by K. Bromberg
Your thesis, Westin. Step back and get some distance. Put this back on an even playing field.
I hear myself all right, know what I should do, but when Hawkin leans forward and presses those delectable lips to mine, tongue slipping between them to lead the seductive dance I know I can’t resist, my only thought is Later.
Much later.
I’m about to play in the rain.
Chapter 24
HAWKIN
“So things are looking good,” I muse as I tap my pencil on the counter. The lyrics have been coming on and off all day so my pad sits in front of me, scattered prose scrawled randomly across the page. When I glance down at them, I realize they all reflect a man infatuated with a woman.
How the hell did this happen?
“Thank fuck, because for a while, there, man …” Vince says, pulling me from my thoughts and from my lyrics that seem … happy somehow rather than the angst-ridden ones I usually write. What am I supposed to do with happy? Vince blows out a breath and runs his fingers through his hair. “… I was worried it was all going to fall to shit.”
“No way, man. The tour’s shaping up nicely, the new single is dropping in two weeks,” I say, feeling a little relief that the stress on the business side of things is under control. The front door slams from the front of the house; both of us glance at the clock, knowing it must be Gizmo going on his daily run.
“And …” Vince says, knowing there’s more on my mind. And of course there is, there always is, but am I going to jinx it by saying it out loud?
“Hunter followed through with his promise.”
“No shit.”
“Yeah.” I hate that my immediate thought right after I say the word is for now.
“Well, there’s that.” Vince lifts his eyebrows as we both fall silent for a moment. “So what does he want?”
“Vince.” I sigh knowing he’s right on target but Hunter’s my brother, only I can say shit like that about him and it be okay. The sad thing is Vince has been more of a brother than Hunter has and has earned the right to make the comment so I let it go.
“I’m not trying to be a dick man but tiger, stripes,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders. “There’s always a calm before he causes a fucking storm. Every damn time. A few nights ago he was blowing up your phone for money, and now, what? He’s behaving? Something’s off there. Just be careful is all I’m saying.”
“Duly noted,” I say knowing he speaks the truth. I’ve been burned enough by the damn calm. “But I’m trying to focus on the positives here: the band, Rocket stepping up and figuring out how to twist that last riff on ‘Twisted’ and killing it, the—”
“Quin rubbing your dick often enough you’d think it’s a genie’s lamp,” he says cutting me off and shifting the gears of the conversation. “I mean, if we’re talking about positives …”
I hang my head and laugh, surprised him fucking with me hasn’t started sooner. “Well, my dick does grant wishes,” I quip, earning me a snort and a “Bullshit” from his side of the room.
“Something that small’s not big enough to grant anything let alone an orgasm.”
“Fuck off,” I tell him, throwing my pen at him. He catches it and raises his eyebrows as in Not bad, huh? “You’re just jealous I’m getting nightly action when you’re not.”
“I am too!”
“Dude, barflies and groupies don’t count. If you can catch an STD standing within two feet of them, they don’t count.”
He shakes his head with a laugh. “Aren’t we all high-and-mighty now that we’re the ringmaster of her Quin-kitty.”
“It’s the lead singer thing,” I tell him, knowing how much it pisses him off. “We get all the Grade A.”
“Lead singer thing, my ass.” He grabs a beer from the refrigerator and holds it out. I nod and he grabs one for himself, pops the tops of both of them, and walks back and hands it to me.
“Thanks.”
“For the beer or for the push to go after Trixie?”
“Both.” I stare at him and try to gauge where he’s trying to direct this conversation.
“Hm … so your seminar ends when—this Thursday?”
“Yep.” I’m so distracted by the sudden bridge that just came to my thoughts I’m scrawling it out rather than picking up the bread crumbs he’s dropping.
“We should throw a party after it. A kind of thank fuck that’s over type of thing.”
“Yeah, sure … sounds good.” I read the line I wrote, cross it out, and rewrite it. The perfect version of it is just beyond my reach, but I know it’s there.
“Or should we wait until after your court date next week?”
“No, this week is fine. Next week is crazy.” I blow out a breath, lyric lost at the sudden panic piercing through my concentration that all this could have been for nothing: the seminar, forcing Hunter to make empty promises I know he can’t keep, my inevitable fall from grace. Shit, the only good that’s come out of this whole situation is Quinlan.
“I added an appointment at Sledge’s on your calendar,” he deadpans, and now I’m sure as shit listening.
I snap my head up to meet his eyes when I hear the name of our tattoo artist. “Excuse me?”
“We made a deal, brother.” He smiles smugly. “I’m in the mix or there’s no proof.”
Irritation flickers and flames. “What exactly is it you’re looking for out of this besides just plain trying to piss me off?”
“You tell me, Hawke.” He stares, lips pursed, telling me to figure it out myself. “A bet’s a bet.”
“Yeah and an asshole’s an asshole.” I don’t have time for his games. He’s angling at a point, wouldn’t take this approach if he wasn’t, but I’m just trying to figure out what it is.
“I bet you’ll look pretty in pink.”
“And I think you’ll look uglier with my fist in your face. What gives, Vin?”
“What was the bet?” I look at him like he’s losing his mind.
“Tame the untamable. Sleep with Quin by lecture’s end, you in on the action for proof, or else I get the tat of stupidity.” I roll my eyes, exasperation setting in. “But that was before….” My voice trails off as I wave my fingers in a gesture of irrelevance.
“Before what?”
“Nothing. Never mind.” I bite the words off, the unspoken confession hanging there that I don’t want to fess up to yet. I’m just not sure if my hesitancy is because I don’t want Vince to know or if I’m not ready to admit it to myself.
“Never mind? What, you got a thing for her?”
“No. Drop it.”
“Drop what?” Vince goads me with a smug smirk that irks me to no end. What the fuck is he trying to get at here?
“You wanted to know about the bet? What about it?” All I want is to change the subject.
He narrows his brow and studies me. “Did you sleep with her?”
I give Vince an are you that fucking stupid? look. “Nope.”
It’s his turn to give me the fuck you sigh so common between us. “Dude, the studio’s walls aren’t that soundproof. Jesus, the two of you almost got me off from audio alone.”
“Damn, that was hot,” I’m unable to resist commenting because fuck, it was. I don’t think I’ll even be able to play that guitar again without the image of her on it distracting me. Shit, I just might have to hang that puppy on the wall with some of my other favorites…. The best part is everyone will assume it’s there because I wrote this or that song on it. It’s none of their fucking business I wrote music on it but not the kind they’re thinking about. “But wait, if you’ve heard us, why do you need proof?”
“Because a bet’s a bet. Why not finish it?”
“Hmm. Who said I wasn’t going to?” I say although my head is screaming over my dead body. Sharing Quinlan and the goddamn perfection she is between the sheets and the kind I’m finding out she is beyond the bed—patient, feisty, naughty, thoughtful—is out of the question.
So no
w of course I’m between a rock and a hard place when the only place I want to be back between is Quinlan’s thighs. Do I go back on my word for the first and only time in my life with Vince, balk on our bet? Or do I just follow through, stay true to the wager, and hate myself for doing it?
But what about being true to myself?
I swear to fucking God women are like alcohol. They smell great, they taste delicious, and right or wrong, they kill you slowly, one way or another. But shit, death by the slow burn Quinlan’s lit within me sounds like a pretty fucking perfect way to go.
“Well, let’s see, I don’t hear you inviting me into the mix to finish the bet off.” I groan as Vince’s words pull me from my thoughts, from the vision floating in my head of Quinlan lying on my bed, legs spread, eyes inviting, and her lips begging me to fuck her. Jesus if the image was any hotter it would be a goddamn porno.
“Could it be that Quin means more to you than a romp in bed? That for once you’re seeing the one thing I’ve been trying to get you to see for the past … umm … forever? Might you be falling for her, Hawke? Might she actually think you’re worth it?”
“No.” Yes. He’s fucking with my head in this conversation, and I’m not too thrilled about it. We’re in uncomfortable territory for me. That place I don’t delve except for in my own mind. The dark inadequacies I refuse to speak about must be rather transparent since Vince is calling me on the carpet over them.
My pride, my ego, everything I hold on to tightly to prove that I am not the weakling my dad was. I can’t fall for anyone, because the one thing I know … is that love makes you weak.
I hate the bullshit pile of emotions I feel right now. That contradiction between what I’ve always believed and that weird stirring wanting to see Quinlan again. Gauging my days on if she’s gonna come around. Fuck, this is fucked.
“What are you, Vince? My goddamn shrink?” I’m a little irritated and a lot annoyed. I don’t like having my hand forced, especially not in this arena … and he knows that so why is he trying to use a bulldozer to push home his point?
“Nope. Just looking forward to you getting that tat.”
“Not gonna happen. I keep my goddamn word—every fucking time—so don’t you go start questioning my integrity now.” Or what Q is beginning to mean to me. Fuck. Why did I agree to this bullshit bet?
“Oh so this thing with Quin is really all just about the bet then? Seems to me like things might have changed on your end.”
“No. Yes. Sure. You’ll get your proof at the party, then you can get the fuck out of my business, got it?” I shove up out of my chair, pissed and done with this conversation.
“Stubborn asshole, you’re missing the point!” he yells to my back as I walk out of the kitchen only to find Hunter sitting on the bottom step of the stairs. His presence stops me dead in my tracks, but it’s the smug look on his face, the twisting of his lips, and the amusement in his eyes that I need to worry about. They tell me that he heard way too much of our conversation. Fuck.
“So Quin was just a game, huh? One of your stupid band bets?” He doesn’t hide his thrill over the opportunity that just presented itself, and I hate myself for giving it to him. “I’m sure she’d love to hear about that.”
“Nah. Vince was just fucking with me,” I lie to my twin, knowing if I let on how much I don’t want that to happen, it’ll only spur him on to tell her. My mind starts rifling back over the rest of our conversation trying to figure out just how much Hunter heard. Goddamn it. The front door wasn’t Giz after all, it was Hunter and that means he might have heard everything.
“Yeah, right. Did you forget we have that twin thing going on?”
“Not very smart to bite the hand that feeds you, right, Hunt?” Vince says, stepping up behind me.
And fuck yes he says what I want to but sometimes it’s a helluva lot easier to just shut the hell up than to make Hunter go on one of his little tirades and fuck up my life some more. Sometimes it takes more of a man to turn the other cheek and appear to be a pussy than it does to plow my fist in his face and tell him I’m done.
But fuck if that time’s not coming sooner rather than later. A man can handle shit dealt to him over and over, swallow his pride and bite his tongue, but involve that man’s woman, and it’s on.
And I just called her my woman. FUCK! Can anything be more of a mess right now than my head? I scrub my hands over my face as Hunter finally answers Vince.
“Not biting anything,” he muses, smirk still in place. “Just making an observation is all.”
We all stare at one another, the animosity vibrating between the three of us and just once I want to see my brother and be happy. Just once I don’t want to question his appearance and try to figure out what he wants from me, how he’s trying to stab the knife in my back while reaching his hand out with the other.
When I step closer, I can see red in the whites of his eyes, notice the delayed response of his tracking, and bite back the reprimand on my tongue. “You high?” He stares at me like he’s offended I asked. Is he fucking serious? “Answer me,” I demand through gritted teeth.
“So a party, huh?” he says, ignoring my question and ratcheting up the tension. “That ought to be fun.”
“You using, Hunter?” I ask again, the straw slowly breaking. My hands fist at my sides and I’m a millisecond from grabbing the front of his shirt and throwing him the fuck out of the house.
“Naw, man. Just drunk and wanting to party a bit myself, but I seem to be outta cash. Can you help a brother out?”
“Fucking unbelievable.” Vince snorts behind me.
“Don’t you have somewhere else you need to be right now, Vinny?” Hunter sneers at him.
“Nope. He lives here. You don’t,” I say to cut off his power play as well as his drunk tough-guy routine. “How’d you get here, Hunt?” I ask, emotion roiling inside me as I see his keys on the floor by his feet.
“Can’t a guy just visit his brother when he wants?” He laughs and it grates on every nerve I have right down to the very last one.
“You drove, didn’t you?” It seems we’re on the repeat-each-question-twice routine here and my patience is done.
He just throws his head back and laughs. “What’s so fucking funny, Hunter? A DUI?” Vince growls as my brother keeps laughing.
“It’s okay,” he says, holding a hand to his gut. “My brother will take the rap for me.”
And I snap. Every pent-up emotion I’ve had over the past few years, every ounce of hatred, resentment, guilt, balls up in my clenched fist and is the driving force behind it as it connects with my brother’s face in an unsatisfying crunch.
He goes down for the count with my first hit. His drunk ass is sprawled on the stairs and I’m so angry, so pumped full of hatred that I want him to wake the fuck back up so that I can keep going. My body is vibrating and my mind is a constant slide show of the years and all of the shit I’ve let him hold over me.
“It’s about fucking time,” Vince murmurs.
I rock back and forth on my heels before looking over my shoulder to find him wide-eyed and staring at me, asking me with the look if I’m all right with what I just did. And fuck yes, I am, and hell no, I’m not, all in the same damn breath. “I gotta get out of here,” I tell him, suddenly restless, unsettled that I’ve just gone against everything I’ve ever told myself I couldn’t do.
But fuck does it feel good.
“I’ll take care of him,” he says. And I know he will; it’s just that I feel guilty for making him. Fuck that, Hawke. Fuck the guilt. It’s not on you.
Well, shit. Guess there’s not going to be any calm before the next storm. I look at my brother and sigh.
I hit the road, drive for what feels like hours. I don’t know where I’m going or what I’m looking to find, but as long as I keep moving, my past can’t catch up to me.
At least it’s a good idea in theory because I can’t outrun this shit. The stuff I want to and the stuff I don’t want to.
I end up the one place I used to go to be alone, to think, and as I stare at the Hollywood sign from my seat on the grass at the Griffith Park Observatory, I love the feeling that I’m this little person in this big world. The idea comforts me some. The notion that on the grand scale of things my problems are minute. Someone out there has it way worse.
And no one expects a rock star to be here so with my hat pulled low on my head, I’m able to disappear.
I stare down below to the city where as a little boy, scared and traumatized, I wondered how all of the dreams inside my head could ever see the light of day when I felt like I had the responsibility of the world on my small shoulders. But I did. And I made it.
So why do I feel like I’m still not enough? For my brother? To make my mother better? For Quinlan to even want me beyond the killer sex we have? For the fans who scream and sing my lyrics like they live them when they have no fucking clue the meaning behind those words and the damage within from them.
I scrub my hands over my face, needing a drink, craving an ice-cream cone, and wanting the feeling of Quinlan’s arms wrapped around me as she silently sits there and just is with me.
My mind veers to Hunter. To the look on his face as I threw my punch. I push the guilt away, hold on to my gut-check rationalization that he deserved it, and realize that’s the trouble I’m having here. Going with my gut versus going with the bullshit promises I’ve lived by forever.
My stomach churns and my head feels like Gizmo’s banging the hell out of it with his sticks. I shove up off the grass, needing to get the fuck out of here, my heart and head in conflict, and for the first time in forever I dare to think what could happen if my heart finally won for once.
After I start my car, I sit there for a moment, trying to figure out where to go next. I feel like nothing has changed in my day to day, absolutely nothing, so why when I look back do I feel like everything is different?