Under The Same Sky (Horseshoe Bay Book 1) Read online

  “No, but I need you to get here, Ry.”

  “I’ll be there in a few. Look after my girl until I get there.”

  The line goes dead, and I pocket my phone as we race down the hallway.

  “He’s on his way,” I tell Melissa, squeezing her sweaty hand.

  “Please don’t leave me until he gets here,” she pleads.

  I squeeze her hand tighter. “I’m not going anywhere, okay? I’m going to be by your side the entire time.”

  “And if anything happens to me, promise me you’ll help Ryan. Please, Reese.” I don’t like thinking about what could happen but I nod anyway, if only to appease some of her distress. The next few minutes are a blur of activity. We’re ushered into an operating room, doctors and nurses rush around, I hear talk about an emergency c-section, and then I’m being put in scrubs, and Melissa is being prepped. It’s not standard procedure for me to be in here with her, but since Ryan isn’t here yet, I refuse to leave. Her hand reaches for mine the moment they slip an oxygen mask over her face, her face wet with tears, and I try my damndest to put on a brave face. I want to tell her everything’s okay, but I’ve never lied to her before and I won’t start now, regardless of the circumstances. And she’s not oblivious to the chaos around her, either. Her OB/GYN rushes in, dressed and rearing to go. Melissa’s hand tightens, her eyes frantic, and then we hear it. The cry of a baby. That sweet wail has me crying. Until I feel Melissa’s hand loosen from around mind and drop to the side, her eyes closed. The machines go crazy, nurses rush between her and the baby, and then I’m being shoved out the door without any indication as to what just happened. I pace the hallway, try calling Ryan—he should have been here by now—and it goes straight to voicemail. A second later, my phone is ringing, and I frown down at the unknown number. I almost don’t answer, and when I do, I wish I hadn’t.

  “Hello, this is Reese.”

  “Miss. Hayes, my name is David, I’m an EMT. There’s been an accident.”

  My blood goes cold. “Okay…”

  “You’re listed as an emergency contact. It’s about a Mr. Ryan Decker. We tried calling his wife first—”

  “She’s in the hospital,” I tell him, trying to listen to him above the sound of my heart beating in my ears. “Is Ryan okay?”

  Instead of answering my question, he asks, “Are you at the hospital already?”

  “Yes.” My hand trembles, along with my voice.

  “I’m afraid to inform you Mr. Decker was in an accident…” The following seconds fuse together.

  Hit by a drunk driver at a four-way stop.

  Died on impact.

  Can you come down to the morgue?

  “Miss. Hayes? Are you still there?”

  “Yes.” I don’t recognize my own voice, it’s foreign to my own ears. “I’ll be there now.” I end the call, but don’t move, not until a nurse comes out of the operating room, her scrubs covered in blood. So much damn blood.

  “Is she okay? What about the baby?” I try to shove past her, but she stops me.

  “The baby’s fine, healthy little boy, but we’ve put him in an incubator because he’s premature.” She’s saying he’s healthy, but why isn’t she smiling?

  “And Melissa? Can I see her?”

  The nurse looks back at the O.R doors and then back at me. “There were a few complications. Unfortunately, Mrs. Decker suffered a placental abruption, and hemorrhaged. She lost too much blood, and we couldn’t save her.”

  We couldn’t save her.

  We couldn’t save her.

  We couldn’t save her.

  I collapse to the ground, let out a strangled sound, and lose it, struggling to breath, struggling to think, struggling to make sense of this chaos.

  Ryan and Melissa are both gone. What kind of hell is this?

  And neither of them had the chance to meet their son. God, they wanted to meet their baby before giving him or her a name, and now…

  The nurse helps me stand, walks me to a chair, and grabs me some water. When I eventually calm down—it takes a while—I walk down to the morgue, confirm Ryan’s identity, say goodbye, and then Melissa’s beside him. I say goodbye to her too, and it feels like I’ve been split in two. No one ushers me out the morgue, no one asks me if I’m okay, no one asks me if they can call family on my behalf. Mentally, I know there are a few people I should call. Ryan’s mom, Maggie, Thorin, some of our friends in town. No family for Melissa though, we were her family. Her parents died when she was in her senior year of high school, and she was an only child, and Ryan and Thorin’s dad, Elijah, passed away three years ago. Their mom lives in Florida with her sister now.

  Shit.

  I need to call her.

  And then I have to call Thorin.

  A knock on the door startles me, and I look up. Imani’s features soften. “He’s ready for you.” He doesn’t even have a name. But as of two days ago, after meeting with Child Protective Services, I’m the guardian of a five day old little boy, and right now, I’m all he has. Technically, Thorin could be his guardian now too, since he’s the baby’s godfather, but that’s something I’ll have to deal with when I see him. I pick up the car seat I brought with me, along with the diaper bag, and follow Imani, my heart in my throat. “The little man is drinking half an ounce of milk right now which is good, and when he starts wanting more, you’ll know,” she tells me, and I file the information away like I have everything else. “And it seems the only time he cries is when he’s hungry, or when his diaper needs to be changed. He’s an easy baby, so I doubt you’ll have much trouble with him.”

  I’ve been here every day this week, and luckily he was only in the incubator for two days. Because he was premature, they had him under a UV light to increase blood flow, and prevent him from getting jaundice. Besides that, Imani is right, he is an easy baby.

  Damnit, he needs a name.

  After I place everything next to a couch in the nursery, Imani stops next to one of those small bassinets and brings my godson to me. She delicately places him in my arms, and the moment I reach to touch his face, my finger is in his hand. This isn’t right, Melissa and Ryan should be the ones doing this. But they’re not here, and they both entrusted their baby’s life to me, should anything ever happen to them. I just didn’t expect it to be so soon. Or like this. Or ever for that matter because Ryan and Melissa were supposed to live until they were old and gray, surrounded by their grandchildren.

  “Hi, little man,” I coo, trying to keep my voice gentle and soothing. “I finally get to take you home today.” He gazes up at me, and all I see is Melissa’s dark hair, her pouty little lips, and shocking blue eyes, like Thorin’s. I know they’ll change, hopefully to either green like Ryan’s, or brown like Mel’s. He’s the perfect mix of both of them, and it only makes the crack in my heart widen, the wound yawning like a living, breathing thing inside me. Seconds later, he’s asleep, and stays that way when I place him in the carrier. Imani hugs me one more time.

  “Reese, I can only imagine what you’re going through right now, but you’ll be just fine. We’re all in shock, Melissa and Ryan will both be dearly missed.” Her eyes mist over, and she sniffles before handing me a piece of paper with a number on it. “I don’t usually do this, but here’s my personal number. I want you to call me if you have any questions or need anything at all, day or night. I’ll see you at the memorial service.”

  “Thank you. For everything.” I start for the elevators, and look down. “Time to go home.”

  Chapter Two

  Thorin

  “Thank you, New York!” I yell into the mic, the crowd going wild. “We want to thank y’all for supporting us, for buying the new album, and for being here tonight. We’ve had a great tour, and we have all of you to thank for that.” The guys step forward, and another round of yells and screams float up and around Madison Square Garden. God, being back on home ground feels good. “Thank you, and goodnight.” We wave, and quickly make our way off stage, sweaty and on a
high.

  “Shit,” Benji, our back-up guitarist, sighs, shaking out his mane of black hair. “That was insane!”

  “Best show on the tour, man,” Fletch, our drummer, and back-up vocalist, replies, still bouncing on his feet. He’s the first to whip off his shirt, and hell if I’m not tempted to do the same. I’m hot as fuck after being under those damn lights for so long, but it was worth it. Every single second.

  “Totally killed it.” This comes from our bass guitarist, Carson. He pulls his fingers through his blonde hair, and high-fives Fletch. “That crowd was intense.”

  “Guys.” Our manager, Alex, approaches, a broad grin on his face. “You made your last show your best one to-date.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” Fletch teases, bumping fists with Alex. He might look like a stiff in his Armani suit, but he’s a good friend, and a fucking brilliant manager. Strict when he needs to be, but he’s never done anything but look out for us, even when we’ve disagreed with him. “You guys going to party tonight? I need to know if I must get extra security for the rooms.”

  “Fuck yeah!” Benji yells. “I need to get me some hot pussy!”

  I shake my head, and laugh. “You’re an ass.”

  “He’s right though,” Carson says. “I need to get laid before I fucking explode.”

  You’d never think we are in our mid-twenties, heading for thirty, with the way we behave after a show. It’s more like a bunch of high school gnats who always have sex on the brain. Not that I can judge. I’ve had my fair share of groupies, but for the last few years, I’ve hung back, and chilled out more. The guys, on the other hand, behave like heathens.

  “Right, gents,” Fletch rubs his hands together, all the while bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I say we grab some willing ladies, and head to my room to par-taaaaaaay!”

  Another round of high-fives, and hoots, and we’re all heading towards Carson and Benji’s suite, a whole bunch of groupies in tow. Nothing new, but for whatever reason, I’m glad the tour is over. I’m keen as fuck to head home, and see my brother, maybe even stay there until his kid arrives. Under normal circumstances, I’d just head to one of my places, either in New York or London, until the guys and I get ready to regroup, but something about my big brother having a kid has me wanting to go to Texas. I haven’t spoken to the bugger for weeks, and I miss him somethin’ fierce. The last few weeks have just been so intense, I don’t know whether I’m coming or going. But for tonight, I’m going to enjoy myself and revel in the glorious afterglow of another successful tour for Eighteendust. We’ve worked our asses off, gone platinum with three of our four albums—we’ll know later in a few weeks if the fourth also went platinum—I think we deserve to go out with a bang.

  I have a beer in one hand, and two luscious brunettes curled up on each side of me. One is nibbling my earlobe, and the other is rubbing my thigh, sliding her hands higher and higher up my jeans. At this rate, they’ll be stripping me naked in front of the entire suite full of people. Wouldn’t be the first time, either. My band has seen me naked more times than I care to count, but we have an unspoken rule: what happens on tour, stays on tour. Unless a groupie leaks some info, in which case we get reamed out by Alex for our ‘outragious shenanigans’. We try remain low-key, but sometimes the after-parties get rowdy, and shit starts going down. Clothes come off, and on more than one occasion, the guys and I end up in our rooms with at least two women. It comes with the territory, and we tend to take full advantage. Fletch is chilling at the bar with some friends, a blonde latched onto his arm, and Benji is perched on the opposite couch whispering shit to a redhead. Everyone else is dancing around, moving to the heavy thump of the bass blasting though the speakers. Fuck knows where Carson is, he’s probably banging someone in the bathroom already. On any other night I’d probably beat him to it, but I’m tonight I’m just not feeling it. Call it intuition, but something feels off, and in spite of the gorgeous women lavishing me with their attention, and wandering hands, my dick seems to agree. He’s not interested in playing. I shift my arms, and tell the girls I have to take a leak. They pout, but stand up, and make their way to the bar. I open the suite door with the intention of using my own bathroom, on the off chance that Carson is in fact using the other one, when I see Alex, and our assistant, Penelope, arguing in the hallway. His brows are furrowed, his stance rigid, and she’s glaring at him as if he just kicked her puppy. Granted, they almost never see eye-to-eye, Penelope has authority issues, and Alex can be real hard-ass, but something in the way they’re looking at each other has me hesitating.

  “Hey.”

  Their gazes whip to mine, and I frown. They both look pissed.

  “You need to tell him,” Penelope hisses, turning her murderous gaze back to Alex. “I’m sick of dealing with this bullshit, Alex. I shouldn’t be fielding calls from fucking groupies on our private line.”

  “What is she talking about?”

  We have a private number that only family has, and if it’s been given out, Alex will shit his pants. By the looks of it though, it might have already been leaked.

  Alex sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose before walking the short distance to me. “A woman called Penelope ten times while you were on stage, asking to speak specifically to you.”

  My frown deepens. The only woman who has the number is my mom, but she hardly uses it because I’m the one who calls her. My schedule has been insane, but whenever I have a chance, she’s the second person I call, the first being Ryan.

  “Was it my mom?” I ask Penelope.

  “No,” she snaps, brushing her red hair over her shoulder. “Some bimbo named Reese Pie, and she literally called me ten times—”

  I freeze. “What did you just say?”

  Penelope rolls her eyes and throws her hands in the air. “For God’s sake, I said someone named Reese Pie called me and just wouldn’t let up, even after I told her we don’t allow fans to speak directly to band members on the private line. I don’t even know how she got the fucking number. Honestly,” she huffs, “I’m the assistant, not the groupie manager.”

  “Thorin.” Alex touches my arm. “Are you okay? Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “You said Reese Pie?” I almost choke on the words. I haven’t uttered or heard that name in years, and very few people know who the nickname belongs to. “You must be mistaken,” I tell Penelope. “It couldn’t have been—”

  “It was, damnit! Fuck, Thorin, you’re spending too much time standing next to the speakers during soundcheck, you’re going deaf.”

  I take a shuddering breath. “Thorin? What’s going on?” Worry creases Alex’s forehead, and something in my gut sinks.

  “So, if she kept calling, you didn’t think you should mention it to me the minute I got off stage, Pen?”

  “As I said, it was probably a fan or a groupie—”

  “She’s not a fucking groupie!” I shout, my voice booming down the hallway. Penelope straightens, and her blue eyes go wide. I’ve never, ever, raised my voice at Pen, or any other woman for that matter. If I lose my shit, it’s with or around the band, and on the odd occasion, Alex. “Can you pull up the number she called from?”

  She stares at me.

  “Now, Penelope, goddamnit!”

  Alex takes the phone from her, and ushers her away before approaching me with careful steps, stopping a foot away. He pulls up the number, and shows it to me. I recognize the area code immediately, and it pisses me off that Penelope didn’t. She knows Ryan is in Texas, and she knows damn well to tell me if a call comes through with that area code.

  “Thorin, you’re freaking me out here.”

  “Just hang on.” I stare at the number, and wonder why in the hell Reese would be calling. The last time I saw her I was eighteen, and she wanted nothing to do with me. It makes no sense, but if she used the old nickname I gave her instead of just her name then it can only be her. Fuck. I check the time. It’s past eleven in New York, and Texas is an hour behind. I only have to cont
emplate it for a second before I hit call, and head to my room for some quiet, with Alex hot on my heels. The phone rings, and rings and rings. No answer.

  “Fuck,” I mutter. My hands shake, and I redial. It rings twice.

  “Hello?”

  God, her voice. It’s still as raspy, and throaty as I remember it, and damn if it doesn’t feel like a kick to the gut. I’ve thought about looking her up and calling her a thousand times over the years, but chickened out last minute. Our history isn’t exactly easy. Or pretty.

  I clear my throat. “Reese, it’s me.”

  The line goes quiet. So quiet I almost think she’s hung up. “Reese, you there?”

  “Yeah, sorry, I just…I wasn’t expecting…” She’s rambling, but there’s a tremor in her voice.

  “I’m sorry about our assistant, she should have told me you called.”

  Reese lets out another breath. “Yeah, she should have, but…” she hesitates again, “she really should have.” She’s sniffling now, and the sound has me pacing the carpet like a mad man. “Reese, what’s going on?”

  “Thorin,” she sniffles again, “It’s Ryan, and Melissa.”

  At that, my heart stops, and my world tilts.

  Nonononono.

  “Uh,” Reese swallows, “you need to come home. I don’t where you—”

  “Tell me what happened,” I demand, my voice low and hard. Reese lets out a whimper, and it grates my insides, my skin, but I give her a moment.

  “They’re dead, Thorin.”

  It’s my turn to go quiet, and I feel the blood draining from my face. I fall onto the couch by the window, and drop my head into my hands. I’m going to be sick, and I’ve only had one fucking beer.

  “Your mom is already here,” Reese continues, “and I made all the arrangements for a memorial service. I held off until I could reach you.”

  “When?” It comes out as whisper.

  “A week ago.”

  “A week ago?” I explode. “And you’re only calling me now?”