The booze is in the corner, and there are half a dozen mixers. I fill a red plastic cup with plenty of tequila and plenty of orange juice. It's no Paloma, but it will get the job done.
"Oh, you better hope Drew isn't looking."
Fuck my life. That's Tom.
He's standing there with a blonde woman on his arm. This could be Drew. He could be the one about to take home a pretty girl and never speak to her again.
Tom turns to his conquest. "Meet at my car in five." He taps her ass and sends her on her way.
"That was a beautiful display of affection. Thank you for that." This drink can't fill my throat fast enough. I drink with greedy sips. Not great tequila. It burns.
Tom is unblinking. "You like Drew."
Time for another sip. Heat spreads through my cheeks and throat. "I don't know—"
"Yeah, you do." Tom points to Drew and the flirty fangirl. "You looked like you were gonna deck her right in the jaw."
"I don't hit people."
"Drew does." Tom looks at me. "When he was with Vivian. And then after, when he was fucking his way out of his bad mood."
"What are you talking about?"
"You want those details?" Tom leans closer. "You want to think about him fucking a different girl every night, driving them all insane with that look in his eyes that promises he'll love them?"
"Seems like I don't have a choice. You're doing a great job explaining it. Really evocative language."
"You like him a lot, huh?"
I finish the rest of my drink with one long gulp. "I should go."
"I want to help."
No, Tom doesn't help. Tom is only out for Tom.
I study his expression. It seems genuine.
"Why?" I ask. "You don't help anyone."
"That's not a very nice thing to say."
"You only care about yourself and what you think is best for the band."
He takes my plastic cup and pours me a refill. "This is what's best for the band. Drew's pleasant when you're around. Shows up to practice in a good mood. Doesn't argue that we need guitar solos in our singles."
"Is this supposed to be a compliment?" I take my drink from Tom and take a long sip. It's a lot stronger. At least Tom does something right.
Tom looks me right in the eyes, dead serious. "You're good together. And you're normal. That's what he needs."
"How do you know I'm normal?" I ask.
"If you'd seen him with Vivian, you wouldn't have to ask." Tom's phone buzzes loudly. He picks it up and glances at it. "I have things to do, but I want to help."
"Things?" I raise my eyebrow.
"Okay, I have a woman to fuck. Two, actually. That a problem with you?" He throws his shoulders back, all self-righteous. "You trust me?"
"No."
"Follow my lead. I'll make him figure it out."
"Figure what out?" I ask.
"That he likes you too." Tom steps toward the exit and waves goodbye. "I'd get him home if I were you. Drew hates attention."
"I know."
"You want him or not?"
I bite my lip. I'm not about to trust Tom to help me. But he is right about this. Drew does hate attention, and I hate standing here watching him get flirted with.
Tom shakes his head. He motions to one of his friends and whispers something in the guy's ear. Then his attention turns to me. "See you soon."
He steps out of the room.
The friend, a short guy with broad shoulders and a dark t-shirt, saunters up to me. He leans close. "Tom asked me to flirt with you. Any clue why?"
Some clue. I turn back to Drew. Sure enough, his eyes are on me. He's staring daggers at this guy, and all the guy is doing is standing near me. Really near me, but still.
"Tom is an idiot," I say.
The guy laughs. It's a big, hearty laugh. He grabs my arm like he needs it to steady himself.
Ten seconds later, Drew is at my side, his arm wrapped around my waist. "Let's get out of here," he says.
I nod goodbye to the guy whose name I don't know.
Once we're outside, Drew softens. His grip moves to my hand but it's still tight and protective.
So Tom is smarter than he looks.
I just might have to trust him.
***
I wake up with a throbbing headache. Sleeping on an air mattress didn't help in the hangover avoidance front. Downstairs, Drew is sweating on the floor. Doing push-ups, more specifically. The muscles of his back tense and release. So back muscles can make your legs go weak. Who knew?
I make my way downstairs. He pops up with ease. His footsteps are so, so loud. And it's awfully bright in here too.
"I know that look," he says.
"Ugh."
"You shouldn't drink so much."
Yeah, and maybe he shouldn't allow hyena fangirls to flirt in front of me. I try to offer him a smile, but the pounding in my head won't allow it.
"Thanks for the tip." I sit cross legged on the floor.
He does something in the kitchen. I guess he unpacked a set of pots and pans. It's extra bright over there so I'm not about to look.
"I'm making eggs. You want some?" he ask.
"Yes. Thank you."
He moves closer. His hands graze my shoulders. "You want to come with me?"
Mind going straight to gutter. I clear my throat. "Come to what?"
"To practice. It's in an hour."
Not with this headache. Just the thought of groaning vocals and a screaming drum set...
Tom. He knew what he was doing last night. And maybe today too.
A heavy dose of ibuprofen and a greasy breakfast should be enough to make band practice tolerable.
"Sure," I say. "As long as you drive."
"Wouldn't have it any other way."
CHAPTER EIGHT
The guitar's wail fills the room. It's a riff I've never heard before. It's heavy and melodic and totally captivating.
Either the drugs did wonders for my headache or the music is so beautiful it's chasing the pain away.
I dog-ear my page and drop my paperback in my lap. My eyes flutter closed. Nothing to distract me now. Nothing here except the sound of Drew's playing.
The music shifts. Something faster. It's not like the normal Sinful Serenade stuff. It's rawer. It's harder. It's way more aggressive.
Something stirs inside me. Like the song is throwing open a hiding place and letting all the dust free.
The music shifts back to the melody. All that dust swirls around my brain. I shake my head, willing it to settle down, but it does no good.
I don't want to think anything. I don't want to feel anything but Drew's song washing over me.
I play with the pages of my paperback. Something for my Russian Literature class. I'm supposed to be reading it.
My eyes open and my gaze goes straight to Drew. He's completely oblivious to anything except his guitar. There's this look on his face—a mix of concentration and serenity. His fingers glide over the fretboard, fast and exact.
We're early. It's just us. By all accounts, the room is huge. But it feels small. It feels like a closet. Like there's absolutely no room to move or even breathe.
The song ends. I grab my paperback and pretend to read it. Drew is looking at me, checking on me. I can feel it. I bury my eyes in the text and read the same sentence five times. There's a highlighter and a pen in my purse. If I'm going to pretend I'm doing homework, I should sell it better.
I sneak a peek at Drew as I reach for my purse. He's tuning his guitar, a pick between his teeth. He closes his eyes and plays a note. It must be right, because he moves to the next string. He does it again and again.
His eyes blink open. He glances at me. Crap, I'm staring at him. I nod like it's a coincidence. He doesn't seem to notice. He takes the pick from his mouth and rubs it between his fingers.
He plays.
A different song. Another song I've never heard before. This time, I don't fight the feelings whirling around insid
e me. I close my eyes and let the song wash over me. How can something that sounds so beautiful make me hurt somewhere so deep? It's like there's a hole in my gut out of nowhere.
The music picks up. Faster, harder, but still distinctly melancholy. Still threatening to tear me in pieces and leave me to blow away in the wind.
I open my eyes and watch Drew play. There's a hint of sadness on his face. He's off somewhere else, somewhere that hurts him. But even with his eyes turned down and his gaze drifting off into the distance, there's something comfortable and satisfied about his expression.
He's at home. Exactly where he belongs.
The door swings open and the music stops.
Pete storms inside, his hoodie up around his head, his attention on the floor. He pulls his hands from his pockets and flips off the open door.
Oh. Tom steps inside, all huffy and puffy. He must be the object of the middle finger. God knows he deserves it.
Tom spots me. He winks at me then turns to Drew. "What happened to our no-girls rule?"
Drew only barely looks up from his guitar. "Miles happened."
"You really going to bring one of your floozies to practice?" Pete asks.
"That's my prerogative." Tom pulls his hoodie over his head and tosses it on the ground haphazardly.
Pete rolls his eyes and kicks the hoodie into the corner.
"Don't take your blue balls out on my clothing," Tom says.
"Fuck off, asshole." Pete hides behind his dark hair.
Drew lets out a sigh. "You want to fight or you want to play?"
"You volunteering to fill in for Miles?" Tom asks. "Fuck knows I don't ever need to hear Pete screaming or groaning again."
Drew glares. "We don't need the fucking vocals to practice."
Apparently, Tom agrees. He shakes his head as if to say whatever and hightails it to his drum kit.
The instruments are all set up in the same area. It's not quite a stage. It's more like a large section of the room.
Still, I scoot back until I'm pressed up against the wall. There's a good ten, fifteen feet between me and the guys in the band, but it still feels awfully close. It still feels like Drew can see inside me.
Then again, it always does.
Drew looks at Pete as if to say e tu, brute? Pete must want to fight. Pete and Tom are always like this. But, then, Drew did mention that they're brothers. Foster brothers, no blood relation, but they grew up together.
They certainly fight like brothers.
"You two want to pull this shit, fine. I'll leave," Drew says.
Pete pulls his phone from his pocket at stares at it. His face flashes with concern. "You want to indulge Tom's bullshit, go ahead. I'm busy." He taps a reply.
"I can't help it I'm the only one with a fucking mind for business." Tom snaps his fingers at me.
I fight a scowl. I'm playing along here. "Don't snap at me. I'm not a puppy."
Tom pulls his t-shirt over his head and tosses that on the ground. "Let me ask you something, Kara."
"Yes?"
"You go to Club Blue?"
It's one of my favorites, actually. Good music. Decent drink prices. Plenty of room on the dance floor. "I do."
"You like dancing," he says. "And I like dancing."
Oh God.
Tom makes eye contact. He winks. "We could go dancing together."
Pete laughs. "Are you really hitting on his girlfriend in front of him?"
Cue the death glare from Drew. It doesn't scare Pete or Tom, but it's nice to know the idea of dating me is still just that disgusting.
"She's not his girlfriend," Tom says. "And it would not be a date. Just two sweaty people moving their bodies together." He looks back to Drew. "What do you say—do I have your permission?"
"Are you here to play or are you here to talk?" Drew glares.
"The guitar prince is so temperamental." Tom looks at me. "Doesn't sound like a no."
"Leave her alone." Drew huffs.
He's about fifteen seconds from protective caveman mode. Tom looks at me, raising his eyebrows as if to suggest success. I'm not so sure. It's easy to make Drew protective. It doesn't do anything to convince the man I'm anything more than a friend.
Tom grabs his drumsticks and stretches his arms in the air. Done with flirting for now. It's funny. Tom is clearly attractive. He's handsome. He's ripped—more than Drew even. Yes, he's controlling and bossy and slutty as all hell. He's also funny and competent and totally take-charge.
He's the kind of guy who used to make my heart race and my breath hitch.
But, right now I'm staring at his defined, tattooed chest and... nothing. My heart is plodding along at some sixty beats a minute. My breath is slow and even. There isn't a hint of heat in my body. In fact, the thought of dancing with Tom makes me utterly queasy.
My gaze shifts to Drew. His guitar strap is tugging his t-shirt down his shoulders. Mmm. That chest piece is begging for my fingertips. My tongue.
I press my lips together. My heartbeat picks up. That flutter builds below my bellybutton. Drew's shoulders are broad. His chest is strong.
My breath picks up. The guitar strap isn't doing enough. It should pull his shirt all the way to his belly button.
The door opens and everyone's attention turns to it. Thank God. Miles is here. His hair and clothes are messy like he just got out of bed. More likely, he just got out of Meg.
"About time." Tom huffs. "Where's your girl?"
"Recovering from last night. She needs to catch up on sleep after—"
"You're late." Tom glares.
Miles glances at the clock—ten minutes after noon—and he shoots Tom a sarcastically sweet wave.
Miles nods hello to me. "Nice to see you, Kara. These guys giving you trouble?"
"I'm fine, thanks," I say. "I should really get back to reading. Thanks for inviting me to practice."
Tom motions to Miles. Miles moves close enough for Tom to whisper something. Both the guys laugh.
They look straight at me.
Miles turns to Drew with a smug look in his eyes. "What happened to living alone?"
"Helping out a friend," Drew says. His voice is impossibly even.
I nod to my book like I'm just so done with this conversation.
The guys banter for another ten minutes. Mostly, I stare at my book. The words housewarming party after practice are thrown around half a dozen times before Drew finally agrees.
Someone dims the lights. I set my book back in my lap and turn all of my attention to Drew. It's dark enough that he can't make out my expression, the way my gaze travels over his body, the way my tongue slides over my lips, the way my fingers dig into the fabric of my jeans.
The flutter builds to my belly and thighs. I get lost in Drew's playing—the intense expression in his eyes, the delicate curves of his lips, the hard lines of his shoulders, the finesse of his hands.
It's magic.
CHAPTER NINE
There's furniture in the house. When we left, it was empty. Now it's furnished.
I rub my eyes to make sure I'm not seeing things. It's still furnished. It's not a lot—a couch, a TV, a table and chairs—but it's still shit that appeared magically during a three-hour absence.
"I took care of it." Drew nods to the rooms upstairs. "I figured you'd want a queen bed, a dresser, and a desk."
"How the hell did you make that happen?"
"Trade secret." He drops takeout sushi bags on the table and digs out the plastic silverware. "You better stake a claim on this before Meg gets here and eats all the sashimi."
Pete and Tom walk in the open door. Pete is still hiding in his hoodie, his gaze on the floor.
He plops down on the couch and pulls his phone from his pocket. He stares at it with this strange mix of anger and fascination.
Tom grabs my arm. "Give him space."
Drew glares at Tom like he's going to hit the guy. Tom smirks as he releases his grip.
"Either of you fuck with Pete and you'
re dead." Tom frowns, empathy in his eyes. "He and Cindy were up all night screaming. He said some bad shit. Kind of shit you can't take back. I couldn't hear quite as much from her side, but it didn't sound good." He shakes his head and returns to a demanding look. "Stay out of it."
"You don't stay out of shit," Drew says.
"Because I know what I'm doing."
Tom tries to shrug it off but there's worry all over his face. He and Pete are foster brothers. It's easy to forget since they look nothing alike, but they fight like brothers and they care about each other in that I love you enough to tell you I hate you because we're family way.
Was Drew right? Do the guys talk about each other because they like to gossip? It sure seems like Tom likes to gossip.
But there's something in his eyes, and in Drew's eyes too.
They really do care.
***
"I haven't seen you in a million years." Meg throws her arms around me and squeezes tight.
"More like five days."
"It sucks we don't have any classes together." She bites a piece of salmon sashimi in half.
"It was bound to happen eventually." I glance at the guys in the band. They're all sitting at the table together—even Pete—and whispering about something.
Meg follows my gaze to the guys. She leans in close and lowers her voice. "Are you really going to be okay living with Drew?"
"Better than Nadeen."
Apprehension flares in her expression. "What if he brings another girl home?"
I clear my throat. "That crush is ancient history."
"I'll do you a favor and not call you on that today."
My cheeks flush. "Thank you." An immediate change of subject is the best way to avoid any further discussion of my feelings for Drew. "How's everything with Miles?"
A dreamy look spreads over Meg's face. "It's like paradise spending the day with him up in Malibu." The dreamy look fades. "Of course, it means I have to spend all day Sunday studying."
"Small price to pay for paradise."
Someone clears his throat. Sure enough, it's Tom, calling our attention.
Okay, fine. Meg and I join the discussion at the table.
Tom nods to the bottles of liquor. "We're going to play a game: truth, dare, or drink. Except for Miles. He's stuck with truth or dare."
Strum Your Heart Out (Sinful Serenade #2) Page 6