Song for Me (Rock Me Book 4)

by Lee Piper

  Drake grins. Raises the mic. Winks.

  I’m going to be sick.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I’d love to say that at the sound of Drake’s acoustic song, Mikhail weeps tears of joy. I’d love to say he drops to his knees begging for the rights to my speaker. Hell, I’d love to say he cracks the smallest of smiles—anything to tell me he’s affected by the sound. Drake’s song is beautiful, after all.

  But he doesn’t.

  Instead, the taciturn Russian prowls the perimeter of the circular room, eyes remaining fixed on my speaker, pausing every so often to glance at an app he has open on his phone. When focused on it, he quirks his head to one side. But, other than that, he’s unresponsive. To be honest, I don’t know if it’s a good quirk of the head or an ominous one. Is there a way to measure movements like that? If there is, I’ve never heard of it.

  Either way, Mikhail gives nothing away. Not a slight rise of the mouth, not a softening of the eyes, nothing. He might as well be made of titanium. I mean, his mannerisms are so rigid, I’m surprised he’s got a damn pulse.

  Frustrated, freaked, and more than a little impatient, I avert my gaze. It lands on Drake. Or, if I’m being specific, his legs. My eyes travel the length of his stance, legs spread slightly apart, jeans tight in all the right places. They linger on his T-shirt, the one that does nothing to hide the rippling muscles beneath. Then they take in his biceps, which grow larger whenever he brings the mic to his mouth. Finally, I admire the cut of his jaw, the pout of his lips, the raw passion reflected in clear blue eyes.

  Blue eyes fixed on me.

  Whoa. Did not expect that.

  Needing something to stop the flush threatening my cheeks, I focus on the lyrics. Drake’s song speaks of hurt, betrayal, and finding the strength to keep going. The lines,

  Endless gray skies, baby,

  Clipped wings are gonna fly,

  prove that, once again, he’s opened the door to the darkest part of me and is exposing what I’ve kept secreted away. Strangely, I don’t hate him for it. Usually I’m on the verge of imploding right about now. After all, there’s only so much soul-searching a chronic avoider can do before losing their shit. However, I’ve never heard these lyrics before. Drake hasn’t sung them on stage, and I haven’t seen him writing over the past few days. When did he compose it?

  Questions aside, I’m curious to learn where this song will lead.

  For all my claims that he’s writing about me, I know he isn’t. Not really. Which then begs the question, who is it really about? If it’s about Drake, when has he felt agonizing loss? Betrayal? Torment? The longer I stand here, the more I realize I don’t know any of his history. And yet, here he is, rupturing from the inside out right in front of me.

  It seems a strange time to be contemplating the enigmatic lead singer’s past. Something tells me that standing in an echo chamber while the sound quality of my speaker is being judged isn’t the time or place. But I can’t help it. I want answers.

  I blame Drake. There’s too much passion in the way he grasps the mic, stares into my soul, and expels goddamn lyrical poetry like it’s his purpose in life. Whatever the cause of this song, it’s messing with my head. I’m meant to be freaking the heck out. My life is literally in the hands of Mikhail. The same man who hasn’t shown a single change in facial expression since first being introduced over an hour ago.

  Drake takes a step forward, gaze pinned on me. I swear, he’s trying to tell me something. There’s a determined glint warning me to prepare myself. Though for what, I’m not sure.

  Seconds later, he throws his head back, raises the mic above him and screams into it. His voice is anguished, raw, so full of yearning I can barely breathe. Air gets trapped in my lungs. I’m so struck by the veins sticking out of Drake’s neck, by the clarity of sound coming through the speaker, I don’t do anything but stare open-mouthed.

  Then, it hits me.

  Holy shit. It’s clear. It’s completely fucking clear. There isn’t the slightest distortion. The extreme frequency hasn’t impacted the quality at all. Holding a hand to my mouth, I choke down the excited squeal desperate to escape.

  Stay cool, Har. It’s not over yet. With determined effort, I force my lungs to work. It’s not easy, they’re still in shock from Drake’s vocal range and my fucking awesome speaker. However, somehow, I manage to get them working again. If this holds up, I might have a chance of impressing Mikhail.

  Drake straightens, a knowing smirk fixed firmly in place. I lower my hand, playing off what happened like it was no big deal. The laughter in his eyes is calling me on my bullshit. The upward tilt of my chin is telling him to shut the hell up. Not literally, obviously. He’s doing far too well to stop now.

  I glance over to the taciturn Russian, hopeful for a reaction. His back is to me, so I have no idea if he’s astounded or not. He’s staring intently at his phone. I’m sure his shoulders weren’t that hunched before. So, there’s that. Since I have no freaking idea if it’s a good thing or not, I expel an exasperated sigh and look away again.

  Drake’s eyes clash with mine, cautioning me to be patient. It’s not easy. I’m tempted to stride over to Mikhail, grab him by the shoulders, and shake him until answers tumble from his mouth. Clearly, this isn’t the way to go, no matter how appealing it is. So, for the final verse, I resign myself to the music, needing the distraction only Drake can give.

  I look at him.

  He looks at me.

  Our connection pulses, swirls, grows stronger with each heartbeat. The air becomes palpable. It’s so thick, I could cut it with shears. The outside world slips away until we’re the only two people left in existence. Goose bumps break out on my skin, and tingles dance to the rhythm of his song. My body hums, more alive than it’s ever been. All because of Drake.

  Flustered by the power he wields, I tuck some hair behind my ear. I want yet fear what comes next. So much hangs in the balance of this moment. Here, we’re safe. There are no external forces intent on tearing us apart. Once Drake stops singing, however….

  It’s like my mind is preparing me for a cataclysmic change. A change it knows full well I’m not ready to handle. Suffice to say, when the final note fades, I’m an emotional wreck.

  Needy isn’t usually my MO. I can wait out a person until they blurt whatever it is they’re holding back like water from a drainpipe. But damn, I’d give my left boob to know what Mikhail is thinking. Does he like what I’ve crafted? Hate it? Has an ear infection and can’t hear a damn thing?

  Nibbling my bottom lip, I glance between Drake and Mikhail. For once, Drake is quiet. He must have spent all his energy on delivering the song and is now exhausted. Can’t say I blame him. That performance was his best yet, and I’ve seen a ton of them. With a weary grin, he drops his hand, the mic resting against his muscular thigh. His broad chest heaves with labored breaths, the red fabric of his T-shirt darker in the places clinging to his skin. He’s sweating. Like me, perspiration drips from his forehead, trickling down the side of his face.

  Surreptitiously, I wipe mine away, hoping to God Mikhail doesn’t notice the evidence of my nerves. Not Drake, though. Nope, he wears his sweat like a badge of honor. I don’t blame him. If I looked that good all hot and bothered, I would too.

  By the time Mikhail finally turns around, I’ve almost eaten my way through my lower lip. It’s cracked, sore, and the metallic tang of blood floods my mouth. However, it’s the least of my worries. Mikhail slips his phone into the front pocket of his suit pants and meets my eyes. “Thank you. I will be in touch.”

  He leaves.

  He motherfucking leaves.

  Oh hell no.

  Without sparing a look at Drake, I race after him. I’m midway down the hallway when I catch up with his long strides. “Mikhail, wait.”

  He stops. Doesn’t turn around.

  I scramble until I’m standing in front of him, blocking his path. “Is that it?”

  Tipping his head to one side, he cons
iders me, my question, I don’t fucking know. Like usual, his expression is unreadable and doesn’t give anything away. “Is what it? What more do you expect?”

  Sucking in gasping breaths, I plant my hands on my hips. Man, I really need to do more cardio. “I’d really appreciate a timeline or something. I mean, how long will you need to—” Waving a hand in the air, I try to think up the word. “—consider my design?”

  Mikhail shrugs. “A week?”

  My stomach drops.

  “Maybe two?”

  Hope plummets five stories.

  “There are many factors I need to take into consideration. Financial costs, liabilities, production, shipment, marketing. Not to mention whether there is a target audience. It’s a very unique design.”

  “There is,” I whisper. “There is a market for it.” My vision is blurry. Tears sting the backs of my eyes, threatening to spill over my cheeks. Clenching my hands into fists, I focus on the sharp sting of my fingernails pinching my flesh. I’m not going to cry. Not in the hallway, and not in front of Mikhail.

  “Bands are always complaining about poor sound on tour.” It’s painful to talk, but I fight the shards of glass lodged in my throat and continue. “They want a speaker tailored specifically to their music.”

  “There is a lot to consider,” he repeats, though not unkindly.

  It’s as though I’m being repeatedly kicked in the kidneys. My dream is ruined. Over. There’s no coming back from this. I mean, even if Mikhail turned around and offered a multimillion-dollar contract in a week’s time, it would be too late. I’d already be dead.

  He must notice the fear on my face. “You will be hearing from me. It might be with the answer you want, but it might not. At the moment, I can’t give you a direct response. Not until I have all the facts. Understand?”

  I do. But it doesn’t matter. None of it does. Not anymore.

  Shifting to the side, I stare unseeing at the wall in front of me. White. Why is everything so white up here? It’s like the interior designer gave up after the ground floor.

  Mikhail leaves, his measured tread fading until silence surrounds me.

  It takes everything I have not to slide my back down the wall until I’m crouched on the floor. I want to cry. Scream. Wake from this nightmare with Aunt Rose smiling down at me, laughing at my bed hair, saying it was all a bad dream.

  Running a trembling hand through my braid, which has long since turned into a knotted mess, I exhale a shaky breath.

  “Ready?” I turn in the direction of Drake’s voice. He’s holding my speaker case, concern softening his eyes as he watches me. Always watching me.

  No. “Yep.”

  Wordlessly, we walk past the receptionist, who throws Drake one last flirtatious grin. It doesn’t bother me. A groupie with selective hearing is the least of my concerns right now.

  We return downstairs and make our way through the main foyer. I’m not in the mood to marvel at the way the natural light mutes as it hits the tinted windows. I don’t care about how the greenery softens the room. I don’t pay attention to the metal accents or the fact they match the light fixtures. I don’t give a shit about any of it.

  None of it matters. I’ll be dead in three days.

  Drake and I leave through the glass doors and meet the driver who’s miraculously waiting in the loading bay out front. With a distracted nod, I slip into the back seat. If I were in a clearer frame of mind, I’d want to know how he knew the meeting had ended. I didn’t contact him. However, I’m too preoccupied to worry about inconsequential bullshit. He’s here, we need a lift, the end.

  Drake settles beside me and packs away my speaker with efficient movements. “Buckle up.”

  It’s a testament to my distraction that I actually do as he asks. If Drake shoots me an uneasy look, I don’t notice. In fact, I don’t focus on anything except the words swirling inside my head. They’ve been on repeat since Mikhail told me his time frame.

  I’m so fucked.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The car slows to a stop. Blinking, I refocus my gaze to discover we’re back in San Francisco. Huh. Could have sworn we’d left Silicon Valley only minutes ago.

  I turn from the window and glance at Drake. He’s watching me. Ice-blue eyes take in my every feature, a combination of worry and resolve rippling across the surface like a pebble dropped in a pond. Leaning forward, he mutters something to the driver too low for me to hear. The driver nods, gets out of the car, opens Drake’s door, and waits.

  Drake hops out of the vehicle, retrieves my speaker, and waits patiently for my motor function to kick in. My door then opens, the driver waiting with his eyes averted. Slowly, I get out of the car, my movements sluggish and heavy. Then, as though dazed, I follow Drake’s lean frame as he leads me to the tour bus. Before long, the door is open and he ushers me inside.

  “There you are. We were wondering where you both got to.” Willow’s smile is genuine and lights up her whole face. Heck, it illuminates the entire bus. It’s bright, too bright. Similar to staring at the sun. I’ll go blind if I look for much longer, so blinking, I glance away.

  “Harper?” Concern laces Wil’s tone. She steps toward me, her careful tread measured yet soft. If I could personify a person by their footsteps it would be Wil. Careful and soft. Sweet and kind. Delicate yet deliberate. Strange, I’m assimilating footsteps with a personality. Must be stage one of an epic freak-out.

  Furrowing my brows, I stare through the venetian blinds and out the kitchenette window. Aren’t I meant to be thrumming with adrenaline or something? Isn’t that how people respond to life-threatening situations? With fight or flight? I’m sure I heard that somewhere.

  But no. Instead, my feet are cemented to the floor as conversation swirls around me. Vapid air shifting through lifeless space. Now, I might not know much about the physiological response to danger, but I know that what I’m feeling right now isn’t normal. I mean, what’s with the emptiness? The numbness? I’ve got nothing left inside to offer anyone. I’m useless at conversation. I’ve channeled my inner Mikhail by keeping my expression impassive, and a single word has yet to pass my lips. If I were laid out on an operating table and my chest cavity was opened up, there would literally be nothing but a hollow shell.

  If I had the energy, I’d worry.

  “Hey.” A gentle hand clasps my arm. “Is everything okay? You look… I don’t know. Not yourself.”

  I want to brush Willow away but don’t. I don’t have it in me.

  “Want me to make you some tea?”

  Why? What’s the point?

  “She doesn’t need tea, Wil. Look at her. The girl needs straight-up bourbon.”

  “Like alcohol is going to help whatever’s going on here.” I can sense Wil roll her eyes at Drake. “She needs nutrients, vitamins, and a heap of antioxidants.” Stepping away, the guitarist rummages through the cupboards, muttering, “Your girl is paler than I am, and that’s saying something.”

  While she and Drake bicker about the best remedy for my unnamed ailment, my gaze roams the bus. Eventually, it lands on Reid. He’s observing me in that silent way of his, gray eyes reading my tells without me having to say a word. We essentially have an entire conversation without opening our mouths. It’s refreshing.

  I’m fucked, my stare tells him.

  I can tell. What’s going on?

  It’s a long story.

  Anything I can do?

  Build a time machine and transport me back six months?

  Apart from that?

  Nothing. Not a thing.

  Dude, I’m sorry.

  Yeah, me too.

  I like Reid. He’s solid. After our wordless chat, I silently slip past him, thankful he doesn’t draw attention to my disappearance.

  I make my way along the narrow hallway leading toward the back of the bus, my senses guiding me. Sandalwood teases my nose as I push open an unlocked door at the very end. There’s a double bed pressed against the back wall with a rumpled nav
y blanket heaped on top. The indent of where Drake’s head lay is still visible on the pillow. He didn’t make the bed this morning. Typical Drake. I’d smile if I knew how.

  Moving closer, I stare at the sheets. I think I’m broken.

  Crawling onto the bed, I lower myself until I’m curled in a ball on my side. My head nestles into the pillow, one hand beneath it, the other resting on top. Inhaling, I wrap the scent of Drake around me like an extra blanket and close my eyes.

  It feels like only seconds and yet something rouses me from sleep. At first, I’m not sure what it is. Then, I register the heat on the right side of my face and a dull, rhythmic thud drumming against my ear.

  Gentle fingers glide up and down my arm. They brush hair from my cheek before starting their journey again.

  “How long was I out for?” My voice is raspy, like I haven’t used it in a while.

  “Couple hours.” Drake shifts from his back to his side until he’s facing me. He carefully positions my body so I’m mirroring his languid pose, our eyes level. Propping his face on a fist, he murmurs, “What happened back there?”

  I know what he’s referring to. Ever since my conversation with Mikhail, I turned into a freaking robot. I looked like a person and moved like a person, but there was nothing human about me. “I—” Licking my lips, I consider how to phrase what’s going on in my head. It’s not easy. There’s this weird oxymoron of empty chaos. It barely makes sense to me, so I don’t know how I’m going to explain it without sounding like a freak.

  Drake’s free hand rests on my hip, holding me in place. It’s like he’s tethering me to him, worried I’ll slip between his fingers and drift away. Not gonna lie, I’m scared of the same thing.

  I reorder my thoughts, hoping to make them clear. “Have you ever put your heart and soul into something? Done everything you can to make whatever it is you’re trying to do a reality?”

  Blinking, Drake considers me.

  “You’ve drawn on every reserve,” I continue. “Exhausted every option, bled every part of yourself into this one goal.” Dropping my voice, I murmur. “Only, it’s not enough. And then you realize the goal is an extension of you. So, not only is the goal laughable, but you are as well. Failure by association, you know?”