She needed to stop thinking about Trick singing in her ear from behind, pushing her against the wall, shoving her thighs apart, taking her to a place she’d never, ever been…
“Need something, Sunshine?” he asked.
Layla blinked, her cheeks hot under his unwavering gaze. “I… I… yeah. Yes. I do need something.” She cleared her throat and approached the couch, stopping just in front of him. “Trick, I’m trying to work, and—”
“Layla.” He cut her off, strumming the opening chords from the classic rock song she’d been named after.
“Wow,” she deadpanned, rolling her eyes. “I’ve never heard that before! Is that an original Trick Harper creation?”
“Aww, you don’t like it?” he asked, still playing. “I thought every woman wanted a song named after her.”
“Oh, I used to like it, until I was about ten, and Billy Fink started singing it to me on the playground, and after that, none of the kids let me live it down. Not the song, and not Billy’s annoying crush, which I did not reciprocate.”
“No?”
“He smelled like bologna, and he copied off all my tests.”
“Ten-year-olds are such assholes,” he said. “At least your name doesn’t rhyme with dick.”
When she didn’t respond, he said, “Okay, so you’re not here to reminisce about your childhood love life. What can I do you for?” He stopped playing long enough to scribble something in the notebook balanced on his leg, then went back to plucking chords, adjusting the tuning pegs as he did.
He was barely paying attention to Layla.
“Trick,” she said. “I realize your work requires a certain amount of… noise. But I’m up against a major deadline here, and I really need quiet.”
Lowering his voice to a mocking whisper, he said, “Then maybe you should type a little softer. Seriously, Layla. I can hear you all the way out here. You’re gonna sprain your wrist, banging around like that.”
Layla was quickly losing her cool. “It’s not the typing, Boy Band. It’s the screaming.”
“I’m not—”
“You are. Or, you were. The last version was better. Good, I mean. I liked it. At least, the part I heard. I didn’t hear that much. Only some. It’s not like I was spying on you or anything. I just came out and… well, like I said, it sounded okay.”
Oh my God, shut yourself up, woman!
“Yeah, well. Thanks,” he said half-heartedly. “Tell it to the record execs.” Before she could ask what he meant, he forced out a cough, waving his hand in front of his face. “What are you burning in there, anyway? It’s making my eyes water.”
“It’s a custom blend of Sandalwood and Frankincense. To increase creativity and focus. Maybe you should try it.”
“It smells like hippies at the farmer’s market.”
Layla scoffed. “We can’t all be creative genius rock gods. Some of us need our rituals.”
“Oh, I’ve got rituals.”
“Licking tequila out of a woman’s navel before a gig doesn’t count.”
“Says you.” Trick raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking into a grin. “I was actually just thinking about going for a walk down the shore, see if I could pick up a little… inspiration. And a bottle of tequila, obviously.”
He looked at her, that spark of mischief in his eyes a dead giveaway. He was totally screwing with her, but still. That hot streak running down her spine wasn’t anger.
It was jealousy.
Which was ridiculous on so many levels. For one thing, he’d already propositioned her at least a dozen times, and she’d shot down every one. For another, despite all wet-panty evidence to the contrary, she wasn’t interested in him—not as a friend, not as a casual fling, not as anything. He was an irritation, something she had to endure for the week unless she caved in and went to the hotel, which was just not happening.
Stumped for the moment, she flopped down on the couch next to him and put her head in her hands. Unfazed, he returned to his playing, alternately humming and jotting down notes.
“You know,” Layla finally said, turning to face him again, “I meant what I said. I liked the song. Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re actually pretty good with that thing.”
For some reason, this made him laugh. Not the controlled, charming laugh he’d obviously perfected as part of his image, but the real one. Unguarded.
He nudged her shoulder with his. “From the looks of things, you’re not so bad yourself, Sunshine.”
“I don’t do music.” She inched sideways, trying to put a little more distance between them. Maybe sitting next to him was a bad idea.
“I’m talking about your writing.” Answering her unspoken question, Trick nodded toward the built-in bookshelf on the wall at his end of the couch. Three rows were filled with Layla Hart’s many creations—signed editions she’d left here over the years for the owners and guests.
Layla wanted to smack herself in the forehead. No wonder he’d figured out her name that first day. Her picture was on the back cover of every book.
“But what I want to know is,” he continued, that glint in his eyes still sparking like a warning, “who the hell is Jonathan, and why is he letting you shack up with the likes of me for a week?”
Layla’s heart stopped beating. She felt the heat, the color, everything drain instantly from her face.
Jonathan. The Asshole Without a Name—at least, until Trick had mentioned him. Layla had dedicated her last five books to him, gushing declarations of love and adoration that only embarrassed her now.
“He’s… he’s no one,” she managed. “Not anymore.”
Trick looked like he wanted to push for details, but thankfully shifted gears.
“I think it’s awesome that you write. No idea how you finish a book, though. I can’t even get through a song.” He blew out a frustrated sigh. “Obviously.”
Grateful for his tact, she jumped on the subject change. “Can I ask you something?”
Trick nodded.
“That song you were singing when I came out—that sounded totally different from your usual stuff.”
“My usual stuff?” He pointed at her, his lips curved in another grin. “I knew you were a closet fan.”
Layla bristled. “Hardly. I just happened to come across one of your albums online, and…” She waved it away. He was totally missing the point. “Take this how you will, okay? But when I saw you playing before—when you didn’t know I was watching—you seemed totally at peace. But earlier, right before that, and even on your albums… I don’t know, it’s different. It’s like… like you’re not really into it or something.”
Layla bit her lip, looking away. She shouldn’t have said that. Any of it. Not everyone wanted constructive criticism, especially from a writer who was having enough trouble finding her own muse.
But when she chanced another look at him, he was watching her curiously, nodding his head.
“You’re dead right, woman.”
“I…” Layla trailed off. She wasn’t expecting the conversation to go this way. She didn’t know him, and didn’t want to presume to understand his process. She’d already overstepped, overstayed her welcome. She really should get back to her own work.
“But unfortunately,” he continued, “I have an image to maintain. It’s not just the music—it’s the whole package. What you heard just now? The song you said you liked? Hell, that Trick Harper is the farthest thing possible from the Trick Harper created and managed by the record execs.”
Layla understood the dilemma. She was fortunate to be able to write what she loved, and her characters had been with her so long, they were practically family. But a lot of her author friends had been pigeonholed early on, forced to keep on writing what their publishers or readers expected, even when they wanted to branch out or try something completely different.
“So which one is real?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer.
“Doesn’t matter. Gotta keep up the image,” he said. “
Give the machine what it wants. At least until I fulfill the contract.”
“When does that happen?”
“Few more months, most likely. Gotta wrap up this song, record it, release the album. I head out on tour next month for about twelve weeks.”
“And then what?”
“Then… then I don’t know. But as soon as I figure it out, I’ll tell you. Deal?” Smirking again, he held out his hand.
Layla took the offered handshake, her skin warming instantly at his touch. He brushed his thumb over the back of her hand and then let her go, but his touch lingered, her skin tingling with little shocks of awareness.
“We’re not so different, you know,” he said lightly, nudging her shoulder again. “We both tell stories, right?”
“Yeah, but mine have happy endings. At least, when a rock star isn’t practicing in the living room, breaking my concentration and cock-blocking my poor hero.”
Trick cracked up.
“Shit,” he said, shaking his head. “I can’t believe it.”
“What?”
He leaned in close, his breath tickling her neck. “We just had an actual conversation.”
Now it was Layla’s turn to laugh. “Don’t tell anyone. My reputation as a ball-busting harpy would be ruined.”
“Nah, you’re not a harpy, Sunshine. A ball-buster, yeah. But no harpy.” He rose from the couch, setting his guitar back into the stand and shaking out his arms. “I need a change of scenery, not to mention dinner. Thinking about checking out that Shake Shack joint. Interested?”
Yes.
“No. I… I think I should probably get back to work.” She forced a smile, hoping he couldn’t hear her heart hammering in her chest. She couldn’t go out with him—not for dinner, not for a walk, not for anything.
Because for an entire fifteen minutes—at least, until Trick had mentioned his name—she hadn’t thought about her ex-husband at all.
And that scared the living shit out of her.
Thinking about him—about the pain he’d caused—that’s what kept her strong. Kept her stuck, maybe, strapped with the worse case of writer’s block she’d ever experienced—but it kept her from getting interested in other guys. From putting her heart out there, even the tiniest bit.
Trick—with his sea-blue eyes and honey laugh and raspy, soulful voice—he was making her forget.
And she was in danger of letting him.
That could not happen.
“I should get back to work,” she said again, rising from the couch. “I’ll scrounge up something later.”
“Suit yourself.” Something like disappointment flickered in his eyes, but then he just nodded and headed for the door.
Back at her desk, Layla stared at the words on the computer screen, willing new ones to appear.
Nothing came.
Finally, she shut down her laptop.
Marco and Lizbeth’s climax would have to wait. For what, she didn’t know—she had seven unanswered voicemails from her editor looking for an update; time was clearly not on her side. But getting anything done with that beast in the house was proving damn near impossible.
Stop lying to yourself, girl.
Layla set her glasses on the night table and flopped backward on the bed, closing her eyes. Her hands instinctively pressed against her heart, stemming the rush of emotion and pain. Deep down, she knew it wasn’t Trick Harper—not even when he was screaming and shredding. It also wasn’t her apartment or the lack of sunshine in Seattle, or the wrong spa music, or bad incense, or any of the dozens of other excuses she constantly told herself for why she couldn’t get her work done.
The truth was, she could light all the incense she wanted—hell, she could light the whole house on fire—and none of it would ever be enough to burn away the emptiness inside her, to warm up all the parts that had gone cold.
Like milk left out on the counter, her marriage had turned bad early, ending in a disaster she should’ve seen coming. And it completely changed her, physically altered her heart into something that could no longer trust, could no longer connect with her muse, could no longer create.
For some people, pain and loss served as inspiration, allowing them to mine their darkest shadows for the most raw, passionate writing she’d ever read. But for Layla, that pain had nearly destroyed her. It was only recently—two years after the divorce—that she’d finally managed to crawl out from the seemingly endless cave of her grief and dust herself off. But still, her heart had not escaped unscathed.
Layla closed her eyes.
Most days, she wondered if her heart had escaped at all.
Chapter Ten
“But why is Alexander trying so hard with Lizbeth?” Trick shoved a handful of fries into his mouth, barely stopping to chew. “It’s like, dude, she’s just not into you. She’s into your brother Marco. Seriously. How can Alexander not see that?”
It was one in the damn morning, and Trick was wide awake. He’d stirred from a restless sleep sometime around midnight, the witching hour that always came when he was sleeping alone and sober, the moment when some unseen force banged on his head to make sure he never got too comfortable—the muse, guilt, anxiety, some twisted all-in-one combo-pack.
Tonight though, instead of tormenting himself about all the ways he’d fucked up his life, Trick had grabbed one of Layla’s books off the shelf. He’d meant to just read a chapter or two, maybe flip through to the naughty bits, see if he could entertain himself.
An hour later, when Layla wandered into the kitchen for a late-night snack, he hadn’t even heard her.
“Funny,” she’d said, startling him from his read. “Wouldn’t have pegged you as a romance fan.”
Now they were sitting across from each other in the dining room, sharing his Shake Shack leftovers, discussing the finer points of the Royal Hearts on Fire love triangle.
Obviously, Trick could never tell a soul about this.
“That’s the whole point.” Layla reached across the table and nabbed a fry from his plate. “They’re rivals. Lizbeth was promised to Alexander by her father at birth, but secretly she’s in love with Marco. Always has been. Problem is, Alexander is now the King, and he makes the rules.”
“But she’s breaking the rules anyway. So why not take a stand? I mean, come on. One of them needs to tell the king to go fuck himself.”
Layla laughed, her pretty eyes sparkling behind her big glasses. Every few minutes, they’d slide down to the tip of her nose, and she’d push them back up.
Trick was mesmerized.
“That’s not how it works,” Layla said.
“Why the hell not?”
“It’s her duty to obey.”
“So you’re saying you’d chose duty over love?”
“No. But it’s not a simple choice, is it? I mean, would you tell your record guys to go fuck themselves?”
Trick pointed a fry at her chest. “Ouch. Touché, but ouch.”
“You see her dilemma, then.”
“Maybe. I just don’t see why Alexander has to be such a douche about the whole thing.”
Layla nodded, considering this.
Trick loved watching her think. Whenever she was deep in thought, she pressed her lips together and tapped on them, her eyes going far away. It gave him a chance to stare at her openly, to imagine what it might be like to kiss her. To taste those soft, luscious lips. To slide his thumb between them, feel her velvet tongue as she licked him…
“Well, for all his faults,” she said, breaking into Trick’s fantasies, “Alexander loves her, too. Love makes you do crazy things sometimes.”
“Nope.” Trick shook his head. “I don’t buy it. He doesn’t love her. He loves the power, the control. It’s a status thing, something he can lord over his brother. Hate to break it to you, Sunshine, but your boy only loves himself. He’s obsessed with himself, and everything he does comes back to that.”
“I don’t think—”
“It’s so obvious! It’s his fatal
flaw, and it’s probably going to get him killed.”
Layla cocked an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Just how much did you read?”
“Enough to know that I’m team Marco, all the way. I think you need to give them a way out. She’s strong, right? I know she’s got it in her, even if she doesn’t realize it.”
Layla pushed her sliding glasses back up her nose. “And?”
“And nothing. She’s been whimpering in the shadows for too long. Girl needs to woman up, get out there and take what she wants.”
“Interesting analysis.” Her eyes lit up, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “And here I thought you were just a horny, bad boy rock star.”
“Pfft. Just a horny bad boy rock star? My talents extend far beyond the stage, believe me.”
“I’m sure they do.”
“Want me to prove it?”
Layla laughed again, louder this time, a sound that hurt his fucking chest. He hadn’t realized how lonely he was for a woman’s laughter—the real thing, the kind that bubbled up out of nowhere and surprised the hell out of you. The kind you wanted to hear, again and again and again. The kind you wanted to write songs about.
“Don’t try that reverse psychology on me, Trick Harper. I’ve been around the block one too many times to fall for it.”
“That a fact?”
He’d said it playfully, but Layla’s face changed again, her smile sliding into a frown, her eyes drifting to some faraway place that was full of pain—the same place, he suspected, where that Jonathan guy lived.
Trick’s gut twisted with guilt. It was one thing driving Layla crazy with his music, or making her blush with his raunchy innuendos. Yeah, he annoyed the fuck out of her—that had been one of the highlights of their arrangement.
But he’d never meant to put that look on her face, and now he’d done it twice—yesterday, when he’d asked about Jonathan. And now.
Trick looked away, unable to see the pain on her face, so plain and unguarded. Outside, the tide was rolling in, the ocean pounding against the shore, so loud he couldn’t even hear his own heartbeat.
Fucking asshole, that guy. Whoever that Jonathan douchebag was, he was obviously a total dickhead for at least two reasons. One for letting her go. And two for breaking her heart.
Beached with the Bad Boy (Bad Boys on Holiday #3) Page 5