“That’s sweet, but this is fine. I cooked this more for you.”
His expression is soft. “Thank you, Anna.”
The space between us grows close, quiet, as if Iris and George aren’t squabbling, as if we’re alone. His large thigh presses against my smaller one and heat blooms along the connection. When he speaks, it’s low and just for me. “So, ‘Banana’, huh?”
I give him a look. “If you call me that, you’ll lose a finger.”
A little dimple forms along his left cheek. “Why a finger?”
“Isn’t that where the bad guys always start? Lose a finger, then an eye, maybe an ear…” I shrug. “Seemed appropriately threatening.”
“Oh, very. Don’t worry, Jones. I’ve learned my lesson. No nicknames for you.” His index finger taps the tip of my nose. “Our relationship is special that way.”
There it is again. That “R” word. I take a bite of frittata. The eggs have gone cold.
“Well, I’m out of here,” announces George.
Iris’s face scrunches up. “You said you were going with Henry and me to the movies.”
“You don’t need me being a third wheel, 'Ris.” George wears the same expression I’m sure I do when talking about Henry: valiantly trying to hide disgust. “And I’m not in the mood to be one.”
Iris plunks her fist on her hip. “Hasn’t stopped you from going out with us before. Besides, it was your idea to go to the movies.”
George simply shrugs. “Changed my mind. It happens.” He turns to Drew. “Good to meet you, Baylor. I gotta say, you do some impressive work on the field, man.”
Et tu, George?
Drew takes the praise in stride and simply smiles, a polite smile, not like the ones he gives me when his eyes light up and a dimple graces his cheek. “Thanks. I try my best. Good to meet you too.”
George isn’t gone for more than a few minutes when the lock to the apartment door turns and Henry walks in, key in hand.
“You gave him a key,” I hiss at Iris. There is no way I’m letting Henry have open access to our house.
She has the grace to wince. “Not permanently. I’ll get it back.”
“Now,” I snap in a low voice. Beside me, Drew is frowning, having heard the exchange.
Henry saunters up to the breakfast bar. “Sweetness.” He gives Iris a messy kiss, but his eyes are on the rest of us. Mainly Drew. He does a double take as recognition sets in.
“Battle Baylor.” He sets a hand on Iris’s hip. “I thought I was seeing things.”
“Nope,” says Drew, his tone bland, his eyes watchful.
Henry laughs, as if they know each other. I’m not sure that they do. I’ve never seen them exchange any words. Henry ends my suspicion by saying, “Henry Ross. I play midfield on the lacrosse team.” His gaze shifts from Drew to me. “And here I was, beginning to think you didn’t like guys, Anna.”
“Henry,” Iris snaps.
“What?” Henry says, all innocence.
“No,” I say lightly, “you got that wrong. I don’t like assholes.”
Iris glares at me, as Henry leans his forearms on the bar and gives me a nasty smile. “I figured you were too uptight to put out.”
Before I can say a word, Drew’s warm hand lands on my nape. It engulfs me, a comforting weight and a support. “Careful.”
He’s not speaking to me. His eyes are on Henry. There’s nothing overtly threatening about his pose, with his other hand resting casually on the counter and his shoulders relaxed. And yet the message is clear. Should Henry make a wrong move, Drew would take him down in an instant. I don’t need to be protected. But if feels nice knowing that he’s willing.
Henry’s frown is as contrived as his tone. “Careful?”
“Do I need to spell it out for you?” Drew doesn’t need to raise his voice. The authority of his presence is enough for Henry to look away first.
“You all need to relax. I’m just messing around.”
Aware that Iris is cringing, I refrain from calling him on that lie. Drew does as well, but he doesn’t drop his hard gaze from Henry.
“We going out?” Henry snaps at Iris.
“Yes.” She gives us an apologetic look as she takes Henry’s arm and all but tugs him to the door.
“Leave the key,” I say before they get there.
Henry stops, his shoulders stiffening, and turns his head to glare at me. But his gaze clashes with Drew’s, and he simply shrugs before reaching into his pocket and pulling out the spare set of keys. Henry tosses them on to the counter where they land with a loud clang.
As soon as they leave, I lean against the counter with a sigh. “He’s such an asshole.”
“I’m guessing Iris doesn’t see that.” There’s a knowing tone in Drew’s voice.
“I’d like to believe that she’s living in ignorant bliss rather than choosing to be with him with eyes wide open.”
I move to take Drew’s plate, but he reacts first, picking up both his and mine and taking them to the sink.
“Whatever the case,” I say as he rinses off the dishes and I open the dishwasher to tuck them away, “she hasn’t kicked him to the curb.”
Drew leans a hip against the counter. “It happens sometimes to guys on the team. They’ll go out with a girl who is bad news, manipulative, caring only about the fame. Every now and then someone will try to warn the poor sap.”
“It’s sweet that you guys watch out for each other.”
His teeth flash in a quick but tight smile. “Well, it isn’t entirely altruistic. A team is only as strong as its weakest link. None of us like to see a guy laid low by head games.” Drew’s broad shoulders lift on a shrug. “Not that it matters. Warning a guy about a girl only pisses him off and drives him closer to her.”
“Which is why I grit my teeth and try to steer clear of Henry.”
Drew’s expression grows pinched. “I saw him at the party. Is that why you didn’t want to go?”
“I didn’t want to go, because I don’t like parties.” I toss the hand towel into the sink. “Henry being there merely made it that much worse.”
The corner of his mouth tilts up. “I’m still glad you were there.” His eyes are liquid caramel, and all thought of Henry melts away in a rush of heat and longing. As if feeling the same rush, Drew’s chest lifts on a breath, and his voice lowers to a rumble. “Show me your room, Jones.”
DESPITE THE HEATED promise in his voice, and despite the fact that he came to my apartment for only one reason, when we get to my room, Drew doesn’t touch me. We lay side by side on the bed, both of us staring up at the ceiling. Our shoulders brush, but that is the extent of our contact. My hands are safely folded over my stomach and so are his. We aren’t fucking. I’m not trying to climb him like a tree, or lick him like a Tootsie-Pop. Though I want to do those things. Part of me always does.
I still can’t believe I have Baylor in my room. His presence fills every inch. He’s so expansive with his charisma that I can’t get enough air, or when I do, it makes my blood fizz and my head spin.
When he finally talks, my skin jumps at the rich, deep sound.
“What’s your thing with old Siouxsie there?”
I don’t need to see him to know he’s gesturing with his chin toward the framed poster of Siouxsie Sioux, lead singer for Siouxsie and the Banshees, that hangs over my bed. With her exaggerated straight black brows, wild black bob, and tiny red bow mouth she looks like a deranged Betty Boop, a Goth flapper girl. She screams timeless beauty and “fuck off” all at once. I love her style.
“She’s not old,” I protest. Though I suppose she is now. Likely she’s in her fifties. I really don’t want to know. Up there, on my wall, she’s immortal.
“You didn’t answer me,” he presses. A soft rustle of noise, and I know he’s turned his head to look at me. I keep my eyes on Siouxsie. This doesn’t deter Baylor. “You seem to have a thing for her.”
We’re listening to her now, her haunting voice singing a c
over of Dear Prudence.
I shrug, and my arm rubs against his. “Just look at her. She didn’t give a fuck. She led an all-male band, was part of a sound revolution.” I shrug again. “And she’s fucking cool.”
He chuckles. It’s a good laugh. Deep and infectious. Just hearing it makes me smile.
His laughter dies down, and we’re silent for a moment, just listening to music and lying there. His legs are so long that his bent knees rise at least five inches higher than mine. They are dusky blue hills beneath the backdrop of Siouxsie’s haunted eyes. I’m relaxed, I realize. And at the same time, tension, ever present when he is near, simmers low in my stomach.
“So you like old music, huh?” he asks.
I turn my head just enough to see his arm. His biceps is so big that I wonder if I can get my two hands around it. I’m tempted to try. “Yeah,” I say, my voice far too husky. “I guess I do.”
He nods, and his square chin comes into view. And his mouth. I’m in love with his mouth, and I’ve never even tasted it. The lower lip is wide yet full, a gentle curve that I want to follow with my tongue. But I won’t.
His upper lip is almost a bow, a cruel little sneer of a lip, and yet the effect is ruined because Drew is almost always smiling. He isn’t now, though. His lips are relaxed, fuller.
They move when he speaks. “I like Lynryd Skynryd, Zepplin, Queen.” He says this like it’s a confession. Like I’m going to sit up and point and shout, Ah-ha! Closet classic rock junkie! When he ought to know that I won’t, not when I listen to Brit-punk albums older than I am.
It’s his turn to shrug, as if my silence is agitating to him. “My dad used to listen to that stuff.” His body tilts toward mine as he reaches in his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. The picture held between his thumb and his forefinger shakes only a little as he hands it to me. “My parents.”
His parents are young in the picture. They’re hanging on to each other, arms slung over their shoulders as they ham it up for the camera. His dad is tall, dark, and handsome, in a fashion victim sort of way because he’s sporting a bad 80’s mullet and wearing skintight jeans and a black AC/DC tee. But his grin is wide and a dimple graces his cheek. Drew’s mom is kissing his other cheek, but she’s sort of smearing her lips over him as she turns to the camera, and she’s clearly laughing about her antics. She’s her own fashion victim, maybe more so than his dad, but she looks awesome doing it. Her blonde, curly hair is teased to epic proportions and brushes her shoulders. A floppy black lace bow keeps the mass of it off of her small face. She’s got on an honest-to-God black lace bustier and a shin length tight black skirt, paired with combat boots that I kind of covet when I see them. Black rubber bracelets engulf her forearms.
“So your mom was into Madonna, I take it?” I grin over at Drew, and he laughs lightly.
“Yeah, for a few months, the way she’d tell it.” His expression turns soft. “They called this their Hall of Shame picture. They were on their way to Live Aid.”
“No shit? I remember reading about that concert in my History of Rock and Roll class.”
“God, if my dad had heard you say that. He considered that concert the highlight of his young life.”
I’m smiling as I study the picture. But my heart aches. I can almost feel their joy, and their absence. “They look so young and happy. Beautiful, too.” Because they are. Drew has his mom’s nose and eyes, and his Dad’s sharp jaw line and smile.
I give him the picture, handling it with the care that it deserves. He doesn’t look at it as he tucks it away. “They met in college.” His voice goes quiet, and he turns to stare back up at the ceiling. “And they were happy.”
His profile is tight, the corners of his mouth hard. “I don’t know, I guess… I guess I feel closer to them by listening to what they listened to.”
The pain, that sharp, dark pain buried deep in his words, the pain that he’s fighting to hide, hits me straight through the middle. I clear my throat, find my voice. “And who doesn’t love Queen?” I give him a little nudge, just the barest move of my elbow against his arm. “I mean, isn’t We Will Rock You like every jock’s anthem?”
My reward is his grin, and the way the corners of his eyes crinkle. A soft laugh leaves him. “Yeah,” he says quietly, and then with more lightness, “Yeah, suppose it is.”
I don’t know what else to say. I’m comforting Drew Baylor when I’m supposed to be fucking him. An uncomfortable knot begins to writhe in my stomach. I don’t deserve to hear about his parents. To even look upon their smiling faces. Suddenly I want him out of here. I can’t breathe.
I’m about to ask him to go when he talks again.
“So I guess you like those Emo type of guys.” He turns his head slightly, and our eyes meet. There it is, that low, hot hum within me that happens every time, as if his eyes have some freaking super power with a direct line to my sex. The bed groans beneath him as he rolls to his side. He props a hand under his head, and now he’s looming over me.
His voice slows, gets richer, lower, as if he too feels the hum. “Guys who dress in black and pluck out half-ass tunes on their guitars to show their inner torment.”
There’s a guitar in my room. A Gibson acoustic that my mom gave me on my eighteenth birthday. I’d seen his gaze land on it when he first entered my room.
“Maybe I’m the one who plucks half-assed tunes.”
Baylor’s grin is lazy, and those little lines that bracket his mouth deepen. There’s a knowing look in his eyes, as if he can read my mind. And maybe he can. Because his next words are, “I bet it pisses you off that you can’t play a whole song.”
I glare at him, but I can’t be properly pissed off. He’s right, after all. I wanted so badly to play, but I suck. My fingers are like drunken frat boys stumbling all over each other on the frets. A disgrace. “It does.”
As if my honesty needs a reward, his smile grows wider. That smile. It takes my breath, then gives it back. But now my breath is too fast and too light. His golden gaze slides down to where my breasts are rising and falling in sudden agitation, and his expression turns serious, almost stern, as if he’s contemplating doing dark things to them. I’m up for it. I’m pretty sure he could bite me there, and I’d like it.
But he slowly looks back up at me. Color darkens his high cheeks, and though his voice is a bit rougher, he’s still in control. The bastard. “I can play,” he says. It isn’t a brag. It’s a statement.
“You? The guitar?” Skepticism stretches out my words.
White teeth flash. “Me. The big, dumb jock.” He says it mockingly, but not in anger. As if he knows that most people assume jocks are dumb, but he doesn’t really give a fuck.
“I don’t think you’re dumb,” I blurt out. It’s as close to a real compliment as I’ve ever given him. And we both know it.
He stills. And then his massive body, all that flat-packed muscle leans into me, pausing inches away, close enough so I feel the heat of his breath against my cheek when he whispers, “I don’t think you’re dumb either.”
Then, in that quick, effortless way of his, he rolls away and goes for the guitar.
I sit up, curling my feet under me, as he settles on my bedroom chair and fiddles with the strings to tune the guitar. It looks good in his hand. No, he isn’t reed thin or wearing skinny jeans—the mere idea of which makes me want to laugh; Drew Baylor was made for low-slung Levis and t-shirts that strain against defined muscles. But he holds the Gibson with authority.
“Mom said that I couldn’t just be about sports. So, if I wanted to play them, I had to learn an instrument too.”
“What a slave driver,” I tease.
“That was the gist of my protest.”
When he gets the guitar the way he wants it, he begins to play. The melody is complex and familiar. It takes me a moment to place it. Norwegian Wood.
“Now my mom,” he says as he plays, his attention on the strings, “she might have liked Madonna, but she freaking loved The Beatles.�
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He plays on and a flush rises to my face. After all, it’s a song about a woman using a man for sex. Did he pick it specifically for me? Or was it just to show off his skill? I’m not going to ask and, all too soon, it’s over. His eyes meet mine, and there’s a playful glint in his. “Or maybe an old open-mic standard?” He eases into Dave Matthews’ Crash Into Me. “Emo guys love playing this one.”
The blush of annoyance within me rises. Hayden, my old boyfriend, used to play this song. On open-mic night. All the fucking time. But he never achieved the quick, flowing ease with which Drew’s fingers coax the melody from the guitar.
Worse, Drew sings. He isn’t perfect, his voice drifts off key and is rough, but it doesn’t matter because he sells the song. I can hear my Grandpa Joe’s voice in my head telling me that this boy could sell ice in Antarctica.
Drew doesn’t finish the song, and I know it isn’t because he can’t, it’s because he’s not trying to show off. He’s just messing around. He proves this when he catches my eye and grins wide. I’m in his thrall. I grin back when he stops and begins to thump on the side of the guitar and belt out the words to We Will Rock You.
And I laugh. Because he gives it his all. Makes an ass of himself, and clearly doesn’t care. And suddenly I don’t care either. I join him, shouting out the words along with him.
“You dork,” I say when we finish.
“Look who’s talking.” Drew begins to laugh, and I do too. We feed off each other, laughing until I’m holding my side. It isn’t really that funny, what we’re laughing over. Maybe it’s just a way to break the tension that always pulls tight between us. Or maybe it’s because he, like me, hasn’t really laughed just for the hell of it in a long time. I don’t know. I don’t even care. It’s good not to care about anything for a while.
As if by some silent, mutual agreement our laughter dies down as one. And we’re left staring at each other, both a little breathless. His gaze goes molten. It’s like he’s flicked a switch, leaving me in the dark, and he’s my light. He’s all I can see.
The Hook Up (Game On Book 1) Page 9