Or maybe it was just his horny dick talking to him.
“We can do it, A-Man,” Si said, using the bastardization of Eamon—properly pronounced A-mon—that had been bestowed on him years and years before. Nicknames were a given in the life.
Si leaned from his place on the passenger side toward the open window. “I don’t mind watching out for her. Pretty thing, with those big eyes and sweet little ass.”
Bart turned his head toward his much more junior partner. “Really?” he asked in disbelief.
“Really,” Si, confirmed, nodding. “Pretty girl, sweet ass. I haven’t seen much of her tits, but I like ’em any size.”
They were the perfect size, the nipples a peachy pink that flushed to rose when Eamon sucked on them. She whimpered when he did that. Moaned and squirmed in his hold when he did that hard.
“So it’s no hardship, A-Man. Maybe even—”
“Shut up, Si,” Bart said, “or A-Man’s going to deck you.”
“Oh.” Si’s mouth clamped shut, and he jerked back as if Eamon’s fist was right then coming for his face.
Instead he uncurled his fingers and shook out his hands. “You’re safe, Si.”
He couldn’t blame the kid. First, the guy was known for running at the mouth, which was why the Unruly Assassins, his father’s motorcycle club, had nicknamed him “Silent Joe” because there was already another Joe, Joe Hardy, whom they called “Mystery” since that was the main character in an old series of kids’ detective books.
But mostly Eamon couldn’t blame him because Cami’s special appeal had knocked him flat the first time they’d met. He’d needed a part for the vintage bike he was restoring and had been given the phone number of a particular motorcycle salvage yard.
A brief chat with some chick had confirmed the business had what he was seeking. It hadn’t occurred to him to imagine what that “some chick” might look like before he arrived as arranged—after hours at the trailer-office. He’d been focused on obtaining the elusive part and instead found himself staring at a fairy.
A tiny, but perfectly proportioned fairy, with hair of a thousand shades—gold, russet, brown, and blonde—and a face to cause the stars to collide. Green eyes the shade of pale jade with long lashes above a mouth made for slow kisses and hard cocks.
His fall had been immediate, and he hadn’t even bothered to brace himself before the sudden face-plant. From his metaphorical sprawl at her feet, he’d only calculated how long it would take him to get her into bed.
As it turned out, not long.
“I’m just saying she’s a looker,” Si muttered now. “Classy.”
Eamon’s gaze turned sharp at that. “You’ve kept your mouths shut? This is between us, right? Off the books?”
Bart grunted an affirmation. “A favor.”
“I’m paying,” Eamon said, reaching for his wallet in order to pass over bills. “Even for tonight when I’m taking over. And you’re not telling dear old dad.”
“He wouldn’t mind.”
But he might get the wrong idea. Because Si was right, Cami Colson was class all the way, and a real SoCal music princess to boot. A woman the president of the Unrulies might like to see wearing the ring of his only son.
But Eamon couldn’t commit to Cami…or any female for that matter.
Tonight, though, tonight he’d follow her home himself, while keeping far enough away that she’d never guess who owned the distant headlights in her rearview mirror.
“You two are back on the job Thursday night,” he said. By then he would have talked some fucking sense into himself, or at least gotten his dick under a modicum of control.
Retreating into the shadows, he watched the truck glide off, wishing it was taking his unsettling premonition with it.
With it still weighing heavily on him, he moved deeper into the parking lot. He’d had years to hone his covert skills. Tonight, he’d driven a nondescript sedan he used for undercover work which Cami had never seen. Upon arrival at the music club, he’d found an open spot one away from the far corner where she’d parked her snazzy and well-maintained Cabriolet—its top up tonight. Now, as people began exiting the door, he slouched in the back seat, a rear window unrolled a couple of inches. If she operated as usual, she’d be one of the very last to leave the place, and a bartender or the bouncer would accompany her to her vehicle.
Once she pulled out, he’d vault into the front seat and pull in behind her, letting a few cars get between them as she navigated the ever-present traffic in this part of town. She’d never see him.
And he’d get another glimpse of her.
It would have to be enough.
However, it didn’t go as planned. Instead of male accompaniment, when Cami left the club, she had a female on either side of her—her brothers’ girlfriends. Not that Eamon had ever met the two, or any of the other grownup children of the Velvet Lemons or their love interests. But he’d made it his business to know their faces, just as he’d done his damnedest not to ever let them see his.
He’d been careful not to send Cami—or anyone who happened to be watching—the wrong message. They’d only met at night, and they’d only fucked at night, every encounter under the cover of darkness. That instinctive precaution—the one he’d taken to spare her from getting too attached—seemed beyond fortunate now, even though it had only half-worked.
Cami had been hurt after all, but it had been on him. The thugs who wanted Eamon to pressure his cousin into silence didn’t suspect she might be his weak point—meaning they had no reason to do her harm.
He’d never allow that to change.
The women’s footsteps drew closer, three pairs of heels on the blacktop. They were chattering, the words becoming more distinct as they drew closer, passing his sedan on the way to Cami’s.
“Did you give him your number?” one of the women asked.
Silence. Then, Cami’s quiet voice. “Yeah.”
Eamon’s muscles tensed.
“Good for you!” The bright tone in the other female’s voice set his teeth on edge.
“Don’t go marrying us off, Cilla,” Cami warned. “I didn’t give him my ring size, only my cell number. He’ll probably lose it.”
“Not by the way he was looking at you,” Cilla said. “Am I right, Rose?”
“Right,” Rose said, so cheerful that Eamon’s hackles leaped high again. “What did he say was his name?”
Eamon focused. Yeah, give me a name. He had the tools and the experience to do a background check to end all background checks. If there was even the smallest, single smudge on the guy he’d find it. Then find a way to warn off the SOB. His fingers curled into another pair of tight fists, the instant heat in his belly reminding him that he was at the core a rough man who came from a very rough world. And he was ruthless, too, despite the smooth edges his father had promised Eamon’s mother she could give their boy in payment for the blood she’d spilled.
“His name?” Cami said now. “I don’t remember.”
Guilt pinched him, hard enough that he winced. She’d never asked for his name. Not the entirety of it—knowing him only as Eamon. Not that he’d offered it, of course. When she didn’t pry he’d used the withholding of his surname as another safety measure. Another unspoken message.
Short term, baby. That’s all I do.
“I’m just glad you’re moving on. It’s been weeks since that night at Satan’s and—”
“I told you,” Cami interrupted, her voice sharp, “I’m over him.”
That shouldn’t feel like shit. It’s what Eamon wanted, after all. But he did feel like shit, as he had from the night he’d chanced to run into her at the roadhouse in Topanga Canyon. Now he knew it was owned by the woman who was with Cilla Maddox’s brother Brody. Then, it had been just a place to drink and not think about the fairy he’d recently dumped for reasons that had nothing to do with her.
Short term, baby. That’s all I do.
She’d stood there, those green eyes tra
ined on him as she asked him to reconsider their break-up. Every emotion was in that gaze. Every. Single. One. Silly girl had just laid out her heart like a hand of cards.
And he’d turned away from her like what she offered was a fistful of garbage. Gave her his back instead of even a conciliatory word.
Yeah. Rough and ruthless, that was Eamon Rooney.
The women said their farewells and then car doors opened, closed. Cilla and Rose must have come together because the first car that pulled out carried two figures in the front seats. He dared to scoot up in his and saw that Cami sat behind the wheel of her car, cell phone in hand.
Had the other man called already?
Ignoring his clenching gut, he watched her thumbs move on the screen. That didn’t mean she was responding to a text. In the short months they’d been together, he knew she took notes on her device, snatches of lyrics or notes of a melody.
It had intrigued the hell out of him—impressed the hell out of him—what she could do. They’d be sitting side-by-side, and he could see her mind skate away from the present, skate away from him, which had been a little kick to his ego on more than one occasion, as her imagination tugged her down its own path.
He’d ignored his stinging pride because, hell, what a rush it was just to be next to her when that happened…that thing she did.
She fucking made magic, just as he knew a fairy would.
Music that was as fluid yet as solid as a glass sculpture. Words that could pierce a heart and twist a gut.
Her head would tilt to the left, and he’d know she was hearing something for the first time that would later come out through her fingers or on the lilting river of her voice.
Fairy magic, like he’d said.
Finally, her car reversed from the spot, and he slid lower on the cushions. As she passed, he readied himself to spring into the driver’s seat. When he popped up, he saw her brake as she neared the entry onto the street.
Then she turned off her car.
What the hell?
In the puddle of the security light, he watched her pop open her door then stride around to stand at the rear of her vehicle. As she bent over one of the tires, he saw what she did. A flat.
His gut clenched again, and he was out of his own car before his next breath. Was this some ploy of the bad guys to disable her vehicle?
At the sound of his rushing footsteps, her head whipped around, her expression alarmed.
“It’s just me,” he said, to reassure her.
She didn’t look soothed.
He glanced about, scouting for signs this was the first step in an ambush. All appeared quiet.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she demanded.
Bending over, he inspected her tire. Running his fingertips over rubber, he found what he discerned to be a common construction nail. “Looks like I’m changing your flat.”
Her shoulders squared and her chin jerked up. “I’ve got an auto service. Two brothers.” She slammed her arms over her chest. “My own muscles, when it comes to that.”
“You’re too puny to loosen the lug nuts.” And to prove he was right, he bodily lifted her out of the way, trying not to savor the silky bare skin of her upper arms. “Do you have a sweater? You feel cold.”
“I feel outraged,” she said.
“Maybe it’ll keep you warm while I take care of your tire.” He held out his hand for her keys and was surprised when she dropped them to his palm instead of gouging them into his flesh.
“I’m only allowing this because it will get me on my way faster,” she said as he went about his task.
“Whatever,” he muttered, making quick work of it.
When he was done, he dumped the flat in the trunk and slammed it closed. “Get that repaired tomorrow.”
She bristled again. “I don’t need your advice.”
I don’t need you, he heard instead. He didn’t let that sting either as he dangled her keys.
For a moment, she hesitated. The pause gave him the opportunity to study her features. Yeah, still the same combination of eyes, cheekbones, and mouth that was too delicate to be termed beautiful and too riveting to label with mere prettiness. It was a dream of a face, one that inspired the launching of ships and had men reaching for their weapons.
The mental double-entendre made him smile, to which she snapped out her hand.
“I’ll take those back.”
Instead of passing over the keys, his fingers curled around her wrist.
“What’s this?” he said, turning her arm so the overhead security light hit the trailing vine tattoo inked there.
“Nothing.” She tried to tug free.
Narrowing his eyes, he took in the design that climbed from her wrist toward her shoulder. Before, it had been simple and delicate S-curves of leaves and flowers. But now a tiny bird in bright blues and pinks clung to a free space on the vine. A charming addition, he thought, his hand tightening, if not for the disturbing thorns that seemed to trap it from flying free.
If the creature lifted its wings, it would be impaled on the sharp spikes. Christ.
With a wrench, Cami jerked from his hold, grabbed the keys, and stomped toward the driver’s door.
“I’d say ‘see you later,’” she hissed over her shoulder, “but I hope I don’t.”
“Ouch.”
She likely didn’t hear his response over the loud clang of her slamming door.
With a sigh, he turned back and jogged to his car. He’d have to move quickly in order to ensure she didn’t get too far a lead. Because, fuck distance, at least for tonight.
What else was a man to do? The situation had changed, hadn’t it?
Cami was driving on a spare, all alone in the darkness. Which meant Eamon intended to be on her ass the entire way home.
Chapter 2
As she pulled up to her small house, Cami glared at the reflection of the car in her rearview mirror, but was unsurprised when it slid into the spot beside hers in the driveway. Jerk. Rat. Tool.
And determined.
For some reason Eamon had decided to play the gentlemanly rescuer tonight, so she expected he’d follow through in that role and escort her to her front door.
Well, she was determined, too. Determined to erase his memory of their last meeting, when she’d implored him to change his mind about them. When she’d sung to him her heartbreak in the guise of Bonnie Raitt’s “I Can’t Make You Love Me.” Just thinking about it made the back of her neck burn with humiliation as she stepped out of her car.
Marching in the direction of the front door, she promised herself she’d use this as an opportunity to erase that last memory.
Tonight she’d coolly deliver the goodbye of all goodbyes. When Eamon left he would know exactly how he stood with her.
As he trailed her along the cement walkway leading to her porch, his footsteps sounded crisp and unhesitating. She didn’t spare him a glance, her gaze on her front entry, the door Dutch-styled, meaning it was divided into two parts horizontally, allowing one half to be shut and the other left open. Tonight, of course, both halves were closed, bolted together on the inside. Gripping her keys tighter in her hand, she climbed the shallow steps and then inserted one into the lock drilled into the knob. Five seconds, less, and she could wish him a polite farewell.
Get rid of him forever.
The damn door knob didn’t move.
Sucking in a breath, she gave the frozen thing a little jiggle, tried again. No luck. Argh! She’d been meaning to get out her tiny toolbox—oh, who was she kidding? She’d been meaning to talk to Ren or Payne. A woman had to get something positive out of a pair of overprotective older brothers in her life.
“Let me try,” Eamon said now, stepping up behind her.
The front of his body brushed the back of hers. The heat of him, his scent, the close presence of his masculine, muscled frame crawled over her skin. It froze her as effectively as the stupid lock, and she didn’t move away even as his big hand closed ove
r hers.
More heat. A traitorous sense of being claimed.
What her romantic soul had craved all her life, starting from when she was an ignored little girl, locked away from her father’s raucous parties at the compound. The Colson house there was styled like a hunting lodge, and she’d envied Cilla, who had a pretty tower room in the Maddox castle. Cami had been afraid of the stuffed trophies of wild beasts hanging on the walls of home and had retreated to her imagination and her music as an escape.
Eamon tightened his fingers on hers, and she quickly jerked free of his hold, leaving him possession of the ring of keys. But that didn’t liberate her from the circle of his arms, with his one hand attempting to finesse the lock while the other was braced above her head on the surface of the door. He leaned in, his breath stirring her hair and setting off a wave of goose bumps to tumble down her spine.
Cami closed her eyes to ward off the riot of pleasure kindling in her belly. Damn him…or maybe it was damn her for still being so responsive to him.
“You sounded good tonight,” he murmured.
The compliment should have been meaningless to her, just like him. But instead it only added to the warmth heating her blood.
“You didn’t stay for the entire second set.” At least he hadn’t been there when the lights came up.
“No, I had to step out and have a word with someone.”
Damn! Then he hadn’t heard her declaration of independence.
“You shouldn’t have come at all.” She glanced at him over her shoulder, even as he continued to work the lock. “Why did you?”
He hesitated, looking perplexed. “I—”
But whatever he intended to say was lost as the door popped open. Its sudden movement thrust them both over the threshold. They stopped in the circle of light cast by the small overhead chandelier.
Cami stepped away from him.
He stared down at her through the impenetrable darkness of his eyes. Then his gaze dropped to her mouth and she thought of kisses, the dozens and dozens they’d shared. Of the very first one, when he’d traced her lips with the tip of his tongue before plunging inside.
At the memory, she went soft and wet between her thighs. Oh, God.
Who Do You Love (Rock Royalty Book 7) Page 2