Wild Flame (The Wild: A Rock Star Romance Book 2)

by Micalea Smeltzer

  “What is it?” I ask skeptically, watching him over the back of the couch as he moves around my tiny kitchen.

  Everything about my place is small, but it’s mine and that’s all that matters to me.

  “I’m not telling yet. You’ll have to wait and see.”

  The toast pops out of the toaster and he puts it on a plate, slapping some butter across it.

  He brings me the plate and says, “Tea will be ready soon.”

  “You need an apron.”

  “Huh?” he asks, raising a brow.

  “A kitchen apron,” I explain. “You’re like my cute little personal chef.”

  “Baby,” his voice lowers, “there’s nothing cute or little about me.”

  There’s a promise in his eyes saying if I wasn’t sick he’d peel me out of my clothes and fuck me right here. I would let him too, but sadly I feel like a big ole pile of poo and that’s not attractive at all.

  A few minutes later he hands me the mug of tea and then crouches in front of my TV popping a movie in the DVD player. He fiddles with the controls, getting everything going, and the previews do nothing to give away what movie it is.

  He places the remotes to the TV and DVD player on the coffee table before joining me on the couch and piling the rest of the blankets on him.

  I stare at the side of his face. His straight nose, nice lips, and flawless cheekbones. Handsome seems too plain of a word to describe Rush. He’s … godly.

  I would never dare to utter those words to him. His ego doesn’t need any more inflation.

  “Why are you staring at me?” he asks, still looking straight ahead.

  “Because I can.”

  He finally looks at me with a crooked grin. He rubs the stubble on his jaw. “Like what you see?”

  I roll my eyes. “If I didn’t, I would’ve never slept with you.”

  He pretends to gasp. “Kira, are you saying you’re so shallow you judge people based on looks?”

  “The guys I sleep with? Yes,” I answer honestly. “My vagina is a fickle bitch. Only the best for her.”

  He throws his head back and laughs. Dammit, if watching the way his throat moves with laughter isn’t one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen.

  Just then I get distracted as the TV finally comes to the play screen for the movie.

  I squint, not sure I’m seeing it right.

  “The Princess Bride? Really?” I look at him like I don’t know him, which I’m beginning to realize I don’t. Not at all.

  “It’s a good fucking movie.” He squirms beneath my scrutiny. “There are swords … and killing … and stuff.”

  “Mhmm, and it’s also a romance.” I cross my arms over my chest.

  “Yeah, but it’s not a rom-com, or Titanic,” he mutters the last under his breath.

  “What’s wrong with Titanic?” I question curiously.

  “Nothing.” He shakes his head, his shaggy blond hair moving with the gesture.

  “Sounds like there’s a story there,” I sing-song.

  He pulls a face of disgust as he presses play. “A story you’ll never ever hear.”

  “Oh, now you have to tell me,” I say, perking up. The tea jostles in the mug as I wiggle on my beige couch.

  “Nope.” He mimes zipping his lips. “Be a good girl and watch the movie. I’ll go get you some soup when it’s over.”

  I shake my head. “One day you’ll tell me.”

  He snorts. “Not likely.”

  I’ll find out one way or the other, I know it.

  I get settled on the couch beneath my blankets and sip at the tea while I watch the movie with Rush. I’m still beyond amused this is the movie he got. I file it away in the folder I keep in my mind with things I learn about him.

  I have to admit, the tea isn’t bad and I actually think it’s helping with my cough and sore throat.

  Beside me, Rush is zeroed in on the movie. I can’t help but wonder what he thinks of my place. It’s small, and dingy, definitely not in the best neighborhood and my furniture is all stuff I picked up at yard sales or flea markets. I’ve always thought it was cozy and cute, but coming from L.A., staying in fancy places … it must seem gross to him, but he’s never looked at it with disgust.

  He’s baffling to me, and despite myself and my rules, I do find I’m curious to know more about him. But I don’t dare step over that treacherous line.

  Once I do, there would be no going back, and it’s not a risk I’m willing to take.

  Not now, not ever, not on any guy.

  The movie ends and Rush stands, stretching his arms above his head and exposing a sliver of tanned, muscled, stomach.

  He grins when he catches me looking, so naturally I give him the finger.

  He chuckles and stifles a yawn. I bet he didn’t get much sleep, not on this small lumpy couch. He would’ve been better off sleeping on the floor.

  “I’m going to go get you some soup. Want anything else?”

  I bite my lip. “Another milkshake,” I admit.

  “From where?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Wherever is easiest.”

  He nods and starts shrugging into his coat. “I’ll probably be back in about an hour. Try and get some rest. I … uh … I got you one of those lavender scented animal things yesterday. You can microwave them. I thought it might make you feel better.”

  I smile. “That was nice of you. Thanks.”

  It’s hard for me to say thank you, so the fact I feel like I’ve done nothing but thank Rush in the past twenty-four hours says a lot.

  Growing up, I had to fend for myself and take care of my mom. I’ve never had someone to look out for me before, and it’s strange, but not entirely unpleasant. It gives me a new found respect for him.

  He heads out, locking the door behind him.

  I reluctantly get up, and start straightening things.

  I hate a messy apartment, a messy anything. I like cleanliness and order when it comes to my personal space.

  I didn’t have it growing up and crave it now like someone with a sweet tooth craves chocolate.

  Folding all the blankets I place them in the basket I keep in the corner beside the TV stand.

  Heading back to my room I make my bed. I can’t stand getting ready for bed and I haven’t made my bed all day. It just seems gross to get in an unmade bed.

  I finish fluffing the pillows when a wave of dizziness hits me.

  “Oh.” I press a hand to my forehead, swaying slightly.

  I sit down on the bed quickly, worrying I might faint. It feels like my blood pressure has dropped suddenly. Closing my eyes, I breathe carefully in through my nose and out through my mouth.

  It takes a few minutes, but the dizzy and lightheadedness passes.

  Once it’s gone, I go back to the couch and lay down, bundling the blankets around me once more—fat lot good it did me, folding them and tucking them in the basket. I put the TV on to a random channel. It’s some mindless reality show, which is always the best thing to watch when you don’t feel good.

  It doesn’t take long for my eyes to grow heavy and for me to doze off.

  I startle awake when the door to my place opens.

  Rush walks inside carrying bags from Chick-Fil-A and a milkshake.

  I sit up, rubbing my eyes free of the lingering effects of sleep. He kicks the door closed behind him and sets everything down in front of me on the coffee table.

  Before I can open my mouth to ask him to lock the door, he goes back to do it.

  Safety is important to me and I can’t stand an unlocked door. You never know who might barge in. I don’t need any sort of unnecessary stress in my life. I have enough stress as it is.

  Rush sits down beside me as I pick up the chocolate milkshake, ripping off the paper from the straw. I smile to myself when I notice there’s no cherry.

  Rush’s brain might be on a constant loop of thinking about sex, but he notices things. It’s more than I can say for most people.

 
He pulls a black plastic bowl with a clear lid out of the bag and sets a wrapped spoon on top. “Chicken noodle soup,” he says unnecessarily.

  He then procures two chicken sandwiches and a large fry from another bag along with at least twelve packs of Polynesian sauce.

  “Did you get enough sauce?” I inquire sarcastically.

  “Hopefully so,” he says seriously, taking the bun off one of the sandwiches.

  He peels back the top of a packet of sauce and dumps the entire thing on the sandwich—then proceeds to do it again. He repeats the same process with the other sandwich and then opens another thing of sauce and dips a fry in it.

  “What?” he asks around a mouthful of food.

  “Nothing,” I say, stifling a laugh. I wrap my lips around my straw and try to suppress a moan, because it tastes so fucking good.

  I glance over and Rush is laughing at me.

  His lips twitch. “You look like you’re … really enjoying that milkshake”

  “Stop it,” I whine, pushing his shoulder. “Let me enjoy it.”

  “All I’m saying is, nice suck job.”

  “Rush.”

  He laughs loudly and reaches for one of his sandwiches. “All right, all right. I’ll be good.”

  “I should knock your sandwich on the floor,” I grumble.

  He takes a big bite. “Bvtynwt.”

  “Was that even a language?” I retort.

  He chews and swallows, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “I said, ‘but you won’t’.”

  “Is that so?” I raise a brow and take a dramatic sip of my shake, daring him to make another comment.

  He smiles, a big blinding smile that makes little crinkles appear at the corner of his eyes.

  “Admit it, you like me.”

  “Nope.” I shake my head.

  His smile widens impossibly further. “You do. Maybe just a smidge.” He holds his thumb and index finger the smallest bit apart. “But you do.”

  I sigh. “You’re impossible.”

  “So are you.”

  “And incredibly stubborn.”

  “Again,” he grins, “so are you.”

  “Let me enjoy my shake in peace.” I turn away from him, curling my legs under me.

  He stares at me for a moment, entirely amused. “Sure, whatever you want.”

  The problem is, I’m not sure what I want anymore.

  Not from school.

  Or work.

  Or him.

  Or life.

  I used to have it all figured out, now I’m not so sure.

  6

  Rush

  I hate leaving Kira Monday morning, but she has class and I have to get to the studio. She seems to be feeling better, but I know she’s not well despite her protests. The woman is too stubborn for her own good.

  I stroll into the hotel and up to our suite so I can shower and change my clothes.

  Slipping the keycard into the door it swings open.

  “You’re alive,” Cannon says gruffly from the kitchen area, making…

  “Are those pancakes?”

  “You’re not getting any.” His green eyes narrow on me. His normally groomed hair has yet to be tamed and he’s only in his black boxer-briefs.

  “Cover up, man. No one needs to see that.”

  He lets out a gruff laugh. “You’re the one who walks around naked half the time.”

  “Gotta show you guys what you have to measure up to. I don’t want your pancakes anyway. I already ate.”

  “With Kira?” He raises a pierced brow. When I nod, he says, “You’ve been spending an awful lot of time with her. You haven’t caught those dreaded feels have you?”

  I roll my eyes. “Of course not. I’m above such foolish nonsense. She was sick and I was taking care of her. That’s all.” I edge toward my room and further away from this conversation.

  “You were taking care of her, huh?” He flips his damn pancake.

  Cannon and his fucking pancakes. I swear he makes them every morning. Why not have a waffle every now and then? What did waffles ever do to him?

  “It’s not a big deal.”

  It’s really not, not to me anyway. It was the right thing to do.

  “Mhmm,” he hums, “whatever you say.”

  “I’m over this conversation. I’m going to shower.”

  I hear him chuckle softly behind me and give him the finger over my shoulder. I don’t know if he sees and I don’t care.

  I enter my room, closing the door behind me.

  The hotel Hayes booked for our stay is pretty ritzy for this small town. It’s a historic hotel, with most of the rooms harking back to the era of colonial America—I know because I looked online.

  But not the top suites. There’s one other on this floor on the opposite side.

  Our room is decked out to the nines. It oozes money and splendor. It’s far nicer than what any of us had back in L.A. where unless you have several million to spend, you’re screwed.

  My room is decorated in reds and purples—or I guess plum would be the more apt term for the dark shade of purple. The bathroom attached to the room is done in marble and it’s all some of the fanciest shit I’ve ever seen.

  I toss my coat onto my bed, drop my shirt on the floor, and I’m out of my jeans before I’ve even made it to the shower.

  I turn it on and let it get steamy before stepping beneath the spray.

  A sigh leaves my lips as the hot water pings against my chilled skin.

  Even wrapped up, the walk from the garage to the hotel left me freezing.

  I grab my soap, lathering it in my hands before smearing some into my hair and onto my body.

  Rinsing it out, I deem myself clean enough. Turning the shower off I step out, grabbing a towel.

  I dry and wrap it around my waist.

  Padding into the carpeted bedroom area I open the top drawer on the dresser and yank out a plain gray long-sleeve tee. Another drawer—black jeans. Then I move to the closet and yank a sweatshirt off the hanger.

  I can’t handle the cold, not anymore. I’ve grown too used to L.A.’s always-sunny weather and this cold, icy, snowy shit is for the birds.

  Finding some socks, I yank those on and then a pair of brown boots.

  The last thing I do is grab my coat off the bed and shrug into that.

  Heading out into the main living area, Cannon’s now gone and there’s no trace he was even there. The guy cooks and cleans. He’s not normal.

  Fox exits his room, drawing up the collar on his black coat. “You heading out?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I answer.

  “Should we wait for Cannon?” he asks.

  I snort a breath in a disgruntled huff. “No.”

  Fox sighs, like I’m such a pain in the ass for not being nice or accommodating. “Yo, Cannon? You ready?” He hollers out to our bassist—and the biggest pain in my ass.

  “Almost,” he calls back.

  “We’re waiting,” Fox tells me.

  “Whatever.” I give a small laugh.

  I might give Cannon, hell—all of them—a hard time but at the end of the day we’re friends … no, family. They’re the only family I have left.

  Cannon leaves his room, bundled up as much as Fox and I are, with a beanie stuffed on his head. His heavy black boots clomp across the floor as he reaches us.

  I bust out laughing and the other two glare at me, wondering what the fuck I find so amusing. When I finally recover, wiping an errant tear from my eye, I say, “Look at us. We’re pathetic. We can’t even handle a little cold.”

  Fox laughs first, then Cannon.

  Sobering, Cannon says, “Who actually enjoys the cold?”

  “It’s all right some times,” I admit reluctantly. “Snowboarding is fun.” I give a lift of my shoulders. “But L.A. has turned us all into certified wimps.”

  Fox shakes his head. “You’ve got that right.”

  The three of us head for the elevator. It’s still weird at times, Hollis not being a
round like he used to. Love, it turns us all into fools.

  We step into the elevator and Fox pushes the button for the lobby.

  Reaching the lobby, we walk across and out through the doors into the raging cold. The sky is a bleary dark gray and I worry more snow might be on the horizon. Even now there are piles and piles of it on every corner, long since turned a murky gray or brown color.

  The studio is down the block from the hotel, meaning even with the cold it makes no sense for us to drive.

  We hurry across the street and down to the studio, trying to be careful not to slip on ice. I don’t need a spill like I had the other night. The last thing I need is my friends mocking me too.

  Cannon reaches the door first and swings it open, Fox and I entering behind him.

  The warmth of the studio hits me and I breathe a sigh of relief.

  I shuck my coat off and toss it on the couch in the front area of the studio.

  “Dude.” Cannon glowers at me. “Don’t throw your shit around, not cool.”

  “I haven’t done that since I was like two, give me a break.”

  His eyes narrow to slits.

  I groan. “Fine, Dad.” I go and pick up my coat, then drape it over the back of one of the chairs. “Better?” I ask, waiting for his approval.

  “It’ll do,” he says gruffly, and heads for the recording room.

  I glance at Fox. “Why do we keep him around?”

  Fox gives a small laugh. “Because we’d be up a creek without a paddle if we didn’t have him.”

  I chuckle. “Is that one of your grandmom’s sayings?”

  “Yeah. That woman has the best sayings.”

  “She’s pretty great,” I agree.

  We head back, joining Cannon, Hayes, and Hollis in the studio. I’m shocked Hollis is here first. That never happens anymore.

  “Take a seat, guys,” Hayes instructs and we do as we’re told.

  I end up on the couch with Cannon and Hollis. Fox takes the chair.

  “What’s up?” I ask, wondering if we’re in trouble for something.

  For once, I safely know it’s not me.

  Hayes swivels his chair to face the four of us.

  “Your first single is premiering on the radio this Friday.”