, Allan appears in the living room.

  “Hey, is everything okay? You look like you saw a ghost.”

  “No, mate. Everything’s fine.”