by K. Bromberg
“Between your choice of car and the way you handle her … damn.” He lets the last word trail off and I smile smugly at his compliment. “Impressive and hot.”
“Yeah, well, when your brother is a professional race car driver, you can’t shame him by being a shitty driver.” I recall the numerous driving lessons from Colton as a teenager, the constant ribbing that he was going to teach me to not drive “like a woman.”
I catch his double take in my periphery. “Race car driver, huh?”
“Yeah. Indy.” I navigate a turn up the windy road.
“Should I know him?”
“Colton Donavan?” I say his name like a question, my lips pursed as I wait to see Hawkin’s reaction.
“No shit.” He says it so casually that he earns major brownie points with me. But it’s not like he’s a slouch in the fame department either so my brother’s public lifestyle shouldn’t faze him—make him suddenly fawn all over me—like it does so many others. He falls silent for a minute as he thinks. “I don’t follow racing but know who he is. So that’s your last name, huh? I was wondering. Quinlan Donavan,” he muses more to himself than me.
And here goes part two of the Quinlan checklist of whether a man can handle me.
“Actually, no it’s not.” I glance over to catch the perplexed look on his face. “Colton wanted to make it on his own accord, not on the family name.”
“Go on.” He draws the words out. I can hear the amusement in his voice as he tries to figure out what I’m going to say next. “What is your last name then?”
“Westin.”
“Hm,” he murmurs as I can all but hear the thoughts connecting in his mind. The ones telling him that my father is the renowned film director Andy Westin. His lack of a reaction is so refreshing compared to the usual barrage of questions and requests that follow someone finding out who my dad is. “You’re like unwrapping a present. So many surprises to discover.”
You can unwrap me all you like.
“The best parts of me are hidden,” I deadpan, a lopsided smirk playing over one corner of my mouth. I love seeing his jaw fall lax in my periphery. Gotta keep him on his toes.
“Good thing I like to take my time when I open a gift. Nice and slow.” He draws the words out, a whistle falling from his lips as the tingle begins anew deep in my core. “And I always take my time untying them when they’re knotted tight. Always open the box by sliding my fingers in the seam first before I dive right in …”
How in the hell has he just seduced me and all he’s describing is a damn birthday present?
It’s best I don’t respond right now because his cologne, his unaffected responses, his just being normal is causing things inside me to zig and zag when they should be going straight.
“I bet your brother got in a lot of fights growing up.”
His comment throws me. “Why do you say that?” He points for me to turn left on another street and I steal a glance at him from behind my sunglasses.
“Well, I’m sure he spent a lot of time protecting your virtue,” Hawkin says, and I fight back the laugh that threatens when I think of the scuffles he got in with guys talking in the locker room about his little sister, then and now—Luke Mason, case in point. “Any good older brother protects their younger sibling. No questions.”
There’s something about the way he says it, the catch in his voice, that makes me feel like he’s not just talking about Colton. And of course I want to delve deeper, want to ask about Hunter because I’m not oblivious to the fact that this whole conversation has focused on me when I’d much rather have it be on him.
“You’re older than Hunter?” I ask in another attempt to learn more.
“Mm-hm … by four minutes,” he says, pointing for me to take a left turn.
“Are you guys close?”
“We’re identical twins.” I bite back the sarcastic remark on my lips about the obviousness of his statement, and how he didn’t answer the question. “Most people can’t tell us apart, especially when we dress alike.”
“I bet that was fun growing up. Does he—”
“So, you’re a TA…. What is your master’s degree in?”
“Film and television production.” I glance over to see his eyebrows raised for me to explain further. And it’s not lost on me that he’s turned the topic of conversation back on me. “I grew up watching filmmaking behind the scenes. I find it fascinating—the egos, the money, watching ideas come to fruition … the stuff that no one thinks about.”
“Well, it’s not like you didn’t have a good teacher,” he muses casually with a slight nod of his head. “No acting bug then?”
“Being in front of the camera doesn’t interest me.” I shiver at the thought. The assessing eyes and unforgiving critics. No thanks. While I’m all for being front and center in my personal life, I prefer behind the scenes in my professional one. I think of watching the media chaos that used to surround my brother when the woman he dated changed or if he got in a fight in his testosterone-fueled bachelor days. The thought of all that attention is not appealing.
“Right here,” he says pointing to a long driveway, ivy-covered walls on both sides as we drive up it. “It all makes sense now.”
“What does?” I ask, slowly getting used to his habit of speaking his internal thoughts without giving me a direction which way they are going. With most people I’d be annoyed but with Hawkin for some reason I find it endearing, a sign that his mind is running a million miles an hour although he never divulges what the other things are that occupy it.
“Your smart-ass mouth.”
“Come again?” I laugh as I pull my car to a stop in front of an expansive Tuscan-style house. I shift in my seat and remove my sunglasses so that I can study him, try to figure where exactly he’s going with this. How a conversation about my degree, my future career, has led him to a conclusion I’m sure is all wrong about me. I know I have a helluva bite, but get beneath the surface and I’m a softie to those that really know me.
“Most people walk on eggshells around me, kiss my ass”—he shrugs without apology and offers up a smirk that tugs on every part of my body yet to be awakened by him—“or want to kiss other things … just because of the music, fame, whatever you want to call it.” He looks toward the house and flicks his hand in front of him in a gesture signifying irrelevance and indifference over the whole attention aspect of his job. He brings his eyes back to mine. “But you treat me like anyone else. Give as good as you get. The chaos around me doesn’t faze you because you grew up with it. It’s kind of nice…. I like it.”
I hate the little thrill that shoots through me at his ridiculous praise but it does nonetheless. Shit, he just praised me for not fan-girling over him but if he keeps making comments like that I just might start.
“Well, it’s not like you’re a big deal or anything,” I tease with a wink. “Billboard charts are so yesterday.” I roll my eyes, loving the flash of mirth in his eyes before he snickers.
His laugh continues longer than it should and he leans his head back on the headrest. I can sense his release from whatever was eating at him in the manic sound of it. When it finally abates he closes his eyes for a moment to regain his composure, and now my curiosity has been piqued even further about the secrets he holds.
“Thanks. I needed that.” He shakes his head and then tilts it toward the house. “Want to come in?”
Warning bells sound in my head, alerting me that this is one of those first steps you can’t take back while another side of me says I’m reading way too much into the invite and to hurry up and get out of the car. And of course, my body is reacting, hand on the door handle before my head can tell it to sit still.
We exit the car together and he explains that he and the guys are renting the house while they finish up the current album. He tells me that when they are all in the same place, they mesh better, write the music quicker, are more creative.
He leads me up the steps to the front door, his ha
nd placed on my lower back. Just when his free hand touches the door handle, he pulls it back in what seems like a moment of indecision. I stand there waiting and am taken by surprise when within a beat Hawkin has my back against the wall, his body pressed close, and his mouth on mine.
I react. I don’t allow myself to question it or him this time, don’t worry myself about the ever-afters I envisioned earlier because he is here and this is now and I like to live in the moment. I don’t even think I could analyze anything if I wanted to because desire clouds my thoughts, need overwhelms my senses.
I throw myself into the embrace. Tongues dance, lips claim, and hands fist as we pour the strange emotions of the day into our kiss. There’s something different this time around and I’m not sure if it’s my willingness or whatever he’s struggling with internally but I can feel the desperation in him for some kind of connection, can taste the need as he skillfully knocks all of my senses out from beneath me.
His hands move from framing my face and slide down my rib cage, thumbs brushing over my nipples through the fabric of my shirt causing the lick of desire to inflame. I moan into his mouth as one of his hands squeezes my ass and presses me against his dick that’s begging to escape the confines of his jeans.
My body is on fire with need for this man to the point that this front porch is looking pretty damn good but I wouldn’t know for sure because my eyes are closed and already rolling back in rapture. Take me, I want to tell him, because shame is so overrated right now. I want to lose myself to him so that he has no option to be the only person that can pull me out of his fog.
“We have beds inside if you want to keep going. Or not … and I’ll grab some popcorn so I can enjoy the show. Or some lube.”
The voice shocks us apart, my heart hammering in my chest, my hands unwilling to loosen from the old-school Def Leppard logo fisted in them, but my eyes remain locked on Hawkin’s and the lascivious thoughts flickering in his gaze.
“Fuck off Gizmo,” Hawkin growls, his lips reconnecting with mine like there’s no one watching. The desperation is insatiable now on our parts—we both need to draw out the last of this kiss since we know we’re about to be interrupted.
“Popcorn it is then.” He laughs and yet doesn’t move because I can feel the weight of his presence still.
And shit, I’m all for exhibition, but for some reason, as hot and primed as I am right now from Hawkin’s complete consumption of my willpower, I tear my lips from his. Our faces are mere inches apart, our labored breaths pant over the other’s, and our eyes are locked—regret and desire a potent combination reflected back at each other.
But there’s something else buried in Hawke’s eyes. And I can’t quite place just what it is. “You okay?”
Those flecks of silver in his gray eyes darken momentarily because he knows I see the hint of the secret he wants to keep hidden. He nods with a sigh, hands still flexing into the flesh of my hips.
“Did you need something, Giz?” he asks with a glance over to the door, breaking our stare. Reluctantly I drag my eyes from him and follow his gaze. I take in the man leaning against the doorjamb, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans, bare chest covered in a dizzying array of intricate tattoos that I could probably spend a week studying and not see all of them. His dark hair is shaggy down to his nape, ice blue eyes a stark contrast to it, and a smile so warm and welcoming when he offers it to me that I immediately like him.
His eyes flick up and down my body before aiming an approving glance back to Hawkin. “Yeah,” he blows the word out and brings a hand up to tug on the back of his neck. The motion reveals a pink tattoo of a heart on the inside of his wrist that looks out of place and contradicts the coloring of his others but his words pull me from the observation. “Hunter called.” The disdain in his voice matches the sigh that falls from Hawke’s mouth when he releases me.
It seems as if Hunter is a real favorite around here. Can’t say I blame them because my first encounter with him was less than favorable.
“Fuck.” It’s all Hawkin says before he glances back to me, irritation and exasperation prevalent in the furrow of his brow. “Quinlan this is Gizmo, Gizmo, Quinlan.”
We say hello to each other and Gizmo moves out of the doorway so we can enter the house. I can feel his assessing eyes on my backside but whereas Hunter’s perusal felt intrusive, Gizmo’s is more of the I’m a male—how can I not look? variety. The Old World decor of the house is warm and welcoming despite its opulence, but I’m more interested in the conversation between the two men.
“You gave him your car?” The shock in Gizmo’s voice has me listening a little closer.
“Long story man.” Hawke runs a hand through his hair as we all move into the stainless steel and granite-slab designer kitchen. He accepts a beer that Gizmo pulls from the fridge and pops it open, the sound reverberating through the silence surrounding us after I decline the offer. “He showed up at the lecture, was fucking with Quin.” I catch the concerned glance Gizmo gives Hawke and then the warning one he flashes Vince when he walks in the room. Vince nods his head in acknowledgement as Hawke continues. “… And then said he needed my car to go see Mom … but after class, I called and he never showed.”
The room falls quiet as I try to decipher what it is that’s going on, all of them pondering something serious I have no knowledge of. Vince glares at Hawkin in obvious chastisement, fingers drumming on the granite countertop, an unspoken message delivered.
“Don’t give me that look Vince, I don’t need you starting in on me right now.”
“I didn’t say shit, man,” Vince says, holding his hands up and darting his eyes my way. I catch the look, know he’s telling Hawkin Not here, not now, not with an outsider present and that makes me even more intrigued.
“Fellas,” Gizmo breaks in with a laugh, walking into the space between them. He shoves a bowl of candy in front of Hawke before hooking his arms around their shoulders. “So much testosterone wasted on one another when it could be used on the lovely Quinlan here.” He flashes me a playful grin like he has not a care in the world before walking out of the room toward where a cell phone chimes with a text in the other room.
“Quinlan?” Vince asks confused, and I scrunch up my nose, forgetting he doesn’t know the truth about my name. “What happened to Trixie?”
Feeling a tad shy under the quiet scrutiny he seems to be aiming my way, I opt to shake my head while his hazel eyes assess and judge me. So I hold his stare, letting him know that I can stand my ground.
“Like he didn’t deserve it for calling me out like that in the lecture?” I say, Vince nodding his head in agreement. “Trixie’s for the assholes who aren’t worth my time.”
“Damn, woman,” he says with a laugh, the intensity on his face easing some as his approval is granted. “I like the way you think…. And what? Now you think he deserves it?”
“Nah, he’s gotta work a lot harder to get what he wants,” I quip off the cuff, and it earns me an even heartier laugh from him.
The laughter draws Gizmo’s attention from the text he’s reading as he enters the room. “What’s that? You gonna make Hawke work for something? Ah, a woman after my own heart,” Gizmo says, beer to his lips against his smirk.
I glance over to Hawkin and he has his head angled to the side, eyes steadfast on mine telling me he’ll get what he wants despite the easygoing smile on his lips. And it’s such a turn-on, the unspoken words on the heels of the kiss on the porch that left his taste on my lips and the damp patch in my panties.
I try to hold on to that resolve of mine that says I will not mess with another player again but I can feel myself faltering when he looks at me this way. And hell if he’s not the perfect person to keep things casual despite my imagination running wild and wanting a whole hell of a lot more when he kisses me like he did.
The sound of an amplified guitar echoes through the house and draws me from my thoughts. It starts off slow and even, haunting and melodic, and then it hi
ts hard and fast. The three guys around me transform at the sound, concentration etched on their faces, heads bobbing to the beat as the musician picks up the pace until his fingers are screaming up and down the notes.
Silence falls momentarily before he starts all over again.
The music is incredible but even more powerful is watching Gizmo, Vince, and Hawkin internalize the notes this time around and figure out their accompaniment to it, even if it’s in the form of hands beating against the counter. I don’t belong there in that moment but wouldn’t step away if I could because there’s something so captivating about watching it unfold.
In my periphery I see Gizmo hurry to grab a pad full of scribbled words from the kitchen counter behind him and start adding to the lyrics already there as Hawkin belts them out. And as much as I want to take them all in—watch them all do their own things—I can’t tear my eyes off Hawkin.
Talk about aural foreplay.
The musician thing was never my hot button; I never understood the groupie thing but holy mother of God, watching and hearing Hawkin work through lyrics as the guitar riffs down the hall, I’m a converted woman. A very needy, horny converted woman.
I’m with the band. The clichéd phrase runs through my head, but I can’t deny the pull I feel toward Hawke.
Hawkin opens his eyes, and they lock on mine immediately. The sudden jolt of arousal snaps through me, and the air between us practically crackles as it ignites from our unsated desire. He continues the song flawlessly all the while his eyes tell me to do what the lyrics he sings ask.
Play me. Beg me. Take me. Make me.
Be the one to make me fall.
Be the one to take it all.
The music ends, the house falling to silence. Hawkin and I just sit there until he glances over to his bandmates. The three of them all get similar smiles spreading across their faces, and then simultaneously they let out a whoop in celebration that startles me. They start giving one another high fives and slaps on the back.