Derek was sleeping in his own empty house tonight, not because he didn't feel like staying in some shitty hotel for one more night and not because Layla's reaction had replaced the first moment of real happiness he'd felt in who the hell knows how long with a gut full of numbness, but because he wanted to.
He'd bought the place. It was his house, and he wanted to fucking sleep in it. On the floor if he had to.
The worst thing about the night was that after years' worth of guilt and frustration about not being there for his family finally crashing down on him, driving him to take this joke of a hiatus from the band, he'd actually thought for one evening that he might have found something here to remind him of what it was like to be an actual person with feelings and desires that extended beyond the good of the band.
He'd thought he might have found something with her.
Derek craved that kind of stability, that kind of friendship and passion all rolled into one, someone who would support his creativity and someone who he could support in turn. He wanted that...he wanted what his parents had.
Now they were both gone, and he never dreamed he'd see that kind of love again.
When the funeral was over and he'd staggered off a week long bender into Layla's life, he thought he'd seen a glimpse of it, that stability and purpose he craved. During the time it took him to eat a piece of pie, he actually imagined there might be a way for him to fit into an existence here with her.
But she was right. They were strangers, and she was apparently determined to keep it that way.
Problem was, Derek had told her it was a game just so she'd let him in, and now he didn't want to play anymore.
He pulled up to his very own house with a tower, the gravel flying under his tires as he whipped into the driveway. The thing loomed over him, black and empty, darkened windows glaring at him and the turret sticking up like a giant middle finger.
Yeah? Well fuck you, too. I'm coming in.
It might not be his home, but at sure as hell was his house. His name on the deed said so.
He snatched a crumpled blanket from the passenger seat--the same one he'd given Layla to keep warm with the day she'd been caught in the rain--fisting it as he thought about everything that had happened. He'd never had sex with a woman without a condom. Never met a single one he wanted to be with enough to take even a second away from his music once their roll in the sack was over.
And he hadn't wanted to be inside a single one of them badly enough--to really be inside of them, flesh to flesh, no barriers, no regrets--until Layla, that is. When she'd suggested it, he'd almost come in her hand. He'd never been so overcome with need. Pure, blinding need. The need to mark her, to claim her. To take his fill of her but give her back double in return.
Her muscles gripping him, milking him, so hot and wet and tight. Her heels on his back, spurring him on and giving him permission. It was the single most amazing experience of his life.
Until she reminded him exactly who she thought he was. A game playing asshole who fucked anything that walked and thought she was just a number in a tally that covered all four bedposts.
In fairness, he had been with more women than he wanted to admit, just not recently. And it was only natural that she didn't want him to think she was trying to trap him. Lots of women would view having his baby the same as hitting the jackpot for life. He wasn't stupid.
He just never would have thought that about her. And she should have known that. She should have felt that.
Derek slammed the car door behind him and trudged up the walk to the front door. The porch steps creaked as he stomped up them. The topmost step snapped under his foot, the rotten piece of wood splintering into a gaping hole and grabbing at his ankle as he clutched the carved porch post to keep from falling through.
"Fuck." He regained his balance on the part of the step that hadn't tried to break his leg.
With a final crack that sounded suspiciously like a snicker, the porch post snapped free his hand. He stumbled back under the weight of the post, jamming his shoulder against the opposite and intact post on the other side of the porch.
Regaining his balance once more, he hefted the post in his hands and turned to hurl it javelin-style across the front yard. He paused when he saw movement from behind a half-open curtain in the front window of the house across the street.
A woman silhouetted in the soft light of her living room--his new neighbor he assumed--watched him in the dark, probably thinking he was a lunatic intent on ripping the house apart before breaking in to set up his meth lab.
Derek took a deep breath, forced a smile to his face, and waved at her, javelin-post in hand. The curtain snapped shut, and he realized too late that she couldn't see his smile in the dark, but she probably could see him waving the post around. Great. His shitty attempt at a neighborly greeting looked more like a neighborly threat of bludgeoning.
With a sigh he trudged back up the steps, careful to avoid the one that had it in for him. He lay the post on the porch and picked up the blanket from where he dropped it.
Before he turned the key in the lock he mumbled to the house, "I know exactly what everyone around here thinks about me, but you're just going to have to get over it. And if you try any more funny shit, just remember, I have no problem taking a sledge hammer to all that pretty gingerbread trim of yours. So you'd better play nice."
It was pure bluff, but the house didn't have to know that. Derek would never dream of destroying one of the things that had drawn him to the house in the first place. The porch creaked under his feet.
"Glad we understand each other." Derek swung open the double doors, his hand searching for the light switch he knew was on the wall next to the entrance. After a moment of fumbling he found it, and the light clicked on, swathing the entryway in a dusty, yellow glow. Thankfully he'd taken the time to get all the utilities in his name despite all his inner waffling about actually coming inside the house.
Ahhhh. One of the other reasons he impulsively decided to sign his name on the line. All that wood. It was glorious.
Or at least it would be glorious again by the time he got through with it. His fingers were already itching to buy some sandpaper.
If he stuck around long enough to get through with it, that is. The guys would let him take a break, but they'd be on him to get back into the recording studio soon enough.
Derek crossed the entryway, turning in a circle in front of the wide stairway so he could take it all in. Original woodwork as far as the eye could see. Floor, trim, stairs. All of it.
There were definitely some rough spots, but damn the entryway was spectacular. He stooped to run his hand along a baseboard, then looked up at the crown molding. The finishing needed some retouching, but restoring the shellac should be no biggie considering the wood in here had been spared the paintbrush.
Derek caressed a stair post, his eyes dropping to the long Persian-style rug that ran up the stairs, the only splash of color in the empty room besides the peeling burgundy paint on the walls. The rug was worn, just like everything in the house, but he liked it.
It felt like something he would keep in his house. His home.
He left the entryway and visions of wood restoration grandeur behind as he headed into the first parlor. There were two parlors in total, the real estate agent had been keen to tell him. Not one, but two. Plus a sitting room, a library, a dining room, and the necessities such as the kitchen, pantry. Plus a w.c., she'd said with an atrocious American version of a French accent because that sounded so much more posh than just a plain old bathroom.
All that space for little old him. And that was just the first floor.
He found the light switch to parlor number one, and the light flickered on. Just as he remembered. Empty except for a lion-footed fainting couch that was as old as the house itself and came with it, holes and all.
The previous owners hadn't been so merciful in here--or maybe sensible was a better word--and a thick coat of white paint covered most of the wood. The heavy-handed paint job stopped somewhere around the door to parlor number two, though, the result a visual hodge podge of white-coated travesty and original warm shellac at the far side of the room.
He flopped down on the fainting couch, wondering what the hell was wrong with people a hundred and thirty years ago that they needed a piece of furniture specifically dedicated to fainting. Did all those tight corsets really make a woman pass out at the mere sight of blood? Were their ears that delicate that a single profanity caused them to swoon in to a heap of satin and lace?
Derek tossed the blanket over the asymmetrical back of the couch and stretched out, his legs dangling uncomfortably off the end. Damn, people were short back then. Still...a fainting couch was pretty fucking cool. Not a cool as a turret, but pretty cool nonetheless.
This room would be great for his instruments. He'd thought so the moment he saw it. The way the corner angled toward the back hall...perfect for a baby grand piano. He could play Chopin while Layla fainted on the couch over his musical prowess. Then he could revive her with a kiss, all prince charming-like. Then she'd yell at him. For what, he wasn't sure, but he probably deserved it.
Derek ran a hand over his face, suddenly feeling tired under the weight of what had happened that night. Having your hopes skewered with a cold stab of reality was enough to wear anyone out.
He had to stop all this nonsense in his head about fixing the house and where he was going to put his piano because A, he couldn't stay here, especially not with Layla reminding him every chance she got about how he didn't belong in Maybe, and B, he didn't have a fucking piano to move in unless he wanted to pay to have his Steinway sent from New York.
Although that sweet little baby grand at that music store--what was the place called?--oh, yeah...Holman's...had practically melted under his touch. He could feel it. It liked him.
As he lay there, he thought about the other woman who was disappointed in him. He dug his phone out of his pocket to check the time, then touched the button to make a call. His finger hovered over his twin sister's name. Derek needed to make things right. He couldn't do this anymore.
He summoned up the courage to hit dial, but the call went to voicemail. Same as it had yesterday. "Hey, Rose. It's me again. Please call me back so I can grovel. I know I've been an asshole...but I love you. I hope you still love me."
Derek dozed on the too-short fainting couch, clutching the phone in case Rose decided to actually return the call. As he drifted off to sleep, he couldn't help but think Layla and Rose would really like each other, and that idea made him happy. When he woke up in the middle of the night, his heart ached with longing.