Sing to Me (Rock Me Book 3)

by Lee Piper

  I won’t have that. No fucking way. Drake needs to stay safe, even if I have to lie, cheat, and steal to do it. Hell, I’ll even slap a smile on my face the entire time.

  Which is why, when a low voice rumbles in my ear, “I said, do you understand?” I nod.

  “Okay.” The falsehood is bitter on my tongue, but I swallow it down. “I’ll factor you into the plan.”

  Drake rests his forehead against my shoulder. I can sense the coiled tension in his tense muscles seeping away at my acquiescence. Relaxing into me, he grabs a handful of my hair, bunches it in his fist, and tips my head back. Staring deep into my eyes, he takes a moment, no doubt gaging my sincerity. Then, with a frustrated growl, his lips bruise mine.

  Chapter Fifteen

  After Drake kisses me until my lips are twice their normal size, we fall into bed. Not to sleep, obviously. Seems my lead singer has a point to prove, and I’m more than happy for him to do it. However, despite being physically exhausted afterward, neither of us sleep much. I’m too busy concocting a plan, and Drake spends even longer than usual watching me while I do it. Probably because he knows it doesn’t include him.

  However, despite the weird vibe, I eventually fall into a fitful sleep. Then, when I wake, it’s with Drake between my legs. His eyes are pinned on mine, his expression possessive. “Morning.” My arousal coats his mouth.

  “Hey,” I breathe.

  With a deliberate sweep of his tongue, he winks, then feasts on me. I swear, it’s as though he’s trying to reassert how futile my attempt at creating distance between us is. Unable to take his intensity any longer, I close my eyes, throw my head back, and sigh.

  An hour later, when we’re showered and fully dressed, a tall, lean body pins me to my front door. “I’ll see you later.” Crystal-blue eyes track my features, searching for a crack in my armor. However, I refuse to break. “I’ve got a band meeting and then PR shit in the afternoon. We don’t have a show tonight, so we’ll catch up after. Okay?”

  “Sure.”

  His jaw ticks. “Promise me you won’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”

  I mime crossing my heart, because saying it out loud feels plain wrong.

  As though sensing my inner turmoil, Drake growls, dips his head, and bites my lower lip. “Need the words, princess.”

  Whimpering, I clench a fistful of his T-shirt, then choke out a garbled, “Promise.”

  Technically, I don’t lie. I mean, we will catch up afterward, I just don’t specify when. And the term stupid is subjective, right? It’s open to interpretation. What I might consider a bad judgement call might be totally different from what Drake thinks it is. So, I’m not going behind his back or anything. There’s no reason for dread to churn at the base of my stomach or prickles to erupt on my skin. None at all. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

  With a final punishing kiss, Drake leaves.

  After pausing a moment to pull myself together and shake off the sense of foreboding that’s making me crazy, I go in search of Uncle Ray. Seems he’s too hungover to care when I tell him I’m heading to San Francisco. Since the band isn’t playing for another two days, we were going to take our time driving there. However, I’ve got business in the city now, so I decide to hit the road ahead of the others.

  A niggling feeling in the back of my mind tells me that leaving Ray isn’t a good idea. After all, who knows what state he’ll be in when I see him next? The guy’s liver might finally give up on him. He could throw a punch at the wrong person. He could…. Who am I kidding? His special brand of self-sabotage hurts everyone but him. It’s predictable as hell too. Worst-case scenario: I’ll take another road trip trying to find him, and, since he’s pulled the same shit before, I’ll know what bars to check first.

  As much as I love him, the man is holding me back.

  So, I leave.

  Over six hours later, I finally reach the US Patent and Trademark Office in San Francisco. It’s a monstrous gray building, nondescript in its rectangular shape and mirrored glass. Inside, the space is filled with hushed voices and furtive glances. The echo of water dripping from a tap nearby is the equivalent of an air horn.

  I wait in line for over an hour, shifting impatiently from one foot to the other. Glaring at the guy in front of me helps pass the time, but even that wears thin after a while. I don’t know why he’s bothering with his intimidation tactic. One, because I could snap him in half with a sneeze, and two, because his idea of musical socks is crap. Who would want annoying-as-fuck jingles breaking out every time they take a step? No one. The novelty would wear off in one point two seconds.

  So, after six hours in the van and one hour spent volleying death glares with the douche in front of me, it takes a grand total of four minutes to realize my idea of patenting and selling the speaker I’ve invented will never work.

  Joy—who is anything but what her name suggests—not-so-kindly informs me over her purple-rimmed glasses that I need a patent attorney I can’t afford to draft up the legal documents I can’t read. Then, I need to submit a specification—a lengthy document that again, I won’t be able to write, let alone understand, in order to be considered. On top of this, I need to include the drawings I made of the speaker. Sadly, my ineligible scribbles and abysmal spelling of specific parts won’t do.

  It gets even better.

  I then need to apply for a provisional patent that could take up to twelve goddamn months to get approved. Oh, and the entire process will cost between eight and fifteen thousand dollars.

  Great.

  Fucking marvelous.

  I’m a dead woman.

  Needless to say, I don’t return to the music venue after that. Hell, I keep to myself for the next day and a half. The thought of being around people makes me want to scream and then punch something. Since I don’t want to hurt my hand again, I figure the safest thing to do is drive along the coast, find a quiet spot, and stay there until I pull myself together. It’s better for everyone this way. I’ll meet up with the others at the next stop on the tour.

  “Uncle Ray will be fine,” I murmur, justifying my need for space. “And Drake can deal. He’ll be too busy to notice anyway. Besides, I need to figure out what the heck I’m going to do.”

  Time passes in a series of empty moments: throwing rocks into the ocean until my arm aches, eating some stale biscuits I find at the back of my cupboard, pretending not to miss the warmth of Drake’s body against mine. I swallow the choking screams that threaten to asphyxiate me with every damn breath and even go so far as to delude myself into believing I have a backup plan. One that doesn’t involve fleeing to Mongolia.

  I don’t, so it’s futile pretending.

  I’m screwed.

  So, when the sun sneaks through the tattered curtains of my RV, reminding me that a new day is dawning, and I can’t escape it even if I try, I let out a resigned sigh. After showering and dressing, I make the long journey to The Underground, San Francisco’s fifth-largest music venue. Sooner than I’d like, I’m waved through security and pull into a parking space as far away from Ray’s van and the tour bus as humanly possible.

  Right. Time to focus on what I can control. Reaching into the console, I retrieve my phone. I haven’t checked it in a while. Squinting, I ignore the myriad of calls and texts from a number I don’t recognize, and try to make out the time on the scratched screen. Five o’clock. Time to get to work. I’ll figure the rest out later.

  With a deep inhale, I square my shoulders and step out of the van.

  “Harper!” Heavy footsteps crunch the gravel, growing louder with each step. “Where the hell have you been?”

  Pausing, I steel myself, then glance over one shoulder.

  Only, there’s no possible way to prepare for the onslaught of Drake Stone. He storms across the parking lot, a wronged angel intent on retribution. His hair is a mess, as though he’s raked long fingers through it over and over again. However, rather than look like he’s been electrocuted, the style
could grace the cover of a men’s magazine—a bedroom issue. His eyes appear brighter, intent on seeking answers to questions I don’t want him asking, and those lips, though set in a firm line, are soft, somehow fuller than before.

  I might as well gift him my heart already. Tie it up in a sweet little bow complete with card that reads, please don’t break me.

  Who am I kidding? I’ve got it all backward. If I let Drake into my life, he’s going to end up bloodied and broken. Yeah, the realization might be a tad late, but better late than never. Besides, The Collector won’t discriminate. If I can’t pay up, and, let’s be honest, the chances of that happening are at an all-time high, he’ll go after everyone I care about. And I care about Drake. A lot.

  Which sucks.

  Long, purposeful strides eat up the distance. I don’t even get a chance to close the driver door because seconds later he’s towering over me. Tense hands clench and unclench at his sides. I have the distinct impression he’s picturing strangling me with them. Fury rolls off his wide shoulders, each wave hitting me square in the chest.

  “Well?” The soft material of his T-shirt stretches taut on each ragged inhale. “Where have you been?”

  I want to answer him, tell him everything I tried and failed to do. I want to tell him I genuinely believed I could get myself out of this mess by taking the high road, the one I know isn’t meant for girls like me. Only, my idea backfired in a big fucking way and now I don’t know what to do. Ray’s drunk all his money, my money, and anything else he can get his damn hands on. My wages won’t cut it, there’s no way I’m stupid enough to take out another loan, and I’ve got no one else to turn to. No friends, no family, nothing.

  Since I’d rather slit my own throat than say any of this out loud, I remain quiet. I’ve got my pride, after all. Anyway, knowing Drake as I do, he’ll be even more determined to help me if I mention the fuckstorm that is my present situation. I swear, he’s got some superhero complex or something. The guy wants to save the world one roadie at a time. It’s sweet, kind, and generous: everything I can never have now that I’ve got a fat-ass target on my back.

  In fact, the longer I stare at him, the more it becomes obvious what I need to do. I need him out of my life. For good. That way, he’ll be safe from The Collector and from me. It’s going to be a bitch to implement and even worse to live with, but if it means Drake stays alive, then it’ll be worth it. Even if he hates me.

  So, swallowing the tears that creep up the back of my throat, I cross my arms and narrow my gaze. I try not to let my eyes wander anywhere past Drake’s face. It’s really freaking hard not getting lost in his chiseled features, muscular form, and smoldering stance. The guy is gorgeous most days, but he’s downright breathtaking when angry.

  When I can finally trust myself not to launch into his arms and beg him to hold me, I tip my chin. “It’s no business of yours where I’ve been.”

  Bitchy and standoffish. Owned it.

  Drake reels back. His eyes shoot fire, the blue in them so bright they’re almost translucent. “Are you fucking serious right now? You’ve been gone for two days! Two! You didn’t say where you were headed or who you were with. I had no goddamn idea if you were safe. You could have been sold off as a sex slave for the Mexican cartel for all I knew.”

  Even though his concern warms the darkest part of me and threatens to have an apology tripping from my tongue, I hold back. A confession of guilt won’t help my cause. It won’t keep him out of the clutches of a debt collector renowned for his psychopathic tendencies. It’s better Drake resents me and stays away; at least then I know he’ll be alive. So, hardening my heart, I roll my eyes. “Dramatic much?”

  With the most elaborate use of the word fuck I’ve ever heard, Drake tears tense fingers through his dark hair. “Why are you doing this?”

  Silence.

  “You’re turning cold on me. Why?”

  Silence.

  The pulse at the base of his neck jumps. Each throb is a stab to my conscience. “Do you even know how to answer a phone? See, when someone tries to call you, there’s this icon that appears on your screen, and it says accept call. It’s revolutionary; you should try it.”

  I blink, taken aback. “Wait. You called me?”

  “Only about a billion and eight times! Jesus, Harper. Turn up the volume on your ringtone or some shit. Give my number its own theme song. I don’t care, just answer it!”

  Shrugging, I feign a nonchalance I sure as hell don’t feel. “I threw it in the console of my van. Didn’t look at it.”

  “You didn’t look at it.” Shaking his head, he barks out a laugh. There’s no humor in it, only hurt. “Christ, woman. Punch me in the balls, why don’t you?”

  I’m about to say I didn’t mean to hurt you by ignoring your calls! but stop myself. As much as I want to soothe away the harried tension on his face, the deep lines of concern I know I’m responsible for, I keep my hands exactly where they are. By my side.

  “You’re gonna be the goddamn death of me.”

  “Not if I can help it,” I mutter.

  “What?”

  I wave his question away and ask another instead. “How’d you get my number? Bands always go through Ray, not me.”

  “That’s the issue here?” he exclaims. “The fact I got your motherfucking number?” He tugs down on the inky-black strands, his knuckles turning white. “I swear on all that is holy, I’m gonna lose my shit if you keep pretending your disappearing act is no big deal.”

  “It’s not. You’re overreacting. You’re concerning yourself with something that’s none of your damn business.”

  “None of my business!” With flared nostrils, he holds up an index finger, his breathing ragged. “Do me a favor and shut up for a minute. Okay? Think you can do that?”

  I glare.

  He glares.

  I drop a hand to my hip.

  His gaze drops to the curve of my waist. With a growl of frustration, he spins on his heel, turning his back to me. After a not-so-subtle string of curses, Drake stares at the cloudless sky above. I watch as his shoulders rise and fall on a series of deep breaths. Seems the guy is well and truly pissed. I want so badly to wrap myself around his tense body, ease the anxiety I know I’ve caused. I want to trace my fingers across his tight muscles, murmur the bubbling thoughts in my mind. But I can’t. As much as I want to, doing so won’t keep him out of harm’s way. It’ll kill him. And there’s no fucking way I’ll be held accountable for his death.

  When the situation is looked at objectively, it makes perfect sense. If I die, Ray will mourn. He’ll drink even more, work even less. He’ll find someone else to pick up the pieces and care for him because that’s what he does. He finds an enabler and doesn’t let go. Meaning, a grand total of one person will be immediately impacted by my demise. One. Sure, more than that will be indirectly affected. There will be stages to set up and new roadies to source to do it. However, it won’t take long to find willing volunteers, no doubt with a shit ton less expertise but whatever. Beggars can’t be choosers.

  I digress.

  The fact of the matter is, if I die, very few people will feel it. And it’s not a pity party I’m throwing here. It’s an acknowledgement of cold, hard reality. I could cry over it, wallow in self-indulgent misery while I lash out at the world. But it’s a waste of time because it won’t achieve anything, and it sure as hell won’t protect the people who matter either.

  Now, if Drake dies….

  Fuck.

  My heart chokes on the thought. It splutters, pants, is desperate for breath. It’s as though a hand squeezes and squeezes it until it’s forced through cruel fingers, dripping wasted life one heartbeat at a time.

  I suck in a sharp inhale. The strained silence stretches on, taunting me with what I want and can never have.

  After what feel like an endless stretch of time, Drake throws over his shoulder. “Your uncle.”

  Swallowing is painful. It takes several tries to clear my throat
. “Huh?”

  “Your uncle gave me your number.”

  Furrowing my brow, I consider his words. Only, they don’t compute. “That can’t be right. Ray would never give it out.”

  Drake snorts, facing me again. “You sure about that? Dude sure loves his liquor. After I promised him a round, he couldn’t give me your digits fast enough.”

  Anger builds. It bubbles, seething my insides. Narrowing my eyes, I measure my words carefully. “You bribed Ray with alcohol?” I’m shaking. So fucking furious, my body is literally shaking. “You gave a man who has a drinking problem alcohol just so you could get my number?”

  Drake juts his chin. It takes everything I have not to punch it. “Would do it again if it meant finding you.”

  “I’m not yours to find!”

  He stills. If I thought Drake was pissed before, it’s nothing to what he must be feeling now. Rage radiates from his body. With each purposeful step toward me, it swirls in the air, sparking, flaring, turning flashes of light to glowing ash.

  Without meaning to, I take a step back.

  “We back here again, are we?” His tone is low, even, deceptively calm. It sets the hairs on the back of my neck on edge as trepidation tiptoes along my spine. “Is that what’s going on here?” A large hand wraps around my throat, his thumb forcing my head back until our eyes clash. “Is this the grand master plan that’s gonna save your fine ass, huh?”

  “Screw you.”

  He ignores me. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight. You act like a self-righteous bitch until I don’t want you. Then, when I turn my back, you run off and get a bullet between the eyes, leaving no one but your alcoholic uncle—who’s probably too drunk to notice you gone—behind. That it? Have I missed anything?”

  I clamp my mouth shut because damn, that about sums it up.

  Drake quirks his head to one side, considering me. “Ties up some of the loose ends nicely, doesn’t it?”

  I try to wrench free of his hold.

  Impossible, since he backs me against my van, pinning me in place. Leaning down until his lips are a hairsbreadth from mine, he growls, “But you’ve missed something important. Your plan has a flaw.”