by Neve Wilder
“You have a show soon?”
“No.” He colored faintly. “I meant at my place.” He inclined his chin a fraction, whatever hint of sheepishness he’d just displayed now overridden by that defiant lift, a hint of both challenge and promise in his eyes. Shit, I was slow on the uptake today. Owen was cute, but no way. I’d told Evan the truth; he’d destroyed me. New territory for me, because I rarely said no. Rarely wanted to.
“Not a fucking chance.” Speak of the devil; Evan’s arm latched around my waist and squeezed like a boa constrictor. His tone of voice had “mine” stamped all over it. Vocal territoriality. I could get into that.
Owen’s cheeks flamed in full blush, and he shook his head quickly. “My bad, dude. I thought that shit was fake.”
“What gave you that impression?” I was curious, even if he was kind of right.
“Adam Slade had this whole piece on PR hacks that was up on Tattletales this morning. I mean, he didn’t call it out blatantly, but he suggested it, so I just thought…” Owen winced and fidgeted.
“Was your cock in my ass last night, or did I dream that?” Evan said, cocking his head to the side like he was confused.
My jaw threatened to drop. “It was definitely buried deep inside you. And you’re definitely being a dick right now.” I picked up my bag from the counter and leaned in toward Owen. “Sorry. He’s not usually a dick, and I will listen to your stuff, but by myself. I don’t know what that article says, but trust me, it’s an oversimplification.”
Outside, I started laughing. “What the hell was that?”
“I want to know what this article says.” Evan glowered as he reached into his pocket for his phone.
“All right. Can you drop the alpha-hole mode for a while? Dude was just flirting.” And then I got it. “Shit, you were jealous. Awww, sweetheart.”
“I warned you,” Evan groused as I chuckled.
I darted after him as he stalked toward the car. Halfway through the parking lot I shouldered into him. He huffed out a breath, his expression heated and stern when I clenched his shirt in my fist.
“I had no interest in hooking up with that guy, Porter. I can still taste you, and as soon as we get back to the cabin, I’m gonna help myself to more.”
His eyes flashed as he pushed me off him, but that shove came accompanied by a smile and the quick streak of his mouth across my jaw. He was slow to release the waistband of my jeans.
When we got back to the cabin, I fully intended to strip him painfully slowly and ride him until we both fell apart.
Except that didn’t happen, because Evan looked up that stupid article on the ride home.
Chapter 32
“He could have said a lot worse, I guess.” Les tossed his plastic bag of records on the floor and flopped onto the couch. He plucked restlessly at some loose threads on the worn plaid cushions.
“I haven’t gotten all the way through it, yet.” I had the article open on my phone and scrolled down to continue reading. “‘This time-honored tradition of PR stunts that manipulate the listening public for ratings stretches from movie star pairings and reality shows and trickles all the way down to beloved alt-rock musicians who pride themselves on their gritty, honest, down-home sound, yet have no problem faking a relationship in the hopes of boosting lagging sales.’” I glanced up at Les to find his expression souring. “‘I’m looking at you, Porter & Graves, who’ve been careful not to precisely confirm one thing or another, but have been conveniently spotted around a small Tennessee town in very cozy company with each other.’”
“Technically it’s supposition,” he said. And it felt like we were back at the beginning.
“Technically, his evidence is as solid as your dick down the back of his throat,” I pointed out.
“He didn’t say that, though, the fucker. Would’ve jeopardized his journalistic integrity. Fuck him.”
“Too bad you did.” I didn’t mean for it to come out as snappishly as it did.
Les made a face. “He’s just bitter because I didn’t return the favor. And stop harping on me about that. It’s over and done with.”
I continued to quote, “‘And while it’s easy to buy into a high-profile, top-of-the-tier pair like bubbly film star Leah Price and crowd-pleasing pop singer, Justin Wolf, pairings like mercurial, megawatt creative Evan Porter and his bad-boy, train-wreck-waiting-to-happen counterpart, Les Graves, is a ridiculous notion that asks us to suspend far too much disbelief. Porter is too calculated and business-minded to get involved with that mess.’ So yeah, he’s definitely a little bitter.”
Les bolted upright on the couch. “That piece of shit. That’s gotta be slander.”
“It’s op-ed and we’re public figures. He’s untouchable on this.” I tried to hold back my amusement at Les’s sudden indignation, but it was helping me avoid thinking about how quickly this was all getting out of hand, both in public and private.
“Sounds like he’s got a boner for you. Maybe you should’ve been the one sucking his cock.”
I took the verbal jab on the chin while Les paced in front of the couch, biting the corner of his thumbnail so hard and fast, the sound of his teeth clicking filled the air. “So what do we do now?”
I was none too pleased about it, either, but my irritation went further back: Les letting the guy blow him, the path that led us to this ridiculous stunt in the first place. And yet… how could I be angry over the events that landed me in the arms of the one person I thought I might be falling in love with? Holy fuck, did I really mean that? It was a paradox.
“I’m calling Levi.” I closed out the article and tabbed through my contacts to distract myself from my racing heart.
“I was just about to call,” Levi answered.
“Did you know this was coming down the pike?” I was oddly suspicious, an uneasiness in my stomach whose origin I couldn’t explain, and the way Levi answered didn’t help. Why hadn’t he called me first thing?
“What? No!” he said emphatically.
“If I find out this is all part of some larger scheme, I’m done,” I warned him.
Les watched me carefully, one eyebrow cocked, a stern set to his mouth as I paced listlessly.
“That’s ridiculous, Evan. We’re on your side. On both of your sides,” Levi was quick to add. “But this is really no big deal. It’s one opinion piece, and there’s plenty to suggest you two are together. We’re still on track to quietly drop news of the breakup to a few sources just before you go into the studio.”
I snorted over the fact that my publicist was having to reassure me that the course of my fake relationship with my bandmate was on track and proceeding smoothly toward its demise. This was insanity, and yet, I couldn’t help but say, “And what if we don’t want to do that?”
Les’s eyes went wide. Mine probably would’ve, too, and I wasn’t really sure where I was going with that because whatever Les and I were, I was nowhere near ready to make a public declaration about it, but the flabbergasted silence on the other end was worth the two seconds of vindictive peace that rocking the corporate machine gave me.
When Levi replied, after a lengthy silence, he sounded hesitant. “We could certainly work with that, if you’d like to keep up the charade. Or… maybe it’s not a charade? It’s… um… yeah, we could work with that.” He picked up speed, and I could tell by the rapid way he spoke he was starting to get excited. “Actually, that could be really great. It opens up a whole new avenue of publicity to mine.”
I tossed the phone to Les in aggravation. Les’s attention was still fixated on me, but now he seemed wary and confused. His brow furrowed as he spoke. “I think what Evan’s saying is that we need some time to think about it, so we’ll just sit tight right now and not worry about the article.”
“Good plan. I’ll check in tomorrow and you can let me know what you’re thinking. The more heads-up we have, the better. If you want to continue the relationship, I’ll need to get on the ball. This could be huge.”
&
nbsp; Damn, the guy was all kinds of fired up now. So much for rocking the corporate machine. Talk about backfire.
After he ended the call, Les canted his head to one side, studying me where I stood at the kitchen island, my fists clenched on top of the counter. “What…?”
I shook my head. “I don’t fucking know. I don’t know anything.” I searched his face, his expression, looking for a sign… but I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. I was uneasy all over. Something felt off. “Did you know about any of this before?”
Les flinched like I’d thrown a punch. Then he barked out an incredulous laugh. “Yeah, Porter, this was all a part of my grand scheme to get you in bed.”
My brow cocked up, and he gave a disbelieving shake of his head, ground-eating strides carrying him to confront my frown. Somehow the intensity in his movements comforted me.
Les gripped me firmly by the biceps, and he was close enough that I saw the tiny pores on his face, the thick fringe of his lashes, the eyes behind burning with a fury that made my next inhale slow and measured and relieved. I licked my lips and kept quiet, and it was only after I’d done it that I realized what a tell it was. Even right then, in that moment, when everything inside me churned with doubt, I wanted him. I thought maybe I’d wanted him for much longer than I’d ever allowed myself to believe.
“I’ve been along for the ride, same as you, and I have a very distinct memory of you underneath me, begging for it, wanting it. Did I make that up?” His nostrils flared as he inhaled, and for the first time, I glimpsed the fear behind the frustration. It made something inside me go very still.
His expression softened when I said, “No. It was real. Shit, I don’t know. I guess this is the clusterfuck I was talking about.” I didn’t want to argue with Les. Hell, I didn’t know what I wanted right then besides to go back to this morning when we were lying in bed together.
“It’s real to me, too. Fuck, Porter.” He shook his head as he squeezed my shoulders hard, then released me and took a step back, like he was drawing his next breath from the space he created between us. His fist rose to rub at the spot between his dark brows, his eyes clenching tightly as he shook his head again.
When he looked up at me, his face was drawn, but his eyes were clear. “I don’t know what all of this is to you, if it’s just a convenient exploration, or… I’ve already told you—maybe not in so many words—but I’ve got it pretty fucking bad for you, Porter, and I don’t know where it leaves us in all of this, but it’s the truth. Fuck. I don’t think I’ve felt this way about anyone since I was… I don’t even know. Maybe ever. Goddamn.”
“Les.” This was anything but a convenient exploration. In fact, it was incredibly inconvenient. My heart stuttered. I felt it like a skip in my chest. Or a kick. And I had no idea what to do with the confession he’d just given me. It wasn’t an I love you, but it rubbed elbows with the sentiment, and now he was squirming, looking at me like he’d made a mistake. Les Graves wasn’t meant to squirm. I took a step forward and reached for him, skimming a touch over his shoulder.
He looked up at the ceiling and laughed. “Oh shit. This is perfect. Fuck, I probably deserve this.”
“Les.” More forcefully this time. His gaze dropped back to meet mine, and I could see the shields going up behind it. “Give me a minute to process.”
He nodded once, averting his eyes and shaking free of my touch. “Sure. All the time you want.” He still wouldn’t look at me, but when he turned to go, snagging a water from the fridge before thumping down the stairs to the basement, I let him.
I picked up my laptop and took it with me to the couch, checking our numbers before frustration had me shoving the laptop aside and throwing my head back against the cushions. I stretched my legs out, glancing down at the floor to see what crinkled, and picked up the bag from Grim’s, dumping the contents on my lap.
Jessup Polk. A rare pressing of his debut EP, and two more I wasn’t even aware existed.
I turned the sleeves over in my hands, then rested my forehead against the cool, cardboard surface. The sound of Les playing rose from the basement, the sweet melody draping over my shoulders. Fucking Les. He got me every time.
Chapter 33
I went back and forth with myself trying to decide whether I regretted telling Evan how strongly I felt about him. I love you had been on the tip of my tongue, but I’d restrained myself at the last second, biting it back the way you would a curse, still afraid I’d scare him off or overwhelm him. And I was still scared I’d said too much. But in a way, it was a relief to have it out there. His reaction hadn’t been ideal, but then I’d dropped it in a stressful situation, so what did I expect? The article was annoying and pissed me off, mostly because it once again put Evan on a pedestal and made me sound second-rate. I didn’t hate Evan for that, though. And shit, Adam Slade was right. I’d done nothing to show anyone otherwise.
After I cooled off downstairs and reread the article, I decided it didn’t matter. What mattered were our fans, and I hoped this new album would prove we were worthy of the support they’d given us so far, regardless of what Evan and I were doing in our personal lives. It wasn’t like we were murdering kittens or anything.
Evan was trickier. I’d meant what I said when I told him to take his time, and yeah, I could have said it with a little less bitterness, but I was being honest. We would always bicker. That was the nature of us. But as we worked through another couple of songs later that afternoon—songs I’d had no trouble writing, since I was practically bleeding out my feels by that point—I noticed we were cohesive again. At least, musically speaking. I wasn’t going to press him on anything else, no matter how much I wanted to. I resisted the urge to touch him, which was hard because I constantly wanted to touch him now—wanted to feel his skin against mine, smell him, wrap myself in him. I did my best to keep my actions and words light and innocuous, and it was such a mature response I was kind of amazed at myself, really. I thought Evan was, too. I caught him studying me at intervals, his eyes narrowed, like he was expecting me to fly off the handle at any moment.
By evening, we’d run through the entire album and were trying to pregame an order for the songs—and also a title for the album—when I looked up to find Evan watching me again, his brows furrowed over his straight nose in a fierce blond bunch. I loved his nose, the slight natural flare of his nostrils giving him this dignified profile, how the heavy line of his brows intensified him. He was an intense-looking guy in general, but especially so in that moment.
“You solving the mysteries of the universe over there or what?” I rocked my pen back and forth in my hand a couple of times before settling it between my teeth. The plastic end was all chewed up. I went through a pack in a week, discarding them when the ends were so mangled and sharp I couldn’t chew on them anymore. Evan had a cigarette stuck behind his ear that’d been there all day, some quirky battle of willpower taking place within him. He touched it lightly before replying. “How many notebooks do you have?”
I thought about it. “Twenty or thirty since we’ve been writing together, I think.” I had a weird organizational system that probably wouldn’t make sense to anyone else, but there were notebooks allotted for each album, some that I used on tour that got transferred into the album notebook if I thought the lyrics were worthy, and some that just kind of floated around and acted as a journal for the time period. I’d tried writing on a computer or my phone before, and it didn’t work. I needed the physicality of a notebook and pen. Needed to see the ink bleed on my words. There was a kind of catharsis to it.
Evan shook his head, exhaling a chuff of breath. “You realize we’ve written this album faster than we’ve ever written anything before?”
“Guess we’ve had a lot to say.”
He quirked a smile at that. “Remember the first time we met?”
I nodded, putting my pen down in my notebook and closing it. I was lying on the floor on my stomach, and Evan sat across from me, his guitar on his lap. He
was so rarely without it. Even when we weren’t actively playing, it was in his hands. It was like twisting a lock of hair or twiddling your thumbs. Some people did that. Evan plucked at the strings of his guitar.
“Jensen’s. God it was hot that night.” The AC in the bar had felt like it was pushing out lukewarm air.
“And smoky. Could hardly see the stage.” He twanged a few ominous notes, making me laugh. “I kept hearing about you. This drummer from Virginia who’d just up and decided he wanted to play guitar, instead. All my bartender buddies would whisper about you, usually the chicks. Talking about your perfect hair. I think it was actually Mo who told me your own stuff was good. Then Dan mentioned you and said you’d be playing soon and I should check it out.”
Evan already had a label interested in him, I remembered that, but they’d wanted to pair him with a lyricist, and Evan had felt uncertain about it.
“You were wearing a T-shirt with something really stupid on it.”
“I will end you.” That’s what the T-shirt had said. It featured a squirrel brandishing its tiny fist. Thinking about it made me laugh. “I love that shirt.” Still had it, in fact.
“I thought ‘what kind of jackass gets up onstage in a shirt like that?’ You looked like you’d just rolled out of bed.”
“I think I had.”
Evan tried to suppress a smile but failed, and it came out as this small, affectionate curve that I wished I could keep there for the rest of his life. “But then you played, and you talked to the audience. Small crowd, but they fucking loved you. Loved how you joked with them, how you’d try to play anything, even if it was terrible.”
Someone had requested Barry White’s “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love” that night. It had been… interesting. Evan must have been thinking the same thing, because he tipped his head back against the chair and laughed, the sound full-throated and infectious, and I adored the rumble of it even more than his smile.