Feeling refreshed, I push open the door, half-expecting that to be locked as well. I look up and flinch.
“Whoa. Hey,” I say, stepping back, my hands raised.
She holds the knife out in front of her. “Take off your hoodie,” she snaps.
“What?”
“Take it off. Show me you’re not armed. And don’t have drugs. And...”
I squint at her, noticing she also has shorts and a bra on now. “And… what?”
“Um…” She shakes her head. “A bomb.” She must like her answer when her gaze hardens and her stance grows more confident.
A bomb? She thinks I may have come down here with a bomb tucked under my hoodie? Okay, fine. I get it. She’s freaked out. I am too, but I still can’t help the smile as I stare at her in disbelief. She doesn’t budge, though, and I let out a resigned sigh.
“Fine,” I mutter, ripping my hoodie over my head. It’s fucking a hundred degrees down here anyway. I toss it onto the chair and lift my shirt as well. “No weapons, see?” I twist so she can get a full view of my bare torso, even shoving my shorts down enough to show her the naked band of my boxer-briefs. Except her glare has become more of a stare. Her rage melting into a different kind of flame. Wait, is she checking me out? She lowers the knife as I lower my shirt, her cheeks flushing in the silence. I know I shouldn’t, even as it slips out, but how can I not smile at what just happened. Part of me wants to take my shirt off again just to earn another annoyed-covetous glare infusion. I can tell she’s not thrilled about the fact that she likes what she just saw.
“I’m Eli, by the way,” I say, lifting my hand in a conciliatory gesture.
She follows the movement of my palm, her eyes then tracing me again before landing on my face. Something works its way through her head before her shoulders finally relax. The knife is now hanging at her side. “I’m Marina,” she says. “Also, we won’t be stuck here forever. When the manager arrives, he’ll notice I’m not in the main building and will come looking for me.”
See? Things are already looking up. “Great. And when will that be?”
It’s her turn for a snarky smile. “Let’s see, on a non-event day? Probably around noon.”
• • •
Marina
Okay, he’s not cute. He’s hot. Like legit, I-want-to-see-him-naked hot, and yes, that pisses me off. Being hot doesn’t excuse you for being an asshole. You don’t get a pass for breaking into someone’s house and locking them up with you for eight long hours. At least I get the satisfaction of watching his expression flash with horror before he tries to act all cool and macho again. Yep, that’s right. Congratulations, Eli. We get to hang out in awkward silence for an entire day. Hope you’ve got some internet-free apps on your phone because I’m sure as hell not entertaining you.
But apparently boundaries aren’t a thing this guy does well, because he’s already roaming around my room like a caged lion. I’m about to snap at him again when I catch the critique on my tongue. He just found out he is kind of a lion in a cage right now. I’ll give him a few minutes to process that. Maybe I don’t mind watching him either. Homeless or not, the dude is oddly refined. I hate that his movements spark curiosity over disgust. There’s a strange elegance to him that I missed in the initial terror and frustration of our introduction. If he’s homeless, he hasn’t been living on the streets for long. My gaze slips to the backpack he brought in, probably all his worldly possessions, poor thing. Then I get a whiff of expensive cologne.
I swallow the surge of butterflies at that surprising twist. No! You are not going to be attracted him. You. Are. Not. But the combination of that smell with that body and that smirk is an injustice I can’t get out of my head, and images from my remote weapons’ check come flooding back. I didn’t just want to look in that moment. I wanted to frisk him. Hands and fingers all over that sculpted body until I was sure he not only wasn’t armed, but was fully equipped in other areas. Stop it! I force myself to remember how I then wanted to die when he caught me gawking. Plus, he’s basically a criminal. That works. I manage to hate him again.
His pacing has slowed, his gaze fixed on me when I dare a look back at him. He runs a hand through his hair, and yeah, there’s no doubt about it. His messy dark locks have recently been styled. Who is this guy? I flinch at how badly I want to know.
“So how do I know you’re not armed,” he asks, running his gaze over my body with a cocky grin. Ah yes, there we go. Irritation is fully charged again.
I narrow my eyes at him. “You already know I am.”
“What, with that paring knife? Are you going to papercut me to death?” He motions toward my nightstand where I tucked the weapon after determining he’s not a threat. Well, not a physical one anyway.
“It’s a steak knife,” I retort, resting my fists on my hips. “It has serrated edges and could do plenty of damage if used in the right way.”
“Okay, Aunt Mabel,” he snorts, and yes, I’d smack him if I could reach him.
“Who?”
He shakes his head, still grinning. Gah! He’s infuriating. “No one. Just… you got a TV or something?” He scans my small apartment, his expression dimming when he answers his own question.
“I’ve got world class amenities, actually. An industrial kitchen, several lounges and big screen TVs. Everything you could ever want… upstairs.”
He sighs and drops back to the chair. I get another intoxicating blast of that sexy man smell and retreat several steps to perch on the edge of my bed. We sit in silence for a while. Him, staring at his phone as if still in disbelief it can’t help him. Me, staring at him because my eyes don’t seem to know where else to look at the moment. I tell myself it’s a defensive move. Keep the predator in sight. Don’t let down your guard. He may not be armed or seem like a threat, but you never know with these things. The most dangerous ones are the ones you don’t see coming.
After several long seconds, he grunts and shoves his phone in his backpack with disgust. “Why is it a million degrees down here?” he asks. I can’t tell if that was meant for me, or just general grumbling, but it’s conversation at least.
“The old radiators are hard to regulate,” I say, motioning toward the large metal coil in the corner.
He’s not wrong. It does get hot, especially when the upstairs door is closed and the rising heat can’t escape. And now with two bodies down here? It’s going to get unbearable soon, but I don’t want to tell him that. If he’s at all claustrophobic, this is going to get pretty messy. I fear that very thing when he pushes up from the chair and starts pacing again.
He fans his shirt a few times as he moves, lifting the hem to wipe at his forehead. My mouth goes dry as I study his bare chest with each stretch and flex of his body. The internal rush floods south, and I force my eyes back to the floor.
“You’re not claustrophobic, are you?” I ask, still avoiding him, but we need words. Silence won’t do either of us any favors. When he doesn’t respond, I have no choice but to look at him again. By the flash of panic in his eyes before he averts his gaze, I think I got my answer.
“Nah,” he says casually. “Not really.” But I’m almost positive he’s lying. Crap. This isn’t good. No wonder he’s struggling with the heat. I push up from the mattress and move toward the mini fridge. Grabbing a bottle of water, I turn and toss it toward him. He reacts late and captures it against his chest with a surprised look.
“Thanks,” he says, twisting off the cap. He takes a long swallow, and maybe I kind of feel bad for my initial reaction to this whole thing. He never should have come down here in the first place, but he obviously didn’t get us stuck together on purpose. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here.
“It’s going to be okay,” I say as he closes the half-empty bottle, gripping it hard in his hand. “They’re going to find us, I promise.”
He releases a harsh laugh. “Yeah. It’s just… never mind. That yours?” He motions toward the guitar on the stand by my bed,
and I nod. “You mind?” He reaches for it when I gesture my permission. So he plays guitar too. Fine. Not the first homeless guy to play a guitar.
He lowers himself to the edge of the bed and balances the guitar on his lap. His fingers find the frets with ease, and I’m intrigued when he cringes at the first discordant strum. “You got a tuner?” he asks, twisting a look back at me. I’m about to tell him to grab it from the nightstand drawer when I remember I hid my knife in there. Hid. Except he knows it’s there. Still…
I cross in front of him, my skimpy shorts brushing his knee as I lean to open the drawer. A shiver runs through me, the heat returning when I get another burst of that intoxicating scent. The crooked smile on his face doesn’t help when I straighten to hand him the tuner. His warm fingers graze mine in the exchange, and I withdraw my hand quickly. He notices, the amused smile turning wry as he shakes his head.
“Look, I don’t want to be trapped here as much as you don’t want me here,” he says, focusing back on the strings as he tunes with expert precision. The guy knows his way around a guitar, I’ll give him that. And yes, maybe he looks a little hurt that I’m still treating him like a criminal mastermind. He’s done nothing to indicate he’s a threat. If anything, I’ve been the hostile one in this entire debacle.
Sighing, I drop to the same side of the bed, a few feet away. I’m not ready to cuddle, but I can offer an olive branch until he gives me a reason to go back for my broom. The corner of his mouth ticks up at my concession, even though he doesn’t outright acknowledge it.
“Favorite Night Shifts Black song?” he asks, never looking away from the guitar. I stare at him in shock. I don’t know if it’s the fact that he remembered that part of the conversation or that he’s confident enough to think he can play anything from their repertoire, but I can’t deny the sudden return of those annoying butterflies. Yes, Eli with the messy hair and the cute smile and the toned body looks downright edible right now with that sexy grin and a guitar in his arms.
“‘Metamorphosis,’” I say, just to be contrary and re-establish equilibrium in the universe. It’s one of their lesser known songs from two albums ago, but hey. I’m being gracious enough to play along instead of stabbing him or smacking him with a broom, right?
“Interesting choice,” he mutters to himself, and it’s my turn to be thrown off guard when he launches into the intro without further hesitation. How in the world does he know that song? I wouldn’t be able to sing the lyrics without the original track behind me, let alone play it. But he plows through without missing a beat—literally. I hate how the heat in the room suddenly cranks for me as well. The longer I watch his effortless performance, the more I feel the cramped space around us. It’s like he’s played that instrument his entire life. And although his voice is no Luke Craven, he could probably pull off frontman chops for a smaller band. To say I’m curious when he finishes would be an understatement. Intrigued. Riveted. Slightly obsessed.
“‘Greetings from the Inside.’ Play that next,” I blurt out as soon as he strums the final chord of the outro. His gaze snaps over at my outburst, and heat spreads up my neck and into my cheeks again. But I don’t take it back as his amused stare rests on me. After that performance, the artist in me has to hear what he does with NSB’s biggest hit.
“If I play it, will you swear not to stab me?” he teases, his eyes dancing with mischief.
I swallow the effect of that sexy look with that guitar and that voice and that body and gah! You are not developing a crush on a homeless burglar—no matter how cute and talented he is. I shift a few inches away on the mattress as if that will somehow stop this ridiculous attraction.
“How about you play it?” he says, handing me the guitar. My eyes bulge as I stare at him, then my gaze drops to the instrument in his hands.
“I… I can’t.”
He continues to hold the guitar in my direction, but I don’t take it.
“You can’t?”
I shake my head.
“You have, like, three things down here—one of which is a guitar, so that tells me you probably can.”
I swallow. Wow, it really is getting incredibly hot in this room. My tank suddenly feels sticky and tight. I slipped on a bra and shorts while he was in the bathroom, but somehow I feel more naked now than I did when he first drew me out of bed in my underwear.
“Um…” I shake my head, panic starting to mount. I could watch him play all day. But play for him? Never. Not just him. No one. I don’t play in front of people period. In fact, lately I don’t do anything but hide. “I have to go to the bathroom. Be right back,” I add, catching the trace of concern on his face before I rush to the bathroom.
Eli
I return the guitar to my lap once she’s gone, surprised by her retreat, and yes, also disturbed. As much as she seems to dislike me, she’s at least a good distraction from the fact that I’m trapped in a dungeon. The truth is, I am claustrophobic. Very claustrophobic, and as much as I brushed it off a second ago, the flicker of panic in my gut is a short fuse away from exploding into a full-on meltdown. Ever since my older brother locked me in a closet for a day when we were kids, I’ve never done well in enclosed spaces. Hell, I even leave the curtain of my bunk open a few inches to give me breathing room. This situation? Pretty much my worst nightmare. Worse than weird wall spiders. Worse than creepy, glowing ghost eyes.
I fight to push that reality away as I focus on the cheap-ass guitar in my hands. It’s some brand I’ve never heard of. Is it a brand? Whatever. It’s wood and strings and not tightening stone walls of terror. I strum through a few chord progressions, including a new song we’ve been working on during this east coast tour. I had an idea for a sick bass line on the bridge and pick my way through that on the acoustic. Like most serious musicians, I play more than the instrument I’m known for, though I’m not nearly as skilled on the others as the bass guitar. Casey caught me messing around with his kit once, and even through his ribbing I could tell he was more than a little impressed. Drums and bass have a special connection, so it’s not too surprising I can hold my own on a drum set.
Singing, though, that was new for me. I never sing. When you’ve spent your career in the shadow of Luke Craven, I guess that’s understandable. But, I dunno. My fingers were playing, that exasperating, adorable girl was watching, eyes all huge and shit, and yeah. The words just started coming out. Was it good? I don’t know, but when she immediately begged for more, something ignited inside me. No one ever notices the bass player. Not whining, it’s just a reality any backline musician accepts from day one. You want to play bass or keys? No one will know you exist. You will live your life in the stage shadows, anchoring the spotlight players, making the music explode, but you’ll never get the glory for your underrated role. The camera won’t be in your face. The radio hosts and reporters won’t be clamoring for an interview. So yeah, for the three minutes I was suddenly center stage for this Marina girl, maybe it felt good. Special, even. Maybe for a brief moment I didn’t feel like I wanted to throw up after finding out I was trapped in this tomb.
As the silent seconds tick on, however, her absence is getting loud. Without an audience, the chords are ringing hollow in my ears. The walls are closing in again. My heart rate picks up as I breathe through long inhales and exhales, trying to return myself to the peace I felt a moment ago while the music was swelling around me. Where is that girl? I preferred the threat of getting stabbed to this cavernous solitude.
I clap my palm on the strings to mute them and listen for some sign of her. Water runs from inside the bathroom, but not enough for the tub or shower. A sink, I guess. Must be brushing her teeth or washing her hands. I tilt my head toward the sound as if somehow I’ll be able to gauge how far into the process she is. The walls are getting thicker. Closer.
I shut my eyes, forcing my fingers to start moving on the strings again. If I can’t see the old stone barriers, maybe they’ll go away. Maybe… Shit. They’re still there. I can feel them
. I pull in a deep breath but it’s not what I needed. No, I’m breathing too many breaths, that’s the problem. My body is fighting the extra oxygen. Sending it in and out in short gasps now. My limbs are tingling and the guitar drops from my hands. Numb fingers shove into my hair, pulling hard against the fear.
You’re okay. They’re going to find you. You could probably break down the door if you had to. Maybe. It was a heavy door. You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay…
• • •
Marina
I splash one last handful of water over my face, staring at my wet, glossy reflection in the mirror. I’m still no runway knockout, but at least my breath is fresh and I smell like flowers instead of a girl who’s been in bed all night. Did I need to clean up? Sure. But I didn’t care until my strange intruder transformed from homeless threat into artistic Adonis. I still have no idea who he is, but he’s no standard drifter, that’s for sure. He’s funny and sexy and so damn talented. I couldn’t breathe the entire time he was playing that song, and when he turned to me for the encore I could have laughed at the absurdity. Me, who can barely play a G-chord, performing in front of that musical god? It’s insane. It also has my blood pressure rushing to remote parts of my body. The whir of untamed insects roars in my stomach again. He was fully clothed in front of me, but not in my head as he played. No, in my mind he was on a stage somewhere, his sweaty shirt tossed aside, the guitar resting along the seam of those low-hanging shorts. And that smile. He’d toss one or two my way, making it clear he saw right through my unsuccessful attempts to hate him. Argh. What am I going to do? I can’t go back out there crushing on a guy I should be trying to get locked up. I also can’t stay in the bathroom for the next seven hours.
I press my ear against the door, listening for the guitar, but I don’t hear anything. Guess he got bored with it. Too bad. I could have listened to him play for the remaining time of our captivity. Maybe he would have if I hadn’t fled like a scared rabbit. What’s he thinking about that reaction? I don’t even want to know.
My Night with a Rockstar Page 30