Smash (Trojan Book 3) Read online

  Smash

  Trojan #3

  S.M. West

  Contents

  PLAYLIST

  1. Daisy

  2. Gray

  3. Daisy

  4. Gray

  5. Daisy

  6. Daisy

  7. Gray

  8. Gray

  9. Daisy

  10. Gray

  11. Daisy

  12. Daisy

  13. Daisy

  14. Gray

  15. Daisy

  16. Gray

  17. Gray

  18. Daisy

  19. Daisy

  20. Gray

  21. Gray

  22. Daisy

  23. Daisy

  24. Gray

  25. Gray

  26. Daisy

  27. Gray

  28. Daisy

  29. Gray

  30. Daisy

  31. Gray

  32. Daisy

  Epilogue

  Other books by S.M. West

  About the Author

  Smash © 2021 S.M. West

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  Digital ISBN: 978-1-989881-08-8

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely

  coincidental.

  Cover Design: RBA Designs

  Edited & Proofed: Happily Editing Anns

  Cover Photo: Wander Aguiar Photography

  Cover Models: Joli Irvine & Sonny Henty

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  “The beauty of a woman must be seen from in her eyes, because that is the doorway to her heart, the place where love resides.” ~ Audrey Hepburn

  PLAYLIST

  Listen On Spotify

  “Pretty Hurts” – Beyoncé

  “Summer Dress” – July Talk

  “Carnival Town” – Norah Jones

  “Ooh Laa” – John Legend

  “The Archer” – Taylor Swift

  “Magnificent (She Says)” – Elbow

  “Tightrope” – Michelle Williams

  “Got Me” – St. South

  “That Kind of Love” – MAX

  Inspiration for SMASH on Pinterest

  1

  Daisy

  Young and Pretty

  I grasp and twirl the wand of the flat iron tightly, careful not to get burned. Smoky tendrils waft up and around my fingers, and I wrinkle my nose at the acrid hint of singed hair. Beauty, or in this case beachy waves, comes at a hefty price.

  A flash of movement behind me and I release the steamy, blonde curl, spinning in my seat. Henry, arms loaded, plops onto the bedroom carpet, dumping a pile of wooden building blocks between his short, chubby legs. Thud.

  Messy honey locks crown his head, and he stuffs a sharp, unyielding corner into his mouth, gnawing viciously on the block. At his age, everything goes in his mouth.

  “Hey, Lovebug, what are you doing?” I lean forward, lowering my gaze to his level.

  “What ya doin’, Mommy?” He’s two years old and mimicking most of what he hears.

  My fingers thread his soft wisps of baby hair, combing it into some kind of order, and he gifts me with a blinding sunshine smile and toothy grin.

  “I’m getting ready to go out.” My phone rings and I half turn to see who’s calling, glimpsing my made-up self in the mirror.

  Why am I going to all this trouble? Doing my hair, dressing up for a date I never wanted in the first place. Just thinking about Samuel’s spontaneous dinner invitation yesterday still jars me. What was I thinking when I agreed to dinner?

  Jerome’s name lights up the screen and I press talk.

  “Hello, my beautiful.” His low husky voice does nothing to lessen my dislike of the nickname.

  Any term of endearment from Jerome makes me uncomfortable. We’re friends, at best, and more through circumstance than anything else. I’m not his anything and I don’t think that’s what he intends, so I don’t get why he can’t just knock it off. Despite my objections, he insists on the moniker.

  “Hi.” I pull the plug on the flat iron, giving up on the curls, and grab the shiny black tube of lipstick, gliding the bright red tip across my mouth. “What’s up?”

  “I was thinking about the awards dinner and if you need, ah…someone to take you, my tuxedo is ready. We’d make a dashing pair.” His raspy laugh only causes me to stiffen further at his ballsy comment.

  Is he for real?

  We once worked together, in another lifetime. Both transplants from Paris, the fashion mecca of the world, and both alone in LA, it was natural that we gravitated to each other.

  He knows better. If I’m taking anyone to accept the emerging photographer of the year award, it’s Gray. I hope he’ll come with me. And if he doesn’t want to go, I do have other options. I’d certainly take Pansy, my sister, before Jerome. What is he thinking?

  Avoiding any awkwardness, I chicken out and lie. “I haven’t decided if I’m going yet.”

  “What? You’d be crazy not to go. I understand if you take Gray, but thought I’d put it out there in case you wanted to have a good time.” He chuckles again, not bothering to hide his disdain in the way he says my closest friend’s name or the insult.

  “Not funny.” My exasperation is clear in my voice.

  Jerome and Gray don’t get along, and it’s a shame because I don’t have a lot of friends. They tolerate each other for my sake, but at times, it’s annoying. And I wonder if it would be easier to ditch Jerome than suffer through their mutual potshots.

  “Don’t be so touchy. Just sayin’.” He releases a scornful huff and irritation bubbles inside of me.

  I rake the brush harshly through my waves, and Henry comes to stand at my side, watching with keen blue eyes. He’s like magic, and my frustration all but vanishes as the corners of my mouth rise at the slobber tracking down one side of his mouth. My beautiful boy.

  “Well, if I do go, Gray is my first choice.” I find my backbone, no longer tolerating his games.

  He’d love nothing more than to attend the photography awards dinner, and while I’d like a way to help him out, being my date isn’t it.

  For nearly half a century, Europe was his playground where he was in high demand, turning down more work than he could possibly take on in one lifetime. Surprisingly, when he moved to the US, the city of Angels was far less enamored of him, and while he’s been here for almost a year, he has had to hustle for decent gigs.

  A chance to network at the dinner with those in the US fashion industry could change all that. Although I don’t fully understand how he went from being a god behind the lens in Paris, London, and Milan to a nobody in LA.

  “Mommy, look.” Henry’s sticky fingers pat my arm and I gasp.

  My boy has Erotic Dreams, the very expensive lipstick I put on my mouth, smeared across his own. He grins from ear to ear, looking like the Joker with his teeth covered in a scary crimson goo.

  “Ah, Jerome, I’ve got to go. Henry’s…my makeup…ack, it’s a disaster.” I smile at my baby as he admires himself in the vanity.

  Giggling, the budding makeup artist covers his painted mouth with a hand, and like a contagion, I giggle too, more nervous than amused. This stuff needs to come off now, before it gets on everything.

  Jerome
huffs. The man has no patience for children. “All right, my beautiful. If you change your mind…”

  “Bye.” I hit end and shove the phone into my purse, returning to the task at hand—Operation Erotic Nightmare.

  “Oh, Lovebug, this color just isn’t you.” I wipe at his mouth with a wet cloth, trying to keep his hand—the one that just moments ago was on his mouth—from my dress.

  If I get this sure-to-stain red on my outfit, I won’t have time to change. I already took way too long to settle on what I’m wearing, and if I have to go back into my closet, I might as well wave the white flag and accept defeat.

  He sputters and spits. “Mommy, it’s yucky.”

  “Yes, it is. We don’t put lipstick in our mouths.” I gingerly rub at his precious baby skin. Of course, the stuff is a bitch to come off, and I had to buy the long-lasting lip wear.

  Ten minutes and a full packet of makeup remover wipes later, he’s cleaned up, save for a smudge on his shirt and a lingering redness on the lower half of his face.

  “Let’s change your shirt before Amy gets here.”

  Great, there isn’t much time left, and I still have to feed Henry. Maybe this is an omen and I should just cancel dinner.

  “Mommy, go?” Big eyes stare at my reflection in the mirror, watching me run fingers through my hair, loosening the curls.

  “Yup. Let’s go, bug.” With Henry’s hand in mine, we exit the room and the doorbell rings.

  It’s official, I’ve run out of time. I’ll have to ask the sitter to change him.

  “Hi, Amy.” I step back from the door to let her in, and my son clings to my leg. “Things are a bit chaotic. We just had a little incident with my lipstick.”

  My head sways toward Henry and his rosy chin, the remaining remnant of his first foray with makeup. “I’d wanted to have dinner done before you arrived but—”

  “No worries.” She smiles, bending. “Hey, little man, do you remember me? I’m Amy.”

  Now on her haunches in black shorts, a tank top, and brown hair in a ponytail, she waves at him. He steps cautiously from behind me, his smile unsure but growing stronger by the second.

  “Say hi to Amy,” I coax, taking his hand and walking toward the kitchen. “You remember her, don’t you? She’s Aunt Pansy’s friend. She took you swimming in the ocean.”

  Both my sister and Amy are studying marine biology. I’d first asked Pansy to babysit, and since she couldn’t because the ask had been last minute, she suggested her friend. I’d met Amy only a handful of times, but Pansy trusted her, raved about how Amy spent a lot of time taking care of her nieces and nephews.

  Suddenly guilt pricks at my chest. Gray is a better choice to watch Henry, and normally, he’s my first choice. He’s the closest thing to a father for Henry. But if I’d asked him, then I’d have had to tell him about my date.

  Opening the fridge, I take out the small bowl of pasta and pop it into the microwave, then pour milk into a sippy cup. Henry’s warmed up to Amy, showing off his arts and crafts table in the corner, littered with crayons, coloring books, alphabet blocks, and more.

  “His shirt has some lipstick on it.” I point to the red slash near his collar. “Could you change him after dinner? His sleeper is on the changing table.”

  “Sure.” She peers at me from one of the tiny, plastic chairs. “Where’s Grayson?”

  “Gray?” I pause at wiping down the counter and stare at her, a strange prickle at the back of my neck. “Why would he be here?”

  “Oh, I thought you were going out with him. Aren’t you two, uh...” Her cheeks flush tomato red, and the seconds tick by in silence. Finally, she clears her throat and boldly asks, “You’re not dating?”

  Her question and the way she asks jab at my chest uncomfortably. Her bright eyes gleam as if she’s only now realized something. What? That Gray and I aren’t a couple? That he’s single?

  Instantly, she’s perkier, if that’s possible, like a wilting hydrangea springing to life after being immersed in water. The thought of Gray and I not together gives her life, renewed hope.

  “Gray isn’t here.” I avoid the question, and her expression flattens.

  The microwave dings, and Amy grabs the bowl and straps Henry into his highchair. A sinking sensation engulfs me. She isn’t much younger than I am, although I’d bet she’s closer to Gray’s twenty-seven than my thirty.

  Young and pretty. Why does that suddenly bother me?

  Come to think of it, her awe of Trojan, a world-famous—and now retired—rock band, isn’t a secret and maybe I got it all wrong. Maybe she isn’t a huge fan of the band but my best friend, Grayson Bennett, the drummer.

  It’s been about a year and a half since they stepped away from the stage with a farewell world tour. But the Trojan name and their music is still alive and strong. And now I’m seeing things in a different light.

  Unlike most groupies, where the lead singer is catnip, Amy is nuts for Gray. And the thought makes me sick, and beads of sweat break out under my arms and on my back.

  “Daisy?” Amy’s tone is pressing, like this isn’t the first time she’s called my name. “We’re all set if you want to head out.”

  “Oh, yes.” Discombobulated, I grab my clutch and go to the table. “Henry, you be good for Amy, and I’ll be home soon.” His fresh, baby scent brings a glow to my insides, erasing any residual queasiness, and I kiss the top of his head. “I love you.”

  “Love you too, Mommy.” The words mix with a mouthful of buttery penne.

  “You’ve got my cell number, call me in case of anything.”

  “Of course. Have a good time.”

  “Thanks.” In the doorway, I grin at my pasta-eating monster, his cheeks now covered in a greasy sheen. “I’ll grab my shoes in the bedroom and then I’m gone.”

  Amy nods, her attention fixed on Henry, and I go to my room, second-guessing this evening once more. Maybe I should arrange for a fake emergency phone call to get me out of tonight’s date?

  But who? Pansy would refuse to do something like that, and I can’t ask Amy. Gray is a definite no. Sasha would do it but she’s in Paris. Isn’t there an app for this?

  Damn, why the hell did I say yes? I’d been caught off guard when Samuel cornered me on the final day of the shoot with an invitation to dinner. It’s only dinner.

  And it has been years since I’ve put myself out there. I haven’t kissed a man, held hands—well, that isn’t true, sometimes Gray and I hold hands… No sex. God, I miss sex.

  But there would be no sex tonight. Most probably never with Samuel. Tonight is just dinner, that’s all I want. Just to dip my toe into the dating pool. Dinner doesn’t mean sex.

  Sex. Wow, it’s been nearly three years since I last slept with a man. Holy…three years. And ironically, the opposite sex all but disappeared from my life after I found out I was having a baby.

  The doorbell rings, and I slip both feet into my nude slingback heels and rush from the room. “I’ll get it.”

  Amy’s taking Henry out of the highchair when I pass the kitchen doorway, and I grab my keys off the entryway table before opening the front door.

  My heart stops beating. No, this can’t be happening. Gray stands before me, a brown paper takeout bag in one hand while the other rakes through his strawberry blond locks flopping onto his forehead.

  “Daze…” Eyes as deep as the bluest ocean fix on me, languid and greedy. He roams the length of me from my black licorice toenails, over my bare legs and dress, up to my blonde beachy waves. “You look amazing.”

  “Ah…thanks. Um, w-w-what are you doing here?” No sooner has the question left my mouth than I wish to eat every one of those insensitive words.

  Gray’s always at my house. This is practically his house. I want him here, to feel like my place is his, and Henry does too.

  “Oh.” A disturbed expression crosses his face. “I just came from seeing the studio space and thought I’d fill you in.” Judging from the sparkle in his eyes, things went
well, and I want to hear every detail. I just can’t right now.

  He holds up the bag, flashing the logo of our favorite Mexican restaurant. “I brought dinner. Got my man, Henry, those quesadillas he loves.” At the mention of my son, his smile grows tenfold, and my heart melts into a puddle.

  “Come in.” My hand sweeps into the house, and I’m at a loss for words.

  How do I explain to him that I’m on my way out? I don’t keep secrets from my best friend and fully intend on telling him about my date—but after the fact. I wanted to tell him once it was said and done, and we could laugh about it. Laugh at how it was a complete disaster.

  With me still in the doorway, his arm brushes my stomach as he steps into the house, and his touch elicits a strange fluttering deep inside me. I’ve been getting them more and more lately and I flush, suddenly hot, and it has nothing to do with the warm October evening air.

  “Are you going somewhere?” He now looks at me in a different light, realizing there’s more going on.

  “Um, I—” My throat’s dry, and the words are lifeless on my tongue as Amy bounds into the front entrance.

  “Grayson.” Her spellbound tone saves me from saying any more.

  When I turn to face her, my knees buckle at her adoring expression. The nausea is back, and I furiously swallow.