“Are we going to see the guys? I mean, it looks like you all hang out here,” I asked casually, waving at all the gaming equipment.
He laughed. “I don’t know. Maddox and Jett seemed to be home. But Brooks isn’t around. His ride was missing from his spot in the parking garage.” Wilder sat two bowls on the countertop separating the kitchen from the living room. He disappeared around the corner. When he returned, he began scooping ice cream into the bowls. “You want chocolate syrup?” The bottle taunted me where he drizzled it over one of the bowls.
“Sure.” I could indulge a little tonight. “But not too much.”
He swirled a little onto my bowl. “Did you find us something to watch?” His head tipped in the direction of the TV screen, which was populated with the recent shows he had apparently been watching.
“No. Do you have a suggestion?” I shrugged.
“How about Sons of Anarchy?” he asked. It was the first show in the list of things he’d watched recently.
“I haven’t ever seen it. Is it any good?” I hadn’t jumped on the bandwagon when the show first came out. I did get the appeal of Charlie Hunnam, but the thought of watching a show about a motorcycle gang just didn’t really appeal to me.
He scoffed, “It’s phenomenal.” Wilder sank beside me and handed me my bowl.
We sat thigh to thigh, ate ice cream and watched the first episode of Sons of Anarchy. I didn’t really expect to like the show, but Wilder’s enthusiasm had me paying attention. By the end of the first episode, I was a lot more invested than I cared to admit.
“Start the next episode while I make us some drinks. Do you have a request?” He got up and grabbed our bowls.
I snuggled into the corner of the couch. “Piña colada?” I asked.
“Coming right up.” In no time, he handed over my drink. He was drinking Jack and Coke.
Midway through the second episode, I was hooked. I curled my legs under me, keeping my eyes fixed on the screen.
Wilder’s phone rang, but when he looked at it, he tossed it back beside him.
“Not important?” I asked.
“Don’t recognize the number.” He shrugged. “Can’t be too careful these days.”
I couldn’t imagine the number of people who harassed the guys. Izzy had shared a few horror stories with me over the years.
Next to him, his phone beeped. “Hmmm. Whoever it was left a message. Could be a reporter.” He held the phone up to his ear and listened. His eyes darkened, and the easy-going smile he’d worn all evening fell from his lips. With a furious frown on his face, Wilder was quite formidable.
Without a word, he strode into the kitchen to refill his glass. This time he skipped the Coke, and he brought the bottle back with him.
He tossed his phone onto the coffee table and gently set the bottle of whiskey next to it. “Do you want a refill?” he asked, tipping his head at my glass.
“No thanks.” It seemed Wilder was on his way to blitzed. I didn’t need to go there with him. One of us should probably be responsible. I turned toward him on the couch, my mouth turning down in a frown of concern. “Is everything OK?”
He downed the contents of his glass in one swallow. Leaning forward, he refilled it. Cradling the tumbler in his hand, he sat back, snuggling into me. “I’m fine.”
He sounded anything but fine. But I didn’t know how to get him to talk to me about what was bothering him.
Several minutes of silence passed.
“Was the message bad news?” I tried again tentatively. Maybe someone important to him was in trouble or had passed away.
His hand gripped mine, and he lifted it to his lips to press a soft kiss on the back. “It was nothing for you to worry about. Nothing I should worry about either.” Bitterness lined his words. He emptied his cup again. Then he reached for the bottle. This time he didn’t bother to transfer the amber liquid to the glass. No, he tipped the bottle up directly to his lips.
Whatever the message was, it had sent Wilder tumbling into some darkness I didn’t understand. His eyes were heavy lidded now, and he leaned wearily against me. While he was a rock star and could probably certainly hold his liquor, he’d downed quite a bit in a very short amount of time.
“I’ll be right back,” he slurred then stumbled from the room.
I watched as he banged into the corner of the wall before maneuvering into the hallway. He kept his hand against the wall as he shuffled slowly out of sight.
While he was gone, I stashed away the last of the whiskey and cleaned up our dishes. When I moved back into the living room, I grabbed a blanket from the recliner on the other side of the room.
By the time Wilder returned, I was propped up in the corner of the couch with the blanket draped over my lap. He bumped into the end of the couch with a giggle. Clumsily, he fell onto the cushions, his head landing in my lap.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, but made no move to sit up. Instead, he nestled in closer, wrapping an arm around my torso. “This OK?” he peered up at me with glassy eyes, widened pupils and flushed cheeks.
He looked so lost and vulnerable. And drunk. Maybe more. “Yeah. It’s fine,” I whispered, running my fingers through his hair, hoping to comfort him. He laced his fingers with mine as his eyes drifted shut. “And Wilder, I’m here if you want to talk,” I offered.
A soft snore was his only reply. Oh well, I guessed I’d be watching the next episodes on my own. At least I could ogle that sexy Jax Teller without being embarrassed about it.
Chapter 12
Brooks
After I’d left Dawson’s, I returned home long enough to drop off my bass and eat a sandwich. I wanted to fly down the highway and didn’t trust that my instrument would stay strapped to my bike properly with the recklessness I was feeling. Free to enjoy the roar of the tires on pavement and wind against my skin, I rode up Pacific Coast Highway for a while.
When my muscles started to tremble from riding too fast for too long, I decided to stop at Hole in the Wall. The door jangled when I walked through, but only the bartender looked my way. Everyone else was captivated by the young band on stage.
I sidled up to the bar and sank onto a stool, my eyes on the musicians playing a cover song.
“Your usual?” one of the regular bartenders, Lenny, asked.
“Nah. I’m on my bike. How about lemonade?” I might be feeling reckless, but I wasn’t stupid.
He rapped his knuckles against the wooden bar top. “Coming right up.”
I stared at the lead singer on the small stage where the guys and I had spent so many nights. The group up there now looked vaguely familiar. “Who’s that?” I asked as my lemonade was placed in front of me in the center of a napkin.
“Steele Strings. They’ve played here a few times before. They’re pretty good.” He looked over at them with me.
“Yeah they are,” I agreed. My fingers dipped into the bowl of snacks Lenny slid in front of me.
My gaze swept over the dance floor. There were several single girls laughing and dancing in a group. In the past, I would’ve bought them a round and planted myself in the middle of them. Picked one to go home with. Had a good time. Left afterwards. No strings. No complications. Easy. It was what I’d always wanted.
But tonight, I wasn’t feeling it. I’d be terrible company. I shoved another handful of salty snack mix into my mouth. I couldn’t drink. Didn’t want to dance or talk. May as well go home.
Maybe Wilder dropped Brittany off early, and I wouldn’t have to see them. Or maybe they were still out, and I could sneak into my room before Wilder returned. If he came home tonight. What if he stayed over at Dawson’s with her?
“I’ll catch you later, Lenny.” Shoving myself off the barstool, I pulled out my wallet and paid for my drink.
“Later,” he said, waving at me and moving to another customer.
My boots clomped on the pavement as I made my way across the full lot. I climbed on my motorcycle, cranked it, then settled my helmet on my head
. With a twist of the throttle, I pealed out of the parking lot and hit the highway. The miles melted away much faster than I would’ve liked. But with no good reason to avoid my home and no better place to be, I turned into the parking garage.
♪ Life is a Highway by Tom Cochrane
I saluted the attendant on my way through. Sighing, I parked next to Wilder’s SUV. Growling, I ripped off my helmet. My thumb flicked across my phone screen. It was only 10:30. Kind of early for him. But he was definitely here.
Was she?
I wasn’t sure what I wanted the answer to that question to be, so long as she wasn’t in his room with him.
With no good reason to delay the inevitable, I made my way to my apartment and slowly unlocked the door. Muffled sounds from the surround sound greeted me as soon as I entered. I turned the corner to find Wilder stretched out across the couch, his head in Britt’s lap. I peeked over at the TV. Jax Teller climbing off his bike appeared on the screen.
Frustrated that they were here … together … like that, I tossed my keys onto the bar.
Brittany jumped, startled by the noise. Wilder didn’t even stir in the slightest. “Brooks, what are you doing here?” she hissed.
I chuckled darkly at the feeling of déjà vu. “I live here. Wilder and I share this penthouse apartment. Maddox and Jett share the other one.” I leaned over to remove my boots.
“Sorry. You just scared me. I was half asleep. And he’s been out for a while now,” she said, waving to Wilder.
Just looking at him made fury build in my veins. His face was buried in her stomach and his arms were wound tightly around her waist. My fingers furled into fists at my side as I ground my teeth together. At least they both appeared to be fully clothed, though her lower half was covered by a blanket, so it was just a guess.
“I didn’t mean to scare you. I just … I didn’t expect you guys to be here. It’s kind of early for Wilder to be home. Let alone already passed—”
The sound of loud moaning from the TV halted the words in my throat. I pivoted my head back toward Britt. Red stole up her neck and over her cheeks while she fumbled for the remote. She finally managed to pause the show, leaving Tara and Jax on the screen in the throes of passion. “Oh my gosh,” she shrieked then pressed the power button, shutting off the screen all together.
I couldn’t help the smirk that tipped up my lips. “So, you’re into watching porn, huh, Britt?” I teased.
“What? No. That’s Sons of Anarchy. Some show on Netflix about a motorcycle gang. I didn’t realize it was so racy and explicit,” she rambled, dragging her fingers through her hair.
A deep belly laugh bellowed out of me. When I could finally breathe, I said, “I know what the show is. I watched it when it first came out. Wilder just recently discovered it. He was a little late to the party.”
“Apparently I was late too,” she said with a huff, still blushing adorably. “Do you think you can get him up? My leg is asleep, and I’ve had to pee for like an hour. I struck out when I tried to wake him.”
I stepped over to the couch and nudged Wilder. “There were a few times when we first started touring that he partied a little too hard, and we had to leave him where he dropped. When he’s out, sometimes it’s like trying to raise the dead.”
“That is not an option tonight unless you want me to piss on your couch,” Britt said.
Squatting down, I gripped his shoulder and gave him a decent shake. Wilder didn’t budge. I reached around Brittany and unwound his hold on her waist. Then I carefully levered him a few inches up off her lap so she could scoot out from under him.
She staggered to her feet. I dropped Wilder back to the couch, so I could steady her. He fell like a lead weight.
“I just need to walk around a bit. Where’s your bathroom?” She hobbled in a circle around the coffee table.
“There’s one through that door right there,” I said, pointing to the little half bath off the kitchen.
After she walked away, I adjusted Wilder to a more comfortable position on the couch and tossed the blanket over him. While I was angry at him for taking Britt out to dinner and bringing her back here, I was glad that it seemed nothing had happened between them because, for some reason, he’d gotten plastered. But what was going on with my friend? Why was he passed out before ten in the lap of a beautiful girl?
Brittany’s reappearance snapped me from my reverie. She was tapping away on her phone.
“What are you doing?” I asked, sauntering over to her.
“About to get an Uber to come get me,” she said, peering up at me from her phone.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll give you a ride. Just give me a minute.”
“Thanks.” Britt walked over to Wilder and tugged the blanket further up over his body and tucked it beneath his chin.
Jealousy flared angrily in me when she brushed the hair off his forehead and planted a kiss on his cheek. I stalked down the hallway to my room to get what I needed.
Chapter 13
Britt
I stared down at Wilder, worried about him. Movement down the hallway caught my eye. Without lifting my head, I asked, “You think he’ll be OK?”
Brooks cleared his throat. “Yeah. He just needs to sleep it off. He’ll probably feel like crap tomorrow though.”
I nodded and stepped back, letting my hand fall from where it was resting against his cheek. My eyes widened when Brooks stepped fully into view. A shiny, black motorcycle helmet was tucked under his arm.
“Wh-what’s that for?” I stuttered, pointing at the helmet.
“My SUV is in the shop, so we have to take my bike. This will protect that pretty head of yours.” He held up the helmet like a game show model, flashing a bright smile at me.
“I can’t ride a motorcycle.” I shook my head, staring down at my outfit. “I’m in a skirt and heels for Pete’s sake. I’ll just get an Uber.”
Brooks deposited the helmet on the table by the door where another helmet already rested. Then with purposeful steps, he moved back to where I stood with my phone. His fingers closed over my phone and tugged it from me. My sparkly blue phone disappeared into his jacket pocket. Warm, calloused fingertips dragged across my palm until his hand was linked with mine. “Come with me.” He tugged me down the hall in the direction he’d disappeared to a few minutes ago.
When the hallway split, we took a left. There was only one door in that direction. Brooks twisted the knob and shoved it open. He slapped at the switch on the wall, and the room was filled with light. There was no doubt this was Brooks’s room. A huge window filled the far wall, but heavy curtains blocked whatever the view was. A massive bed with a blue bedspread dominated the space. I quickly turned away from it, not wanting to think about falling onto that mattress with Brooks. And I definitely did not want to imagine the other women he’d had here.
I did an about-face and found myself in front of a collage of musicians. I stepped over to it. I only recognized a few of them. Gene Simmons in all his glorious Kiss makeup. Nikki Sixx. Paul McCartney. Those were the only ones I knew by name. While I examined all these pieces of the mysterious man who kept me guessing, he dug through his drawers.
Silently, he whirled around and approached me. He tossed a wad of fabric onto the bed. He selected a red sweatshirt. “Come here.”
For some reason, I did as he asked without question. The air heated around me once I was in his orbit.
“Arms up,” he commanded gruffly.
When my arms were stretched in the air above my head, Brooks slid the soft fabric over my head. Once my head popped through, he eased my arms into each sleeve. They were too long, so my hands were lost inside. Brooks rolled up the cuffs a few times until they rested against my wrists. He tugged the hem of it down past my waist. Gentle fingers slid along the neckline, freeing my hair from where it was trapped.
“Sit.” He nudged me onto the edge of the bed. He grabbed the pile of gray fabric. His fingers wrapped around my ankle to lift it from the
floor. With some skillful maneuvering he worked my wedge-clad foot into the leg of his sweatpants. He repeated the process with my other foot.
“Your skirt might wrinkle,” he mumbled as he pulled me to my feet. His hands dipped to the waistband of his sweatpants which were around my knees. He eased them up, smoothing my skirt against my legs as he hitched the pants up until they settled around my waist. Brooks rolled the waistband several times to shorten them some. He shrugged out of his leather jacket and put it on me.
I inhaled deeply, filling my lungs with the scent of leather, cinnamon and Brooks. It was heavenly. His fingers trembled slightly as he zipped it up. “There. That’s the best I can do. Not exactly riding clothes, but they’ll keep you warm enough. Sorry I don’t have shoes that would be safe enough for your small feet.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine. And if this is too much trouble, I can just call for a ri—” His finger pressed against my lips, halting my words.
“Give me one more minute.” He spun and went into his closet. He came out wearing a different leather jacket. It didn’t look as warm as the one he’d put on me.
Back in front of me once more, he took my hand. I followed on autopilot, trying not to think about what I was about to do and how terrifying it was. Somehow, I found myself back in the parking garage. This time I was next to a sleek motorcycle. Brooks took my purse from my hand and stowed it in a compartment on the bike. I hadn’t even realized I was holding the small bag.
“You have to breathe, angel,” Brooks said, staring deeply into my eyes. His thumb swept across my lower lip. That contact caused a breath to shudder in and out of my lungs. “There you go.”
With the utmost care, he eased one of the helmets onto my head. His fingers brushed along my throat as he fastened the strap beneath my chin. Brooks donned his helmet and then climbed onto his bike. “Climb on behind me and make sure you hang on tight.”
Turn up the Tempo (Lyrical Odyssey Rock Star Series Book 4) Page 10