by Hazel Jacobs
Harper recognizes the song instantly. It’s Led Zeppelin’s ‘Moby Dick.’ She’d looked it up after Kayla had told her about Slate’s stunt in sixth grade.
Cautiously, Harper opens the door to the studio, relieved to find that it’s unlocked. Inside, the lights are dimmed, and the room smells of chocolate and leather. She steps in and closes the door behind her, peering into the glass which separates the mixing board from the room with the instruments.
Slate is in there. Alone. The guitar that Harper had heard is playing through the speakers and it only takes her a moment to realize that there’s an iPod jacked into one of the boards. Slate has removed his leather jacket and he’s wearing a simple white wife-beater that shows off his perfect shoulders and the tattoos which drape his skin lovingly. He’s got his head ducked down and his eyes closed, bashing away at the drums with a blissed-out expression that makes Harper want to back out of the room again. This feels private. Harper feels like she’s intruding on somebody’s prayers.
Then the guitar from the speakers fades. This is the part of the song that’s all about the drum solo. Harper had been impressed when she’d watched the YouTube video, but it’s nothing to seeing it up close. The way Slate strikes the snares like a snake, the way he seems to move fluidly from beat to beat like he’s swimming through the tune, the way the muscles in his forearms tighten like ropes as he works.
He seems to be doing a hundred things at once. Hitting the drums, beating the big one with his foot, tapping the cymbals, steadily building up and up, getting faster and faster, yet all the while he moves like this is as easy as breathing. Like he doesn’t even need to think.
Harper puts a hand on her chest. She’s half-convinced that her heart will start beating in time with his playing.
She watches, transfixed, as Slate blazes through the song. He moves through loud and soft, fast and slow, aggressive and loving, and it’s the most incredible piece of music she’s ever heard. She’d liked Black Lilith’s songs. She’d liked the original version of ‘Moby Dick’ from Led Zeppelin. But there’s something about seeing Slate’s expression as he plays this song that makes Harper think that she’s been missing something.
This is what music should be. Watching a beautiful man lose himself to what he’s playing, and allowing yourself to be swept along for the ride.
Finally, the guitar and bass return. After nearly fifteen minutes of Slate’s arms working and working, sweat dripping off his forehead, but he never once loses the expression of pure, excited joy on his face. As he plays the last few beats, throwing his whole body into them, he throws his head back and Harper needs to grab the seat in front of her for support. His long neck strains, his dark eyes are finally open, and his lips are parted in a gasp of pleasure and exhaustion. His cheeks flushed with the effort of playing.
That was way too erotic, Harper thinks as the music comes to a stop and Slate lowers his sticks. As he does, their eyes meet through the glass.
It takes Slate a moment to understand what he’s seeing. In his defense, he probably hadn’t expected to see her here so early. But it’s now 2:25. She said she’d meet him at 2:30.
He pushes himself to his feet. His hands move sluggishly, weakly, like he’s drained much of his energy into the song. Harper can only imagine, it’s high-intensity work, well above what she would usually ask of her clients. In the back of her mind, which is admittedly a bit hazy because she’s still replaying the sight of Slate finishing that song, she makes a note to herself to expand that part of his program. If this is the kind of music Slate likes to play in his downtime, then Harper’s training program will need to accommodate that.
Slate grabs a towel off of the stool he’d been sitting on and absently wipes his face. His eyes never leave hers. It takes a moment for Harper to understand the look he’s giving her.
Nervous. Hopeful. Concerned.
“Hey,” he calls through the glass. Then he moves around the drum kit to step through the door, and Harper gets to see how sweaty his shirt really is, how tight his jeans are, and she has to remind herself that she’s not happy with him right now. “You came.”
The iPod plays the next song. She recognizes it from one of her friend’s playlists—‘Better Strangers’ by Royal Blood. She actually likes that one. Slate reaches over to turn off the iPod, plunging them both into silence.
“I said I would,” Harper replies. Then, because her mouth is traitorous, she says, “That was incredible.”
He shrugs, though there’s a hint of pride in the way his mouth turns up at the corners. “I love that song.” Then he looks at her properly and the smile drops from his lips. “Mik tells me you spoke to her.”
So that’s it. Harper’s here to be raked over the coals for not minding her business.
“You’re my client… I just wanted to know if the drug use could be getting in the way of your training,” she says, going for the gentle, pleading tone of an employee being reprimanded.
Slate picks up on it immediately and frowns. “Harper… you know that you’re not here because you’re in trouble, right?”
She hadn’t known that. “Ah. I… yes?”
“Harper,” Slate says, coming toward her so she can see the damp sweat in his hair and the wetness pooling in his collarbone. “I’m not angry. I just wanted to make sure that you’re not, you know… angry at me?”
Harper can feel the confused frown blossoming on her face. “You?”
“Well, yeah. I get that you’re a lot more… pure than I am,” he says. “I guess I figured you’d disapprove of it or something.”
“I’m not gonna lie. I do.” He flinches gently, and Harper smothers the concern building up in her chest when she sees it. “It answers a lot of questions I had, though.”
“Questions?”
“You got high at the wedding, didn’t you?” she asks. “That’s why you… why you were so affectionately aggressive afterward.”
His gentle guilt switches to full-blown horror. It’s enough for him to look away from her, down at his shoes, and she never thought that she’d see him looking so hurt and guilty, but it confirms everything she’d thought. He’s not looking at her because she’d hit the nail on the head. It aches to have it confirmed for her like that.
When he looks at her again, he’s biting his lip. “Harper… fuck I’m so sorry.”
“You get high with groupies, you get high with whores. It’s all the same—”
“Stop talking about yourself that way. Fuck,” he shouts.
Harper feels her body instinctively flinching away and she forces herself to hold her ground. His expression is so difficult to read, it’s a mixture of guilt and sadness and anger. But Harper’s not sure which of those are directed at her.
This is the moment when she should be graceful. To let him off the hook and smile in a chagrined way. Maybe apologize for making him lose his temper. She remembers the wedding and the reception dinner, as she’d morphed her manners seamlessly to fit whichever conversation she was having. She’s always been so damn good at being who people want her to be, or who they need her to be.
Right now, she wants to be herself. She wants Slate to know her because apparently he’s confused about what she thinks is acceptable.
She takes a step forward, getting right up into his face. “Don’t you ever raise your voice to me again, Slate. Understand? There might be some women who’ll let a man talk to them like that, but I’m not one of them.”
He instantly drops the anger. “I’m sorry.” He seems to mean it. His hand jerks out and touches her elbow, and when she pulls away he looks even more upset. “You’re not… you deserved better than that. I’m sorry.”
“When did I deserve better?” she asks. “Just now, or that night?”
“Both. Every day. Every night.” His eyes flicker down to her lips and there’s unmistakable longing in that gaze. Suddenly, before Harper can even think, Slate’s hands are on her hips. He’s moving quickly, with an urgency that’s almost s
tartling, slamming her up against the mixing board and lifting her so that her thighs are wrapped around his hips, holding her in place. Harper gasps and instantly feels a hot burn of arousal flood her veins while he pushes her into position, grinding into her, burying his face into her hair and licking up her neck. She moans and wraps her arms around his neck. Her hips jerk like they have a mind of their own.
Slate groans at the feeling. Harper’s body is screaming yes, yes, yes, as Slate buries a hand in her hair and pulls, just enough to make it interesting. He bites down at the sensitive flesh just under her ear and Harper’s body bucks against him. She never wants this moment to end.
It’s such a sudden, graceless movement. Full of passion but taking her by surprise. It isn’t until Slate starts grinding into her in short, perfect circles, that Harper remembers that they’re in a public studio. And that she’s still mad at him.
“Mmm… stop.”
He stops, pulls back and she can see a sliver of chocolate in his eyes—the pupils have almost blown out the irises entirely—and a pink tinge to his lips as he bites down on them, while searching her face.
“You have no idea how much I regret that night.”
She winces. “Ouch,” she says.
“No… Harper, not like that. I regret getting high and leading you on. It wasn’t right. I’m glad that Tommy called, or I would have kept going and then our first time would have been because of the drugs and not because we both wanted it.” He shrugs and looks away again. “I don’t even know why I felt the need to get high anyway. It was the easiest night I’ve ever had with my family.”
Harper is still reeling from the ‘first time’ comment. As if he would have liked there to be multiple times. As if he wanted it to be perfect. He’s watching her cautiously, waiting for her to respond, but there are so many things to say and she doesn’t know where to start. Finally, he lets her go. He looks reluctant but determined. She immediately wants to draw him back again, but the stubborn part of her, the part that always keeps her working out long after she’s reached her limit, lets him move away. Because this is important, she thinks. Talking it out like this, instead of burying their feelings in a haze of lust. There’s an ache between her legs when he moves away and it takes every ounce of self-control she has not to try and reach out for him. Instead, she stands up and straightens her shirt.
“Slate,” she says, leaning forward and feeling a surge of strengthening fire when he doesn’t immediately pull away. “Slate, do you still want me?”
“So much,” he says, breathlessly and immediately. He hadn’t even paused to think about it. His gorgeous forearms twitch as though they want to reach out and touch, and there is an obvious bulge in his pants. “But I’m still your client. It’s wrong.”
Harper shakes her head at him, still so disappointed. “There’s chivalrous, and then there’s self-flagellation,” she tells him. “Who exactly are you protecting here?”
He’s frowning, staring into her eyes with his own deep, dark chocolate ones. He smells of sweat, but it doesn’t overwhelm his cologne. If anything, it makes it muskier. Heavier. More sensual.
“I don’t know anymore,” he says. “I’m usually good at this, you know.”
“Getting a woman?”
“Romance,” says Slate. “I mean… I can tell when my friends like someone. I always tell them they should go for it. But I can’t tell myself. I don’t know why.”
Harper thinks she knows why. But she’s not going to say it. She’s not going to say that she thinks having parents who tell him that he doesn’t deserve his success might have messed up his ability to recognize his own worth. Or maybe we’re all much better at telling other people what they need than we are at understanding what we need.
But she isn’t going to say it. It’s not her place to say it.
Before Harper can speak, the door slams open and Dash tumbles inside. Dash seems to be perpetually tumbling. He’s a whirlwind of energy and movement, never still except when he’s frowning at his phone. The slogan T-shirt he’s wearing takes her a moment to recognize—the Big Bang Theory, one of Sheldon’s quotes. If anything could have killed the mood entirely, and rid the room of all trace of sexual tension, it would have been that.
“Good morning,” he says cheerfully. His phone is in his pocket for once. He looks between Harper and Slate and a slow recognition comes across his face. “I’m interrupting something.”
“Yes,” Slate says firmly. “You are.”
“I was just about to leave,” Harper tells him.
But Dash is frowning. “How about I go and give you guys the chance to finish this conversation?”
Harper turns her back on Slate and gives Dash a smile. He’s a sweetheart, even if he never pays attention during their training sessions.
“Slate has some things to think about,” she tells him. “And he’s not going to think about them while I’m here. But thanks, Dash. I appreciate it.”
And as she leaves the studio—not looking back, because she’s a strong woman and she can walk away from Slate’s godlike physique without looking back—she hears Dash’s voice say, “Dude, let me call for pizza. You can tell me all about it.”
“Who takes impromptu trips to Vegas?”
“We do.”
Sersha has her hand hooked through Harper’s elbow, with Mikayla on her other arm, and an almost manic grin on her face. The three women are trailing behind the men of Black Lilith and their security, Logan carrying his and Mikayla’s bag while Tommy has Sersha’s backpack slung over his shoulder. Slate had avoided Harper’s gaze when they’d arrived at the airport, but Dash had taken her carry-on despite her vocal protests.
Harper had been dreading Monday morning. She’d spent most of Sunday planning a training session that wouldn’t require her to spend too much time on Slate, thanking her past self over and over for planning group sessions on Mondays. She was still feeling tender from the conversation they’d had at the studio, as though she’d been beaten with a mallet and the bruises hadn’t healed yet.
But then Mikayla and Sersha had shown up at her door at 6:00 a.m. with plane tickets and instructions to pack a bag.
“Sometimes we like to do stupid shit,” Sersha says as she guides a still-stunned Harper through check in. “Just go with it, Love.”
“But I’m not in the band,” Harper says.
Mikayla gives her a raised eyebrow. “You’re part of the gang now, Harper. You’re coming.”
Harper feels a strong surge of affection for the woman at those words, but it still feels a bit weird to be watching Slate’s shoulders from behind after basically daring him to ask her out less than twenty-four hours earlier. He hasn’t said a word to her this morning. He gave her a wink when Black Lilith picked her up from her apartment, but it had been empty.
She’s pretty sure that random trips to Vegas weren’t in her job description.
But it’s exciting as well. It’s the sort of thing that she never would have considered when she was growing up in Omaha. Waking up in the morning and jumping on a plane with less than an hour’s notice. It’s remarkable, really, how many times she’s been put on a plane on short notice since she came into Slate’s life.
The band heads for the first class lounge. Slate glances over his shoulder and his eyes meet Harper’s, and they both look away at the same time. Harper knows that she’s blushing. The last time she was in this lounge, watching Slate order a Red Bull, wondering what it would be like to spend the night with him. Several weeks later, and she still has no idea.
I always tell them they should go for it. But I can’t tell myself.
Harper wants to think that it’s her. If it’s her, then at least there might be something that she can fix. Something she can change. She’s always been so good at being what people need. But it’s not her problem—it’s Slate’s. Something inside of him is keeping him from giving into what could be happening between them. And that’s not something she can help him with. She can only be
there when he figures it out.
But how long will that take?
They’re only in the lounge for a few minutes—long enough to order a couple of drinks from the same bartender, who looks like she’s having a heart attack when she serves the band—before a sudden swarm of people show up. They’re mostly young women. Teenagers and women in their twenties holding smartphones and scraps of paper, offering pens and lipstick to the band for them to sign with.
“Slate! Slate! Will you sign my boobs?”
“Can I get a selfie, Dash? I’m such a huge fan.”
“Marry me.”
The other passengers in the lounge look on—first with curiosity, then with horror. Most of them leave within minutes of the fans arriving. Harper is pushed roughly aside by one woman who’s trying to fight her way to get to Tommy. Sersha pulls Harper out of the way as the noise of the women shouting starts to build around them, while Mikayla is angrily talking into her phone.
“Where the fuck is security. We’re being swarmed by fans right now. Yes, I know you stopped the paparazzi at the entrance, but there are still dozens of women here and we’ve got no support.”
The guys seem to be taking it well. They have smiles on their faces, though Logan takes control pretty quickly and makes the women form a line and draws the band into a corner so that they’re not in danger of trampling other passengers. Some women ask Slate to pick them up, and Harper turns away so that she doesn’t have to watch them climb on his back while their friends take the picture.
“This is so insane,” she mutters to Sersha, who’s still standing next to her.
“I know,” Sersha replies. Her arms are crossed over her chest and she’s still got that constant smile on her face, but it’s strained. “Sometimes I forget how famous these boys are getting.”
“Are you going to be a total hipster and say that you knew them before they were cool?”