Page 37 of The Omega Verse
Silva gives him one of his lazy smiles and Dusty looks like he’s about to faint. But then he leaps forward and grabs his hand. “Oh wow! It’s so my pleasure to meet you. I’m such a huge fan. Are you in town for the surf competition?”
Silva smirks down at where Dusty is stroking his fingers. “Nah, just here to spend some time with Cass.”
His wide eyes swing my way. “You guys are friends?”
Well, crap. I hadn’t planned on defining anything for a while, but here we go…
“Yes, we’re friends.” I can’t really take offence at his incredulous stare, since I’m still struggling to believe it myself. “Just don’t make it weird, Dusty.”
“Weird?” He almost chokes on the word. “Because it’s completely normal that you just pulled a rockstar friend out of your back pocket.”
Silva shoots me a dirty grin, but thankfully doesn’t make a crack about my pockets. “We’re just here to get a jump on tomorrow,” I tell Dusty. “Anything I need to be prepared for?”
“Tomorrow?” Dusty is back to gaping at Silva, but he finally drags his starry gaze my way. “Cookie told us you were off until next week. She said something about a health emergency, and she’s paying us double to pick up the slack.”
It’s my turn to gape, since Cookie never pays a cent more than she has to. “Double? You’re kidding.”
“I know!” Dusty crows, then narrows his eyes to slits. “You look pretty good to me, though. Better than you have in a while, to be honest.” His gaze slides back to Silva and he snickers. “But I can definitely see why you might need a few days to slack off and, you know… recover.”
“I can be a bit much for people,” Silva admits, lounging all over the bench like a mouth-watering dessert in the making. “Those that want the whole Silva Sterling experience, I mean.”
I shoot him a quelling look, since I’m pretty sure he’s talking about his neglected knot – and Dusty doesn’t need any encouragement to melt onto the floor. “I’m not slacking,” I inform them both. “In fact, I’ll be in here bright and early tomorrow, so you and Lisa can go back to your usual shifts.”
Dusty’s shoulders slump for a moment, no doubt thinking of the double pay I’ve just put in jeopardy, but then he perks right back up as he sidles over to Silva. “Do you want someone to show you around, then? We’re having a pool party up on the Hill if you want to hang with some of my friends.”
I shake my head as I rummage through the freezer for something I can heat up for dinner. “He’s keeping a low profile, Dusty.” I’m not sure that’s true, but knowing his friends, Silva’s location would be all over social media in a heartbeat. “Can you not spread it around town that he’s here?”
Dusty pulls a face, like it will be physically painful to restrain himself. “Well, okay, if you insist. But Cass has my number if you change your mind, Silva.”
Which just reminds me of the missing phone I have to replace, but I wipe the irritation off my face as I turn back to Dusty. It’s not his fault my emotions are all over the place. Or that Silva is basically a walking wet dream. “Thanks for covering for me, Dusty. And, now that I think about it, I might take another day or two off if you and Lisa are up to it.”
“Yeah, that’d be great, Cass.” He bites the inside of his cheek as he ogles Silva. “Take all the time you need.”
He finally leaves, but only after Silva promises to drop by sometime to taste his cannoli – with extra cream. Silva’s all smiles as I pull the lasagne out of the freezer and hand it to him, then grab a chocolate torte out of the fridge and pop it in a bakery box. But I’m starting to feel a tightness in my chest as I take the back stairs to my apartment. Silva is right behind me, but for once, even his presence can’t get me out of the swirling soup in my head.
“I’ll just grab a few things,” I murmur, but don’t get more than a few steps into my apartment before I’m blinking around, unsure of my next move. It’s not like there’s a lot to look at – it’s a one-bedroom flat with a bathroom just big enough to turn around in, and a tiny kitchenette. As I look at the faded carpet and simple furnishings, I feel a blush burn up the back of my neck.
The gulf between my life and my brother’s – between plain old me and rockstar Silva, for that matter, – is staring me right in the face.
“What is it?” Silva asks, setting the food down on the tiny breakfast counter. “You feeling okay?”
I just shake my head and lean against the back of the pullout sofa. It’s been my bed since Cookie took me in, and although she moved out six months ago, I’ve yet to make the transition to her old room. My clothes are in her wardrobe, but that’s as far as I’ve got, my pillow and blanket folded on the edge of the sofa. Now that I’m looking around with a stranger’s eyes, it’s kind of embarrassing how much my apartment looks like all the foster homes I was so desperate to escape. “Sorry. This place is a dump.”
It’s not the worst place I’ve lived by a long shot, but nothing in here is new or pretty. The furniture is stuff people didn’t want anymore, and while Cookie maintains the building, the wallpaper is faded and the linoleum is scuffed. To be honest, I’ve been telling myself for years that I need to get my own place, but convenience and cost have always made me hesitate.
I’m still staring at the ugly wallpaper when Silva pulls me into his arms and kisses my forehead. “Did you know I grew up on a dirt-poor farm in the arse end of Queensland? The tumbleweeds refused to blow through our town, it was such a shithole. So, I know a little about struggling to make ends meet. But there’s no shame in working hard and doing your best, Cass.”
I try to picture him on a dusty farm in the middle of nowhere. Yes, he’s every inch the rockstar, but there’s something more behind his flirty winks and easy smiles. A steadiness that reminds me of Tom. They’re both so comfortable in their skin, like there’s no room for self-doubt. And I guess it must take as much grit and guts for a farm boy to get to the top of the music world as any foster kid.
Which makes me think of Steven, his face pinched and his hands clenched as he stormed out of the last place we lived together. I thought he was just going outside for fresh air. To wait until the fakes – as he called all our foster parents - were asleep, and then he’d be back in to put me to bed and lecture me about not reading my library books under the covers. But that’s the last real memory I have of him. The next time I saw his face, it was plastered over magazine covers and fan sites. The beloved rockstar, tragically dead at thirty-one.
I’m suddenly gasping into Silva’s neck, my head spinning with something other than his delicious scent. Panic is like a hand around my throat and I pull at the scarf, even though I know the pressure is coming from inside. When I claw at Silva’s chest, he pulls me down onto the sofa. Still gasping for air, I wrap my arms around his neck and give a pitiful whimper.
“Breathe, Cass,” he croons, running his hands up and down my spine. “Tell me what you need. You want to go see Tom?”
“No.” I mean, of course I do, but he’ll be run off his feet dealing with accident-prone tourists, and he doesn’t need my freak-out distracting him.
“Then we’ll just sit.”