Caveman: A Single Dad Next Door Romance

by Jo Raven

  Who cares? I shouldn’t. He’s over six feet of pure, hot, muscled male, and he’s been watching me as if he wants to do very bad things to my body.

  I should let him. I can’t deny I’ve been fantasizing about licking my way down his pecs and rock-hard abs, to follow that thin treasure trail vanishing into his pants, and dive lower, touch his cock, see if it’s as big and beautiful as it appears under the cloth.

  The thought makes me groan. He’s so sexy.

  What possessed me to lick his finger? He tasted salty and sweet, and like Zane. I swallow hard and try desperately to focus on other things—like getting dressed for the concert. On my make-up and hair—not the image of Zane, stuck in my mind—light gilding his square jaw, his long lashes, the three hoops piercing one eyebrow.

  I wonder if he has more metal elsewhere on his body. In winter, with all the thick layers of clothes, it was hard to tell, but last night, in his thin T-shirt, I thought I saw studs in his nipples. I imagine taking them into my mouth, tugging with my teeth. I imagine the sounds he’ll make, how much harder he’ll get, how he’ll fist his hands into the sheets and arch his body off the bed…

  Oh God, is it suddenly too hot in here? I fan myself. Sweat beads my brow.

  Slow down, Dakota. Sober up and think.

  Okay, so Zane is a walking wet dream, and I want him badly. But what I want most is to break through his walls and see the real him. To crack the enigma that is Zane. I’ve been duped by appearances before—almost to my death. I think of Collin, and I shudder. I remember the hurt of his betrayal, then the fear as he pushed me, the terror of falling, the pain… And the despair that followed.

  Taking a deep breath, I add the final touches to my face, grab my bag and step outside.

  The bar is slowly filling. Rafe is there, checking the electronics. He glances up and nods as I pass him to go backstage. There’s a small room where we can leave our bags and stuff during the concert.

  When I return, I find Luke, our lead guitarist, checking his electric guitar.

  He grins at me, his green eyes lighting up. “Hey, Koko.”

  “Hey. Where are Quinn and Riley?”

  Quinn is the second electric guitar and vocals. Riley plays the bass. And they’re late.

  “Quinn is on his way,” Luke says. “Don’t know where Riley is.”

  Stress knots my stomach, as it always does before a concert. I reach over my shoulder, rub the incision scar between my shoulder blades in time-honored ritual and remind myself this isn’t worth getting scared over. What’s important is that I’m here, alive and well. Walking, for chrissakes, and not stuck in a wheelchair. I made it back to my feet, and I’m working on finding again my trust in people.

  In men. I think of Zane again, and a pleasant shiver runs up my spine.

  Besides, it’s not like this is a big event or anything. This is just a small bar, and we only have one hour to do our thing, but still. I need this. It’s my moment of release, where I vent my anger at the world and all the filth it harbors, the people who hurt me and got away with it. Or didn’t quite get away, but that doesn’t make them any less guilty.

  Anger at my past naivety and innocence. I’m a survivor, but the price was steep and makes me wary of people, leery of their smiles and pretenses. Their facades and all that’s hiding behind.

  Damn you, Collin.

  “Koko? Riley’s here.”

  I turn to see Riley’s slender frame at the door of the bar. He’s slouched, his bass case at his feet, and even from here I can tell he’s wasted.

  Like, really wasted, not just drunk. Zane’s voice echoes in my ears, explaining the difference, and I can’t help but smile at the memory.

  Riley walks unsteadily toward us, and my smile slips. This is so not good. “Heya, Koko. Luke.”

  Luke ignores Riley, his face twisting into a grimace of disgust as he bends over his guitar. Riley glances from him to me, uncertainty flashing across his face. This could get ugly. I’m close to losing my temper. He’s done this way too many times, and it’s not funny.

  But Quinn’s arrival defuses the situation. He swaggers in, his posture and easy grin reminding me again of Zane.

  God. Lately everything reminds me of Zane. How is that even possible?

  I force my mind on the concert. I warm up my voice as the guys unpack and tune their instruments. Rafe plays different rhythms on the drums, and we start rehearsing a few tricky parts. Even Riley seems to sober up enough to do this.

  More people trickle in. I realize I’m searching the crowd for a tall Mohawk and groan out loud.

  Stupid, Dakota. Why did you invite him, practically force him to say he’d come? He clearly has no interest in such a thing, and he isn’t coming.

  I think again of how he stood at the party, alone on the shore, the water lapping at his boots. He looked as if he was about to jump into the lake.

  No, not Zane. I shiver and clutch the mike harder. He’s always teasing, always grinning. He’s the cornerstone of the Brotherhood, the foundation, the protector and guardian. Everyone says so.

  I shake my head, doubt buzzing at the edges of my consciousness. Zane is strong. It’s what attracts me to him. He’s a survivor, like me. He wants to make sure everyone’s okay, like me.

  Laughter, voices, the clinking of glasses, shuffling of feet, screeching of barstools being shoved back and forth. I know this cacophony. It relaxes me. It’s almost time.

  Delaney, the bar owner, nods at me from a corner, and it’s time to start. Rafe bangs his drums, getting everyone’s attention, then drops into the rhythm of our first song. They are all old punk rock songs, full of pure, unadulterated rage at a world gone wrong.

  As I launch into the first line, my voice seems to thunder, echoing against the walls. Tension seeps out of me as I sing. It bleeds out of my pores like poison, and it feels good. The bass is a throb inside my bones, deep and constant, while the guitars scream over the destruction like birds of prey.

  I yell and rage, about my past, about my bastard ex-boyfriend Collin, about myself. The harmonies fill my head, my heartbeat synchronized to the drum beat, so that I am the music. I am the song. It’s my heart beat that’s filling the bar from side to side. My anger. My pain. My indictment.

  One song flows into another, the beat changing, harsher, faster. The faces in front of me blur. It’s a sea, a landscape, and I’m the wind blowing over them, blasting across the surface, raising waves.

  I’m shaking when I shout out the last word, and the drums stop. The clapping starts, and the faceless crowd cries “Deathmoth!” again and again. I take a step back as the details resurface, as the world returns. The faces are unknown, but a little to the right I recognize Audrey and Asher, and behind them are Dylan, Tessa, Tyler and Erin. If Erin is here, it’s a good bet Zane is nearby. They’re good friends, after all. But I can’t see him anywhere.

  He didn’t come.

  A weight settles on my chest. I force a smile on my face, and I wave at people as I step back, trying to catch my breath. I always feel a bit out of sorts when a concert ends. That’s all there is to it, I tell myself as I turn around to climb off the small stage. Nothing out of the norm.

  I halt.

  Zane’s here.

  He’s standing with his back to the wall, arms folded over his broad chest, his almond-shaped eyes on me, hot and intense. His Mohawk is tall as ever, and the silver studs in his ears and the hoops in his brow glint. I scan him from his exotic face to the faded black T-shirt stretched over his muscled chest down to his ripped jeans, and I struggle for breath.

  Gah. He’s too handsome to be real. Too handsome to be interested in me. And yet here he is, and I can’t miss the bulge on the front of his jeans. He’s obviously hard, and the realization makes me feel hot. The tips of my breasts tighten painfully.

  What is it about this boy that makes me lose my train of thought? Deciding I want to break through his defenses is one thing—but what he does to my body even with one look should be
illegal.

  “You came,” I blurt, and instantly wish I had swallowed my tongue instead.

  He cocks his head to the side, eyes heavy-lidded. “Almost,” he whispers, and oh God, the boy is sexy as hell. “You have an awesome voice. Never heard anything like it.”

  My face flames. “Thanks.”

  I step off the stage, and he grabs my hand, steadying me. His fingers are callused and warm, his grip like steel.

  “Hey, Koko, you okay?” Luke calls out.

  “Fine. Just need a moment backstage. Yeah?”

  “Koko?” Zane arches a dark brow at me.

  “Yeah, the guys call me that.”

  “I prefer Dakota.”

  God, me, too, especially when it’s Zane saying it in his low, warm voice.

  Besides… ‘Koko’ brings back too many bad memories. I’m not that girl anymore, the girl who trusted Collin and almost died for it.

  I head toward the small backstage room, and he doesn’t release my hand. He follows me inside and closes the door, then turns the lock.

  Before I ask what he’s doing, he slams me back against the wall, his muscled body pinning me, so that I feel every defined ridge and plane of his chest. He’s breathing hard.

  Speaking of hard… The rod of his erection is trapped sideways inside his jeans, and its heat seeps through the fabric, branding my flesh.

  “What are you doing to me?” he breathes, his strong hand trailing down my neck and slipping the strap of my blouse off my shoulder. “What the hell are you doing to me?”

  I should stop him, but his fingertips send electric shocks down my spine. He lowers his face toward me, and my lips part in anticipation. He’s going to kiss me, I think, as his breath brushes the corner of my mouth—but he doesn’t. He trails his mouth over my cheek, along my jaw, under my ear. The touch of his lips—hot and soft—tortures me, arousing me more and more, as he bares my shoulder and draws patterns on my skin.

  I struggle to swallow a moan, my nipples pressed against his chest, tiny pinpricks of pain and pleasure. His hand tangles in my hair, tipping my head back for better access, and his mouth brands my neck, sending electric discharges right into my core. Fire coils low inside of me.

  Oh God, I think I’m about to come just from his lips on my neck and his fingertips on my shoulder. I have to do something to stop him. Stop myself.

  I place my hands on his chest. “Ink me, Zane,” I whisper.

  His mouth leaves my neck, and when he looks down at me, his eyes are so dark with need they seem black. His breathing is ragged. “Don’t.”

  “I want it.” It’s more than a game now, more than familiar teasing. I need his touch so much it’s scary as hell. I’m throbbing everywhere, and I feel wet between my legs. This has never happened to me before. It’s as if the ground has been yanked from under my feet. It’s like freefall, and I hate falling.

  “Tell me what you want.” He braces an arm on the wall by my head and licks his lips. He doesn’t kiss me. Why won’t he kiss me?

  “You know what I want,” I say.

  He leans closer again, his male musk scent surrounding me. How can I think straight when my hands are on his rippling abs, his mouth is inches from mine, and his hardness keeps pressing into my belly?

  “What you want,” he drawls, “is for me to fuck you against the wall until you scream.”

  I gulp. “No,” I lie, because the image… God. “What I want is a dragon tattoo.”

  Immediately, like every time, his face closes off, his defenses slamming down hard, turning his eyes into flat mirrors. “And I said no.”

  “Please, Zane. I want your ink on me.”

  His intake of breath is sharp, and under my palms, his heart is racing. “My ink.” His nostrils flare. He looks like a tiger about to pounce. “On you.” His erection is more insistent now. He likes the idea.

  “Yes. I love your designs, and I really want—”

  He pulls away and turns me around. I yelp in surprise as he pushes me flush against the wall and draws my wild hair to the side. “I’ll ink you all right,” he whispers, and something fine and cool touches my bare shoulder.

  I shudder. “What are you doing?”

  “Inking you,” he bites out the words, and the sensation tickles. He’s drawing something, I realize, but what? With what?

  “Zane…”

  “It’s not permanent, don’t worry.” His hand is sure, the lines flowing on my skin, faster and faster. Then he’s drawing letters, and I squirm, trying to see what he’s doing, but his other hand is pressing the small of my back, keeping me still. “Almost done.”

  How did we go from almost kissing to ‘almost done’ and ‘not permanent’? What is he doing? I struggle again, and this time he releases me. He’s holding a ballpoint pen in his hand, and he throws it on a table in the corner.

  “What did you do?” I demand, trying to see over my shoulder, going cross-eyed with the effort.

  “Inked you,” he bites out the words and turns around, yanking the door open. “That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

  I gape at his back, and then he slams the door behind him. Oh shit. Is he upset with me for insisting?

  A mirror beckons from across the table, and I move, so I can see my back. There, on my shoulder blade, is a magnificent bird of paradise, its tail trailing on my neck. Below, in a flowing script, it says, ‘inked by Zane.’

  Son of a bitch. I clap a hand over my mouth, laughing. He inked me, and as he said, not permanently.

  God, he’s getting under my skin. He comes to hear me sing, he touches me, almost kisses me—yeah, the ‘almost’ is killing me—then draws on me, and leaves.

  What does it mean? What does he feel? Was he upset? Did drawing on me turn him on more?

  Is this an invitation to see him again, or a goodbye gift?

  Because I want to see him again, badly. The more I hang around him, the more intriguing he becomes. Besides, he’s gorgeous. I want to know how he kisses and what he tastes like. I want to put my hands and mouth on every lickable ab and divot on his chest and check out his package.

  Just the thought makes my mouth water. Oh crap, he’s right. I do want him to fuck me senseless.

  What am I going to do?

  When I slink out of the backstage room, pulling my leather jacket on, nobody’s on stage. The crowd has thinned out, hanging out at the bar and back tables. The large TV on the wall is on, showing a concert.

  Where is Zane?

  My cell vibrates in my pocket, and I ignore it, still searching for a tall Mohawk, and just when I think I’ve spotted him with a group of people behind the bar, my cell rings again.

  I frown as I pull it out and glance at the screen. Then I roll my eyes, but not in earnest. Deep inside, I’m pleased for the call, if not for the timing. “Yeah, Mom?”

  “How did it go, baby girl?” Mom sounds breathless. She always gets so excited when I sing and would be here if she could. But she’s babysitting my cousin Mary’s kids tonight and can’t come all the way to Madison.

  “It went fine, Mom. Thanks for asking. How is everyone back home?”

  “Great, honey. We miss you. When are you coming to visit?”

  I chew on my lower lip, staring at the back of Zane’s head. He’s talking to a girl. A curvy dark-haired girl who’s practically shoving her tits into his face. She giggles, and even from here I can hear the high-pitched sound. It sets my teeth on edge.

  My heart takes a nosedive.

  “Honey? Koty?”

  “Don’t call me that,” I mutter and instantly regret it. “Sorry, Mom.”

  “You all right?”

  “Just tired,” I lie as the girl steps even closer to Zane—and he doesn’t pull back, instead letting her lean in, whisper something in his ear.

  Crap.

  “I’ll let you rest, then,” Mom says. “Everyone says hi. Jody, Evan, Percy, Madeline.”

  “Thanks.” I feel real bad for blowing her off, but I feel as if my hear
t will stop beating. Which is ridiculous. I barely know Zane.

  “Did you know Aunt Carolina is organizing an exhibition? Isn’t it wonderful?”

  “Yes, it is,” I say. Aunt Carolina had cancer, but she’s been out of the hospital for a few months now and is already back to her active self. “Give her my love.”

  Just then Zane distracts me again by turning around and leaving the bar.

  Leaving the girl behind. She looks as surprised by this turn of events as I am, her mouth literally hanging open.

  Well, well. Relief swamps me, although a small voice in my mind wonders if he’s just off looking for another girl to satisfy him.

  The next few days are warm and humid. Bella, my current roommate, keeps complaining about the weather. It makes her hair frizzy and her skin break out in rashes, and she just isn’t happy with anything right now. I think, secretly, she just doesn’t want me to move out, doesn’t want her life to change. While Scott, her boyfriend of four years, lived in Chicago, Bella had her own life here. But now he’s moving in with her, and they’re thinking about getting married and having children and the whole shebang.

  Which means I have to find another place to stay. And it’s fine. I’m happy if she’s happy. A bit uncertain, but happy.

  I can’t imagine trusting and loving someone so much you’ll follow them, plan a whole future with them and leave your old life behind.

  Not again. Not anymore.

  Today is Thursday and warmer than ever. Sweat trickles down my back, tickling. I’ve been working on a project for a client—I do posters and business cards and stuff like that for a fee, and it complements what my parents give me. Graphic arts is what I’m studying, after all, and it’s good practice. I upload the files on Dropbox for my client to download and close the lid of my laptop.

  Can’t put this off any longer. I must pack. I’m sorting through my clothes when Bella wanders into my room, a mug in her hand.

  She looks at the suitcase I have opened on my bed, and her eyes go round. “Found a place to stay?”

  I shake my head and rub the back of my neck. I’ve pulled the longer tufts of my hair up to cool myself, but it isn’t doing much.