by Lee Piper
Steeling myself, I turn to face him. “Thanks for”—I gesture at nothing in particular—“you know, stuff. It’s kind of you to help and all, but I’ve got it covered.”
Drake quirks an eyebrow but other than that remains quiet.
I sigh. Right, polite isn’t working, so I’m going to have to try something else. “You can go now.” I shoo him away.
He crosses his arms and narrows his gaze. It’s tempting to drink in the way his T-shirt tightens around his biceps, how the muscles tense and grow, but I lock my lust down. It’s time to get to work. I’ve got a stage to set up.
However, before I can take a step, the lead singer scans the length of my skinny jeans. They’re similar to the ones I wore yesterday, dark and ripped in more places than not. Eyes the color of the tropics skim my torso and linger on my breasts before darting away. Drake clears his throat. “You still got the instructions on you?”
“Instructions?”
He assesses me. “From yesterday. You were reading them when I walked in.”
Heat warms my cheeks at the thought of Drake hearing me blunder my way through the copious notes left by the band. Refusing to let on how embarrassing the thought is, I tip my chin. “Nope.”
Dark brows rise in question. “Why not? They were written for a reason.”
Crouching low, I begin unpacking Reid’s drum shells from their cases. “If by reason you mean they served no other purpose except to show off your flair for the ridiculous, then sure.”
Converse high tops step into my line of vision. From where I’m kneeling, it’s hard to miss them. “Took me ages to write that.”
“Took me a millisecond to know I couldn’t read it,” I mutter.
“Huh?”
Glancing up, I suck in a sharp breath. He’s nearer than I expected. Why does he keep doing that? Was he a ghost in a past life or something? The proximity steals all the air from my lungs. I want to look away but can’t because Drake’s attention is focused solely on me. You know, kneeling at his feet.
Swallowing, I turn my attention back to the drum kit. “Never mind.”
“You’re being difficult.”
“You’re being self-indulgent.” Standing, I plant hands on my hips. “I don’t have time to humor you, Drake. I’ve got a job to do, a stage to set up. So, do me a favor and leave.”
“No.”
“No? It wasn’t a question. I’ve got—”
“Work to do,” he finishes with an eye roll. Ass. “Yeah, I know. Heard you the first four thousand times.” With a shake of his head, he crouches, muttering under his breath.
“What are you doing?”
“Ignoring you. Your stubbornness is pissing me off.”
“I’m not stubborn!”
He snorts. “Princess, you’re the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met. You could give a mule with oppositional defiance disorder a run for its money.”
“Did you call me a—”
“No, so quit getting your panties in a wad.” He retrieves the bass drum from the case. “You gonna stand around all day or actually do something?”
“Are you seriously accusing me of slacking off?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Your sarcasm is going to get you punched in the face. You know that, right?”
“Yep.” The corner of his mouth twitches. I swear on all that is holy, if he smiles I’m going to deck him.
Thankfully, Drake must feel the pointed daggers I’m glaring his way, because he doesn’t grin. In fact, he doesn’t do anything except go about setting up Reid’s drum kit.
With a growl, I kneel beside him. Since he’s not going to leave and there’s no way I can manhandle his ass out of End of the World, I might as well make use of an extra pair of hands. With a sigh, I busy myself setting up for the show.
Together, we make quick work of Reid’s Tamas, Willow’s guitar, the PA, amps, and speakers. I even get the leads connected while Drake busies himself with the foot pedals. We don’t speak but find an easy rhythm, and before long are almost done. The realization we make a formidable team is one I could do without.
I’m partway through stacking the drum shells when Drake breaks the silence. “Wanted to ask you something.” He pauses. “About last night.”
“What about it?” My eyes are trained on the black cases as I build a tower side of stage. Here, it’s out of everyone’s way despite being the size of a small mountain. Yet, as I go about balancing each on top of the other, nerves bubble in my stomach. He doesn’t mean….
“The phone call.”
Damn it, he does. My hands tremble. “Yeah?” Stepping back from the drum cases, I inhale a fortifying breath.
“You owe someone a lot of money.”
The statement smacks me upside the head. It’s a not-so-subtle reminder of the disaster that is my present situation. I flatten my good hand against the nearest black case, needing something to lean on, draw strength from. Belying its smooth appearance, the texture is rough and uncomfortable, like stepping on sand made from crushed shells. It’ll probably leave indents in my skin. A perfect metaphor for this moment.
I glance over to where Drake’s holding the mic stand—exactly three feet from the foldback speaker.
Ignoring his piercing stare, I counter, “Whether I owe someone or not is none of your business.”
“Wrong.”
“Wrong?” I curl my hand until my short nails scratch the hard plastic. “How can you say that? My finances have nothing to do with you.”
“Gonna have to disagree with you there, princess.”
Stalking toward him, I glare. “On what grounds? You’re not my family, you’re definitely not my boyfriend, and up until twenty-four hours ago, I didn’t even know you existed.”
He raises a pointed eyebrow.
“Okay, fine. I’d heard your demo, like, once, but that’s it.” Drake’s smirk is all kinds of cocky. I ignore it. “How can you possibly think you’re involved?”
“Simple. The second I overheard your conversation, I became involved. Deal with it.”
“Are you on crack?” My high-pitched squeal ricochets off the walls and bounces back twice as loud. I grimace. “No, I’m not going to deal with it. You’re not a part of the equation.”
Drake takes a step in my direction. “Someone threatened you.” He traverses the space quickly, changing the weight of the air, making it heavier with each tread. By the time he’s towering over me, it’s so loaded with tension I feel like I’m sinking beneath the stage. “It was The Collector, wasn’t it?”
Chills erupt on my skin. Fear floods my insides. I’m drowning. Six words and I’m drowning in a sea of terror.
“The man is evil,” he rumbles.
For the past day, I pushed all thoughts of the leader of the Irish mob to the back of my mind, choosing instead to focus on Uncle Ray and the tour. I know I’m going to have to confront the gigantic hole I’ve dug myself, but not now. Not with Drake. Not with a man I don’t trust.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I gasp. Badly, I might add. My career as an actor shot to pieces before it even began.
His expression hardens. “Cut the crap, princess. Lies don’t suit you.”
Clenching my jaw, I remain quiet.
“He’s the only person I can think of who’d offer up that kind of money to someone like you.”
I’m seconds away from kneeing him in the balls.
“The guy controls the entire West Coast.” Leaning in until the tip of his nose touches mine, he growls, “And you owe him money.” Drake’s fingers thrust into my hair and clench into a fist. “Fuck, Harper. Do you have any idea how dangerous this guy is? He’s at the root of every bad decision and missing person from here to the border.”
Dropping my gaze, I look to the side and stare at the black flooring. It’s chipped in places and wears its scratches like battle scars. Weirdly, I can relate. “I can take care of myself.”
With a decided yank, he t
ips my head back. I hiss. The sting is enough to bring tears to my eyes and heat to my core. I hate that I love it.
“Not against him, you can’t.” Shifting even nearer, his body presses against mine.
Our toes touch, my breasts crush against his torso, and each exhalation causes my nipples to pebble until they become hard peaks.
“If you’re not careful,” he growls, “you’ll end up at the bottom of the ocean with a car engine chained to your ankles.”
Our gazes lock.
“Happened to a guy I knew.”
Without thinking, I gently lay my palms flat against his pecs. “Drake, I’m so sorry.”
I don’t know why I touch him, why I offer my condolence in this way. It’s strange, because even though I’m not a people person and steer clear of physical affection wherever possible, with Drake it seems perfectly natural. It feels… right.
Goddammit.
His knuckles slowly trail up and down my arm. I nibble my bottom lip, trying to suppress the soft moan that threatens to escape with each stroke of his free hand. After all, now isn’t the time to be turned on. Drake admitted to knowing someone who was killed by The Collector, for Pete’s sake. Imitating a porno track is all kinds of messed up.
Cupping the side of my face, he narrows his gaze. “If you’re not careful, the same thing is gonna happen to you. Is that what you want?”
“Of course not,” I breathe.
“Then let me help you.” His fingers dig into my skin. “Let me fucking help.”
Something inside me cracks and splinters. “Drake, I—” Glancing away, I nibble my bottom lip. Once I feel like I’ve got myself under control, I meet his eyes once more. “You’re doing a crap job of not making this a thing. You know that, right?”
Crinkles form in his brow. “What do you mean?”
Disentangling myself from his hold, I shift away and pretend the space between us is a good thing. “Think about it. Earlier, you dry humped me in the parking lot, then told me I wasn’t your type. After that, you bitched about me being stubborn but then helped me set up the stage. Now you’re all up in my hair—literally, I might add—and want to save me from The Collector.” I lick my dry lips. His gaze drops to my mouth and stays there. “I can’t keep up with you,” I murmur.
Clutching the back of his neck, Drake turns away and kicks the mic stand. It wobbles but remains upright. “That’s because you don’t make any sense.”
“Huh?”
His long strides eat up the length of the stage as he begins pacing, his gait agitated and uneven. “You’re a fucking paradox, and it’s messing with my head.”
“Me?” My voice is incredulous. “Please tell me you’re joking. Did you not hear a single word I said?”
Spinning to face me, his expression is equal parts anguished and humor-filled. “Of course I fucking heard you. Everything you’ve said is locked up here.” He taps the side of his head. “And I’ve got no idea why, because remembering random shit has never been my jam.”
“I don’t say random shit,” I mumble.
Ignoring me, he continues. “When I’m with other chicks, I’m lucky to remember their goddamn name or if they like me to take them from behind or on top.”
“For the love of God,” I groan. “Again? You’re really going to talk about other women again? What the hell is your problem?”
“My problem,” he grits out, “is I’m not meant to know that you’ve only got one uncle, have a fucking mini fridge in your piece of shit van, and can explain how a speaker works. That information isn’t meant to stick with me.” He begins pacing again. “I’m not meant to remember how your eyes turn a brighter shade of green when you’re angry, or darken when you’re turned on but are trying to hide it. I’m not meant to know you have seven freckles on your nose; three on one side, three on the other, and one in the very center.” He stops, and I watch as his chest rises and falls with hasty breaths. He glances over his shoulder at me, his expression tortured. “I’m not meant to know this shit, but I do. I fucking do.”
I’ve got no idea what to say, so I remain quiet. I scratch my arm where he touched me and kick at the scuffed floor where he stood, but that’s about it.
After staring at me for a long time, the corner of his mouth slowly quirks into a half-grin. It’s one of the hottest sights I’ve ever seen. “Do you know what you are?” With slow, purposeful movements, Drake moves toward me.
Step.
“You’re sweet.”
Step.
“But sassy.”
Step.
“Outspoken.”
Step.
“But quiet.”
Step.
It’s only when my back hits the drum case tower and it vibrates from the impact that I realize I not-so-successfully tried to move away from his advance. Now, I’m cornered in the wings between a mountain of hardware and Drake’s imposing form. It’s disconcerting to say the least. Blinking, my gaze darts to his.
That sexy-as-fuck grin widens. Placing a hand on either side of my head, he traps me in place. “And do you want to know the worst part?”
“No.”
Ice-blue eyes scan my face. They take in every feature as though committing it to memory. “You’re so fucking naïve. There’s this innocence about you….” When I lick my bottom lip, he groans. “You make me want to teach you all the ways of the big, bad world.”
Straightening, I tip my chin. “Drake, if there’s one thing I’m not, it’s innocent.”
White teeth scrape a plump bottom lip as he stares at me for a long moment. Then, without warning, he hitches my leg up and wraps it around his waist. Startled, I grip his biceps for balance. They’re hard. Huge. And shift beneath my palms. I’ve never felt so much muscle up close. Most of the guys I’ve hooked up with were on the lanky side. Comes with the territory of being on tour, I guess. The music scene isn’t exactly conducive to nutritionally balanced meals and exercise plans.
A large palm slowly, oh so slowly, skims the underside of my thigh until the tips of his fingers skirt dangerously close to my core.
I gasp.
He smirks. It’s dark, wicked, and so freaking gorgeous I can barely stand it. When he next speaks, his voice is a low rumble. “See? Paradox.”
“I guess that makes two of us, then.”
The tension between us is tangible. It’s a physical being pulsing to the rhythm of its own beat. Drake shifts until there is barely a sliver of space between us. “I won’t let anything happen to you. You hear me? You’re not facing The Collector alone.”
My throat tightens, and I have the sudden urge to avert my gaze. But I don’t. Can’t. Not when he’s looking at me like that. Like I’m a meteor shower burning up the atmosphere and he can’t get enough of it.
Possessive hands press into my upper thigh. He squeezes. “Harper, do you hear me?”
“I hear you.”
“Don’t fight me on this, and none of that passive-aggressive shit either. I’m going to help you, and you’re going to let me. End of story.”
Silence.
“End of fucking story.”
I stare; he stares. The charged air sizzles and flickers. His hand tightens to the point of pain, and I try not to let my eyes roll to the back of my head from the pleasure of it. Eventually, when the intensity gets too much, I loosen my hold and shake my head. “It’s never that simple though, is it?”
Drake’s sigh is low. He drops his forehead to mine; our gazes clash. “With you?” he murmurs. “I’m starting to think not.”
Chapter Eight
There’s a gentle cough. At least, I think it’s a cough. To be honest, I’m not exactly sure because I’m too engrossed in Drake to care. The hot-as-fuck lead singer seems equally absorbed in our bubble of feels because he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink, doesn’t do anything that registers his awareness of the distraction. His gaze is fixed solely on me.
Another cough. This time it’s followed by, “Um, guys?”
&nbs
p; Drake clenches his eyes shut. His fingers tense, and I realize I’m wrapped around him like a damn strangler vine. With a muttered, “Jesus,” I straighten and step away.
While readjusting my messy bun and pushing loose strands of hair behind my ear, I tell myself I’m totally fine with my decision to back off. I mean, space is good. It’s exactly what I need to remember the goals I set myself. The aspirations I have don’t involve confusing lead singers who say one thing and do the opposite. Besides, my heart hammering against my chest is probably angina or something. I make a note to ask Ray if it’s a hereditary illness.
Drake’s gaze locks on me. It’s like he wants to speak; his mouth opens but closes again soon afterward without a word. Clasping the back of his neck, he releases a deep exhale before turning to the source of the noise. “Wil. What’s up?”
A full-frontal Drake is a dangerous beast, but a Drake in profile is equally as hazardous. The hand on his nape causes his T-shirt to rise a good inch. At his waist, a patch of pale skin with dark, downy hair leading to the distinct bulge in his jeans becomes visible. My gaze, intent on drinking in every square inch of his lower half, traces the smooth line of his hip bone to where it disappears beneath low-slung jeans. It’s then I notice what I’m doing and snap my eyes away again, blushing.
“Is now a good time?” Willow looks from me to her bandmate. She’s beautiful in a way not many women are. With scarlet, wavy hair, pale skin, and freckles, she looks like a pagan goddess. Or, at least she would if it weren’t for the Converse high tops, denim cutoffs, and cropped T-shirt. If the pink stain on her cheeks is anything to go by, she’s as uncomfortable with this situation as I am. I find comfort in that. “We can come back later, if you want?”
“No, we can’t.” Beside her, Reid crosses his massive arms. “Benji’s here. Need to speak to him.”
Like Drake, the drummer is tall. Hell, his tattoo sleeves rival Ray’s. I didn’t get a good chance to take in his appearance outside, so my eyes, unbidden, scan his outfit. Worn jeans and a tank that shows off most of his ripped torso. Yep, the guy is a poster boy for bad decisions. In fact, all three musicians could grace the cover of Rolling Stone as victors of the Sexiest Band of All-Time award—if there was such a prize.