Sing to Me (Rock Me Book 3)

by Lee Piper

  “The crowds are gonna get bigger the longer we tour.” Reid’s probably nodding in agreement. “Never thought I’d say this, man, but you’re right. Our set needs to be tighter.”

  “But that’s just it,” Drake exclaims. “We’re already tight. A virgin’s pussy couldn’t get any tighter.”

  I snort.

  Willow groans. “Seriously, Drake? First banshees and now virgins?”

  “Moot point.” He’s probably waving her away. “The fact is, our music is first class. It’s the mix that’s letting us down.”

  No truer words have ever been spoken.

  “How about we speak to Benji tomorrow?” the guitarist suggests.

  “Who the fuck’s Benji?”

  If Willow isn’t rolling her eyes at Drake, she should be. “He’s sound tech.”

  “Bald dude with the crazy mustache,” Reid adds.

  “Yeah, that’s the one,” Willow agrees.

  “Huh.”

  “Anyway,” she continues, “when we get to our next stop tomorrow, we’ll find him and talk about improving the mix. Okay?”

  Drake sighs. “I guess.”

  “You all right, man?” Reid asks. “You’re normally bouncing off the walls after a gig. Now you’re all depressed and shit. What’s up?”

  Silence.

  I can’t keep my eyes downcast any longer. Glancing over my shoulder, I peek a look at Drake. And regret it. Oh boy, do I regret it. His arctic gaze slams into me; it’s a colossal wall of ice, growing darker, harder the longer he stares. I swear, the temperature in the theater drops fifty degrees. Can’t people feel it? It’s glacial in here.

  The distance between us becomes a tangible force. It’s dense, loaded with silent accusations. Of what, exactly? I don’t know, and I don’t care to find out.

  “Nothing’s up,” Drake growls, his expression cold. “Just need to get my dick wet, that’s all.”

  I narrow my gaze.

  He glares.

  Disgusted, I turn away.

  This is why I keep my distance. This is why I only focus on my work. I want nothing to do with guys like Drake. They’re used to getting what they want. They smile and spout pretty words, then watch as a revolving door of panties hit the floor. I’ve seen it happen a thousand times before, and it always ends the same; the women get fucked, then fucked over. No thanks. I’ve got enough shit to deal with as it is.

  Gritting my teeth, I turn back to the cable lead. I want to finish up and get the hell out of here. The more space between Drake and me, the better.

  It takes over an hour and a half to break down the stage—twice the time it took me to set up. I lose count of the number of times I traipse the hallway leading to the tour bus parked behind the venue. The echo of my combat boots in the corridor is the click track to my rhythmic beat, one that slows with each repetition. So I hum a heavy rock song, count in my head the number of tattoos that adorn my favorite rock star’s arms, and daydream about the many orgasms he’d give me in our one night of passion together—anything to keep my spirits up and feet moving.

  Sometimes, the door to the after-party is open as I pass. When it is, laughter and music drifts from inside as bands, groupies, and technicians come and go. Even though the glimpses of festivities are a welcome change to the monotony of the black corridor, they don’t make me want to step inside. Parties aren’t my scene. They come with people attached.

  At last, my shoes crunch on the gravel for the final time. I wheel-slash-wrangle Reid’s traps case toward the bus, wheezing with effort. “Come. On.” The tiny wheels catch on the jagged rocks, and it takes both hands and one heck of a heave to get them moving again.

  Since the band’s instruments and equipment are excellent quality, some components are crazy heavy. I’m fine for most of it; I’m used to hard labor. However, the long rectangular case holding the hardware for Reid’s drumkit is insane. If I didn’t rupture my spleen positioning the quad box speaker earlier, I definitely do hoisting the traps case into the undercarriage.

  After slamming the door shut, I slump against the tour bus, aching and exhausted. My breaths come in quick pants, the rise and fall of my chest an effort in itself. The cool metal of the vehicle offers a stark relief against my sweaty back, so I press even closer, thankful when it keeps me upright.

  Despite the fatigue, I’m proud of myself. It wasn’t easy setting up without any help; it wasn’t easy running on instinct and placing equipment where I thought it should go. Despite not being able to decipher the instructions, no one in the band had an issue with the layout. Even Drake kept quiet about the distance between the foldback speaker and the mic stand, which, all things considered, was a miracle in itself. I shake my head, refusing to think about the blue-eyed walking contradiction. He’s taken up too much of my time already.

  Instead, I focus on what I need to do next. A shower, a drink, and then I’m going to crash.

  Then I remember. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Images of a hot shower followed by me nosediving into bed are replaced with me attempting to carry a grieving drunk man out of a dive bar in the middle of the night. I groan, my head thumping against the bus. The guy’s even heavier than Reid’s traps case.

  “Five more minutes,” I mumble to an otherwise deserted parking lot. “That’s all I ask. Five minutes.”

  My conscience doesn’t get the memo. As much as I want to ignore the annoying as heck voice lecturing me about family loyalty, it’s freaking insistent. “Goddammit, Ray!” Turning, I kick the tire. Again and again my combat boot connects with the smooth rubber, scuff marks the only evidence of my frustration. When my toe starts to ache, I stop and slump against the side of the bus once more.

  Panting, I gaze heavenward.

  Glinting stars decorate the immeasurable darkness. Some twinkle brighter than others; some fade into oblivion, while new ones flare in their place. The moon is among them, hanging high overhead. There’s an ethereal glow surrounding it, and that, along with its sheer size, makes Earth’s satellite stand out against the rest. I like to think of the moon as a protector, a warrior for the luminaries. Something to guard the innocent.

  I have the sudden urge to reach above and pluck a star from the black velvet.

  One of the best parts about my job is that gigs are usually at night. Sometimes the sky is clear, while at others it’s blanketed by heavy clouds. Once, it was so foggy I could barely make out a nearby streetlight, let alone a distant star. Thanks to noise restriction laws, most live music venues are based on the outskirts of towns, meaning less light pollution. And tonight I’m thankful because I’m rewarded with an endless, inky black canvas.

  Like usual, as I take in the universe, a sense of insignificance washes over me. However, rather than being dwarfed by the feeling, I relish it. The reminder that I’m nothing more than a tiny speck in an infinite galaxy puts everything into perspective. Like a star, I have a life cycle. There was a beginning, a middle, and one day, there’ll be an end. Sure, I’d love to shine bright. I’d love to be Sirius and light up the atmosphere. But not everyone gets that opportunity. Some people are lucky to glow at all.

  “One foot in front of the other, girl,” I whisper. “That’s all you’ve gotta do. Your time will come.”

  With a renewed sense of calm, I focus my attention on finding Uncle Ray and push away from the tour bus. However, before I can take a step, my phone rings. “Finally.” Swiping my thumb across the screen, I hold it to my ear. “Uncle Ray, where are you?”

  “Harper.”

  One word. One word, and the blood freezes in my veins. Ice pierces my insides, shards of frost slashing my newfound serenity into tiny ribbons. I swallow, kicking myself for not checking the name before taking the call. Granted, it would have taken a while on account of not being able to read, and then probably rung out. However, anything would have been better than this. Than him.

  “What do you want?” My voice wobbles. Damn it. He’s the one person I never want to show weakness to, and I pretty much ad
mitted how terrified I am of him.

  He ignores my question. “Do you know why people call me The Collector, Harper Ray Stevenson?” I hate that he uses my full name. I hate that he knows everything about me. I hate that he uses each disastrous tidbit as leverage, stacking them against me until I’ve got nothing to counteract the disproportionate weight.

  But I won’t go quietly. Heck no. “Hmm,” I muse, feigning a backbone I lost the moment his cold voice murmured in my ear. “Is it because of your super awesome stamp collection? No, wait, you’re a lover of commemorative teaspoons, aren’t you? Or is it tea towels?”

  “Cute.” His voice is light, smooth, a direct contrast to the evil simmering beneath the façade. “But in my world, cute will get you killed.”

  “I guess it’s a good thing I’m not a part of your world, then.”

  His laughter is quick, a crack of the whip on broken skin. “That’s where you’re wrong. The minute you entered my office, you became part of my world.”

  A dark part of me wishes I never tried to burn brighter. If I’d accepted the hand I’d been dealt rather than try to break free of it, none of this would’ve happened.

  “You have something I want, Harper.” His Irish lilt is jarring. It seems to get more pronounced when he’s angry. “Twenty thousand somethings, in fact.”

  “I already told you, I’ll get you your money.”

  “Yes, you will.”

  Dread crawls up my spine, a predatory spider creeping toward its prey one vertebrae at a time.

  “And you’ll do it soon.”

  I swallow. “H-how soon are we talking?”

  “Four weeks.”

  “Four weeks,” I screech. “You said I had six months to pay you back.”

  His tsk is all kinds of condescending. “In my world, loan terms change all the time. It’s in the fine print of our contract.” He snickers. “You read the fine print, didn’t you, Harper? Surely you weren’t foolish enough to disregard it?”

  I grit my teeth. Of course I didn’t read the fucking fine print. I could barely make out the words on the damn letterhead. There was no way I could decipher the pages and pages of bullshit I’d need a Classical Languages degree to decode.

  I scrub one hand down the side of my face. Just once, I wanted to break out on my own, prove I could get my life together and make something of myself. It’s why I didn’t ask for Uncle Ray’s help. Rather than seek his slurred advice, I signed where I was told, took the money, and genuinely believed I could triple it. I would have too, if—

  “I’ll take your silence as an affirmative.”

  I clench my hands into fists. “You can take my silence however you want. Hell, you can even soak it in chili sauce and shove it up your—”

  “Consider this your warning.” The thinly veiled friendliness morphs into poisonous venom. “You won’t get another one.”

  “This is insane.” Panicked rage unfurls in my stomach. Helplessness builds, swirls, corrodes my insides. I’m fucked, so well and truly fucked. And I can’t speak to anyone, least of all Ray. He’s the reason I’m in this mess to begin with.

  “You have four weeks to pay back the twenty thousand you owe me.”

  Terror claws me.

  “Otherwise you’ll learn firsthand why I’m called The Collector.”

  It constricts my lungs.

  “How about I give you a clue?”

  Chokes me.

  “I like pretty things.”

  Can’t breathe.

  “But I like killing them more.”

  The line goes dead.

  Chapter Three

  “Fuck!” I hurl my phone across the darkened parking lot. I have no idea where it lands. The solitary streetlamp casts a sickly yellow glow over a dilapidated trash can but seems to give up after that. The sound of my cell hitting a chain-link fence before thudding onto gravel is the only clue I get. It’s not nearly as satisfying as I hoped, and I don’t have the patience to look for it. I’ll do it later. Or never.

  Still needing to expel the demons, I focus my wrath on the tour bus. It tries to bear the brunt of my fist pummeling its side, but doesn’t hold up for long. However, when the skin on my knuckles splits and a sharp pain shoots up my arm, I hiss, “Motherfucker!”

  Cradling it to my chest, I walk a few steps forward and back as though it’s somehow going to dull the pain. News flash: it doesn’t.

  Annoyed at myself, I glance down at my hand. It’s already swelling, which doesn’t bode well for the next few days. “Really should’ve thought that through.”

  “You punch like a girl.”

  That voice. It’s exactly what I don’t need to hear right now. Spinning on my heel, I glare at Drake. Then tip my head back and glare some more, because he’s closer than I expected. “What’s with you creeping up on me? Gonna have to get you a damn bell.”

  His black hair is a mirror to the sky, and the light from the moon makes his skin appear silver. Half of his face is cast in shadow, doing a stellar job of amplifying his angular jawline and cheekbones. If I had the time or capacity to care, I’d admire them, possibly even like them. But I don’t.

  Drake tips his head to one side, inspecting me. I’ve pulled a nine-hour shift, so my hair is in tangled knots, my clothes are sweaty, the mascara I applied this morning is probably dripping somewhere past my clavicle, and there’s an unholy smell wafting from my armpits. I’m not ashamed of my appearance, it’s the by-product of hard work and determination. But having him stare at me when I’m like this pisses me off.

  “You’re angry.”

  No, really?

  He makes blood pound in my ears, insults my right hook, and states the freaking obvious. Heck, on top of that, Ray is MIA again, I almost snapped my insides doing a two-person job, and a loan shark wants twenty thousand dollars or else he’s going to kill me. Oh, and let’s not forget the fact that I have no idea how I’m going to pay him back because I’m on freaking tour. The river of ridiculous I’m wading through is getting thicker by the second. So, yeah, angry about nails it.

  The tension I’ve been carrying all day builds, peaks, and ruptures. “What gave it away, Drake?” I yell. “Was it the way I cursed, the fact I pitched my phone across the parking lot, or the Rocky impersonation?” Holding up one hand—the one not throbbing—I prevent him from replying. “You know what? Forget it. I don’t have time for this shit.”

  When I make to shoulder past him, he grasps my bicep. His firm touch prevents me from moving any further. I look down at the hand encircling my arm. It’s huge, highlighting our noticeable size difference, but isn’t intimidating. I almost wish it was. It would make it easier to push him away.

  Drake spins me in close. Instinctively, my other hand darts out to lessen the impact of our inevitable collision. It ends up pressed against his pecs; I hiss. Agonizing pain lances my knuckles, heat pierces my palm, and my swollen fingers pulse in time with my rapid heartbeat. The world spins, barrel waves roar in my ears, and I’m pretty sure I’m about to puke.

  “Are you all right?”

  His body is hard. We’re standing too close, and I’m going to be sick all over his T-shirt. So, that’s a hard no to his question.

  “Harper. What is it? What’s going on?”

  My name passing his lips is exactly what my upchuck reflex needs to remember its purpose in life. When my stomach contents settle, the fog lifts, and I blink. “What did you say?”

  “I said, are you okay? It looked like you were about to pass out. Man, you’re really owning the whole damsel in distress routine.” He grins. “Have you tried swooning? Throwing your arms out a little? Would make for an epic finale.”

  I stare at him.

  “Hate to break it to you, princess, but feeble chicks don’t do it for me. I like my women to have balls.” Drake pauses. “Not in the literal sense, obviously. Not my jam.” He gestures over his shoulder to where I’m assuming the after-party is still raging. “Was telling a girl the same thing an hour ago.”


  “That you don’t go for chicks with balls?”

  He sighs, exasperated. “That I’m not a fan of women who can’t own their shit.” He snaps his fingers in front of my face. “Keep up.” When he shakes his head, a lock of dark hair falls across his forehead.

  I want to run my fingers through it, see if it’s as silky as I imagine. Then I want to punch myself in the boob for being an idiot.

  “Anyway,” Drake continues, “she tried to trip and land mouth-first in my lap, know what I’m saying? My fly was halfway down before I realized what the fuck she was doing. Don’t get me wrong, props for initiative, but her stunt made me spill my beer.” His sigh is long and low. “Had to change my jeans and everything.”

  I blink.

  Drake continues, like this isn’t the weirdest conversation of all time. “And the moral of the story is, don’t try so hard. Men dig women who make them work for it. Well, guys who aren’t desperate for pussy. That way, when they finally get some action, the reward is all the sweeter, you know?”

  I blink again.

  “What?”

  “Are you insane?”

  “Not the last time I checked. Why?”

  I nod to the hand encircling my arm. “Let go of me.”

  “No. Not until you tell me why I’m allegedly insane.”

  “There’s no ‘allegedly’ about it.” My air quotations are rubbish on account of fingers the size of wieners. “You genuinely believe I went all southern belle on your ass so you could catch me?”

  “Like I said, wouldn’t be the first time.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose with my good hand. “I don’t have time for this.” But then I remember what he said before the conversation went haywire. “No, wait. I want to ask you something. How do you know my name? I never told you what it was.”

  Drake steps closer. He bends his knees until our eyes are level. With each breath, wisps of hair tickle my skin like gossamer wings. “The phone conversation gave it away.”

  Air gets trapped in my lungs. He watches me; I watch him. We both watch each other. It’s weird.