He's happy for me.
He loves me.
But he doesn't really need his crotch near mine.
It's not that he's gay. Adam likes women. And he likes sex. Just not enough to actually do something about his difficulty rising to the occasion.
I blink back a tear. God, this is fucked. I still love him but I hate him for all those years. For the constant rejection.
I take a step backwards. "I wish I could stay." Well, I do and I don't. It's hopelessly complicated and impossibly simple. "I have that meeting."
"Of course." He walks me to the door. "Maybe we could get dinner one night after work."
"Sure."
His fingers brush my arm.
I feel nothing.
I lean in for another awkward hug.
There's no heat in our embrace. It's almost impossible to believe we were boyfriend/girlfriend a mere two weeks ago.
It's almost impossible to believe I spent four years, my entire adult life, with this man.
But it's equally hard to believe that I'm leaving now.
I can see his heart breaking again.
I can feel his pain.
I nod one more goodbye and I leave.
I'm numb the entire walk to the car.
But when I climb inside, I feel more relieved than anything.
I'm not in love with Adam anymore.
He's a friend. That's all.
Thinking of him does nothing to speed my heart, even if I replay one of our rare rolls in the sheets.
He's not mine anymore.
And I want it that way.
But it still hurts, not having someone to call.
8
Lacey
Fuck, this is a house.
An expensive house.
I check the address on my phone three times, but there isn't a doubt in my mind.
Mal doesn't get details wrong.
This big, beautiful blue house must be his place. His parents' place, I guess. But the only car in the driveway is his black sedan.
It's curious.
Mal is the kind of guy who does exactly what he wants.
And gets exactly what he wants.
He must want to live with his parents.
But why?
Ahem. I'm here as a director first and a potential sexual partner second. I can't think about Mal like this until we have the video right. Or at least on the way to right.
I focus on thoughts of music videos and footage as I grab my bags and step out of the car.
The sun is already bright, but the beach breeze keeps the weather temperate. It's beautiful here. The sky is a brilliant blue. The air smells of salt. A few blocks away, the waves crash into the beach with a quiet roar.
It takes far too long for me to cross the street and walk the steps to Mal's place.
Somehow, I knock on the door.
My heartbeat picks up.
My breath hitches.
It's no big deal being alone with Mal. In his house. Steps from his bedroom.
This is work.
Not at all a big deal.
Footsteps move closer. "Hey."
That's his deep, steady voice. God, his voice is sexy. All he has to say is hey and my knees are threatening to crumble.
"Hey. It's me." I hug my camera bag. Am I me to Mal? We only barely know each other, but then I don't think many people show up at his house.
I miss being a me. I want to be someone's me…
Maybe not Mal's, but somebody's. One day…
Not yet.
Everything with Adam is still too fresh.
Mal pulls the door open and motions come in.
There's Mal, standing in the frame, his jeans slung low around his hips, his t-shirt snug around his shoulders.
His piercing blue eyes fix on mine.
"Thank you." I step inside and move into the foyer. The kitchen/dining room/living room combo is dark. It takes my eyes a minute to adjust. "Where should I put my stuff?"
"Where do you want to do this?" His voice is even.
Which is good.
We're both professionals.
We're here to work.
"It's your place. Wherever is comfortable." Fuck. That still sounds like an invitation for sex. Not that I'd turn him down if he asked.
It's been such a long time since I've been fucked. No, I don't think I've ever been fucked. I've only been with Adam. Our sex was sometimes good but it was never great. It's never blown my mind. It's never made my entire body buzz the way it buzzed in Mal's bed.
He presses the door closed. "Kitchen is good."
"Sure. Kitchen is good." I set my camera bag next to the counter and set my messenger bag on top of the ceramic surface. This is nice tile. It's clean. The entire kitchen is sparkling.
The entire room is disturbingly clean. No cups or plates on the coffee table. No clothes or blankets on the big leather couch. No consoles or DVD cases on the floor in front of the widescreen TV.
And the deck.
"Is that a deck with a view of the beach?" It is. It's beautiful. I want to be there. I want to permanently live there.
"Last time I checked."
"Oh. Well. We should work." I turn back to the kitchen and start unpacking my bag.
"We have all day. Fuck, I'm free until next Saturday."
"Hot date?"
"Me and a few hundred screaming women."
"You have a show next week?"
He nods. "You sound surprised."
I clear my throat. It's not like I follow Dangerous Noise news religiously. More… casually. Like someone who only goes to church on Christmas and Easter. "I thought that would come up. During my research."
"It's a secret appearance. One set, four songs. We get in and out."
"Sounds fun."
He moves into the kitchen. His eyes fix on mine. "It could go that way."
"You don't have fun performing?"
"The twenty minutes on stage, yeah. But the other shit…" He shakes his head with distaste. His expression is still impossibly even.
"The other shit…?"
"Musicians are all drama. You must know that."
I laugh. I do know that. "You don't seem like the type."
"You can't avoid it."
You can't. I open my laptop and pull up the video. Truth be told, I don't need to be here to show Mal this footage. I don't need to be here to discuss our new concepts—we've more or less got them outlined. I'm changing one of them, but I could easily pitch that in email or over the phone.
Mal is smart.
He must know that.
Which means he invited me here for a reason.
Ahem.
"This is it. Finished. Locked. And this time, I don't want to hear any of that good shit. I want to hear that it's perfect or I want a specific criticism." I turn the laptop to face him. "I spent all week working on this. Every frame is in place."
His lips curl into a tiny smile as he looks up at me. "Noted."
Here goes nothing.
I take a deep breath and hit play.
His eyes stay focused on the screen. They stay beautiful and unreadable.
I'm not sure why those butterflies in my stomach are rising up into my throat—if it's because I want his respect as a fellow artist or if it's because I want him throwing me on that couch and fucking my brains out.
Or both.
I respect Mal as a writer. That's most of why I love him. His persona. Whatever.
My crush is intellectual as much as it's physical.
Intellectual respect is sexy.
Anyone who says otherwise is boring or stupid.
Mal continues watching in silence.
His eyes are fixed on the screen. He's focused. Interested.
The song trails off into the outro. The video is over.
He looks up at me, his expression blank. "You look nervous."
"And how did you feel when you were first playing for some big executive?"
"I don't get nervous."
"Not about performing."
I play with the soft fabric of my dress. "Well… that's very nice for you, being some sort of weirdo who doesn't get nervous."
"Didn't say that."
"How can you not get nervous before you step onstage for thousands of people?"
"I know my shit."
"Oh. I guess that makes sense."
He nods.
I nod back.
He holds his poker face.
"Malcolm Strong, give me feedback right now."
He smiles. "Lacey Waltz, you're fucking adorable all impatient and on edge."
"Now."
"It's perfect."
Perfect.
It's perfect.
Mal thinks the video is perfect.
"I'm going to send it to our manager. He'll get everything finalized. This could be live by the end of the month." His smile widens. "You need to sit down?"
"Uh-huh." Sitting. It's good. It's a good thing to do when your legs are spaghetti.
I take a step towards the tall stool, but I don't land quite right. Fuck. I reach for the counter.
Immediately, Mal is there, behind me.
He catches me.
His arms are around me.
His chest is against my back.
His breath is warm against my neck. "Should have told you to sit first."
"Yeah." My inhale is sharp. My thoughts are in circles. This is really happening. That video, the one I edited, is going to be live.
With me in it.
For everyone to see.
It's amazing.
And horrifying.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Yeah. Just—"
"Come here." He slides his arm around me, lifts me to my feet, and helps me to the couch.
"I'm an actual damsel in distress."
"You're in shock." He sets me on the couch and stands between my legs. "It's normal."
"Have you ever been in shock?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"It's complicated."
I pull my legs onto the couch and lean back on my heels. "You're a performer who doesn't get jitters?"
He takes the seat on the couch next to me. His knee bumps my thigh. "When I'm onstage, I'm the one in control. I practice enough that I know those songs like the back of my hand. I know every word, every note, every fucking pose Ethan is going to hit."
"Your brother?"
"You're a fan. You know."
I nod. "He's different than you. At least, it seems that way."
"From your research?"
"I've been to shows. You two… you have a fun dynamic, the stoic older brother and the eager younger brother. But you probably know that."
He nods.
"Is that planned?"
"We have a rough sketch of our banter. Mostly, we let it happen. Otherwise you get that stilted—" He adopts the awkward voice and tone of an up-and-coming performer. "Hey, uh, we're in Los Angeles, right? We love the City of Angels."
"No one calls it that."
"Exactly." He turns towards me. His knees spread ever so slightly. His eyes pass over me. Slowly. Then they're on mine. "Music was never my passion."
My heart pounds. The desperate fangirl inside me claws at my throat. Mal is sharing with me.
But there's more to it than that.
He's not just Mal, the Dangerous Noise singer.
He's Mal, the guy I met at work.
The guy I really like.
The guy behind the image.
Not that I'm really sure who the guy behind the image is.
"That's hard to believe," I say.
"Ethan loved playing. He used to write songs and ask me to listen to them. Even the hundredth time, he'd play with that same enthusiasm. I wanted to be a part of that. And I wanted to help him. A band needs a singer. And anybody can sing."
"You play rhythm."
"Easier than lead."
"You play rhythm because it's easy?"
"No, that's just how I started. Ethan was eager to teach someone. So I learned."
"You really love him?"
"He's family."
"Not everyone loves their family."
"You?" He asks.
"Uh… it's complicated." I bite my tongue. I can feel it. My legs too. The shock is settling in. I can handle that the video is going live—with me in it. The video I edited is going live. This is an amazing fucking step in my career.
"Complicated is never good."
"Yeah. I… I love my dad. With my mom… I love her, but—"
"It's complicated?"
"Yeah. Um… this place is empty. And quiet. And clean. Are you this clean?"
"I use a service."
"Every day?"
He chuckles. "No, once a month."
"And it… it stays this clean?"
"It's not magic. I have to put things away. Wipe them down." He turns towards me. His eyes light up as his lips curl into a tiny smile. "I can spell it out, step by step if you need a refresher. Based on your apartment…"
"It's not that bad."
He shrugs it might be that bad.
"Asshole."
His smile widens. He laughs. Not that chuckle but an actual laugh.
Mal likes me.
He does.
It's hard to believe, but the signs are obvious.
"You went a long way from letting your brother teach you guitar to here. You must love being in the band. Or is it really all for him?"
Again, he gives me a long, slow once-over. His eyes linger on my legs, my crotch, my chest. Then they're on mine, and he's staring at me with an intense expression. "Fame is weird and touring can be a drag, but it's still better than any job I've ever had."
I nod. "But it's still not your passion?"
"I've never thought of it in those terms."
"Maybe some part of it fulfills you and the rest is crap you have to put up with. Like any other job."
He nods. "I love writing songs."
"Music or lyrics?"
"Both. They're different… I don't know. You do something this long, it's hard to remember why you started. You lose track of that lust for life. It becomes routine."
"I love shooting music videos. Well, I'm sure I'll have to shoot commercials too. But that's okay. I love being behind the camera, getting everything aligned to create a moving image. It's magic."
"Every day?"
"Even when it's exhausting."
He nods. "For me… the little things wear me down. I start to take it for granted." His eyes go to the floor. "I'm sure you've heard it all before."
I shake my head. "Most of the musicians that work with us treat me like the help."
"You are the help."
"Double asshole."
He laughs. "I know what you mean."
I look around the living room. "Do you?"
"You calling me a spoiled rich boy?"
"If the multi-million-dollar beach house fits."
"My parents' beach house."
"It seems empty."
"They're on location. They're research scientists." His lips curl into a half smile. "But they're coming by for a visit in a few weeks. They'll be here for a while."
God, I've never seen anyone so happy to have their parents back home.
Well, comparatively. On anyone else, this expression would be mild amusement. On Mal, it's the pinnacle of joy.
I should ask about it, but the whole parents thing… it's too messy. I'm not about to share my sorry story. Better to change the subject.
"Does Ethan live here too?" I ask.
"He moved in with his girlfriend a while back. My sister too."
"Your sister moved in with Ethan's girlfriend?"
"With her boyfriend. Fuck, they're engaged." He shakes his head. "She's twenty. She's too young to be engaged."
"But they love each other?"
"Yeah. She loves him. And he loves her, but… I don't know-"
&nb
sp; "Nobody will ever be good enough for your baby sister?"
He nods. "You calling me a cliché?"
"I, um, well, it came up while I was doing research—"
"Bullshit."
"Okay, I already knew from… well, it doesn't matter why I knew. But everyone knows about Kit and Piper. He's oh-my-God hot and she's adorable and the whole guy dating his best friend's sister thing—that's dramatic. Especially with his history."
"But you don't follow our gossip or anything."
"Yeah. Of course that." I press my lips together. "I'd never get into gossip."
"Uh-huh."
"Really. Scout's honor." I hold up my four fingers. Is that the Scout gesture? I have no idea.
Mal laughs. Slowly, his eyes pass over me. He runs his fingers over my knee. Down my calf.
I press my lips together to suppress a moan.
"Feeling back in your legs?" He looks up at me with this expression that screams cause I'd to spread them and permanently move in to the space between them.
"Yeah. I think reality is starting to sink in." I smooth my already smooth dress. "You, um, you never really answered my question. Any of them."
"Ask."
"What is it you love about performing?"
"There's this feeling when you write a song. You connect in this way—"
"It's intimate?"
"Yeah. Being on stage too. At least, with the way I sing." He chuckles. "It's not on purpose."
"Scout's honor?"
"Not at first. It was just how I sang. But once I realized the effect it had on women—"
I nod. "Got groupies in your bed every night?"
He cocks a brow. "I recall this enthusiastic brunette putting her job on the line because she was convinced I wasn't the kind of guy who fucked groupies."
"It was about your image."
"Still." Hi eyes meet mine. "I take advantages when I find them."
"Your songs are so personal. With that video, knowing I'll be out there. I feel naked… don't you feel like that?"
"At first. But then I realized most people, they don't look at the lyrics. They don't think about what the song means. The ones who do are the ones who fall in love with me. Not me, but that guy who tears his heart out for them."
I swallow hard. I'm exactly the person he's talking about. He must have some inkling of that. "I know what you mean."
"I'm the one in control, on stage. And I'm in charge with the band too. The other guys hate it, but they know I'm the best at running things."
"You like to be in charge." My voice drops to something much too seductive.
Dangerous Fling: A Rock Star Romance (Dangerous Noise Book 4) Page 7