Collide (Worlds Collide Book 1) Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Epilogue

  Collide

  A Worlds Collide Novel

  Quinn Nolan

  Copyright © 2015 Quinn Nolan

  Cover Art © 2015 Steven Novak

  Lyrics © 2014 Ryan Muns

  All rights reserved.

  First eBook Edition: March 2016

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  For information:

  http://qnolan.com

  To David for always believing in me. You’re sexier than any rock star.

  Thank you to Ryan Muns who didn’t hesitate to pen lyrics when I was desperate for them. Your passion and drive for perfection are admirable.

  Thank you to Samantha Gordon at Invisible Ink Editing for helping me polish this work to a gleaming shine.

  Thank you to Steven Novak at Novak Illustration for the amazing artwork.

  Chapter One

  Ashlyn

  “Are you just gonna eye-stalk him all night or what?”

  I blink twice, heavily, and lower the half-raised pint glass in my hand. I didn’t realize I was holding it there. The band isn’t even playing yet and already my eyes are on the stage. I’ve got it bad, alright.

  With effort, I turn to face Reagan, whose eyebrow is arched. “I’m not eye-stalking.”

  She snorts. “All evidence to the contrary.” Her gaze softens and she reaches out to touch my forearm. Her skin is already surprisingly tan for being so early in the summer. Then again, knowing Reagan, she’s probably been sitting outside at every opportunity since the winter finally broke in late April. I’ve asked her before why she came back to Michigan if she hates the cold so much, but moving back home falls firmly under Things We Don’t Discuss, so I’ve never gotten a straight answer. “Look, I get it. Musicians are, like, ten times hotter than regular guys. But if you ever want him to actually notice you, you might want to talk to him.”

  I sit up a little taller. “I have talked to him. Why do you think we’re here?”

  Reagan rolls her eyes. “Let’s see if I recall this correctly: He was playing at the brewpub last weekend, and at the end of the night you said, ‘Good job.’ Is that an accurate representation of how the conversation happened?”

  I press my lips together but can’t fault her description. Graham Jordan has been playing the open mic nights at the Shores Brewpub where I work for the last few months. I don’t actually remember the first time I saw him. Although I noticed him setting up, like all the other acoustic guitarists who cycle through every few weekends, I didn’t actually look at him. But as soon as he started singing, I couldn’t take my eyes off him. It got so bad that I kept overfilling pint glasses because I was too busy staring at Graham to notice the beer flowing over the rim, and my friend Teresa banished me from behind the bar for the rest of the night. I’ve had the same reaction every time he’s played, still until last weekend, I never said anything to him.

  After my witty “Good job,” Graham smiled a devastating smile and thanked me—sounding legitimately humble—before inviting me out to the show tonight. It’s his band’s first gig.

  Reagan is still waiting for me to respond, and to buy time I take a gulp of my Guinness. My mom, who about had a coronary when I told her I’d found a job at a brewpub, would probably have an aneurysm if she saw me drinking a beer like this. When she drinks, she pours herself a glass of wine and announces she’s too tipsy to finish by the time it’s half gone. She won’t allow beer in the house, claiming the smell makes her queasy. When they were still married, my dad kept his Pabst Blue Ribbon in the garage fridge. He was supposed to drink it out there, too, but he would sneak it inside on occasion when he was in the basement watching the Tigers with his buddies.

  “Graham didn’t have to invite me out, but he did.” I take another sip of my beer before setting it on the table.

  “Of course he did. He didn’t want his band’s first show to be a flop. Dude probably invited everyone he’s ever met.” She sips her Labatt Blue. “Riddle me this: If he sees you, is he even gonna remember who you are?”

  “Of course he is.” I hope. I turn back to the stage. The guitarist to Graham’s right is murmuring something into his microphone while he twangs on the low E string. Graham will recognize me—I know he will. I’ve worked at the brewpub every time he’s played—changing my schedule to accommodate his when necessary. There’s no way he can’t have noticed me in all that time.

  The guitarist stops muttering and steps back from the mic. Graham nods at him and when he nods back, Graham approaches his microphone. My stomach flutters.

  “Hey, everyone. Thanks for coming out tonight.” His speaking voice is low and easy, though, if I’m honest, it’s nothing spectacular. Even his looks are, objectively, average. He’s tall—at least six foot—with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. His hair is thick and sandy, just a shade lighter than his close-cropped beard. I never thought I could be attracted to a bearded guy, but I was wrong. Because with Graham, it’s not about his looks, it’s about his music. There are several regulars who play at the brewpub, and many of them have talent, but Graham’s in his own league. It’s like when he’s singing, he becomes one with the music, and he takes me from the everyday into a different dimension—one where I’m not just a former school teacher trying to find my way in a life I never expected living. One where anything’s possible. That’s the quality that draws me to him. “We’re Day of Status and we’re gonna play some music for you.” His eyes squint against the bright stage lights and he surveys the audience. Reagan and I were among the first to arrive, but the place has steadily filled over the last quarter hour. There are probably at least fifty people in the bar now, and most seem to be here for the band.

  Graham’s gaze rakes across the area where I’m sitting and tingles course through my body. The drummer gives a four count before the rest of the band comes in, and part of me melts as Graham starts in with the opening words of “Get Lucky.”

  During the second song, Reagan tugs at my arm. “Let’s dance!”

  I tear my gaze from the stage for the first time to see two small knots of girls have g
athered in the empty space in front of the stage. One, a group of three, is dancing exuberantly and not entirely in rhythm with the music. I can’t tell if it’s because they’ve been drinking or because they are seriously that bad at dancing. The other group is larger—five girls, all scantily clad in short shorts and camisoles—but far less all-over-the-place. They sway in time with the music, alternately looking up at the guys on stage and back at each other, giggling and whispering. My stomach lurches at the memory of girls like that from high school, the flirty ones who never had a problem finding a date to the dance or for the weekend.

  I was not one of those girls.

  “Next song,” I promise. “I don’t really know this one.”

  Reagan looks dubious but doesn’t press it. I bite the insides of my cheeks for the remainder of the song to keep from singing along. I know every word.

  I make excuses for the rest of the set, and by the time Graham thanks the crowd and announces they’ll be back “in a bit,” my butt still hasn’t left my chair.

  Reagan grabs me by the shoulders, brown eyes locked on mine intensely. I know this look. I’ve been on the receiving end of it more times than I can count in the almost ten years we’ve been friends. Reagan and I met freshman year and quickly formed an alliance, as we were both outsiders unlikely to make friends another way. I was young—a year younger than anyone else because my parents decided to skip my eighth grade year in favor of challenging me with high school work. Although no one ever called me on it, I felt like I wore my age like a scarlet letter for all to see. Reagan wasn’t young, but chubby. Fat, she’ll say. She lived in sweatpants and hooded sweatshirts and kept her eyes down when people talked to her. And although her size and demeanor changed the summer before our senior year, she never abandoned me, even though I had little time for socializing after my school work and college course load. She was then and remains the devil on my shoulder, urging me to remember to have fun. And as if I’m making up for lost time, her influence has only grown since she returned to Michigan after her time away in Chicago. Now her dark eyes widen, showing white around the irises, giving her a slightly demented look.

  “You’re gonna do it, Ashlyn. You’re gonna go talk to Graham. You’re gonna flirt. And if the gods are smiling, you might even make out with him by the end of the night. Do you understand?”

  I ease her hands from my shoulders. “Yes, I understand,” I say, even though I don’t—not entirely. Talking, yes, I can do that. Usually. Flirting, though? I’m a complete mess when it comes to flirting. Some girls, like Reagan, can do it as easily as breathing. After she lost all the weight, it was like she was a totally new person around guys. She knew just how to laugh, just where to touch, just when to leave them wanting more. Me? Not so much. And as far as making out... There’s been a distinct lack of that kind of action in my life since college, since Scott.

  But I can’t tell Reagan all that. Instead, I grin and waggle my eyebrows, eliciting a laugh from her.

  “Good! Now, we need a way in.” She turns, squinting toward the bar.

  “What do you mean? Don’t I just go talk to him?” Graham isn’t on stage anymore and panic bubbles in me—which is ridiculous. His guitar is still there, and he said the band would be back for another set, so it’s not like he’s gone home. A steady stream of people flow toward the entrance, and Graham’s head bobs along with them.

  “You can’t just go up and talk to him,” she says as if it should be obvious. “Have you learned nothing from your last encounter with him?”

  “Hey, he invited me here, didn’t he?”

  Reagan doesn’t dignify my objection with a response. Raising her arm, she beckons over our waitress. “What kind of beer does he drink?”

  I pull a thoughtful face, like I need to work to remember, even though I don’t. “Get him a Labatt. It’s probably the closest they have to what he drinks at the brewpub.”

  When our waitress—a woman in her mid-thirties with bleach-blond hair and the misapprehension she’s at least ten pounds lighter than she is, judging by the way her white blouse strains at the buttons—arrives, Reagan places the order, along with another round for the two of us. As we wait for her to return, I strain to get a look out the bar’s front windows. There’s a decent crowd out there, mostly the smokers, and I can’t locate Graham.

  The waitress takes so long in coming back I’m afraid the break will be over before she returns. But when she finally arrives, the bulk of the outside crowd is still there, and only the band’s bassist is meandering on stage.

  Reagan pays the waitress and jumps up like her seat’s been electrified. She starts off for the front door so fast I have to jog to catch up with her. “Here,” she says, holding a Labatt bottle out to me.

  I take it even though I’m not entirely sure what she intends for me to do with it. Or rather how she intends me to do it. Clearly I’m supposed to give him the beer. But what am I supposed to say to him?

  Before I can ask, Reagan pushes me through the front door, which is being held open by a brunette guy who eyes her with interest. I’m used to that. Although she’s not what I’d call fashion-forward by any means, Reagan always manages to look good no matter what she’s wearing. Tonight it’s short jean cutoffs and a low-cut neon orange t-shirt. She probably threw it on at the last minute before pulling her long brown hair into a ponytail and dabbing on some lip gloss. But somehow she manages to look more polished and put-together than me, despite the fact that I spent almost two hours getting ready, changing my outfit multiple times and doing my makeup only to scrub my face and redo it. I was confident when I decided on a shimmery red top with a low cowl neck, my favorite skinny jeans, and a pair of knee-high black boots, but now I wish I’d worn something else.

  Story of my life.

  Graham is easy to pick out standing off to the right of the door. He’s chatting with a couple of guys, but he’s the tallest of them. He laughs at something the guys tell him between drags on his cigarette.

  I take a deep breath, part to settle my nerves and part to inhale one last gulp of fresh air before approaching the smokers. I hitch a smile to my face, imagining what Reagan would do if she were about to talk to a guy she liked.

  Graham’s eyes flicker to me for a moment before passing between his two companions. Releasing my breath, I walk into the center of their little triangle, keeping my gaze fixed on Graham’s face.

  I hold the beer bottle toward him. “It was a great set. You guys sounded really tight.”

  His eyebrows cinch together for an instant before he takes the bottle from me. “Uh, yeah. Thanks.”

  He has no idea who I am. The thought socks me in the stomach like a sucker punch. Every fiber of my being tells me to pull back, to abort the mission, but Reagan has moved so she’s visible in my peripherals and she’s bouncing on the balls of her feet like a cheerleader. I have to push through. “Ashlyn. From Shores Brewpub.”

  Graham’s face remains blank. I’m about ready to crawl into a hole when a smile breaks across his face. “Ashlyn! From the brewpub!” He throws his arms out and pulls me into a quick hug. It’s so fast I don’t react. The only thing I register is he’s sweaty. And then he pulls away. “I should’ve recognized, since you were bringing me a beer and all.”

  He laughs and I laugh too, even though I don’t find his joke funny.

  “Graham—dude—time to go!”

  Graham looks off toward the voice and so do I. The bassist stands, propping the front door of the bar open with his body, beckoning Graham toward him.

  Graham shakes hands with the two guys he’s been talking with, promising to catch them later. He cups my shoulder with a warm hand and holds up the bottle I gave him. “Thanks for this, Ashley.”

  Before I can correct him, he’s heading for the door.

  Chapter Two

  Ashlyn

  Reagan waits approximately two seconds before pouncing on me. Her body is tensed with barely-suppressed glee. “He hugged you!” She grabs my hands an
d holds them between us, squeezing my fingers harder than is strictly necessary.

  Yeah, but he had no idea who I was. And then he called me by the wrong name. I bite back the words I want to say, knowing Reagan will only accuse me of being negative if I voice them. It was a mistake to come. What was I thinking? Reagan was right—Graham probably invited anyone who even looked in his direction to this show. I was naïve to think I was special.

  Reagan is still squeezing my fingers and I squeeze back, tacking a smile on my face. “It’s not a make-out session, but I’ll take it.”

  She slings her arm over my shoulder and leads me toward the door. “That’s the spirit. Phase one: complete. On to phase two.”

  I don’t bother to ask what will be involved in phase two. As we reenter the bar, my attention strays toward the stage. It butts up against the wall stage right, but stage left, where we’re approaching from, is open to the bar. The bassist and guitarist are already in their places, instruments in hand. I can’t see the drummer from behind the large speakers next to the stage, but the pounding of the bass drum tells me he’s seated already. The only person not on stage is Graham, who stands chatting up two of the girls who were dancing with the bigger group during the first set. One of them brushes her hand down his bicep—one of Reagan’s flirting power moves. Graham strokes her cheek with one of his long fingers.

  I want to hurl.

  I wait for Reagan’s reaction to the spectacle unfolding before us, but she’s squinting into the dark depths of the bar. “Katelyn?” Reagan raises her arms over her head like she’s flagging down a plane.

  A squeal sounds over by the bar and a short girl with curly blond hair rushes toward Reagan. The two embrace amid a chorus of giggles.

  By the time their hug ends, Graham has made it onstage. I don’t want to look at him right now, so I keep my gaze fixed on Reagan.