Resisting the Musician (a Head Over Heels Novel) (Entangled Indulgence)

by Ally Blake

  “Then what do you do?”

  The sides of his mouth slid into a heart-stopping grin. “Whatever I want.”

  Eyes narrowing, she asked, “What does that even mean?”

  “Sleep. Throw a stick. Eat. Game. Sleep some more.”

  While she was clinging to her future with her bare fingernails? Incredulous, she asked, “You’re, what, in your early thirties?” His mock-deferential nod, dissolved any compunction she might have had in throwing at him accusingly, “And that’s it, you’re done?”

  She saw her indictment hit its mark and any deference he might have felt disappeared. But it seemed he wasn’t quite done yet. “I did nothing else for a long time. Until I woke up one day and realized it wasn’t about the music anymore. So, even while your sister seems like a sweetheart, and is quite possibly the best thing that’s ever happened to Jake, I won’t write her a song. But thanks for coming all this way.” His eyes narrowed as his gaze traveled down to her mouth. “Reg has excellent taste in baked goods and never comes empty-handed, but you’re far easier on the eye.”

  Lori struggled to process what for him had amounted to a speech, including the fact Thor had just admitted he liked the look of her. Callie’s words were taking up too much room inside of her head.

  For the song to have the resonance it requires, it has to be Dash.

  And this had to work. For her driver Mack, and her assistant Tracey, and everyone who helped put food on their families’ tables because of her sister’s shoes. And it had to work for Callie, too.

  As sheltered as Lori kept her, Lori knew Callie had spent more nights awake, blocked as to the design of her own wedding shoe, than she’d spent worried about every other shoe she’d ever designed combined.

  “If you never had any intention of helping me, why did you invite me in?”

  “Accident.”

  “Says the man with such deep-seated privacy issues he claims to own liver-eating dogs.”

  “Touché.”

  He leaned in at that, a grin easing across his face, his sleepy man-scent wrapping about her like a silk necktie.

  Lori clearly needed to carve out some time to go on a date. With a man who wore clothes that weren’t falling apart. And didn’t offer beer at ten in the morning. And actually had a life. Because the last person in the entire world Lori had any intention of being attracted to was a libertine who wasted his life doing whatever he wanted to do.

  Her mother had done exactly that and she was still paying the emotional price.

  Lori pushed the stool back and hopped down, so that she had two feet well and truly on the ground as she said, “You think Callie’s the best thing that’s happened to your friend? Then believe me when I tell you if they have any chance of making it, they need this. I’m not entirely sure if you’re an actual hermit, or if there’s a bat cave filled with mod cons under this place, but out there it’s bad. The way they see it, Callie usurped America’s sweetheart to nab Jake’s heart, and people are calling for her blood. And this song, this sweet, thoughtful gift, will go a long way to proving that they’re not merely a salacious headline; they’re the real deal.”

  While the emotion in the words surprised even her, Dash listened. His restless gaze didn’t slide to her mouth once. At the very least she could go away knowing she’d made herself heard.

  When he breathed deep, then muttered something unintelligible as he glanced up at the skylight, Lori felt her first ray of hope.

  Until he said, “And what am I meant to get out of this?”

  “Something to fill the hours when you get bored of sleeping. And if it makes any difference, I’d owe you.”

  His dark eyes narrowed, glinted, all earlier signs of post-sleep haze well and truly gone, making Lori wonder if it was too late to call ‘take-back’s.

  “You said Callie plans to sing the song,” he said.

  “Live on stage. And she wants the whole thing to be a surprise.”

  Please please please…

  “Who’ll be playing back-up?”

  “I—I don’t know. A CD? You? Does that matter?”

  “Oh Lori, lovely Lori, I’m afraid that matters very much.”

  Dash lifted himself up to his full height before moving around the countertop. His bare feet barely made a sound on the wooden floor, but Lori felt the vibrations of every heavy step deep into the center of her bones.

  And then he was there, in front of her; the warm man smell now amplified by really good coffee and a good dose of sugar. And cream. She could all but taste the cream.

  The edge of his mouth kicked up into a knowing smile as he leaned in, closer, towering over her so her neck cricked. Then his thighs brushed hers as he leaned so close personal space was no longer an issue.

  Her blood seemed to thicken and ignite as her long hair brushed her elbows, and one of his knees slid between hers.

  This wasn’t happening. It made no sense. She should stop it. But he was warm, and big, and he smelled so good. She lifted her hand to push him away. Or maybe to grab a fistful of shirt and drag him in.

  She never got the chance to find out, as from one breath to the next he was gone, her hand hovering midair, the rest of her vibrating like a plucked string.

  He held up a package at eye-level—the pink envelope he’d nabbed from the countertop behind her. Then he plucked her hand out of the air and led her and her wobbly legs and clacking heels up the stairs and to the front door. His strides were so big she had to leap to avoid tripping over the rough mat on which she’d wiped her shoes.

  And then she was outside, squinting against the drizzly sunshine. She turned back to face him to find him already blocking the doorway.

  “Here’s the deal,” he rumbled. “I’ll write Callie her music.”

  Her knees nearly gave way with relief. And other things. Like the fact that his gruff liquid voice grazed her insides.

  “But there are stipulations. Callie has to sing it,” he said. “And you have to play.”

  “Play what?” she asked, shaking off the odd funk that had settled over her.

  “Guitar, Lori. You will accompany your sister on the guitar.”

  The pfft that spluttered from her mouth was effusive. “Do I look like I play guitar?”

  “You look like you wouldn’t know which way of a guitar was up, which is what makes the idea so satisfying.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You must know a billion guitar players who’d jump at the chance. I’m not doing it.”

  “Then right back at ya.”

  Lori chomped down on the inside of her cheek hard enough to draw blood. “Why do I get the feeling you only want me to play because you know how deeply I don’t want to?”

  “It’ll come to you,” he said, one eyebrow cocking.

  “But you don’t even know me.”

  “You don’t know me, either, but that didn’t stop you from driving up my driveway, past my big sign asking you not to. After I had not answered my phone because I clearly didn’t have any intention of talking to you.”

  He waited patiently for her to catch up. To realize she was neck deep in a hole she’d made and there was only one way out. His way.

  Only he didn’t know that she’d been there a million times before.

  She’d only gotten her sister and herself out of Fairbanks by way of three jobs and a pair of cross-country train tickets she’d won in a poker match against one of the local mean girls who’d ridiculed her for needing three jobs.

  She’d only gotten Callie on the train by pretending they were extras in Some Like It Hot. She’d built one of San Francisco’s fastest growing businesses because she never laid down.

  But play the guitar when she had not the slightest inclination or ability?

  Lori had already nibbled a ragged spot into her thumbnail before she even realized it was between her teeth. “One problem, I’m not musical. I don’t even sing in the shower. I have no hope in hell of playing a guitar.”

  A loaded beat went by bef
ore he said, “I’ll teach you.”

  Lori reared back. “You?”

  “If Callie wants this to stay hush hush, and I won’t be a part of it unless you pay the piper, I don’t see any other way.”

  She opened her mouth to nip the whole ridiculous idea in the bud but nothing came out but a slightly awkward squeak. Which the man of the hour seemed to thoroughly enjoy.

  “So, Lori Hanover, sister of Callie, resister of early morning hops, troubler of honorable men, are we doing this thing or not?”

  Lori swallowed. Pictured what her life would be like if she was forced to start over. Or worse, go back. The mountains of Montana, the lakes, and big sky might be some of the most beautifully rugged country on the continent but to Lori it had been the very edges of hell.

  “Fine,” she said, between gritted teeth.

  He cupped a hand to his ear. “I missed that.”

  “You write it, I’ll play it.” Lori glared at the big, pink envelope covered in Callie’s curly hopeful print. “The lyrics are in there.”

  With a flash of a smile that didn’t touch his eyes, he flicked a finger at the opening. “Have you read them?”

  “Good Lord, no,” she mumbled. Adding belatedly, “Not mine to read.”

  The rumble of laughter told Lori she hadn’t been adept at hiding the real reason she hadn’t dived straight into the thing. That Callie’s adoration for Jake would be even harder to stomach on paper.

  Dash slid the envelope down the back of his jeans, pressing his impressive abs in her direction as he did so. “See you soon, Lori Hanover.”

  She pulled out her phone, opening her calendar with its red entries for dire meetings, orange for regular meetings, green for yoga, manicures, healthy stuff, and the rare blue social encounter. Clueless as to what color she’d make her lessons with Dash Mills, she said, “Of course I’ll have to shuffle my schedule to fit it in—”

  “Whenever. I’ll be here.”

  “Here?” she asked, blinking into the gloomy surrounds. “Any chance we could do this in town?”

  “Not a chance in the world.”

  “Of course not. How about Wednesday… No, Thursday? Ahh, early afternoon?”

  Dash shrugged, as if to say it didn’t matter to him. Restive with the need to pin it down, Lori knew she’d already pushed her luck, so she took her leave.

  And as she walked away—her shoes once more slipping on the rocks—she surprised herself by laughing. Which turned into a smile, bigger than she’d smiled in days. She even gave a little fist pump.

  “All done, miss?” asked Mack as she slid into the back seat.

  “For now,” she said with a sigh of relief.

  This was what hope felt like and it had been some months since she’d felt even a glimmer. It would take work (learning to play a stupid guitar) and sacrifice (spending time with her guitar teacher who seemed to have taken as little shine to her as she had to him). But she wasn’t afraid of either.

  She glanced out the window as Mack turned the car around and saw the two dogs bound past the car and up the front steps to where Dash bent down to rough them up.

  And then he stood, watching her drive away.

  …

  Dash scratched at the tattoo high up on his bicep as his dogs bounded up the stairs, tongues lolling out of their gray and white muzzles. “Boys, do I really need to explain that the only reason I took you on was to eat people like her?”

  Jagger saw something shiny in the woods and ran off. Bowie’s ears pricked a second before Dash heard the rumble of a hog echoing through the hills.

  Reg’s motorbike flickered through the trees before bumping over the new ruts in the mud, tracking a familiar course through the rocks and sliding to a halt in its usual spot by the edge of the porch.

  Reg peeled off his helmet, freeing his long, red, frazzled beard that, along with his faded leathers and round middle, made him look like a ZZ Top groupie.

  “Was that an actual visitor I just passed?” Reg asked as he carefully lifted his dodgy leg over the bike, grabbing his usual brown paper bag filled with something sweet and bready.

  “Bagman.”

  “Gung ho, taking on your driveway.”

  “Mmm.” Dash pulled the pink envelope from the back of his jeans and motioned with it. A scent wafted past his nose—spicy and hot, like satisfaction. It had Lori Hanover all over it.

  Rolling it up, he shoved it unceremoniously under his arm, grabbed his steel-capped work boots from inside the house and yanked them on. He waited for Reg to limp his way before they headed around the side of the house, a single canine companion at their heels.

  With a yank of a handle that threatened to dislocate his shoulder, the roller door lifted and they were inside the shed. The solitary beam of mottled sunlight shining through the one dirty window collected dust motes on its way to landing on Dash’s projects, many begun, nearly as many let go. And as he set foot in the dark, cool space, the tension that had risen in his shoulders the moment he’d spied the invader on his porch began to ease away.

  Bowie curled himself into a comfy position on the doggie bed in the near corner. Reg groaned in relief as he pulled up a stool and began to warm up the miniature coffee machine while Dash tossed the envelope onto a bench, straddled a stool, grabbed a palm-sized slice of sandpaper, and set to finding his zen by making mincemeat of a random hunk of wood.

  He should have known Reg wouldn’t let it lie.

  “So, that was a pretty sweet ride back there. Late model. Vanity plates. Chauffeured, by the looks of it. With a serious blonde in the rear.”

  Dash sanded harder; the dust floating feverishly up into the beam of light, hitting the backs of his nostrils, making grit in the corners of his eyes. “Imagine my surprise when I found her at my front door when I was expecting you.”

  Reg grinned, a glint of sunlight flickering off a gold tooth. “Looker?”

  Skin like cream. Soft lips. Wicked eyes. “Legs up to here,” Dash admitted, motioning under his arms.

  And then there were those shoes. Not that Dash usually noticed such things, but these had been something else. Black, witchy, with heels like silver daggers. The things had made his balls shrink as the heels’d clacked sharply against his floor.

  That had nothing to do with the shoes, his subconscious shot back.

  His subconscious was dead right.

  For Lori Hanover, with her bluster, her self-righteousness and her va va voom, could have stepped right out of the ugly blur of his last days with the band and right into his very nightmares.

  “What was she selling?”

  Dash jerked back to the present. “Trouble.”

  “Ahh. Why do I get the feeling that you paid up?”

  Dash gave up sanding, instead gripping the sand paper wrapped around the sharp edges of the wood. His gaze kicked to the pale pink envelope uncurling inch by inch atop a pile of filthy rags. Inside it sat a secret, a song.

  The urge to hold his confidences close to his chest was a powerful one. His right to live a life unaffected by the whims of others was his bedrock. But this was Reg. He could trust the man with his life.

  Already had.

  He’d been wild there for a while. If not for Reg yanking him back, he’d be living a very different kind of life. If any at all.

  He turned an inch on the stool, searched for the words that would have felt impossible an hour before, and said, “What would you say to my writing again?”

  Reg’s eyes widened before a grin broke out across his face, adding creases to the creases. “Do you really have to ask?” Then he glanced out the door. “For her?”

  Dash nodded.

  Reg whistled long and low between his teeth, then shoved the entire contents of the paper bag from the local bakery toward Dash. “It’s a hell of a lot to take on just to get a date.”

  Dash laughed. “Lucky, then, that I have no intention of asking her on one.”

  “Why the hell not? Did she have an Adam’s apple I missed?
I bat for the other side, but even I could tell she was lovely.”

  “Reg—”

  “What? It’s not a silly question.”

  “You know I can’t go there.”

  “Can’t is a long time,” said Reg, shifting on his chair and giving Dash his armchair-psychologist face. “Firstly, you can. At one time I remember the women used to go rather ape-shit for your rugged good looks and that you enjoyed it plenty. And secondly, it’s about time you should. It’s what we are put on this planet for.”

  “And yet, I remain unmoved.”

  It had taken Dash four arduous years to get to a point where it felt like the life he had was one he deserved. It was a life of quiet, of time, of simple pleasures.

  His hounding days were done.

  Thrown out with the career that had made those ways as easy as pie. Getting mixed up with a woman of Lori Hanover’s ilk? He might as well give it all away right now.

  Plowing on, he filled Reg in on the bare bones of the deal, knowing he could trust it wouldn’t go an inch further.

  “Do you even want to do this?” asked Reg.

  Hell no. “It’s for Jake. It felt…like I should.”

  “But if it wasn’t for Jake?”

  Even being for Jake, the idea of stepping just a toe into that world again made his stomach turn. But he owed the man much more than a song.

  As for Callie, she’d seemed a sweet kid, and Dash had no trouble believing the tabloids would be delighting in giving her a hard time. It was the nature of the game—attracting the kinds of people who loved you exactly as much as they hated you. Like human leeches, they stuck by you so long as they could get something out of you. And if you decided to stop playing the game…?

  Like it had been inevitable since the moment he’d seen her standing on his porch, in her thousand dollar dress, and two hundred dollar haircut, and those brutal shoes—the kind that could pierce a man’s sternum with a well-timed kick—Dash found himself dragged back into the eddying memories of a part of his life he’d long since thought left in his dust.

  For Lori Hanover was the epitome of the particular breed of woman who’d been favored by The Rift’s record company during his last heady days with the band. They’d handled everything from liaising with hotels, to press control, to inviting girls back to the band’s rooms. Impressive women, stunning to a one, ambitious, and bulletproof.