Song for Me (Rock Me Book 4)

by Lee Piper

  And I won’t let anyone do that to me anymore. Drake included. So, bracing myself, I nod toward the door. “You need to leave.”

  “What?” Drake laughs, his incredulousness amplified in the tiny room.

  I cross my arms and tip my head to one side. “I mean it. I don’t want you here.”

  “You don’t—” Drake breaks off midsentence, shakes his head, runs his hands down the sides of his face, then drops his palms to his side. “You’re seriously kicking me out after I tried to help you?”

  Straightening my shoulders, I glare.

  “Do you have any idea how many people would kill to have someone like me in their corner?”

  “Not helping, asshole.”

  He rolls his eyes. “And I don’t mean because I’m a rock star or whatever.” Thumping his hand against his broad chest, he continues. “I mean, because of the real me. The man I try so motherfucking hard to keep on a tight leash because the second it’s loosened shit gets scary.” He licks his lips.

  My gaze darts to his mouth, but I quickly rip it away again and stare elsewhere. The sink will do. Neon lights reflect off the marred chrome, and it could almost be considered pretty if it didn’t remind me of the shithouse plumbing I can’t afford to fix.

  “You don’t want me to have your back. Is that it?” His voice is a low warning.

  Swallowing, I remain quiet. He needs to leave so I can breathe again.

  “So that’s it then?”

  Go already.

  “Forget this. I’m out.” Heavy boots stomp across the linoleum, pause. I’m guessing Drake picks up his phone from wherever it landed on the couch and shoves it in his pocket. Seconds later, the door is thrust open and slammed shut again.

  My shoulders sag.

  Not gonna lie, the emotional side of me is crying all the tears. There’s no denying I’m missing out on some quality time with the pigheaded lead singer. Though, until I say something, Drake’s always going to make my decisions for me, and that’s not a future I want. I’m in control of my life, damn it. Not him.

  No matter how much it hurts when he leaves.

  Chapter Eleven

  My newfound confidence is nowhere to be seen as I dress for the meeting. I swear, it hitched the first ride out of town before begging the authorities to accept it into the witness protection program. No matter how much soul searching I do, how many positive thoughts I conjure, how many times I picture colorful rainbows, ocean breezes, and other useless shit, nothing works. Nerves are my only company.

  Seems my self-belief left alongside Drake last night.

  And isn’t that the mother of all ironies? I was on my soapbox preaching about being my own woman, about needing the space to forge my path and fight personal battles. Yet, the first chance I get, my confidence up and dies.

  Hilarious.

  It’s as though all of my insecurities set up camp in my subconscious. They’re having one hell of a hoedown; everyone in town is invited. They’re stomping on my self-assurance in their cowboy boots, doing the freaking throwdown.

  Shaking my head at my stupidity, I yank on my favorite black jeans. They’ve got a gazillion and five rips in them, but I don’t have it in me to care. Surely Mikhail will be more interested in my design skills than my fashion sense? With any luck, once I get my prototype working, he’ll be so busy gushing over my speaker, it won’t matter what I wear.

  I slip a white T-shirt over my head and poke my arms through the sleeves. These, I roll up until they reach my shoulders, liking the extra movement it grants me. The shirt itself is a simple scoop neck, and it’s clean, which is an added bonus. I decide to pair my outfit with a worn belt, my combat boots, and figure to hell with it, so I tie some chunky leather bands around my wrists too. Since I’ve never attempted to be someone I’m not, I won’t start today. Mikhail can take me as I am.

  Content with my outfit, I comb out the tangled knots in my blonde hair. Sweeping it over one shoulder, I tie it into a loose braid. After applying some eyeliner and swiping some mascara over my lashes, I consider it a day and exit the bathroom.

  It’s time to focus on what’s important.

  With a decided nod, I carefully extract the prototype from under the table and begin cleaning it. I have a final test to run, and then I’m all set. Kind of. I clamp my eyes shut, clutching the table for support as my head swims and stomach rolls. “Goddammit,” I groan, trying not to heave. “Calm the fuck down, Har. You’re gonna be fine.”

  Only, the hurricane of butterflies in my stomach is reaching plague proportions. It’s obvious they didn’t get the calm the fuck down memo. Soon enough, there’s a free-for-all going on inside my stomach. Between that and the hoedown, it’s only a matter of time before I puke.

  Not wanting a repeat performance of this morning’s Pop-Tart, I take a deep breath, hold it, then exhale. After doing this a few times and feeling less like I’m going to heave, I stand up, checking the time on my phone.

  All the blood drains from my face. “Shit fuck shit.” Frantically, I glance about me. I don’t know why. It’s not as though there’s anyone here to refute the fact it’s just gone two o’clock. “The car must already be here,” I hiss. Again, no idea why I’ve dropped my voice so no one can hear.

  I roll my eyes at myself, and, with hasty movements, collect the equipment. Packing it into the case I spent all of last summer building takes longer than I’d like. I’m determined not to rush it though; I don’t want to damage my speaker or any of its components. After carefully coiling the cable leads and placing them in the dedicated alcove beside the prototype, I close and lock the lid.

  Then, I scan an expert gaze over my van, double-checking that I have everything I need before heading outside. All the while, I grumble under my breath, cursing the driver and their inability to let me know they’re here.

  The afternoon sun is intense. I blink away the spots that appear before my eyes as it does its level best to blind me. When my vision finally clears, I lock up my van and keep my gaze trained on the ground while hustling to the front of the venue. Less chance of singeing my retinas that way.

  The crunch of gravel beneath my boots echoes off the brick wall to my right as I march around the side of the building. However, the sound fades when I come to a stop in front of a sleek black vehicle. It’s polished to a high shine, waiting for me beside the sidewalk. My startled expression stares back at me from the side panel, though it’s distorted thanks to the modern curves of the paneling. One side of my face looks like it’s been stung by a bee, and part of my forehead and right cheek are twice their normal size.

  Awesome.

  Determined not to let my appearance—warped or not—get the best of me, I huff out a quick breath. Silky strands of hair billow into the air before falling back again, cradling my face. My gaze rests on the windows. They’re darker than Challenger Deep. Not being able to see through them is unnerving. However, I’m kinda liking the idea of no one seeing me collapse in a heap once I get inside. That way, no one will bear witness to my inevitable freak-out the closer we get to Silicon Valley.

  “Harper Ray Stevenson?” The driver stands by the open rear door.

  “Yeah.”

  “Ma’am.” He nods, tipping his cap like I’m someone important.

  Biting back a snort, I move past him. Since I want the speaker as close to me as possible, I slide in first and then wrangle it in the seat beside me. The case rests on an angle, part on the floor, part resting against plush, buttery caramel leather seats. I consider wrapping a seat belt around it but decide against the idea. I’m skirting crazy territory as it is.

  Once settled, I go to shift to the other side of the bench seat. And can’t. A wall of man takes up the space. Spinning to face the offending seat-stealer, my eyes widen—no doubt to comical proportions—as I take in the person before me. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Hello to you too.”

  I try to think up a snarky reply, something biting yet funny
so he knows I’m not affected by the fact his leg is right fucking there. Doesn’t matter I told him to leave me alone last night. Doesn’t matter he’s the last person I want to see today. Doesn’t matter he’s somehow wrangled his way into a goddamn chauffeured vehicle. I want him anyway.

  Fuck my life.

  Drake raises an expectant eyebrow. My gaze follows the movement, then traitorously skims his angular features until it comes to rest on his lips. The very corners quirk the smallest of margins. Despite the movement being tiny, it still comes across as smug. “You’re awfully quiet there, princess. That’s not like you. Where’s the sass?”

  My mouth is open. It’s gaping and everything. What a disaster.

  After internally throat punching myself, I get a freaking grip. At least, I try to. Only, my head’s a mess, my stomach’s a war zone, and my senses are flooded with sandalwood. It takes more than three tries to clear my throat. “Why are you here, Drake?”

  “Why do you think?” There’s a mischievous glimmer in his blue eyes. It’s the kind that promises trouble, mayhem, and orgasms.

  Slumping back in my seat, I shake my head, frustrated at my inability to remain immune to him. Life would be so much easier if I could sit next to the gorgeous lead singer and not turn into a hormonal mess. With a deep sigh, I stare at the ceiling. It’s cleaner than the roof of my RV. “I’ve got no idea.”

  Drake shifts beside me. His thigh presses even more firmly against mine, and I can sense the muscles tighten as he turns his body to face me. “You okay?”

  To my horror, a knot forms at the back of my throat. I remind myself that Drake’s seen me at my worst. Heck, he’s been inside me when I was a tired, sweaty mess. It’s pointless hiding the broken parts of me when he’s claimed to like them all along. And even though I want to be able to handle the confusing myriad of emotions on my own, I’m woman enough to admit when I need someone else to offload them to.

  So I turn my head to one side, my gaze catching his. “No.” My voice is strained. “Not even close.”

  The driver settles himself behind the wheel, the sound of his door slamming shut ending our brief conversation. Seconds later, the engine roars to life, and before I have a chance to stop this freak train and get the hell off, we slip into traffic.

  Two hours.

  In two hours, everything I’ve worked my ass off for the past year will be in the hands of a stranger. Not only that, I’ll be doing it beside the man who’s forcing his way into my life one grin at a time. My stomach rolls.

  Drake must notice the fear and apprehension curdling my insides because his hand covers mine. The warmth from his palm seeps through my bones, thawing the frigid chill I’ve tried my best to ignore since our fight last night.

  Long fingers curl beneath my palm, his thumb rubbing semicircles on my sensitive skin.

  Closing my eyes, I lose myself to his touch. With effort, I block out the soft music emanating from the front of the car, the horns and engines from the busy city street, the hammering of my heart as it thumps against my rib cage. Everything. I focus solely on the metrical swoop of Drake’s thumb as it brushes against my hand.

  The chaos overtaking my body slows and, before long, ceases. In its place is a tingling spark where the carnage from moments ago used to be. I prefer this sensation. A lot. It makes me feel less out of control and more alive.

  “Better?”

  Blinking my eyes open, I take in the handsome face, its focus trained exclusively on my lips. “Yeah.”

  Drake nods, then turns to stare out the window.

  I take my time watching him, knowing full well he can sense my gaze. His hair is an unruly mess yet somehow meticulously styled. His red T-shirt is tight, or at least it is over his broad shoulders. After that, the material relaxes against his torso, doing little to hide the abs beneath. His black jeans are tight on his thighs and ripped at the knees. I’m guessing he’s wearing combat boots too. Would suit the rocker vibe he’s got going on.

  After licking my lips, I clear my throat. “Didn’t expect to see you today.”

  He smirks to the world outside. “Or ever again, if you had your stubborn-ass way.” Turning, he captures my stare. Holds it. Refuses to let it go. “Lucky for you, I don’t scare easily.”

  “Lucky for you, I don’t throw you out of the car.”

  It’s hard holding back my smile. Really hard. As much as Drake frustrates the hell out of me sometimes and frustrates the hell out of my ovaries at other times, I’m glad he’s here. I need someone by my side today.

  He grins. Eventually, I give in. A wide smile tugs the corners of my mouth, and I revel in the sense of lightness it brings.

  Drake’s gaze takes in my features. Then, with a chuckle so deep and low it resonates directly with my center, he wraps a strong arm around my shoulders. After pulling me against his chest, he buries his nose in my hair, rumbling, “Bitch.”

  “Jerk.” I pinch his stomach, pissed when my short fingernails purchase nothing but abs. Not nearly as effective as I hoped. I humph.

  He laughs, nuzzling me. “I’ve got an idea I want to run past you.”

  Tipping my head back, I narrow my gaze. “Don’t tell me you’re actually going to ask me something before you go ahead and do it?”

  He has the decency to appear sheepish. “Kinda.”

  My nostrils flare.

  “Phase one of my plan is already in motion. Nothing you can do about it, so there’s no point in getting shitty.”

  My gaze narrows.

  “It’s phase two, I want to talk about.”

  I wait him out, enjoying the way uncertainty makes his blue eyes appear brighter than usual.

  When he notices he’s not getting a word from me until he explains himself, Drake sighs, exasperated. “Fine.” His Adam’s apple bobs on a swallow. “I’ve got a question for you.” Pause. “What are you gonna play through your speaker today?”

  “Huh?”

  “You’ve thought about it, right? Whoever you’re meeting wants to know you’ve got quality sound equipment, so you’re gonna need some tunes.”

  Furrowing my brow, I consider his words. “I figured Mikhail’s got all the equipment he needs to test it. I mean, that’s his job, right?”

  Drake shrugs. “Maybe. Do you have a detailed printout of his job description? Because I sure as fuck don’t.”

  “Ah….” Shit. With everything that happened last night, I didn’t think to do a background search on the guy or the place where we’re meeting. How do I know if he’s got what I need to test my speaker?

  A slab of dread plummets to the base of my stomach.

  Oh my God, how am I going to sell him on the benefits of my prototype if I can’t play anything through it? I mean, I need music for a speaker to be functional. It’s the whole reason for its existence in the first place.

  I groan, rubbing my forehead. “Why didn’t I think of that?” But then I remember that it was Zeke who hooked up the meeting. Zeke, the world’s leading name in music production and cutting-edge technology. The very man who’s renowned for his exacting nature, attention to detail, and explosive temper if his demands aren’t met. He’d make damn sure the meet and greet with Mikhail is productive—for all our sakes. He’s not the kind of guy who would waste his time, let alone money, on a non-event.

  So yeah, I go on the defensive. “Look, I don’t know what to expect today. Obviously, I’ve never done this before. But I do know this: Zeke must think rainbows shoot out of Mikhail’s ass if he set up the meeting and spent cash on this ridiculous car.”

  Drake’s eyes dart to the driver. Mine stay on him. Nothing against the chauffeur or anything, but come on. The cupholders are made from brushed chrome.

  When Drake’s attention returns to me, there’s a playful smile in place. That, combined with the damn twinkle in his aqua eyes, and I can barely remember what we’re talking about. Something about a car?

  “I’m sure there’ll be leprechauns galivanting all over the joint when w
e get there, princess,” Drake jokes. I keep staring at his mouth. His lips sober on his next words though, so I blink, snapping myself out my stupor. “But my point is, how do you know he’s got the gear you need? Dude might have offices all over the country. Does the one you’re meeting him in today have what’s necessary for your speaker?”

  “I assumed I’d be meeting him at a studio or some shit.” I glance at my hands to find them gripping the frayed rips in my jeans. “What if it’s just an office?”

  Drake watches me. It’s as though he’s waiting for me to put two and two together. Only, I don’t know what I’m meant to be connecting. It feels like he wants me to finish a jigsaw puzzle blindfolded and with gloves on.

  “I don’t need much,” I continue, licking my lips as I think up possible options. “Just some music to play through it. Needs to be good quality, though. I don’t want to start with murky sound.” I tap my index finger against my knee. However, the beat is disjointed, so, irritated, I stop. “I’ve got everything else.” Really should have thought this through.

  Next, I move on to picking at my chipped fingernails. “Worst-case scenario, I’ve got music on my phone. I can connect it to the speaker and play something off that.”

  But Drake’s already shaking his head before I finish my sentence. “Bad idea. You do that, and you’re giving him secondhand sound.”

  “Secondhand sound? What are you on about? It would be an official recording that’s been digitally mastered. I don’t download music unless it’s good quality, Drake. What kind of roadie do you take me for?”

  “A slow one,” he mumbles.

  “What did you say?”

  Drake thrusts a hand through his hair. The strands stick in every direction. On anyone else it would look like they’ve been snap-frozen in a blizzard. But him? He looks like he could star in a freaking Hollywood blockbuster.

  I narrow my gaze. Drake waves away both my question and my unspoken warning. Shifting in his seat, he turns to face me completely, his expression eager. “Listen to me carefully. And I mean care-full-y. Reckon you can do that?”