Sing to Me (Rock Me Book 3)

by Lee Piper

  “You were there, you can explain it.”

  Drake reels back as though struck. “The fuck? No way.” I’m surprised he doesn’t throw his neck out with the way he’s shaking his head. Tendrils of dark hair fly left then right before giving up and falling limp on his forehead. He reaches for me, but I dodge, needing to steer clear of his touch. If there’s any form of physical connection, it’ll be all over. I won’t follow through on my decision. Instead I’ll lose myself in his arms and content myself with baffled puzzlement while drowning in a sea of perplexity. I can’t do it. Heck, I won’t do it. I need time to process.

  My heart twists as his arm drops back to his side. The distance between us feels cavernous, impassable. Drake’s eyes turn a darker, murkier shade of blue. Gone is the bright clarity, gone is the guileless laughter dancing in their depths. Slowly, the mirth evaporates, leaving dim emptiness behind. I hate that I’m the cause. Knowing I extinguished his happiness doesn’t sit well with me.

  “So that’s it, then?” His voice is clipped, a direct contrast to his usual teasing playfulness. “You’re just gonna leave?”

  “Drake.” I sigh. “Don’t make this a big deal. We hung out; it was great. Now I’m heading back to my van.”

  “Why?”

  Narrowing my gaze, I tip my chin. “What’s it to you?”

  Crossing his arms, he glares.

  Crossing mine, I glare back. “Look.” I sigh again, figuring I need to explain at least part of what’s going on in my head. “I’ve got stuff to do, okay?” It’s kinda true. I mean, I need to ease the whirlpool of emotions swamping me. The very whirlpool he created when his lips first formed a smile. “Just because you’ve wrangled your way into helping me with”—my eyes flit to Reid and Willow who are intently watching the interplay—“things doesn’t mean you can rule the rest of my life.”

  He snorts. He goddamn snorts.

  I want to punch him in the face.

  Ignoring his tight jaw and the tic running rampant below it, I level him with a scathing glare. “I don’t answer to you. You’re not my boyfriend.”

  “Thank fuck. Dodged a fucking bullet there.”

  I flinch.

  Wow. It’s like he saw my weakness and pounced. It’s my fault, really. I opened up and fooled myself into thinking his touch, his words meant something. I won’t make the same mistake again.

  Clearing my throat, I swallow past the tightness, determined not to let him see the hurt he caused. “Right, then.” After giving Willow and Reid a small wave—one is standing open mouthed, the other taciturn—I spin on my heel and head for the back door.

  Just as I’m about to reach it, Drake calls, “Harper, wait.”

  But I don’t slow down. I’m not giving him another chance to hurl insults and use me as a punching bag whenever he doesn’t get his own way. So, without breaking stride, I flip him the bird and leave.

  I try to forget what happened. Storming back to my van, I retrieve my phone, and despite the cracked screen, still manage to play my heaviest rock playlist. Listening to epic tunes on the loudest setting while sorting through the sound equipment I’ve collected over the years usually puts me in a good mood. I love tinkering with gadgets and making improvements where I can. Only, it doesn’t work. No matter how hard I try to focus on the job or lose myself in the music, I can’t shake my annoyance. It doesn’t help that my injured hand throbs and my other shakes with indignant fury. Who does he think he is?

  After packing everything away and fixing myself a PB&J sandwich, I decide to hunt down Uncle Ray. The plan is to find him early enough so he can help with the gig. And technically, I do find him—in yet another smoke-filled dive bar across town complete with leather-clad bikers—but he’s already rolling drunk by the time I get there. Gritting my teeth, I wrangle him into my RV, muttering curse upon curse until they form a never-ending sting of expletives. The drive back to the venue is quiet except for intermittent snores and incoherent mumblings of my uncle. I heave him into his bed without snapping my back and even grab him a glass of water and a couple of Advil. Again.

  When at last I admit the obvious—he won’t sober up in time for the gig—I step into the fading light.

  The burnt orange and russet of the distant horizon greets me on the steps of Ray’s RV. Staring into the bleeding sunset, I realize it would be so easy to fall into a fit of despair, to wallow in self-pity and hate the life I’ve been gifted. But despite its many challenges, it’s a beautiful life, full of possibilities and plans. My situation won’t always be like this, and if I’m going to make the most of every opportunity, I need to brush off the threatening defeatism and move forward. Case in point: Uncle Ray is safe, he won’t burn through any more money, and I don’t have to search for him after the show.

  My glass is officially half full.

  With renewed positivity, I hustle inside End of the World. It only takes a couple of minutes to cast an expert eye over the equipment for a final check. All good. After a decisive nod, I shift side of stage and hide in the wings, coveting the darkness. Moments later, the band steps past me. None of them notice me standing in the corner, and for that, I’m glad. I’ll be able to focus on the music without any distraction.

  The crowd erupts as the support band enters the limelight, and seconds later, music fills the venue.

  The sound is better. The notes blaring through the quad box are slightly clearer and crisper. If it wasn’t for yet another weird reverberation coming from the same piece of equipment I worked on earlier, I’d be stoked.

  Tipping my head, I listen carefully throughout their set. Then, when it finishes and the band leaves the stage, I run over to it and take a quick look. There’s nothing I can do about the piece of equipment without taking the damn thing apart again. Since I doubt anyone would be too happy with me carting it off before the next set, I exhale a frustrated breath.

  When the lights dim, I scramble back to my spot side of stage. Drake and the others enter from the other side. To be honest, I’m glad. I’d rather have an entire stage between us. Seems the closer we get, the more confusing life is.

  When the headline act begins playing, I crane my neck, desperate to make out the cause of the noise. It’s hard trying to figure out where it’s coming from when so much is going on. The guitar, drums, and vocals layer one on top of the other, growing louder, more intricate as the song progresses. The crowd roars in response, chanting the chorus in time with Drake’s deep baritone. Hell, even Benji’s nodding like a damn fool. Though, it’s to the freaking offbeat rather than the one the band is actually playing. Needless to say, trying to figure out where the disturbance is coming from is difficult.

  Closing my eyes, I ignore the pandemonium and focus solely on the pulsing sound emitting from the speaker. I tune out everything except the quad box, and after a minute or so the other noises gradually recede. The distortion is obvious, proving the equipment is definitely faulty.

  It’s not the spider. Of that, I’m certain. I snuck into the wings during sound check to listen as Benji tested the levels, and it was in perfect working order. The old goat didn’t even notice a difference, which proves he might as well have cotton wool shoved in his ears.

  Either Benji’s messed with the mix more than usual, or one of the other three speakers in the quad box is playing up. I could chat with the tour manager to see if he’d purchase a new one. It wouldn’t be too difficult to order online and get it sent to our next stop on the tour. But that would be the cheat’s way out. Yeah, pulling apart a quad box and inspecting the internals takes time. And yeah, figuring out the cause of the issue takes effort. Like any problem worth solving, repairing equipment involves determination and perseverance. But the outcome is worth it. Sound quality is everything to a musician, to any true music fan. And knowing I’m good enough to make it happen is everything.

  I’ll take it apart again and have another look. Happy with my decision, I open my eyes and nod. Excitement tickles my rib cage at the prospect of solving y
et another riddle. It’s a nice change to the uncomfortable churning in my stomach from my fallout with Drake douche nugget Stone.

  Which is why when the band finishes their last encore and the crowd screams and hollers appreciation at having their eardrums burst in the best possible way, I’m determined not to remain pissed at Drake. I mean, yeah, he acted like an ass earlier, but if he’s willing to admit his immaturity and behave like the rational adult I’m sure is in there somewhere, then I will too.

  Life’s too short for grudges.

  With an excited squeal, Willow rushes past me into the wings. She jumps up and down, scarlet hair flying in every direction. After giving Benji a high five and nodding to the stage manager, she notices where I stand next to the tower of drum cases and bounds over. Her skin is flushed, and her eyes are bright. “It was good, right?”

  “It was good.” I smile.

  Throwing her arms around me, she squeezes before releasing again. “Thank you!” Stepping back, she grins over at Reid, who’s striding to where we stand. Benji and the stage manager pat him on the back as he shifts past. He gives them a chin dip but doesn’t stop.

  When he reaches his bandmate, he wraps an arm around her and pulls her to his side. “You played like a fiend, Wil.” A kiss is planted on the top of her head.

  Scrunching her face, Willow pushes him away. “Go away. You’re all sweaty. We’ve been through this like a gazillion times already.” Her expression is playful, proving she’s not really offended by his close proximity.

  Reid laughs, the sound rough and gravelly. I have a feeling it doesn’t happen often. “Comes with the territory of pounding sticks on skin. My woman never complains.”

  “She wouldn’t. That girl loves everything about you, sweat included.”

  He winks. “That she does.” Then, as though noticing my shadowy form in the corner, Reid nods. “Harper.”

  “Hey.” I nibble my bottom lip, then decide to hell with it. “Good show.”

  He blinks. “Thanks.”

  “The speaker still isn’t right though.” He quirks an eyebrow. “I’m going to take a look at it later.”

  Another nod. “Appreciate it.”

  “Did you notice the speaker, Reid?” Willow scrunches her brow.

  After looking at me for a long moment, he shakes his head.

  “No, me neither.”

  “It was coming from the quad box furthest from you guys. Between the crowd, your instruments, and your own speakers, it makes sense you didn’t pick it up.”

  Willow’s face clears. “Oh, that’s okay then. For a minute there, I was worried my hearing was going or something.”

  “Nope.” I smile, shocked to find the gesture becoming easier around her. “It wasn’t a huge distortion, just—”

  “That speaker is a piece of fucking shit.”

  I still. Despite hearing his voice booming throughout the venue for the past forty-five minutes, up close it resembles a thundering earthquake. Drake’s tenor, even when hurled across the wings, causes my heart to pause, skip, then hammer against my sternum.

  He storms side of stage. Benji and the stage manager take one look at him, pack up, and leave. Smart thinking.

  When he stops beside me, his large form sucks all the air from the room. His eyes are pointed shards of glass thrown in my direction. “You need to start talking.”

  Chapter Ten

  “You said you fixed it,” Drake accuses.

  I count to ten(ish), take a deep breath, and then count again.

  “You gonna answer me or what?”

  The “or what” part of his question is looking really good right now. It might even be followed by a junk punch and fingernail removal afterward. So much for acting like an adult.

  “Drake,” Willow chastises. “You’re being rude.”

  “I’m being rude?” Incredulous laughter rolls off him in waves, each slapping me in the face harder than the one before. “You’re kidding me, right?” A thumb is shoved in my direction like I’m some weird art exhibit he can’t justify. “Harper said she repaired the quad box. You were there, you heard her.”

  “Yes, I was there. We all were.”

  Reid crosses his arms; I’m not sure why.

  “Then why the fuck does it sound like I’m singing under water? We’re not playing for yeti crabs, Wil. Actual people want to hear our music.”

  “Drake—”

  He cuts her off. “No. We can’t fuck around with this. Our music is our livelihood. We’ve spent years crafting and perfecting our songs. We busted our asses on Rising Star, and this is our first big break. We need to make it count.” A wall of animosity rises beside me. It grows taller and wider, more imposing with each passing second. “But we can’t do that when incompetence is running the show.”

  Oh no, he didn’t.

  My spine snaps ramrod straight. Squaring my shoulders, I face the idiot delusional enough to discredit my work. “Excuse me?” My voice is low, controlled, in no way reflective of the boiling fury scalding the back of my throat. Despite the crowd still milling front of house, their excited chatter and intermittent hollers carrying through the space, I know Drake hears me.

  He turns, his chest taking up most of my vision and the glinting anger pulsating from him filling the remainder.

  “You heard me, princess.” He spits the endearment like it’s rancid meat. “Not only did you go back on your word, your abilities are subpar.” Then, because he’s an asshole, he crosses corded arms and smirks. “Just sayin’.”

  I ignore the beads of sweat trickling down the column of his throat. I dismiss the way his black hair is darker in the dim light, making his pale skin appear ethereal. And I disregard the voices still calling his name. Acting on unshed fury, I tip my chin. “I did fix it.”

  He snorts. “Then you’re as good at your job as that dickhead sound tech whose name I can’t remember—”

  “Benji,” Willow cuts in, before muttering, “How many times do I have to repeat it?”

  But Drake waves her comment away. “Irrelevant.”

  “Are you seriously accusing me of ineptitude?” Clenching my fists, I relish the sting of pain shooting from my sore hand. It reminds me of the consequences of losing my cool, something I’m very close to doing if I don’t calm the hell down. Leaning forward, I grit out, “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

  Drake’s nostrils flare. He inhales, his massive size doubling with the slow, deliberate movement. “If you fixed the speaker, then why could I barely hear myself out there?”

  “Because, asshole, a quad box is made up of four speakers.” Holding up my good hand, I indicate that number of fingers. “Quad means four.” Cocking a pointed eyebrow, I wiggle them.

  Yes, I’m being condescending. No, I don’t care. He asked for it the minute he accused me of being shit at my job.

  His blank look tells me he hasn’t a clue what I’m talking about. Fine. I’m more than happy to enlighten him. “How about I lay it out for you, huh? Make it really freaking obvious.”

  Drake growls. Good. Dropping my hand, I plant it on my hip. His ice-blue gaze falls to where it’s perched on the subtle curve before snapping away again.

  He grinds his teeth; I find satisfaction in that. “The speaker I worked on this afternoon isn’t the problem. It’s one of the other three that’s the issue.”

  Drake blinks. “How do you know it wasn’t the one you fixed?”

  Stepping closer, I bite out, “Because. I. Fixed. It.”

  He towers over me until his forehead singes mine. “How. Do. You. Know?”

  Even when I want nothing more than to twist his balls until he yodels in a high C, Drake is still the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. His eyes are bright, his cheekbones sharp, and his lips curve into a handsome sneer. I want to bite down on his mouth, scrape my nails through his hair, rub my breasts against his chest until the friction ignites molten sparks. I don’t care if we’re barely out of reach of the stage lights. I don’t give a shit if
back of house staff walk past. Hell, bring on the freaking crowd; let’s invite them over for an X-rated encore.

  As though reading my thoughts, a strong hand dives into my hair. It clenches, twists, yanks down.

  “Drake!”

  Only it’s not me objecting. Seems I’m too lost in the delicious stinging sensation and the flash of need firing my core to notice.

  “Not your fight, Wil,” he growls, eyes pinned on me.

  “It is when you’re groping Harper. Get your hands off her.”

  “It’s fine, Willow,” I murmur, huskier than intended. Drake’s pupils dilate, and I watch as they take up almost the entirety of his eyes. “He’s nothing I can’t handle.”

  The lead singer’s smirk deepens. “You sure about that?” His voice is a deep rumble, and if I wasn’t so caught up in an arctic stare, I’d probably spy a damn dimple in his cheek.

  “Positive,” I breathe.

  “Um….” Willow’s hesitance is obvious.

  It’s Reid who finally puts an end to her awkwardness. “Let’s go, Wil. They’ve got shit to sort out.”

  “You sure? Shouldn’t we, I don’t know, separate them or something?”

  “No.”

  “I second Reid,” Drake growls. “I love you, Wil. But you need to leave. Now.”

  Tingles trickle down my spine, dripping from one vertebra to the other.

  She sighs. “Harper, if you need us, we’ll be at the after-party. I’ll try to distract anyone from coming this way. And, Drake….” Pause. “Be nice; she’s good people.”

  He snorts, his grip on my hair tightening.

  I hiss, clenching my hands at my sides.

  I don’t know if they go. I don’t know if they take a final look before shaking their heads at our antics. All I know is Drake standing this close to me won’t be my weakness. I’m stronger than that.

  “So,” he drawls, as though his hand clasping my hair is a natural thing.

  “So,” I counter, pretending my body brushing against his is commonplace.

  “You reckon you fixed the speaker, huh?”

  “I know I did.”