Page 33 of Broken Bridges

Okay, the trip was beginning to look more favorable. But I still wasn’t convinced. “I don’t know. My leg aches too much in the cold. It’s freezing in New York.”

“We have a thing called heating.” Lewis placed a fresh cup of coffee in front of me.

I mouthed, ‘Thank you.’

Cole tossed a blueberry into the air and caught it in his mouth. “What about daily massages? I’ll throw them in too.”

Cole and the guys had always looked out for me. Maybe they’d missed me as much as I’d missed them. It would be fun to hang out and see them record. This was such a huge step for their career. They wouldn’t have much free time. I’d hardly see Lewis. But having four different walls to stare at for two weeks wouldn’t hurt. I could do this. “Fine. I’m in.”

I guess I was going to New York.

After a long flight, we landed at JFK airport late in the evening. April had worked her magic and found us a new place to stay. The swanky four-bedroom apartment in the West Village was only a block away from Everhide’s EH4 Records studio. The guys went straight into pre-production meetings and Lewis joined us for dinner before he returned to his pop’s apartment in Brooklyn.

On New Year’s Eve, I avoided the celebrations. I watched the ball drop and the fireworks from the comfort of the living room sofa on the massive flat-screen. Perfect.

Two days later, the guys hit the studio.

Sutton and I went along to watch a few sessions, but I’d spend most of my time at the apartment watching movies, reading, and enjoying the massages Cole had organized for me. Sutton shopped.

On the nights the guys finished early at the studio, we ventured to the bar across the road for dinner. The food was great, the live music, average. The heat between Lewis and me lingered. I was determined to get it under control—I just didn’t know how. Until then, he provided me with a new form of entertainment.

When he’d ventured to the bar for another drink or socialized with the crowd, men gravitated toward him like he had some invisible force. Watching him in action, chatting, flirting, and occasionally stealing a kiss from a guy at the end of the night had become my new favorite pastime, my obsession. It did strange things to my heart. It was wrong. Oh, so wrong. But it turned me on. I got wet, wanting him to touch me. Kiss me. Drive me crazy. Ever since he’d given me a foot massage at the cabin, I’d wanted his hands on me again. I caught him staring at me sometimes. That gave me wicked images to play behind my closed eyelids when I went home to bed.

Being kindred spirits sucked.

I needed to get a new life.

I had other priorities to focus on: myself and my friendships.

That included establishing a normal, stable friendship with Lewis, not one that would have me returning to therapy for the rest of my days.

Staying true to his word, Lewis rocked up on my doorstep to show me some local sights when the other guys were at meetings. With Sutton out shopping, I buried my jitters, and we ventured over to Dumbo—Down Under the Manhattan Overpass—in Brooklyn. Because I couldn’t walk far, and it was the middle of winter, our outing involved food. We’d spent the morning wandering through the market halls past quaint stalls, and eating delicious treats at fancy patisseries. The smells of freshly brewed coffee, sweet cakes, and Asian dishes made my mouth continually water. So did the scent of Lewis’s cologne, but I tried not to focus on that.

After a hot chocolate at a café, we rugged up in our warm, wooly coats and strolled toward the river. We ended up at Jane’s Carousal.

“You game?” Lewis tossed his empty cup into a trash can, then pointed toward the carousel.

“Go on that? A kids’ ride?” I wrinkled my nose. “Why?”

He stepped in front of me. As he straightened my beanie and tightened my scarf, a humorous glint sparkled in his eyes. “Because it’s fun.”

“But my leg?”

“I’ll lift you on. Come on.” He took my gloved hand and dragged me toward the ticket office.

Ten minutes later, we joined twenty shrieking kids on the ride. I sat upon a feisty-looking gray pony, going up and down as the carousel rotated. Lewis rode the palomino beside me. Carnival music blared through the speakers.

Once we sailed past the attendant, Lewis spun around in the saddle, riding it backwards, waving his arm around in the air and hollering, “Whoa, there, pony.” Twisting around to face forwards again, he rode it like a racehorse. He leaned over the horse’s neck, covered his mount’s eyes, and screamed, “Arrrrgh! We’re gonna crash! We’re going too fast. Stoooop.”

A loud laugh burst from me, but the little girl next to him paled. She shrieked and cried, hurting my eardrums. Tears streamed down her rosy cheeks. It took two rotations of the carousel for Lewis to calm her down.

Poor kid. Poor Lewis. But it was too freaking funny.

Once the girl’s tears had stopped, Lewis sighed with relief and turned to me. “I’m not that scary, am I?”

“She was afraid you and your horse would get hurt. You covered its eyes.”

“Oh. Sorry, pony.” He patted the plastic mane.

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