Rock My Heart (Luminescent Juliet #4)

by Jean Haus

  In Riley’s car, not wanting to discuss the interview, I keep the conversation about her gig on Saturday night, asking about their music set. Luckily, she spends most of the ride describing why she choose each song.

  As she pulls into the parking lot of the bar where Sharon works, panic erupts in me at the realization Gabe may be here. I’m still in shock over the other night, especially at my response to him. Between the interview shock and my lingering lust shock, I’m not emotionally prepared to face Gabe.

  “What are we doing here?” I blurt.

  Riley smiles over her shoulder at me in the back seat. “Best burgers ever. Unless you don’t want burgers?”

  “Um…burgers are fine.” I mumble, wanting to ask about Gabe but not daring.

  Inside, the place is half-full of people eating. My eyes scan the room while I follow Romeo and Riley to a table. So far so good, Gabe’s not in sight. After my stressful morning and awful meeting, I don’t want to deal with the feelings he evokes. Or face the fact that we’ve come to a fork in the road in our friendship, because although I’d been certain he didn’t want anything to do with me in that way, the other night clearly proved my opinion wrong. But I’m still utterly confused about our mutual desire, as in what does he exactly want? A fling? A one-night stand? A relationship? More importantly, what do I want? Because even the thought of anything semi-serious freaks me out. I have a plan, have had a plan for years. And it has never included anything like the fire between Gabe and I.

  Riley hands us all a menu from in between the ketchup and mustard, then asks me, “So are you dressing up on Saturday?”

  I pause glancing at the short menu of burgers and sandwiches. Though Sunday is Halloween, the gig is in celebration of the holiday. “I’m not sure. It’s not really my thing.”

  “Me either,” Romeo says.

  Riley elbows him in the ribs. “You’re dressing up.”

  He groans.

  “Your band is dressing up?” I ask Riley.

  She nods. “You’re going to have to wait and see as what.”

  “The suspense may kill me,” I say with a touch of sarcasm.

  Riley laughs. “Well, it is going to be awesome.”

  Sharon steps up to our table, holding an order pad. The sight of her reminds me of Gabe again, since she called while we were in the middle of hot and heavy. I push the thought away, I’m not going to be rude or standoffish to this woman because I’m slightly—very—mortified by my—really my body’s—behavior.

  She smiles wide and takes a pen from her apron. “Hey, guys. How’s everyone doing?” Petite with brown hair shot with gray and deep laugh lines, she appears older than my mother, though I’m guessing she’s around the same age. Yet Sharon’s smile and bright eyes are far more welcoming than my mother’s polished look.

  “Awesome,” Riley says. “And you?”

  Sharon shrugs. “Working a double, so tired but paying the bills.” She turns toward me. “Thanks a bunch for helping move Gabe’s stuff the other night, April. Without you, he probably would have lived out of those boxes for months.”

  I flick the edge of the plastic menu. “It was no big deal.”

  Sharon shakes her head. “No. It was very nice of you.”

  I can’t help a blush, looking down at my menu. When I look up, Romeo is watching me with a critical expression. Great. Sharon’s revelation probably put more ideas in his head.

  We all order burgers, and then the onslaught comes. Riley asks question after question about the meeting. Knowing she is interested in my life as a friend, I answer as honest as possible, but I gloss over anything related to my group therapy or Dr. Medina’s comment. Neither are topics I’m prepared to confront with anyone, except maybe Gabe…well, at least before we almost had sex on his kitchen counter.

  Romeo mostly listens and watches, which makes me aware that he knows that something is off. Although, I present my perfect self to him, he knows me quite well. When Riley takes a break from her interrogation and heads to the restroom, he raises his brows and waits patiently.

  I play with my straw bending it back and forth, then let out a sigh. “Near the end of the interview, Dr. Medina made a comment basically saying that my counseling style is paint by numbers from textbooks.”

  He leans over the table, his eyes intense. “Who cares what she thinks? She is only a professor, probably hasn’t counseled people in years. You got the interview for the master’s program. And I for one know, have seen on several Sundays, that you’re not paint by numbers. You care, you care a lot.” He sits back. “So forget her.”

  I tilt my head and nod. “I guess you’re right.”

  He smirks. “I’m always right.”

  I let out a “harrumph.”

  He leans forward again. “So what is going on with you and Gabe?”

  My gaze narrows on his knowing look. I do not need to go into this today. “I already told you we’re just friends,” I say in a low voice.

  His expression stays skeptical.

  Riley plops down.

  “So,” I say in a conspiring tone. “Have any ideas what I could dress as?”

  She certainly does, enough to fill the rest of the time between burgers and the bill. And unfortunately, after all her brainwork, it looks like I’m going to have to dress up.

  Ugh. It already seems like I’m dressing up as someone other than me every damn day.

  Chapter 19

  ~April~

  I feel lost, adrift on a sea without a boat, about to drown. Everything is twisting, doing one eighties, changing, and transforming before my eyes and behind my back. I’ve been lying around my apartment since having lunch with Romeo and Riley, more than eight hours ago. I can’t get a handle on anything: not myself, nor the situation with Gabe, and definitely not my education or future. Though I know Dr. Medina didn’t intend to, her comment has me second-guessing everything, especially my capabilities.

  The meeting ruined my confidence, not only in what I have learned the last three and a half years, but also in all of my plans for the future. I’m suddenly wondering if I’m a square peg trying to fit in a round hole. Certainly, not everyone ends up in the career best suited for them. Yet if I’m not cut out for counseling, it could hinder people who need help, and that’s the last thing I want to do.

  So I’ve been trying to figure out how big the space is between reality and my desire, my need for the career. I’ve laid on my bed or the couch. I stare at the walls or ceiling and think, but I’m having a hard time seeing past my want to reality. I have planned and wanted this career for too long. So long, it has become part of who I am, who I need to be, and I can’t imagine giving it up and walking away.

  Somewhere past eight at night, I’m lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling when a knock sounds at the door.

  Oh no, that has to be my other problem.

  Gabe.

  I close my eyes, wishing him away.

  The knocking grows louder.

  Not wanting to deal with the dilemma, I roll into the couch, smashing my face in a cushion.

  “April! Open the door!” he yells, knocking the loudest yet.

  I finally get off the couch and go whip open the door.

  He grins at me.

  His stupid, lovely grin deflates some of my anger and serves as a huge warning sign. I cannot resist this man. Those giddy bubbles that his mere presence produces rise up inside of me, even with the last hours of depression. My response makes me more depressed. Obviously, I’m nowhere near conquering my infatuation.

  “I’m sleeping, not feeling well, going back to bed,” I say, shutting the door.

  He stops the door with his foot. “You sick?” His eyes are troubled as they roam over my wrinkled shorts and T-shirt.

  “No,” I sigh, not being able to lie to him. “Just in the head.”

  His head tilts in question.

  I lean on the edge of the door. “It’s about school, and I really don’t want to talk about it.”


  “Well then,” he says, pushing a bottle of wine into my hands. He picks up the pot that I gave him. “A little dinner and booze might get your mind off of it.” He breezes past me.

  I shut the door, none too gently, and follow him to the kitchen. “Did you hear—” I pause both speaking and moving to stare at him. He’s dressed in a slick pair of designer jeans frayed with holes, a wide black belt, and a long sleeve, white button up shirt. The sides of his hair have been pulled back into a small ponytail, which should make him look like some sort of mafia douchebag, but instead it reveals his harsh lined jaw and cheekbones. Though he always looks good in his normal jeans and white T-shirts—kind of like a modern surfer James Dean—he looks good like this too, real good.

  “What are you wearing?” I finally ask, stunned with his presence in my little kitchen.

  “Oh, yeah, thanks for reminding me.” He reaches for the top button of the shirt. “We had a photo shoot. Hate those things, but with Peyton behind the lens”—I’ve learned from Riley that Sam’s new girlfriend Peyton works for the school newspaper and went on the summer tour with the guys—“they’re not as bad as usual.” He peels off the shirt to reveal a tank top.

  Oh, hell no. I can’t be around in him in that thing. His lean, hard muscles take up the entire kitchen. I can see the indentations of his damn six-pack through the worn material of the tank. My fingers curl with a sudden, strong want.

  He holds the shirt out with one finger. “Got a hanger? It’s Justin’s, and would probably cost me an entire paycheck from the garage.”

  “Sure,” I say, keeping my eyes from the sight of his body. I set the bottle of wine on the counter and take the shirt, careful not to touch his hand. I hang the shirt in the hall closet. When I come back to the kitchen, Gabe is at the stove, facing away from me.

  The tattoo on the back of his neck is crossed drumsticks. Outlined and shadowed, they almost look real. Thinking of how important drumming must be to him, I’d like to touch the ink, maybe even trace the lines with my tongue.

  Where the heck did that come from?

  He glances over a muscled shoulder at me. “Hope you like pasta,” he says with another panty melting grin before going back to stir whatever is in the pot.

  I lean on the counter that encloses the kitchen, worried about my sanity. “I’m not very hungry.”

  “Did you already eat?” he asks in a tone that says he didn’t think of the possibility.

  “No.”

  “Then you’re hungry.” Without asking me, he starts searching inside the cupboards and takes out two short glasses. After setting them on the counter, he twists the cap off the bottle of wine and pours. He comes around the counter and hands me a glass.

  “I’m not much of a drinker,” I say, thinking that if I lose any of my inhibitions, I’m going to attack him.

  He lifts his glass and clinks it with mine. “It’s strawberry wine.”

  My brows lower. I turn the bottle around. Yup. Cheap strawberry wine. “We’re not splitting that bottle,” I say in a tone of disbelief.

  He lowers his glass. “And why not?”

  “Because…because,” I sputter, taking in his sculpted chest and warm brown eyes and his sexy full upper lip. My gaze comes back to his and his expression changes from light and carefree to dark and ominous as he watches me. “It’s not a good idea.”

  “Why not?” he demands in a silk shot tone.

  “Because… ” I mutter, backing away.

  “Because why?” he demands, following me, staring at my outfit in an entirely different way than earlier, and definitely noticing my braless state.

  I back up faster. “It’s just not.”

  “Why?”

  My back hits the wall next to the bathroom.

  “Why?” This time the demand is harsh.

  “Last time I drank, I hit on you!”

  He comes within inches from me, his eyes blazing into mine. “What’s stopping you now?”

  “Um…” It’s really, really hard to think with him so close.

  He puts his hands on the wall, one on each side of my head. “I won’t stop you,” he says in a low tone that hits me in the gut. His lips hover above mine, and I’m tipsy from just his mouth and body so close.

  I blink at him. “Ah…”

  His eyes bore into mine.

  Damn. I want him. Those eyes. Those lips. That body. I want all of him. Other people do this. All the time. Why can’t I? His eyes are telling me I can. My body is telling me I should. My brain is trying to tell me something else. Lots of something elses.

  He lowers his lashes and leans closer but waits.

  My body yearns, definitely buzzes at his close proximity. He waits and I want him so bad, lust hits me like a gust of hot wind.

  Screw my brain.

  For once, I’m taking what I want, especially after all the despair of the last hours.

  Leaping at him, I grab his jaw and kiss him with all the desire that’s been building inside of me for over a month, and he kisses me back just as fierce. With his hands on my back, mine twisted in his hair until it’s free and clutched in my hands, the kiss is long and deep and sexily messy. When we come up for air, it doesn’t last long. Gabe practically slams me onto the wall and we go for round two.

  I refuse to think. I just go with the sensations. The muscles under my palms. The hard body flush on mine. The taste of his lips. His hot hands on my skin. His thick desire against my stomach. His harsh breath in my mouth.

  I feel wild. Uncontrollable. And free.

  I feel alive.

  Something I haven’t felt in ages.

  He kisses my jaw, my ear, my neck while my palms learn the landscape of his muscled back and hot, smooth skin. When he sucks at my neck, my response is to yank him by the waist even closer, pressing against him. At the contact, a four-letter word is huffed on my collarbone.

  Then he’s kissing me again, moving his hands under my shirt, skimming my ribs and breasts as he raises the shirt. He breaks the kiss to yank the shirt over my head and drops it to the floor. The wall is cool on my back as I grasp his hips to steady myself. He leans back, his gaze caressing my skin from stomach to face.

  His eyes lower to watch his fingers trail around the piecing at my bellybutton. “You’re so damn beautiful, it almost hurts.” He continues watching his hands skim until he’s cupping my breasts. “So fucking beautiful,” he sighs, and that sigh hits me between the legs.

  When he lowers his mouth and covers a breast, my fingers dig into his shoulders. The sensation of his mouth is amazing. My memories, mostly awkward and self-conscious, of teenage groping are nothing like this. Gabe flicking his tongue over my nipple feels right, so dang right that I groan.

  Wow. His lips are magic. Everywhere. They’re melting me in a pile of lust goo.

  In the next second, he has my legs wrapped around his waist, his mouth on mine, and my back off the wall. His lovely, magic lips drain every last brain cell to the point that I’m startled to find myself lowered to the bed. Body humming, I wait and want with a catch of breath.

  Leaning over me, Gabe raises a hand to fan out my hair above me. He drags his fingers over my ribs to my waist, then leans back into crouch, taking my shorts with him. He pauses above me, his eyes wandering over me, a sexy lock of hair almost obscuring his view.

  I’m still, letting him examine me in the soft light—the only source coming from a small lamp on my dresser. Obviously, he likes to look. Slowly. My feminine pride should be screaming at being objectified, but the warmth and lust in his gaze keeps my body humming. The intensity in his eyes has my breath hitching. He leans forward, hands on my thighs, sliding up and pushing them apart. I’m not sure what is hotter, his gaze or his touch.

  His eyes grow scorching as his hands slide to the top of my thighs and both his thumbs brush me. “So wet,” he murmurs in a hoarse voice. “Just for me.”

  His touch, holy hell, his touch is hotter! My breath hitches more at both his words and his care
ss.

  He comes back over me, hands skimming my ribs, his mouth finding a breast as fingers slide into me.

  “Ahhhhha,” Comes out of me in a scale of awkward notes.

  His mouth and hands play my body like an instrument, and I do lose my mind, twisting and turning and thrashing in the messy bed. I grip and pull at his shoulders, astounded at the response he gets from my body, astounded that I can feel so much passion, so much want. Dry, boring me, on fire. Though I’d like to stay under his touch forever, it doesn’t take long before I’m melting into the tangled sheets and gasping into the room. Opening my eyes, I’m not surprised to find him watching me.

  I do surprise him—if the slight widening of his eyes is an indication—by tugging at his tank. “Take it off,” I demand in a hoarse voice. I’m done with the wanting. I’ve become determined to have it all.

  Though his face stays intense, a cocky grin curls his mouth as he pushes up on his knees and sheds the shirt in one quick swoop.

  “The pants too,” I say in a low tone, drinking in lean, hard muscle, my fingers itching to touch.

  His gaze narrows as he flicks open the buttons.

  Button fly jeans. Hot, hot, hot. Thank you jean makers somewhere in the world.

  My mouth turns dry as he stands at the end of the bed, shedding both pants and boxers, then plucking out a condom from his wallet.

  Like him, I revel in the naked sight in front of me. He’s beautiful long, lean, sculpted muscle from shoulder to thighs, and his evident desire for me…marvelous. I haven’t seen a penis in the flesh since—well, never, and it seems that I’ve been missing out. On a lot.

  He rolls on the condom—and whoa, him holding himself is so hot that my toes curl in the sheets—then he kneels back on the bed over me, and my heart and lust go into overdrive.

  This is happening. Now. I’m having sex. With Gabe.

  Amazing. Incredible. Insane.

  My hands grip his biceps. Oh, how I want this, have secretly wanted it for longer than I’d admit, even to myself. And now it’s finally happening.