by Lee Piper
When I turn back to Drake, he’s staring at me. Really staring at me. His eyes are dark, his jaw is slack, and his body is perfectly still.
“What?”
“You’re smokin’ hot when you talk music, you know that?”
Heat warms my cheeks. Placing the spider on the rug, I avoid his loaded gaze. “Just so we’re clear, I didn’t explain the internal workings of a speaker to impress you or anything.” My shrug is self-conscious at best. “I find this side of music fascinating, that’s all.”
“Oh, I believe you.” He shifts, adjusting his jeans.
My eyes dart from his crotch to his face, stunned. “Did you—”
“Get hard watching your sexy-as-fuck mouth talk about fissures and cracks?”
“Yeah.”
“Absolutely. I thought you were gorgeous lying beneath me with your hair splayed out on the rug and your skin flushed pink. But the way you talk about sound equipment—” He tips his head back, clenching his eyes shut. “Fuuuuuck.” Drake’s jaw is tight, and his Adam’s apple bobs on a swallow. Straightening, he looks me dead in the eye. “This isn’t good. You know that, right?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve got a certain type. You feel me?”
“No, I don’t”—my air quotes are kickass—“‘feel you.’ What the hell are you talking about?”
“This.” He gestures to the distance between his body and mine.
Realization dawns. I shake my head. Over and over again. “There is no this. There will be no this happening between us, ever.” But then his actions from before bombard my mind. The way he ground against me, the throaty moans in my ear, how his hard, thick—
Stop.
But then I think about his words and how they don’t match up with his actions. After all, I wasn’t the one throwing myself on top of him. I wasn’t the one wrenching his arms above his head. And I sure as hell wasn’t the one who skimmed thirsty lips along the column of his neck.
My glare is huge. “You’re such a hypocrite. You were literally all over me minutes ago, and now I’m not your type? Make up your damn mind.” It’s only then I realize what I’ve said. “Actually, scrap that. How about I make it up for you? I don’t want anything to do with you and your games; leave me alone.”
“It’s not my fault! You’ve got a damn dimple,” he throws at me.
“What in the ever-loving heck does my dimple have to do with anything?”
An index finger presses against my cheek. “A guy’s only got so much restraint, princess, and mine’s shot to fucking pieces whenever you smile.” He pauses. “Or open your mouth. Or sass me. Or bend over in those jeans. Or”—long arms flail about—“exist.” A low groan sounds, and he collapses on the rug, one arm shielding his eyes. “I’m screwed.”
“Not by me, you’re not.”
A deep chuckle rumbles through his chest. Drawing his hand away, he raises a pointed eyebrow. “See? That’s what I mean. Any other girl would be rubbing her tits in my face by now. She’d have her hands down my pants, asking how I like my cock sucked. But you—” Sitting upright, he tips his head to the side, watching.
I try not to squirm. Or think about his cock. Both are impossible.
“You’re not like that, are you?”
Silence.
After taking a deep breath, Drake exhales. “I want you to know something.”
Tracing the rug with my finger, I nod, nervous.
There’s a determination in his features I’ve never seen before. “I live and breathe music. It’s in my blood.” He taps his chest. “My soul.”
“Right.”
Scooting closer, he continues. “Most of the girls I fuck love that I love music.”
“Here we go again. What’s with you talking about other chicks?”
A wicked grin tugs on one corner of his mouth. Reaching out, he plays with a loose tendril of my hair, and for some reason, I let him.
“Like I was saying, girls love that I love music. Some even like music too.” He twists the lock around his finger. “Not many, but a few. Most of them are too hung up on wanting to screw a lead singer to actually care about the meaning behind the lyrics or be impressed by the hours spent crafting songs.” He yanks, I hiss, he smiles. “If they’ve got a decent body and know their way around my dick, it doesn’t bother me.” His gaze meets mine; it speaks of the words he doesn’t say.
Until now.
I don’t want him to see that I understand the silence, that I know exactly what he’s meaning. It will be the start of something I’m ill-equipped to deal with and hopeless to fight. So, rolling my eyes, I feign boredom. “Is there a point to this conversation?”
Drake sighs, releasing his hold on my hair. “What I’m saying is, it’s rare finding a chick who not only likes music but understands it too.”
Yanking the silken strands behind my ear, I glare at him. “That’s the most sexist piece of bullshit I’ve ever heard.”
He taps out a disjointed beat on the rug. “I’m not explaining it right.”
“No, you’re not. You’re giving me accolades for having breasts and knowing the difference between a PA and quad box. There are plenty of women in this industry, Drake. And do you know what?” Leaning in close, I ignore the way his mouth opens imperceptibly. “Most of them are fucking talented. You’re screwing the wrong ones, that’s all.” Standing, I wipe shaky hands on the seat of my jeans. “It might do you good to look past groupies. If nothing else, you’ll have less chance of your dick falling off from some godawful disease.”
“I’ll have you know I always saddle up before going for a ride.”
“Don’t have it in me to care, ace.” I stride across the grass, thankful for the space. “And what are you, sixty-five? No one talks like that anymore.”
“Wait, where are you going?”
“To my van,” I yell, glancing over my shoulder. “Need to get a replacement spider.”
The gap between his eyebrows crinkles. “Why would you have spares?”
I throw my arms out, exasperated by both his question and the way his lips pucker when confused. “Because my skills surpass plugging guitar leads into output jacks.”
Growling, I vow to focus on the speaker parts and nothing else. But my mind is having none of it. Even though he’s no longer in my line of sight, I can still conjure every look, every feature. I shake my head. Whatever happened to staying away from the guy, Har? Blonde hair tumbles into my face, collateral damage from a strong breeze. I push it away again. You almost offered yourself up on a freaking platter. What a feast that’d be, huh? He’d tear you into so many pieces you’d be unrecognizable. And then he’d say he wasn’t hungry in the first place.
“You purposefully misunderstood me before,” Drake calls from the rug.
I don’t reply.
“You knew what I meant. Didn’t want to hear it, that’s all.”
The gravel crunches beneath my feet as I near my van.
“Same as now.” His dark chuckle is the backing track to my footsteps. However, something tells me no matter the distance I put between us, it will never be enough. I’ll always hear Drake.
Chapter Seven
By the time I finish reassembling the speaker box, the tour bus arrives. It took longer than expected. Drake reckons Willow must have driven; apparently, she has rubbish sense of direction. When I ask why they didn’t use the driver assigned, he looks at me like I’m a shock treatment away from being committed. “Why the fuck would we have a driver? We’ve got hands, don’t we?”
Shrugging one shoulder, I indicate the undercarriage. “Then why do you have roadies?”
“Roadie.”
“What?” Scrunching my nose, I take him in. His features are hard and his jaw is tight.
“Roadie, as in singular.” He holds up an index finger. “One.”
We don’t speak for a while after that. I storm inside as fast as the massive speaker I’m carrying will allow and try not to snap my lumbar luggi
ng it up the narrow stairs.
With one last heave, I’m satisfied with its position on stage. “Benji will never know.” Dusting off my hands and only wincing a little at the lingering pain, I head back to the bus for the remainder of the equipment.
I’m okay for the first three trips. The walk in between is a welcome relief from my aching hand and throbbing back. However, it gets more and more difficult to grip the hardware without cursing every god known to humankind. When at last I face Reid’s traps case, I’m fairly certain divine intervention won’t happen for sweaty women with gutter mouths.
Not that it stops me from trying.
“Come on,” I pant. “You mother—” Heave. “—fucking—” Heave. “—ass—” Pant. “—hole.” Collapsing against the rectangular box that weighs more than Drake’s ego, I wipe beads of perspiration from my forehead. Struggling to my full height, I survey how much further up the stairs I have to go. A few more and I’m done. Nodding, I survey the incline like an athlete intent on claiming gold. “You’ve got this, Har.”
Reaching into my back pocket, I pull out a hair tie and assemble my tangled mane in a messy bun. It leans precariously to the right, but I don’t bother straightening it. My sore hand has gotten progressively worse, and if I push it much further I’m pretty sure it’ll give up on life. Besides, if I move fast enough, I might feel a breeze on the back of my neck. It’ll be worth looking like a rodent set up a nest before dying an excruciating death just to cool off.
As I’m about to reach for the metal handle, a familiar hand wraps around it. Pulls. And maneuvers the traps case up the stairs as though it were the easiest job in the world.
“Hey!” I scramble after Drake.
He then lifts the box of hardware and carries the damn thing on stage, completely forgetting the case has freaking wheels. Moving to where some of Reid’s disassembled drumkit sits, he gently places it beside them. With a wink, he saunters past me. I watch, jaw hanging somewhere past my belly button, as he descends the stairs and strolls through the music venue and out the rear exit.
“Oh no, you don’t.” I chase after him. It takes a while on account of my short legs, but eventually I catch him when he’s two strides away from the bus. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Drake leans into the undercarriage, and I definitely don’t admire the pale flesh peeking from beneath his T-shirt. Nor do I ogle the long cords of toned muscle that ripple as he shifts equipment.
“Drake?” a low voice calls.
I turn in the direction of the door. Reid’s standing on the top step, confused as fuck, if the expression on his face is anything to go by. His tattooed arms are raised above his head, hands gripping the frame. It causes his dark jeans to slink low on his hips. It’s strange, because as hot as the dude is, my heart isn’t itching for him to scratch it.
“Yeah?” Drake grunts, still in the undercarriage.
“What are you doing?”
“Right!” I exclaim, arms wide.
Reid raises his eyebrows. Whether at me, Drake, or the whole situation, I have no idea.
Willow then pops her head out from under one of his arms. “What’s going on?”
Drake straightens, holding Reid’s snare drum case. With a quirk of his lips, he doesn’t bother hiding his amusement at my what the hell do you think you’re doing, jerkface? impersonation. “What does it look like?”
“It looks like you’re doing her job.” Reid indicates me.
“Are you okay?” Willow’s jade eyes swing to me. The corners are creased in concern. “Are you sick or something? Is that why Drake’s helping you?”
Grabbing the case, I yank it from Drake’s grasp. “I’m fine.” Then, not wanting to sound like an ungrateful bitch, I mumble, “Thanks.”
“I’ve got some amazing herbal teas that help with all kinds of illnesses. From colds and flu to depression and stress.” She quirks her head to one side, red hair teasing her shoulders. “You sure you don’t want me to make you a cup?”
With a knowing smirk, Drake watches me. It’s like he gets off on seeing me awkward.
“Ah, no. I’m good.” Since I’m on a roll, I add, “Thanks, anyway.”
“No problem,” Willow returns brightly. “The offer’s always there if you change your mind.”
I have no idea what to say to that, so I glare at Drake instead. However, it’s pointless because he’s retrieving the bass drum case. It’s markedly larger and heavier than the one I’m carrying. Whatever. His muscles aren’t that great anyway.
“I could have gotten that, you know.” I indicate the massive circular case complete with metal studs and woven strap holding it together.
“Sure you could.”
The temptation to stomp my foot and whine like a petulant child is real. So freaking real. However, I’m an adult. One who can speak openly and honestly about anything other than emotions, family, and finances. So, with a deep breath, I draw on a sense of calm I don’t feel and roll my shoulders back as far as the snare case will allow. “Look, I appreciate that you’re trying to help and all—”
“Good.” With a nod at Reid, Drake heads inside the venue.
“You didn’t let me finish,” I call to his retreating back.
“Didn’t need to.” There’s a note of laughter in his voice I don’t appreciate and a swagger in his step that’s downright annoying. A low growl sounds from the back of my throat.
I turn to Reid. Only, he’s not looking at me. His eyes are on the lead singer, a thoughtful expression on his face.
Since I don’t know him well enough to ask about his friend’s weird-ass behavior, I hustle after the retreating form. I eat up the space with renewed determination. Heck, I even make it to the top of the stairs without falling flat on my backside. With a triumphant flourish, I place the snare next to the traps case and celebrate the fact my spine is still operational.
Drake lowers the bass drum. “You shouldn’t be working on your own.”
“Oh, please. I don’t need a hero; I can save myself.”
“Yeah? How’s your hand?”
Nibbling my bottom lip, I flex it slightly. A throb pulses in the joints. “Great. It’s really, ah, great.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“See?” Holding it up, I wiggle my fingers. “Good as new.”
“Words don’t mean shit if you’re wincing.”
“I’m not wincing. I’m concentrating.”
Throwing his head back, Drake laughs. “You’re full of shit.”
Like the greedy bitch I am, I take in every nuance of his features. With legs spread slightly apart, he stands like a knight set to conquer a dragon. Strong thighs end in a narrow waist, which in turn leads to a ripped torso barely disguised beneath a fitted T-shirt. Broad shoulders stretch the material across his upper body; the fact the seams are still holding is a miracle in itself. When he levels me with a stare, dark hair flops over his forehead and it takes everything I have not to tuck it back again.
I swallow.
Eyes the color of aquamarines assess me assessing him. The longer I look, the more heated they become. I wish I could prolong the inevitable, but it’s time to face facts—the guy is edible. Completely fucking edible.
And I hate it.
I hate that no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop my gaze from betraying me, can’t stop my heart from reminding me, can’t stop my breath from escaping me. Every trick I can think of to distract myself from this man doesn’t work. Reminders of him are everywhere, and I don’t know what to do with them all. I’m lost, confused, and horny. The worst combination of all time.
Drake shifts to where I’m standing in my sweaty, muddled glory. “It’s okay, you know.” His breath whispers across heated skin, causing me to shiver. I stare at his shirt, not brave enough to glance above the collarbone. No good will come of it if I do. A hand clasps my neck, tipping my head back, back, back.
Dear God, he’s perfect.
“It’s not a weakness to need help.�
� Quirking his head to one side, he traces my lips with his gaze. It whispers across my plump flesh, a gentle caress.
“I’ve got it covered,” I whisper. And I do, kind of. I mean, if ignoring the situation could be considered having it covered. It’s not that I’m not taking the threat on my life seriously. I am. I’m so freaked at the thought of being hunted down by The Collector and his men that I’m frozen. I literally can’t think clearly enough to formulate a way out of the situation, because my mind is too terrified. And the whole not-thinking-clearly thing isn’t helped by the sexiest man of all time hovering his mouth above mine.
As though well aware of my nonexistent plan, Drake continues as though I haven’t spoken. “Needing help doesn’t always come with strings attached either.”
His statement snaps me from my trance. No strings? Bullshit. Everything, absolutely everything in this world comes at a cost. So, crossing my arms, I huff. “You’re full of it.”
The corner of Drake’s mouth lifts, causing small creases to form just outside his full lips. I fight the urge to trace them with my tongue.
Stop. Just stop.
Get the hell away from the sexy man, Har. Now.
Stepping out of the danger zone, I turn away and exhale a large breath. After rubbing my face, counting to fifteen(ish), and not for one second forgetting he’s behind me, I force myself to get a freaking grip.
Yes, Drake’s attractive. Yes, he seems to like invading my personal space and touching me all the freaking time. No, I’m not going to give in to his sexy, mystical powers. For several reasons: one, he says I’m not his type. Two, he sure as shit isn’t mine. And three, our connection is based on physical attraction alone. If we took the time to actually get to know each other, we’d realize how terrible a match we really are. I’m not the easiest person to be around, and he’s too damn easy for his own good. It would never work. Besides, I want something permanent. Transient relationships don’t do it for me anymore. Especially when they’re in the form of a promiscuous lead singer with a hero complex.