Flirting with the Rock Star Next Door

by Nadia Lee

  “He just doesn’t want to pay alimony.” He had a law degree. Even though he didn’t practice, he had to know exactly how much he’d pay in a divorce settlement.

  “That’s so cold,” Mom said, her voice hard.

  Oh, for God’s sake. “You don’t have to leave permanently,” I clarified quickly before she started accusing me of being insensitive. I still thought she should divorce his sorry ass. But if she hadn’t done it in the last twenty-some years, she wasn’t going to do it now. “Just long enough for him to learn his lesson. Don’t you want to see him groveling on his knees to get you to come back?” I laid it on thick. I couldn’t imagine Dad doing that. He was a proud man. Just not proud enough to keep his wedding vows. Or play fair to win a bet.

  But he was clever enough to understand that some flowers and silly gifts would soften Mom. That was how he’d gotten her to come back every time she came over to stay with me after discovering some new infidelity.

  “Huh.” I could hear the gears in my mom’s head turning. “That does sound…doable. And fun, too. I’d love for him to grovel.”

  “Exactly,” I said, warming to the most critical point in all this. “Go to New York, check into a hotel for a week or so and don’t answer his texts or emails or calls. Go shopping. Have fun. Post lots of happy selfies on Instagram. He’ll get the hint.” The issue was that they were terrible enablers of each other’s vices. Dad needed to cheat to feel smart and powerful, and Mom needed a financially well-off husband to feel secure and wanted.

  “That’s not a bad idea. I’ll do that next time,” Mom said.

  “Do it now,” I said, trying not to sound desperate. I couldn’t have her come here. Go to New York City! Please! “I’ll pay for your hotel.”

  “I can’t do that, not when I have to plan and strategize your next release launch.”

  That meant she wasn’t coming to Kingstree. I took a relieved swig.

  “By the way, are you on target with the next book?” Mom asked, finally on another track.

  “Yes.” Now that my asshole neighbor was quiet… “As long as I’m not interrupted, I should be fine.” I tried to subtly emphasize “not interrupted,” so she got an extra-heavy hint not to come.

  “We have to make sure to push it to number one in the entire Amazon store. I’d love to see your dad eat his words.” Vengeful malice laced her words. She might believe her place was by her philandering husband, but she could be surprisingly vindictive when she wanted. She just wasn’t vindictive enough to divorce him and take all his money.

  “I do too, especially since it’s my last chance.” The book was coming out on the fourth anniversary of me going pro with writing. And that was the deadline for the bet between me and Dad.

  “Don’t worry, hon,” Mom said. “You’ll hit it. I have faith in you, and I’m going to make sure it happens, too! I’ve already made a ton of graphics and brainstormed some ideas to help.”

  I smiled at her enthusiasm, even if it was mainly motivated by her desire to see me win and humiliate Dad. I wanted to see him humiliated too, but mainly, I wanted to see him admit he was wrong—wrong to mock me and other women for enjoying romance, wrong to belittle my choices and desires.

  “Thanks, Mom.” I took the last swig. “I gotta go and finish the scene I was working on.”

  “Okay! You go make me proud.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Killian

  The next morning, I puttered around in my kitchen, intending to make myself an omelet. I’d decided to make it a habit to eat better, especially when I wasn’t touring. Things could be hectic on the road. My recent collapse had reminded me I needed to take care of myself if I wanted to be singing and performing for decades to come, even though the specialists who’d examined me had said I was healthy enough. I didn’t plan on fading away after only a few years like so many others. I wanted longevity.

  Probably should get the other guys to start eating better, too. We could be like the Stones, or Aerosmith…

  Besides, I did my best work when I was well rested and well fed. There was a myth of suffering, cocaine-snorting musicians pouring out amazing work in a drug-induced haze. Might be true for some, but not me. It was a terrible way to work, more self-destructive than creative.

  But in the last several years, I’d pushed anyway because I wanted to see how far I could go. And my body had punished me for it, so now it was recovery time. Recharge the batteries. Sleep. Rest. Take it easy. I was certain if I could get over this burnout, I’d go back to writing brilliant songs again, with the kind of lyrics that resonated with millions of listeners.

  Not doing that was…

  My mouth dried, and a chill crept into my body. Not write songs and perform them? It was the thing that made me matter—the vehicle through which I made a difference in the world and touched people’s hearts. Grandma’s proud expression fleeted through my mind. I didn’t want to disappoint her, even if she was gone now. I couldn’t let my band mates down…or my fans.

  And it wasn’t about money or fame. My parents had left me and Mir a huge trust worth billions. I could live like a king even if I never did anything productive for the rest of my life. But that wasn’t what I wanted. Not what Grandma would’ve wished for. I only had one life, and it should be meaningful. Make an impact.

  As I pulled out eggs and cheese from the fridge, I paused. Emily’s refrigerator had looked pretty barren yesterday. And she’d only bought alcohol, ice cream and Animal Crackers at Sunny’s Mart. I doubted she’d gone back later to get something more nutritious.

  Her eating habits irked me, probably because they reminded me of Mir’s. My baby sister liked to subsist on mainly junk food because it was quick and easy, and she hated wasting time with something as “mundane” as eating when she was working. Thankfully, she was now dating a nutritionist, who was making her eat more like an adult.

  I turned my head toward Emily’s house. Left to her own devices, she’d probably have potato chips and beer for breakfast. Maybe a cup of coffee if she was feeling particularly mature.

  You’re not her mother.

  Yeah, but I have to go over there to shower anyway, so…

  My mind made up, I picked up a carton of dozen eggs and some shredded cheese and put them in a plastic bag I grabbed from under the kitchen sink. Grandma had always kept a few there just in case. I tucked a bath towel in, plus the pink towel I’d laundered last night. I put the book Emily had lent me under my arm, picked up the bag and walked over to her place.

  When I knocked on the door, Emily opened it. She was in a ragged T-shirt that I was certain had been blue at some point, but had faded into some odd shade between a bruise and dirty dishwater. It hung over her, the fabric tired and droopy. Her yoga pants were frayed around the ankles. No makeup. Her hair was so messy that it was hard to tell if she just hadn’t bothered to brush it or if her hair was the type that couldn’t be tamed without a team of professionals armed with a cabinet full of product. Then I remembered her photos and decided she couldn’t be bothered.

  Normally, I wouldn’t feel anything in a situation like this. Hell, I didn’t always feel anything even when a half-naked groupie rubbed her tits along my arm. But with Emily, my curiosity intensified. She was probably decently successful enough in her career. She was a bestselling author, so she must’ve made some money from her writing. So why did she look like she went dumpster diving for her wardrobe? I knew she had nicer clothes, the ones she’d worn to conferences and book signings. Part of me wanted to tease her a little, play with her hair—not because I wanted to touch her hair necessarily… Okay, who was I kidding—I wanted to touch her hair. But it wasn’t just about fulfilling some lurid desire. I could run my fingers through the cool strands until it was neater, close to the way it had been in her social media photos.

  Then there was something else, too, underneath the curiosity. The same spark that had gone through me at Sunny’s Mart. It sizzled through my system, made the base of my spine tingle.

>   Was Emily feeling it too? Looking at her narrowed green eyes, I decided…maybe not. The notion was vaguely disappointing but also stirred my sense of challenge. This must have been how mountain climbers felt at the base of Mount Everest.

  “You’re here early,” she said. “It isn’t natural.”

  I smiled. “I’m an early bird.”

  “I thought music people stayed up all night.”

  “I might’ve, if you’d let me practice my drums,” I said. “But in general, I like to get up when the sun is up.”

  “Like I said, not natural.” Her face contorted with distaste, and she shuddered in an exaggerated fashion then moved back into the house. “Come on in.”

  I followed her in, gently kicking the door shut after me. Several empty beer and water bottles stood around the living room along with a few empty bags of Animal Crackers and M&M’s. Her laptop was on the coffee table. A purple blanket and a pillow lay on the sofa, a prone-body-shaped impression in the cushions.

  “Did you sleep on the sofa?” I asked, stunned. Her bedroom was just upstairs.

  “Yeah. I was working, then sort of fell asleep there.” Wincing, she rolled her shoulders and neck.

  Exasperation tugged at me. She should’ve known better. Sleeping on couches was overrated for creative types, unless you had the spine of a teenager. Working with tight muscles the next day was a bitch, and all your brain could think about was how much you wanted a massage. “You might need to stretch.”

  “Yeah. If I can find the time.” She dug her fingers into the back of her neck.

  That half-assed attempt wouldn’t do anything. And I’d hate to see her suffer for the rest of the day, since I could tell she wasn’t going to stretch or get a proper massage.

  “Let me.”

  I put my stuff on the couch and went over to her. As I placed my hands on the muscles of her neck, a prickly sensation traveled up my arms, then settled in my lower gut, close to my dick. Jesus, it was just the back of a neck, I reminded myself, even though it didn’t feel like “just” anything. I couldn’t quite figure out what was so different about it. Or why I liked touching her so much. Or why my body was reacting like minor fireworks had just gone off inside me, spelling YOU WANT HER.

  I shoved all that aside for the moment and brushed my thumb against the base of her skull, where the hairline started. But her bare skin was so warm and soft. I liked the way it felt against my fingertips entirely too much as I worked on the tight little knots.

  She inhaled sharply, then let out a whimper. More prickling waves went through me, drying my mouth and constricting my lungs until it required some effort to drag in air.

  “That feels really good,” she said softly.

  “Mm-hmm.” Modulating my breathing so I didn’t end up sounding like some panting pervert, I kept it up because it just felt so good to continue touching her. She smelled great this close—pretty and female, with a hint of something fresh and citrussy. I ran my fingers along the delicate neck bones as she bent her head forward to give me better access.

  What would it be like to press my lips there? How sensitive was that spot? How would she react?

  She shivered a little, then cleared her throat. “I’m not as young as I used to be,” she said, her voice slightly off—either from the pleasure of the massage or something else. With a long sigh, she pulled away from my ministrations. “Life is unfair,” she added, like she needed to fill the silence with words—any words.

  I opened and closed my hands, missing the feel of her skin underneath them. She continued, “I could pull all-nighters three or four days in a row when I was in college and working corporate. I gave away my best years to soul-sucking suits, and they never gave a damn about anybody but themselves.”

  An interesting and sad observation from a woman who’d studied finance and economics. Didn’t those disciplines teach how to rape and pillage…er…extract the value out of everything and toss away the reamed-out carcasses? Mir had complained about it in college while studying accounting. But unlike my sister, Emily had quit and moved on to something different. And for that, I gave her credit and respect. It wasn’t always easy to shake up your life to pursue what you want.

  Emily’s gaze fell on the bag. “Did you bring your toiletries?”

  “No. Something better.” I shot her a generous smile. I was the kind of man who knew how to do give-and-take well. “Food, actually.”

  “Food?” She twisted around and faced me, scowling. “Our deal was for showers, not hanging out and eating. I have work to do.”

  She looked like an adorably annoyed kid. I wanted to reach over and pull those tightened eyebrows apart, but refrained. “It’s a little thank-you for the book you lent me yesterday.”

  The hostility slipped as surprise spread over her pretty bare face like pancake batter poured into a skillet. “Are you serious?”

  “Yup. I make a fantastic breakfast,” I said, doing my best not to smirk smugly. Karma wasn’t just a bitch, but it was also nice, when it had my face. “But let me shower first.”

  I couldn’t tell if she’d actually consumed any real food since yesterday. Based on the beer bottles and cracker and candy wrappers on the floor around her laptop, the answer was no. She’d said she fell asleep on the couch. She might’ve never left the spot. And that wouldn’t do. I wanted her well fed…and…

  Why? You like her?

  No, not like, I thought. But because I was a nice guy. And she could use the fuel. Besides, I wanted her to write more funny books, and she couldn’t do that if she was hungry or malnourished…or collapsed in a heap, like me when I burned the candle at both ends a little too long.

  I placed the bag on the kitchen counter and walked up the stairs, convinced that Emily was looking at my ass.

  Chapter Twelve

  Emily

  I watched Killian walk up to the shower after announcing his intention to feed me breakfast. He had a great ass, but of course I thought that only as a firm believer of appreciating exceptional assets. The way his butt muscles flexed as he walked…it was like a kind of performance art.

  Then I thought about his fingers on my neck and shoulders. They’d felt good. Of course, he’d probably practiced on thousands of other women.

  The thought annoyed me for some bizarre reason. Why should I care how many women he’d massaged? It was none of my business.

  I shook myself mentally, then went into the kitchen. There was no way Killian was actually planning on making me breakfast. Didn’t I annoy him by telling him not to play his drums? And he’d been definitely less than happy that I grabbed the last tub of Bouncy Bare Monkeys.

  Arsenic. He was planning on feeding me arsenic. Then he could have my shower to himself and drum until his head exploded.

  I looked into the plastic bag he’d brought. A dozen brown organic eggs. A Ziploc bag with some kind of brittle-looking shredded cheese in orange, pale yellow and off-white. Probably cheddar, Gouda and Parmesan. I stuck my head closer and sniffed.

  Smelled okay… But then, what did I know? I’d never smelled arsenic before. And it might not even be arsenic. There were thousands of poisons in the world.

  I went to the sofa and picked up the phone I’d stuck under the pillow.

  –Me: Help. How do you know if somebody’s trying to poison you?

  –Skye: What kind of research is this? I thought your book was rom-com?

  –Lucy: Is this slow poisoning? Feeling sicker than normal? Hair falling out in clumps?

  –Me: No. It’s just that my next-door drummer brought stuff to make breakfast.

  –Lucy: Is he going to eat with you?

  I thought back on what I’d seen. He probably knew I couldn’t eat a dozen eggs on my own.

  –Me: I guess?

  –Skye: Then obviously he’s not going to poison you.

  –Me: He could’ve taken an antidote beforehand.

  –Lucy: You sure you don’t want to write romantic suspense?

  I rolled my eye
s. Lucy was convinced I’d be really good at romantic suspense because I could be a bit paranoid. But that was why I wrote rom-com. I wanted to immerse my mind in a fun, awesome fictional world because the real one sucked cow poop.

  –Me: I’m sure.

  –Skye: Didn’t you say he was hot?

  –Me: I said he passed the minimum requirement.

  –Lucy: Definitely hot. She didn’t deny it.

  I quirked my eyebrows in annoyance and affection. They could be so single-minded.

  –Me: How is that relevant?

  –Skye: Because if a hot guy uses your shower and makes you breakfast, you should just lie back—metaphorically, of course—and enjoy it.

  Et tu, Skye? She was saying what that 911 dispatcher had told me when I called to report Killian for noise pollution. Neither Skye nor Lucy seemed to understand I didn’t want to enjoy it.

  Killian was too hot. And he knew it, which always meant trouble. Just ask my mom.

  –Lucy: What she said. The world isn’t full of nefarious people. I don’t know why you think that when I’m the one writing about horrible serial killers and you write about nice guys who do nice, sexy things.

  –Skye: If it makes you feel better, if you don’t text us in the next three hours, we’ll call the police and tell them who killed you.

  I laughed because I could imagine Skye looking eager. Her main complaint about life was that it was too ordinary. Nothing exciting ever happened.

  –Me: Fine. I’ll hold you to that.

  The floor above me creaked, which meant Killian was out of the shower.

  –Me: OK, he’s done showering. Gotta go.

  Unlike yesterday, Killian had put back on the pair of dark shorts he’d worn to my house, like a decent, civilized human being. Somehow, part of me was vaguely displeased.

  He looked better without the pants.

  The thought just popped into my head suddenly, like all my best story ideas. Except this wasn’t a story idea…and definitely wasn’t the best idea. I wasn’t feeling mildly annoyed because of his clothes. My gaze jumped up to his torso. I was annoyed because…