Rush (Trojan Book 4)

by S. M. West

  Her question catches me by surprise and hits a little too close to home. I couldn’t care less about Tristan’s fans. I prefer to be anonymous.

  But this strange, ugly feeling in the pit of my stomach, the one that’s been there all night, feels something like jealousy. And it has everything to do with the blonde across the table. Or more specifically, the way my co-star can’t stop touching her and making eyes at her.

  “Nope,” I lie.

  “Does that happen to you?” Harley asks.

  “Sure. More so when I was with Trojan. It comes with the job.”

  A phone alarm goes off, and Harley snags the offending device from the table. “Sorry. That’s me. I have to go.” She stares at Pru. “Nash and I…”

  “Yes. Go.” Pru pats her hand encouragingly. “Say hi to him for me.”

  “I will.” Harley glances to me. “Eli, it was a pleasure.”

  “Same here. Night.” I tip my beer at her and smile.

  We’re alone but for how long? We both watch her friend leave, and as she passes Tristan, it’s surprising to see his posse has doubled in size. I groan.

  “What’s wrong?” She turns to look at me.

  “I doubt we’ll be able to stay much longer.” I tip my head in the direction of the growing throng of women.

  “Should we rescue him?”

  “Nah, he’s a big boy. He can handle himself.”

  Her head tips backward, and melodic laughter bubbles from her throat. Not only do I enjoy the sound, but I like knowing I’m the cause. The one to bring her joy.

  “So what’s with your friend? She was trembling like a leaf. I hope she didn’t leave on account of me.”

  “Yes. I mean, no, she didn’t leave because of you. Her fiancé is out of town on business, and the best time for them to talk is early in the morning our time, so she needs to get some sleep.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  “But she was a nervous wreck. She’s a huge Trojan fan. Although don’t take this the wrong way…she loves Silas.”

  “Of course she does. Who doesn’t?” My tone is wry, and I’m not offended or surprised. Silas was Trojan’s lead singer. That guy had groupies hanging off him. “What about you?”

  “Pardon?” She leans in as if she didn’t hear me. I don’t want to talk about Silas.

  “Do you want another one?” I hold up the empty bottle as a server walks by.

  “Sure.” She lifts her glass to the guy standing at the end of our table. “Bourbon.”

  “You were saying…” she prompts when the server leaves.

  “You aren’t a huge Trojan fan?” I emphasize the adjective, and a grin dawns on her sweet pink lips.

  “Yes, I was. I mean, I am. We already covered this in your trailer.” She bites her lower lip, and I let out a moan, shifting uncomfortably in my tightening jeans. “Why’d you guys break up?”

  “Didn’t you read the news? It was time.”

  “What’s the real story? When Rich left, I thought for sure it was the end.”

  Rich was our original drummer, and he left the band for health reasons. If he hadn’t, he might not be alive today.

  “Then Gray joined, and he quickly won me over.” She smiles and one crawls onto my lips at the mention of my best friend. “He’s just as good on the drums, and I thought for sure the band would play forever.”

  I laugh, pleased at the admiration in her tone. “Yeah, Gray’s phenomenal, but you know what they say—all good things must come to an end.”

  My fingers rake through my hair, and her gaze follows the movement. An undeniable flicker of heat flashes in her eyes.

  Is she thinking what I’m thinking? How her fingers tangled in my hair, pulling on the ends while I thrust into her in the bathroom of The Salon? Fuck.

  “Come on.” She shakes her head. “Give me the dirty details. I can be trusted. I won’t breathe a word of this to anyone.” The playful lilt to her voice makes me laugh harder, enjoying this.

  “There’s nothing dark or mysterious behind Trojan’s retirement. I promise.” My hand flattens on my chest as if swearing an oath. “We wanted new things. Besides, we went out on top. That’s the best way to end things.”

  “Ugh, no! It was brutal when I heard the news. Harley and I saw your last performance at The Garden. Insane!”

  “You did?”

  “Hell, yes. It was the freaking tour of the year. And there was no way I was missing the last time Trojan would ever play. Such an amazing concert and heartbreaking.”

  Now she’s the one to hold a hand to her chest, and my gaze fixes on her. Everything about her makes my lungs work harder to breathe.

  “You really are a fan.”

  “Should I be offended? It sounds like you didn’t believe me when I said I was.”

  “No, it’s not that. Well, not entirely. I’m used to people saying they’re fans when they hear I’m…”—I lean in and lower my voice, unable to stop myself from opening up to her—“when they hear I was a rock star. But in reality, well, you know, their interest isn’t in me but my status.”

  “When you say people, you mean women, right?”

  I nod solemnly, now doubting the direction I’ve taken the conversation.

  “I can only imagine. It sounds rough and disappointing. Celebrity status isn’t my thing. No way.”

  “Yeah, it’s a give and take. I mean, I got to make music and perform. That was my dream, so I can’t complain.”

  “I guess.”

  The server returns with our drinks, and I seize the chance to switch topics. “Okay, what was your favorite song?”

  “‘Pink Moon.’” She’s lightning fast with her response.

  “Really? That surprises me.”

  It’s one of our lesser-known songs, and I expected one of our chart-toppers to spring from her pretty lips. Most people usually say our most popular song. The one showered with endless awards and accolades until it got to the point where we hated playing it.

  “Why?” She sips at the amber liquid, and her tongue darts out to lick her lip.

  “It’s a B side.”

  “So. It’s a great song, and I happen to like B sides.” She lifts her chin, adding to her mock snooty tone. “Have you ever heard of BSides and Deep Dives?”

  “No, what is it?”

  “It’s a podcast that delves into the B sides of albums. Recently, they covered Trojan. It was so good. You should listen to it.”

  I shake my head before she’s even finished talking. “Nah. I’m sure it is, but I’m not one to listen to critics. What is it about ‘Pink Moon’ that you like?”

  “Hmmm, why do I feel like this is a test?” she muses and presses her lips together as she studies me.

  My question isn’t meant to challenge. I like talking to her. She’s fascinating, and while I have my reasons for liking “Pink Moon,” I’m truly curious as to hers.

  “No test. I’m intrigued.” I take a long pull on my beer.

  “Okay. It’s Trojan stripped to your barest. Most raw. That’s why it’s my favorite. I mean, there’s no polish to it, and Silas, when he gets to the refrain and sings a cappella…” Her voice takes on a reverent quality, and I’m the one in awe. “It’s a thing of beauty.”

  “It sure is.” I’m no longer talking about the song. This woman is the only thing on my mind.

  The band is long gone from the stage and Aretha Franklin’s “Respect” croons through the speakers, and Pru smiles.

  “I guess we’re only going to hear cover songs tonight.”

  I arch a brow, impressed. It isn’t commonly known that the song was written and recorded by Otis Redding, although the Queen of Soul’s version earned her a Grammy and it’s widely recognized as hers.

  “Yeah, sounds like it. You know your cover songs?”

  “Some. Covers can be awesome. There’s some out there that are better than the originals. Like this one.”

  I nod, loving how into music she is. “Yeah. Tell me some cover songs you thi
nk are better than the originals. And none of the usual suspects.”

  “Usual suspects? Again, I feel like I’m in the hot seat.”

  “Nah, this isn’t to test you. I like the way your mind works, and we both like music. I want to get to know you.”

  She stills with her glass halfway to her mouth. “Okay. What did you mean by the obvious?”

  “Like ‘The Man Who Sold the World’ by Nirvana, Lenny’s ‘American Woman’ or,”—my fingers drum the tabletop as I rack my brain for more—“Buckley’s ‘Hallelujah’ or ‘Nothing Compares 2 U’ by Chris Cornell.”

  “Hey, you don’t like Sinéad’s version? I think Chris’s and Sinéad’s are equally amazing.”

  “Yeah, true.” I play with the beer label to keep from reaching for her hand that’s now resting on the table. “So, tell me.”

  “Let’s see. ‘Always on My Mind’ by the Pet Shop Boys.”

  “Good one. What’s another?”

  “No, it’s your turn.”

  I don’t get a chance to respond as Tristan appears at the table, leaning in and forcing us to back away from each other. “Guys, we gotta split. This is getting out of hand.”

  Feeling a bit guilty for not checking on him, I now notice the swarm of people edging toward our booth like we’re exotic animals at a zoo.

  “Shit, let’s go.” I throw down some cash, and Tristan turns to the crowd, giving them quick hellos and smiles as he clears a path.

  I position Pru so she’s sandwiched between us, and my hands linger on her waist, guiding her.

  Given my chest is almost to her back, I don’t miss the hitch of her breath at our contact. I inhale the scent of her shampoo—wild strawberries—and try to focus on getting us out safely.

  We elbow our way outside, and the warm June night air hits us as we step onto the sidewalk. A few people follow us outside, but they aren’t ballsy enough to approach.

  “Here’s my car.” Tristan glances from his phone to the advancing black Mercedes-Benz GLE SUV with tinted windows.

  His driver and a bodyguard exit the front of the car to form a barricade between us and the gathering mass. The large men usher us into the back seat.

  “That was close.” I buckle my seat belt and look to Pru.

  She’s gawking out the window and shivers as the car peels away. “Oh my God, I know this happens but…”

  “You okay?” I rub a hand down her arm, and her gaze settles on me while she nods.

  “So where to now? We could go to a club downtown—” Tristan starts, but we both cut him off with our nos.

  “If you drop me off on the next block, I’ll grab a cab. I’m not far from here.” Pru’s already inching to the edge of her seat.

  “Me too,” I say. “I can walk, or we could share a cab if we’re going the same way.”

  “No, I’ll take you home. Where to?” Tristan glances at Pru, who hesitates.

  What’s wrong? It’s as if she doesn’t want to divulge her address or something. Finally, she relents, “I’m at 300 Central Park West.”

  “What?” I blurt, and all eyes turn to me.

  Tristan smiles. “Hey, Eli, isn’t that where you live?”

  11

  Pru

  Top-shelf bourbon

  Eli and I live in the same building. I falter on my way from the car and mumble goodbye to Tristan.

  The doorman holds the door for us. “Good evening, Ms. Edwards, Mr. Lansing.”

  New York City is home to over eighteen million people, and we live in the same freaking building. What are the chances?

  “This is strange.” He raises a hand to the back of his neck, scratching absentmindedly.

  “Yes. I don’t know what to make of it.” We stand facing each other in the lobby.

  “I don’t know everyone in the building, but…” His gaze rakes over my face, lingering on my mouth.

  Suddenly I’m hot and aching all over, and my eyes fix on his sinfully lush mouth. It would be so easy to kiss him. My teeth have nibbled on the full flesh of his bottom lip. My tongue has delved into the velvety softness of his mouth. Minty and masculine.

  “Pru, if we’d crossed paths before…” His husky tone slides over me like a seductive caress. “I wouldn’t have forgotten.”

  My knees weaken, core pulsing. “I…I…I’m staying here temporarily. It’s my mother’s place.” I shuffle toward the penthouse elevators.

  “Ah, that makes sense.” For every step I take backward, he takes one toward me. It’s a dance.

  “My family has lived here since it was first built.” I’m rambling, trying to make a clean exit.

  “I’ve been here over a year.”

  “I see.”

  “Where are you going?” He slants his head to the side, no longer moving.

  “My place.”

  “The elevators are here.” He hooks a thumb at the bank of elevators, and I shake my head.

  “Penthouse. South tower.”

  “Wow. A penthouse girl.” He flashes a sexy, lopsided grin, and lust pulls at the apex of my thighs.

  “Goodnight, Eli. See you Monday.” I don’t wait for him to say anything and hit the up button.

  The gods must be smiling because the doors open and I slip inside. It’s hard not to steal one last look at him. He’s so sexy in his dark, low-slung jeans that cling to his strong thigh muscles and his expensive shirt.

  The doors take forever to close, and when they are less than a foot apart, a large hand pushes at one of the metal doors, forcing it open. Eli steps into the car, wearing an amused expression.

  “Not so fast, Edwards.” His voice is top-shelf bourbon, rich and silky smooth.

  His tall frame leans into me, warm hands clutching my face, and my breath hitches at his touch.

  His lips land on mine. At first, the kiss is soft but confident. His tongue brushes my slightly parted lips, and I open my mouth fully like an all-access pass to my body.

  Nothing is off limits.

  Eli, you’re welcome to me.

  A tantalizing frenzy corkscrews through me at the feel of his tongue dueling with mine. Scents of citrus, woods, and man hit my nostrils, and the heat of him wraps my body, curls my toes.

  A hand weaves into my hair, cradling my skull, and the other slides around my waist. Fingers sink into my hip, and he brings me flush against his defined chest.

  I’m spellbound by him, and at the same time, he rips his mouth from mine. A shameful moan, lamenting the loss of him, spills from my mouth. My brain is addled, eyes dazed, and body completely at his mercy.

  “I’ve wanted to do that all night.” His voice is low and husky, and a challenge or something like it flashes in his eyes. “‘Feeling Good’ by Muse.”

  I blink, needing a second or five hundred to process what he’s just said. It’s a song. A cover and the artist.

  Then I smile, nodding in appreciation and not trusting myself to form a single word. He presses his forehead to mine and our breaths mingle as one.

  “Good night, Pru.” Carefully releasing me, he steps back and hits a button.

  The doors glide open and we’re still on the ground floor. He places his hands flat against each door, preventing them from shutting, and all the while, his gaze never strays from mine.

  “Actually, that isn’t true.” His gravelly voice is a trilling current, zipping through my veins. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since you walked into my trailer your first day on set.”

  Then he’s gone. The elevator doors close, and I’m left breathless. My lips buzz and my body burns.

  My weekend goes by quickly, and in addition to spending time with Harley, I submit résumés to several job postings, some in Manhattan and others abroad. One is a COO position in Madrid, another based in Shanghai, and another is a translator role in Brussels.

  And anytime I leave the building, including on Monday for work, I hold my breath, half hoping and half dreading a run-in with Eli. It doesn’t happen. Today will be like any other day. I won’t men
tion the kiss, or so I tell myself.

  Once at the studio, I stare at my phone, at an unopened email. It’s from Black Fox International, the private investigation firm I hired to find my father. It came in overnight, and the subject line says, “Update.”

  I click on it and read. They’ve narrowed down the list of who could potentially be my father to three men. One is deceased, and the other two are high-profile, married men, all of whom were seen with my mother shortly before she found out she was pregnant.

  Nausea bubbles in my stomach. Someone calls my name, but the buzzing in my mind is louder. I ignore it, not convinced it’s real.

  This is the closest I’ve ever gotten to knowing who my father is. I have three names.

  When younger, I poured all my love into this unknown man. I had dreams of him searching for me, and when he found me, because he always did, he’d tell me how he’d never leave me again.

  But as the years went by, the dream crumbled, and anger grew where there once was hope and love. Each year only hammered home how much I didn’t matter. How my father never came for me.

  Now, even as I seek answers, I’m mostly numb, daring not to dream. Does he even know I exist? If so, why didn’t he find me? Love me?

  One of the names is somewhat familiar. I’ll have to look him up. Research all of them. But it will have to be later tonight.

  Gah, I want to do it now—ditch work and run home to find out all I can about these three men. One of them could be my father.

  “Pru, what is your problem?” Lydia’s sharp tone slices through my maelstrom of unanswered questions.

  “What?”

  She stomps to me. “I’ve been calling you, and you’re just standing there.”

  Mechanically I nod, not digesting her words. She doesn’t seem to notice I’m dazed.

  “Bryce wants you to sit in on a scene between Eli and Sonia. He thinks it’ll give you a better feel for the characters.”

  “Yes.” I received an email from him over the weekend about the scene.

  Exasperated, she tugs on my arm, and I follow her onto the set past the working crew and stepping over large black cables to an empty chair.