by BB Miller
“That is what I remember about that night,” he whispers. “This—” He gently taps my forehead. “—is what I want to learn more about. If you’re willing.”
I nod, feeling like I’m stepping off a cliff, and his breath leaves him in a whoosh. “Yeah?” He looks as if he doesn’t quite believe me.
“Only if we can get off this floor,” I say solemnly, but with a smile playing around my lips. “And you have to let me borrow a shirt.” My stomach growls. “Oh, and if you feed me.”
He chuckles. “I’ll see what I can do. I have a couple restaurants on speed dial,” he says with a smirk that makes my heart skip a beat.
What am I getting myself into?
Matt
THE FIRST TIME I saw Lexi Shaw I knew I was in trouble. I was nineteen, still trying to figure out who the hell I was, and failing miserably. On the days when I wasn’t helping Tom in the garage, I was with his buddy, Fletcher Reid, who had supplied Tom with my first bass guitar.
Fletcher had spent his life immersed in rock and roll. He was a virtual encyclopedia of knowledge and experience, and he was a gifted musician. I didn’t appreciate any of those things at the time and didn’t realize Fletcher was teaching me things that would stick with me for my entire life.
The only thing I could appreciate about spending time in his tiny apartment was that he had a niece. A twenty-year-old hot-as-hell blond niece with long legs and tight little cutoff jean shorts that taunted me endlessly.
She was the best kind of temptation—visiting for the summer from Virginia, with plump, glossy lips that were a prominent feature in all my teenaged dreams, and absolutely, positively off-limits. Which meant, of course, I wanted her even more. Try telling a hotheaded kid like me he couldn’t have something and watch what happened.
It was the best kind of summer fling, even if it left me with a broken heart. When Lexi went back to Virginia, I fell into the kind of funk that only happened when you lose that first love.
I haven’t thought about Lexi in a long time, but now, as I stand in my closet and debate what shirt to give the delicious Tess to wear, an unfamiliar feeling churns in my gut. I think Tess Baker has the potential to do a whole lot more than break my heart.
I stifle a groan at the sight of Tess half-dressed and inspecting the picture frames on the shelf in the living room. Her now destroyed shirt flares open, revealing just enough of that smooth skin to drive me out of my mind. Now that I know how she tastes, I only want more.
As if she can sense my presence, she wraps her arms around her waist, turning in my direction. For a few torturous seconds, we stare at each other, the undeniable heat radiating between us, as she looks her fill of me, and I do the same.
My throat is dry, and my cock aches even though I’ve just had her. I hold up the two shirts with a shrug. “Vintage Harley or a dress shirt.” Her brows lift in surprise. “Seems I’m fresh out of Landon Ravine and Vandal T-shirts.”
I could get addicted to the playfulness in her eyes, and she doesn’t disappoint. “Well, lucky for you, I have a bunch of them,” she fires back at me.
“I do have to say this look . . .” I nod in her direction. “ . . . I like a lot.”
She tugs on either side of the shirt, trying to cover her ample breasts. “I loved this shirt,” she announces with a hint of annoyance.
“I can get you another one.”
“No.” There’s defiance in her voice I don’t like.
I narrow my eyes. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to owe you anything.”
Another slap to the face. “Is that what you think?” Crossing the room, I hold both shirts out to her, her eyes widening as I lean forward, the thin thread I’m holding onto dangerously close to breaking. “I have no expectations. None. You don’t owe me a damn thing.”
Pressing the shirts toward her, I wait until she takes them before putting some much-needed distance between us. The kitchen is safer. Much safer. Hauling open the junk drawer, I rifle through the takeout menus, trying not to steal a glance at her as she tugs the T-shirt over her head.
“Is this your dad?” My hands still on a Mexican menu, and I slowly meet her gaze. My heart hammers in my chest, and I fight the voice in my head that has always told me not to get too close. The less they know, the better. It’s been my mantra for as long as I can remember, and it’s served me well. But Tess does things to me. Things that make me want to silence the nagging voices.
“Essentially. Yes.”
Her lips tighten and she sets the picture frame gently back onto the shelf. “Essentially?”
The silence drifts between us as I struggle to find a way to explain something I don’t share with many people, least of all with a woman. It’s not as if I advertise this part of my life. It tends to bring up nasty memories I’d like to keep dead and buried.
Gripping the edge of the counter, I give her the truth. “He adopted me.”
She can’t hide the shock on her face, and she stumbles over her words. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”
“Don’t be sorry,” I interrupt her quickly. “Tom Logan is the only reason I’m standing here and not six feet under or worse.”
Fiddling with the ends of her dark hair, she looks lost for words. “There are worse things than being dead?” she finally asks, her voice tentative.
I feel the tension in my jaw ratchet up a notch. She probably hasn’t got a clue what it’s like to live like I have, Stanford grad that she is. Judging from the pictures of her family in her office, I’d hazard to guess she’s lived a pretty sheltered life. Not that I would wish my childhood on anyone, least of all Tess. “A lot of things are worse.”
“What happened?” She shakes her head, heat blooming over her cheeks as she stares at the fascination of the area rug. “Never mind.”
“I don’t know who my biological father is, and I don’t want to know,” I blurt out. “The woman who gave birth to me killed herself when I was twelve.” She glances back at me, her pretty mouth dropping open slightly. “I was in and out of a few foster families, and I lived on the streets in LA for a while. Then Tom found me.”
She takes a few steps in the direction of the kitchen as I continue. “I was sixteen, living day to day, and involved in shit you don’t want to know about. Gangs, fights, petty theft.” I shake my head, cursing the memories that are always lurking. “If Tom hadn’t brought me to the group home, hadn’t taken a chance on me, I don’t know where I’d be. Not here with you, that’s for sure.”
I can see the telltale signs of sympathy that I loathe, and I can’t help closing the distance between us, taking her face between my hands. “Don’t feel sorry for me. Not you. I didn’t tell you so you’d look at me like I’m a charity case.”
“Then why did you tell me?” She takes hold of both of my wrists. The intensity in her eyes just about does me in.
“Because I don’t want secrets. They have a way of ruining everything.”
Brushing the pad of my thumb over her cheek, she leans into my touch, closing her eyes. “No secrets seems like a good rule,” she breathes, leaning against my torso, her hands tightening around my wrists like a lifeline.
Resting my forehead against hers, I let my eyes slide shut, feeling like the weight of the world lifted from my shoulders. “It’s a good place to start.”
An hour later, sinking back against the cushions of the sofa, I let out a satisfied groan. The weathered coffee table is strewn with the remains of the Mexican feast we’ve decimated. The conversation flowed easily and stayed far away from the minefield of my past. She’s more interested in hearing me play and listening to me talk about the places the band has traveled, and I’m happy to indulge her. Even with the insanity that surrounds Redfall, it’s a much safer conversation for me to have.
I didn’t expect playing for Tess would hit me like it did. There’s something powerful and intimate about picking up my guitar and playing only for her. Letting her see a side of me that isn’t drowned ou
t by screaming fans and harsh lights. It’s just me and the bass—raw and focused solely on her.
“I think I ate my weight in nachos.” Tess stretches her legs out beside me, a barrier of pillows strategically placed between us. Once the food arrived, she seemed to make a concentrated effort to put some distance between us. I don’t like it, but I think that’s part of the reason she did it. At least I know I’m not the only one affected. Her not-so-subtle display of licking salsa verde from her fingers is something that will stay with me for a long time.
“Almost as good as Mexico City.”
“Jerk.”
“And the shrimp aguachile ceviche at this hole-in the-wall café in Puerto Morelos . . . Man.” It doesn’t take long before a pillow hits my head. Leaning up, I hold her gaze, stuffing the pillow behind my head to get more comfortable.
“Now you’re just bragging. Is there any place you haven’t been, world traveler?”
“Lots of places, and enough about me. Let’s talk about you, Cardinal. Where have you been?” Her eyes widen a bit, and I like that I can shock her just a little too much. “What? Surprised the guy who only has a GED knows anything about Stanford?”
“You know cardinal is the color not the—”
“Not the bird. I know.” I shake my head, settling back against the pillows.
“You know, sometimes you look at me like I amuse you.”
“Is that right?”
She twists her long hair back, the Harley T-shirt stretched across her plump tits, giving me a perfect view. “The little smirk of yours, don’t think I don’t see that.”
“Never said a thing, did I?”
Leaning forward, I reach for one of the water bottles on the table, drawing in a shaky breath as her fingers graze unexpectedly over my heated skin. “What’s this one for?” I know which tat she’s tracing, a matrix of black double-sided arrows inked on the inside of my wrist.
I turn to face her, holding her curious gaze. “Why don’t you tell me what you think it’s for?”
“You don’t really like to talk about yourself, do you?” She tilts her head.
“Right back at you. Don’t think I didn’t see the butterfly.”
“You saw that?” Her voice gets softer and her eyes grow wide as she traces her fingers in an aching temptation over my skin.
“Hiding. Under all that gorgeous hair. Why go to the trouble to get a tat if you’re not going to show it off?”
She swallows hard, as if she’s trying to rein in some emotion that’s lingering just under the surface. The last thing I want to do is make her uncomfortable, but I want to know more—her secrets, her fears—so I tell her about the tat.
Linking my fingers with hers, I trace over the lines of ink. “This one is a reminder that everything is connected. The past affects the present and the future.” She breaks my gaze with a subtle nod, her eyes tracking over my arm. “Tell me about the butterfly.”
Glancing at me once more, her eyes glass over, brimming with unshed tears. “It’s for my sister.”
“You lost her?” She doesn’t need to answer. I recognize that look. Seen it too many times over the years. Haunting memories that fade but never really leave you in peace. The light brush of her fingers continues to fire across my skin, and she centers back on the chaos of ink on my arm.
Even though I know she’s avoiding the question, I focus on the feel of her soft fingers against my skin, a hungry need growing with each stroke. “We don’t have to talk about it.” While she continues her exploration of my tattoos, I take in the curve of her neck, those lips I want to taste again, and the sway of her jet-black hair framing her face.
I wonder if she can hear my heart hammering, if she realizes how fucking beautiful she is. “You’ve got a butterfly too?” She’s clearly amused at the bright tat that rests beneath a series of music notes on my bicep. “There’s got to be a story there.”
“That’s just pure stupidity. Lost a bet with Cam.” She looks at me like I’m crazy, and I shrug.
“And he actually made you get it?”
“Can’t go back on a bet. And see? We have something in common.”
That smile of hers grips my heart. “You guys are pretty close, aren’t you?”
“Goes with the territory. You can’t spend as much time as we do together and not be.”
I can’t resist reaching to cup her cheek and tracing the pad of my thumb along her jaw. Heat replaces the amused look in her eyes, saying what words can’t. Her mouth drops open and her breathing becoming deeper. I want her mouth on me, tasting and teasing, exploring.
Her fingers dig into my arm. My cock presses against the zipper of my jeans, and it would be so easy just to take her again. “Matt . . .” It’s a needy little whimper, and I swallow back a groan, leaning away from temptation. As strong as this pull is between us, I don’t want it to be all there is.
Letting out a slow breath, I let my hand drop from the curve of her cheek. “We should get you back.”
Tessa
“Hey,” he whispers as I push up from the couch. Strong arms wrap around my waist and gently pull me back against his chest. “It has been a long day for both of us. It would be too easy to just carry you upstairs and not let you out of bed for a week. But I don’t want to do things that way with you. I don’t want to screw this up—whatever this is.”
Closing my eyes, I let myself relax into his embrace. “I don’t want to screw this up either.” I take a deep breath to center myself. “I just feel like I’m flying blind here. I don’t understand why this is so hard,” I admit, surprising myself. I feel off-kilter. One touch from him and I’m on fire. If I don’t find some balance, I could lose myself.
He chuckles. “Baby, I haven’t understood anything since I woke up after the concert. Maybe even before that.” He turns me around gently in his arms until I’m facing him. “But I want to figure it out.”
The vulnerability in his eyes makes my heart twinge, and I gently press my lips to his. “Me, too.” Another soft kiss later, and this time I’m the one pulling away when I feel his fingers begin to grip my hips more firmly. It restores my confidence. Maybe I’m not the only one who is feeling a little out of control. “Can you call me a cab?”
“Are you kidding?” he scoffs, stepping away with a wry smirk. “You think I’m just going to shove you in a cab and send you on your way?” He steps over to where some coats are hanging on pegs that jut out from the brick wall and selects a worn jean jacket.
“Here. It’s going to be colder out there now.” He offers me the jacket, and I slip it on; the flannel lining is soft and smells nicely of him, some spicy woodsy scent. I wait until he turns around and take a deep whiff of the collar. Mmmm . . .
“Ready?” He’s wearing his leather jacket and looking at me with a confused smile. Shit, I hope I didn’t moan out loud.
“Yep. Let’s go.”
We descend the killer stairs, and he stops me from getting on his bike again. “No, we’ll take this.” He gestures toward the glossy black Camaro. Once ensconced in the soft black leather seats, my grin widens at the sound of the engine.
“You said your dad had one of these?” He glances over at me while we wait for the creaky gate to open.
“Yeah. It was his pride and joy. He used to take my sister Rachel and me out for ice cream when he was home,” I say with a fond smile. “We used to pretend we were famous movie stars or something in a hot car and would wave to people as we drove by.”
“That’s a nice memory.” He turns onto Powell, heading in the direction of my office, when his grin suddenly turns into a frown. “Wait, what do you mean, ‘when he was home’? He didn’t skip out on you, did he?”
“Oh, God, no!” I realize that with what Matt has said about his background, he probably assumed the worst. “He was in the Navy—a chief petty officer. He was only on shore a few months at a time before he had to ship out again. He served in the first Gulf War on the Eisenhower when I was little. But he was—is
—a great dad.”
“Oh.” He averts his face and clears his throat. “Um, you said he sold it, why?”
My smile fades. “He didn’t want to, but they needed the money.” I rub the smooth upholstery absently. “He had just retired, and he and Mom were looking forward to spending more time together and with us kids. But my sister got sick.”
When I fall silent, lost in my memories, he looks at me hesitantly. “Rachel?”
“No, Paula. She was my oldest sister.” I sigh and look out at a line of people waiting to get into a corner restaurant. I hate talking about it. It was the first time anyone close to me died. The feel of his hand closing over mine draws my attention back to see his eyes. His look is encouraging and comfortable, and I start talking.
“It’s funny that you said your mom died when you were twelve—not funny, but an odd coincidence,” I amend swiftly. “I had just turned twelve when Paula started complaining of headaches. She had graduated from UCLA and, after a few false starts, had started her dream job with an interior design firm. At first, we thought it was just the stress of work getting to her. Mom immediately wanted her to move back home so she could baby her, but Paula was an independent cuss. There was no way she was going to crawl back to her parents’ house just because of a little stress.”
“Independent, huh? Must run in the family.”
“You have no idea,” I joke, but my levity fades. “Anyway, after a few months she finally went to the doctor. Eventually she was diagnosed; she had an inoperable brain tumor.”
“Holy shit.” His whisper drifts in the silence, and he squeezes my hand.
I take a deep breath as my office building comes into view. “She didn’t have health care, and she wasn’t a dependent on Dad’s policy anymore. Dad was able to cover her again, but the VA moves so slowly.” I shrug. “That’s why he sold his car, to help pay for some of her chemo treatments. But it was fruitless. She died before I turned thirteen.”
He finds a spot to park, and we sit in the darkness for a few moments with my hand in his. Visions of sterile hospitals, stern nurses, and my parents inconsolable during the funeral flood my memory. It had been a confusing and terrifying time. I hated seeing my parents’ sorrow and desperation while my sister wasted away in a hospital bed while the VA dragged its feet because of her “preexisting condition.” Their depression and grief following the inevitable end was even more difficult to cope with, considering I was in the midst of my own grief.