by Kim Loraine
One year earlier
Angela’s pulse thrummed in her ears at the sight of Garrett. He was seated on the stoop of the house he now shared with Parker—waiting for her. His dark hair was cropped shorter than usual, curling just behind his ears rather than a mass of chin-length tousled locks. A pang of loss ricocheted through her. One of her favorite things about him was the curls which tumbled into his eyes when he let go and played the drums with abandon.
Clutching her lyric journal to her chest with one hand and hefting her guitar case in the other, she let out the breath she’d been holding as she crossed the street. She and Garrett had spent the last ten years working together and writing lyrics, but he’d always been the leader. He’d always written the music, but with Panic Station’s recent record deal, she knew her nerves would get the better of her if she didn’t show him now.
“Hey, you,” he called as she made her way toward him.
“Hey, yourself.” She raised an eyebrow and jutted her chin. “What happened to your head?”
A bashful grin crossed his lips and he ran a hand through the remaining length. “Job interview.”
“Bull.”
He laughed, making his eyes glitter with amusement. “Yeah. I don’t know. I just needed a change.”
She frowned before she could control herself.
“You don’t like it?” he asked.
Pursing her lips, she considered him. “It’s okay. I like you a little more rugged.”
“I can grow a beard in twenty-four hours. I’ll give you rugged by tomorrow.”
Shaking her head, she laughed. “Not what I meant.”
“So, what was so urgent that it couldn’t wait until practice?” He rose and leaned against the wood column on the corner of the stoop.
“I need to show you some songs I wrote. For the album.”
She winced at the dark look that crossed his face. She’d been prepared for this reaction. He’d been short and distant when she’d started writing with Donovan.
“You wrote them without me?”
She nodded. “I started writing while you were in Boston.”
“But . . . we’ve always been a team.”
Shrugging, she pushed past him and into the cozy beach house. “Let me play some for you. I want to see what you think.”
She watched with her nerves on high alert as he closed the door and took a seat on the couch.
As she played, his face remained impassive. The words of her songs flowed from her, filling the room. As she finished singing, she stared at him, trying desperately to glean the slightest hint from his expression.
“So . . . what do you think?” Her voice was hoarse and dry from anticipation.
He started tapping out a rhythm on his knees, avoiding her gaze. Not a good sign.
“They’re,” he paused, still not making eye contact. “Different.”
Her heart stuttered. Different. Not good, not bad—different.
“Of course, they’re not done. But I think they could really break up the album, make it a little more eclectic.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. Angie, the album is almost completely finished.”
“We need two more songs.”
He shook his head and sighed. “Not those. They’re too singer/songwriter for us. We don’t do the soft-spoken coffee house thing.”
“People like them.”
“What people?”
“I’ve played some shows, just trying them out on an audience.”
His eyes widened in disbelief. “You played shows without us?”
“I just wanted to see how the different style would be received.”
“How long have you been doing this?”
“A few months.”
He let out a heavy sigh. “We’ve never played without you.”
A wave of defensive anger filled her veins, hot and thick. “What is your problem, Gare? I’m not running off and going solo. We’re about to finish our first real album. We’re signed to a record label.”
“You, you’re not the songwriter. We’ve got an early years McCartney/Lennon thing going. We can’t already be splitting up. How are we going to know which direction our sound is supposed to take?”
She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Even though the fear of rejection burned bright, she’d always thought he’d be supportive at his core.
“You’re an asshole,” she muttered, feeling every inch the petulant child as hot tears burned her eyes.
To his credit, he did reach for her. She shrugged him off and moved to leave.
“Angie, don’t be this way.”
“Fuck off. You and Parker can practice without me. It seems like you don’t need me very much anyway.”
Before he could stop her, she was out the door. It wasn’t until she got halfway to her apartment that she realized she’d left her lyric book sitting on his coffee table.
Chapter 29
Garrett’s phone had been ringing non-stop since he’d punched Aiden. He’d worked hard to ignore it. Running, swimming, writing. He’d done everything he could to make himself unavailable over the last twenty-four hours. He didn’t want to deal with the fall out of his idiotic weak moment.
A light knock on his door had him worried Marcus would come barreling in, steaming like an angry bull.
“Garrett? It’s Aiden. Let me in.”
Fuck.
This was worse than Marcus handing him his ass. He unlocked the door and was surprised to find Aiden, sans camera crew.
“Where’s your entourage?”
“This needs to be private.”
The guy was so nonchalant about everything. It annoyed the hell out of Garrett.
“You here to get an apology?”
Aiden shook his head. Both eyes were ringed in dark bruises and his nose was splinted but the asshole still looked like a million bucks.
“Nope. That punch hurt like hell, but it made me look like a saint. You’re the one coming off like a jealous asshole.”
Garrett snagged a water bottle from the mini-fridge and offered it to him before grabbing another for himself.
“I hate this. She told you about us?” When Aiden nodded, Garrett continued, taking the cap off his drink and downing a long gulp of water. “I’ve been waiting for her since we were twelve-years-old and it finally happened. Imagine what it’s like to watch the woman you love pretend to be engaged to another guy.”
Aiden walked across the room, standing at the window and surveying the Copenhagen skyline. He stood staring out the wall of glass, silent and pensive.
Garrett was at a loss. What else was he supposed to say here?
Aiden turned to face him, a curious expression crossed his features. If Garrett didn’t know better, he’d say it was sympathy.
“I think it would be pretty fucking awful. But you’re not just anyone. You’re a rock star and you’ve got to rein it in. If you don’t, you’ll only end up hurting yourself and Angie in the process.”
“What do you suggest I do here?”
“Cool it off with her. Take a step back until we end things. Right now the drama is working well for her and me, not so much for you. Unfortunately, you’re a big part of the band. If people don’t like you, they might not like the band. Do you really want to take that chance?”
Garrett ran a hand through his hair and took a few deep breaths to clear his head. He’d already considered stepping away from her—letting her go until the time was right.
“Maybe you’re right, but that doesn’t explain why you’re taking every chance you get to throw me to the lions.”
Aiden shrugged. “Drama. More drama means more attention, which equals more album sales.”
“I don’t know i
f I can stay away from her.”
“Do what you want. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you. I’m going to do what I need to in order to keep myself in the spotlight. Stay out of my way and I’ll keep you out of the line of fire.”
The European crowds were big. Big and boisterous. Angela’s chest pounded and sweat dripped down the back of her neck from the energy the crowd gave her every night. They seemed to want to love every song. They’d played the United Kingdom, Morocco, and Amsterdam. Now they were spending three days in Germany before heading off to Italy and Spain. Each venue had greeted them with excited and invested crowds, and this one was no different. Maybe it was the Angela/Aiden/Garrett love triangle the press was selling. Maybe it wasn’t. All Angela knew was the crowd loved them—all of them.
The drumbeat of their final song started, a heavy cadence that she felt in her chest. Turning her eyes toward Garrett, she mouthed, hell yeah, as the new guitarist came in with Parker’s bass part. It felt weird, not playing along, but Marcus had said she needed to be more visible—a real front woman. They didn’t want her hiding behind an instrument.
She fought the urge to tug at the neckline of her low-cut top. Her breasts bounced every time she moved and this was their most upbeat song. Usually she was bounding across the stage, with or without a guitar in her hands. Now she worried that the combination of her push-up bra and cleavage-bearing shirt would send her straight to a nip-slip.
The song continued and she sang her heart out, always giving it her all, but she prayed her hesitance to move wasn’t noticed and commented on later.
The lights went down as they took their bow and Garrett jumped down from his towering drum throne. His hands were on her in the few pitch-black moments. Running over the bare skin of her arms and up to trace the line of her collarbone. She shivered and fought the urge to lean back into him.
She knew what she would find. He’d be hot, sweaty, and hard. Keeping her hands off him during this tour had been torture.
“I need you,” he whispered against her hair as they walked down the corridor to the dressing room.
She shook her head, stopped, and stepped out of the heels she’d been teetering in for the show.
“Angie.”
His soft hair tickled the back of her neck and she gasped at the sensation of his tongue as it trailed along her shoulder. “Not here, Gare.”
There could be press, groupies, anyone around the corner, just waiting for something like this. The camera crew would be with her in minutes if she waited around.
He seemed to sense her mind and with a quick glance around, his hand turned the knob on the closest door.
They fell into the dark room, all lips and hands on each other as soon as they realized there was no one to catch them.
Her breath caught in her throat when he pushed her off him and, with a rough tug, pulled her shirt over her head, sending her shoes clattering to the floor. The only light came from the illuminated exit sign over the door, but it was enough to see him. The look on his face sent shivers of anticipation through her.
She needed to touch him—feel his bare chest under her fingers. Her hands met the hem of his plain, white T-shirt and slid under, over the ridges of his abdomen and up to what she knew was a strong chest, covered in a spray of dark hair.
His hands were still working her into a frenzy, trailing along her exposed belly, tickling the sensitive spot at her ribs, and moving back to unclasp her bra. Her breasts came free and the cool air whispered over her heated skin. Garrett rested his forehead against hers, his breathing harsh.
“It’s been too long. I don’t think I can be patient,” he murmured.
“Patience is for kindergarten teachers. Take what you want.”
He hooked his thumbs around the waistband of her skirt and shoved it down, taking her leggings and panties with it. His lips connected with hers as he pressed his bare skin to her, fire licking each nerve ending in a torturous dance of ecstasy and misery.
Her fingers worked at his belt buckle, the primary obstacle to her goal. He groaned when she finally freed him and stroked down his length. Dropping to her knees, she looked up the line of his beautiful body.
“Hmm, I think I misspoke earlier. Patience is a virtue, after all.”
His breaths came fast. He knew what she wanted to do, that much was clear. Before he answered, she kissed the innermost part of his thigh, aware of his erection straining to be inside her. When her cheek brushed the velvety skin, he moaned. A bolt of lust shot straight to her core at the sound and she took him into her mouth, reveling in the sounds he made. Before long his hands were fisted in her hair, slightly painful, but incredibly arousing, and he was moving his hips in time with her.
“Stop. Oh, God, stop. I want to be inside you,” he panted.
She pulled away, unable to keep the grin from her face, and looked up at him. His eyes were fiery, eager, and determined. He ran one hand up her neck to cup her cheek.
“Come here.” Grasping her arms, he pulled her to a standing position and nudged her knees apart with his own. She could feel him, pressing into her belly, a promise of what was to come.
Tangling her fingers in his hair, she pulled his face to hers, needing to kiss him, needing to feel him everywhere. Her tongue slid into his mouth and his groan vibrated through her.
With a quick movement, he lifted her and pressed her back against the cool cinder block wall behind them. She took the cue and wrapped her legs around him, tilting her hips to grant him access. With one strong thrust, he filled her completely. She forced herself to swallow her scream as he continued his movements.
“Oh, God. Oh, Garrett.” She felt her impending release creeping in from the edges of her consciousness. He continued his strokes, each movement increasing the tension in her body until the pleasure came together in her center and exploded. All of the pent-up sexual tension, the unsatisfied weeks, the looks shared between them—all of it erupted in this chaotic moment.
He followed moments later, uttering a cry of his own as he spilled his pleasure inside of her.
They were both breathing like they’d just run a six-minute-mile. Garrett held her tight against him and carried her to the chair that had been right next to them the whole time. He sat with her straddling him, pressing light kisses to her neck and shoulder.
“I . . . I have no words,” she admitted.
His dark head rose from her shoulder and her heart swelled at the look of complete adoration in his eyes.
“I only need three,” he said, a wistful grin on his lips.
“I love you.”
With a nod, he covered her mouth with his again.
Chapter 30
Angela breathed deeply as the elliptical trainer increased resistance. The burn radiated from her rear all the way down her quads and sweat beaded on her forehead. She needed time to figure out how she was going to convince Aiden to end things without damaging her public persona.
Her phone chirped from its place on the machine’s console. She ignored it. No distractions right now. It chirped again, and again. Over and over, the alerts went off until she was forced to stop the rhythmic movement of her legs.
Snatching up her phone, she scrolled through the notifications. Twitter wasn’t something she was comfortable using. She’d never truly gotten the hang of it and couldn’t be bothered to learn. At the moment, as she stared down at the fifteen-hundred tweets which had been posted to her page, she really wished she had never let Marcus talk her into joining at all.
What the hell?
Angry messages filled her screen. Cruel words like whore, skank, cheater, slut, were slung around in every tweet.
A light hand on her arm brought her attention back to where she was.
“We’ve got a big fucking problem, baby doll.”
Aiden’s brows
were drawn in tight—his usual smirk gone.
A sick feeling took hold in her stomach. What was this about?
“I told you not to get caught.”
Caught?
He shook his head and grabbed her by the arm, a little too tightly for comfort.
“Dammit,” he muttered under his breath as they both caught sight of the camera crew which was rushing toward them.
Tugging her away from the gym and into the hotel lobby, Aiden never loosened his grip.
“You’re hurting me, Aiden,” she complained.
He let go of her immediately. “Sorry.”
Her arm ached where his fingers had dug in. She was sure there’d be bruises.
“Look, I’m not mad,” he started, looking down the hallway before he continued. “I’m beyond stressed.”
“About what?”
She was starting to get frustrated now. He was speaking in code and she felt like she was missing vital pieces of her decoder.
“The footage.”
They sped down the hall, ending up at the door to his room. Slipping his key card into the slot, the lock clicked, and he pushed the door open.
After locking the door and engaging the latch at the top, he snatched up his tablet and brought it to her, pressing play on the video he’d opened.
“You’re going to want to sit down.”
Her knees started shaking at the tone of his voice. Whatever this was, it was bad. Sinking onto the plush cushions of the heather gray couch, she kept her eyes focused on him. She didn’t want to see what was on the potential bomb in her hands.
Garrett’s breathy voice drew her gaze down to the screen. “Stop. Oh, God, stop. I want to be inside you.”
Her cheeks burned as she watched. The footage was grainy but it was clearly her, on her freaking knees, blowing her drummer.