Heartbreaker (Unbreakable #1)

by Kat Bastion

  “Pffft. I’m not lazy. Just lacked motivation until now.”

  Hannah grabbed her drink, then abandoned her faraway perch on the wingchair to rest a hip on the arm of the couch beside me. She tilted her head toward my ear. “Like sex-on-a-stick motivation.”

  “No.” I glanced at the traitor beside me. “For your information” —I stared pointedly at each of the three of them— “I downloaded the Couch to 5K app and bought my Vibrams months before Darren ever entered into the picture.”

  “And he offered to train you?” Hannah asked, arching a suspicious brow.

  “Yeah. Challenged me actually.”

  “To what?” Hannah pulled away, turning to face me now.

  “To be ready for the race with his methods.”

  And remain just friends while doing it. But they didn’t need all the details.

  “And what else?” Hannah prodded.

  “How do you know there’s an ‘else’?”

  “Gut instinct.” She nudged me. “C’mon. You’ve got to have at least a little ulterior motive.”

  “Why?” Because a normal well-adjusted girl would? And really, I had. “Okay.” I played along with what they wanted to hear. “Sure.” I shrugged. “If he decides when I’m all hot and sweaty that he has to have me right then and there, I might cave.”

  Would totally cave.

  “Not him…all hot and sweaty?” Kendall teased.

  I groaned, closing my eyes as I pictured him at the gym the other day, all flexing muscles and glistening skin. “Not helping…”

  “Okay. How ’bout we change the subject?” Hannah stood, then nudged between Kristen and me on the couch. I scooted far into my corner as she took a sip of her strawberry daiquiri.

  “Yes. Please.” I gulped down half of mine until a threatening brain freeze stopped me.

  Hannah ran a finger along the rim of her glass. “Like, for example, why I’m drinking a virgin daiquiri…”

  A heavy pause followed—due to four women collectively holding their breaths. A heartbeat later, high-pitched screams from Kendall and Kristen pierced my eardrums. I blew out an amazed breath, staring at Hannah. She did have a glow about her.

  “You’re pregnant.” A slow grin curved my lips.

  “Yep. You’re all going to all be aunties.” When she leaned in for a hug, Kendall and Kristen all tackled us into our corner of the couch.

  When the excitement settled and everyone moved back to their respective couch cushions, I gently poked Hannah’s ribs. “I can’t believe you let me go on and on about my sore calves and sex-on-a-stick talk.”

  “Hey, now you owe me. I’m sure I’ll have plenty of sore calves and…”

  Fast as lightning, I pressed a finger to her lips. “Don’t you dare utter sex-on-anything talk about my brother.”

  “We’ll throw you an awesome baby shower!” Kristen pushed off the couch and grabbed her laptop. “I was going to touch base with you guys about party stuff anyway.”

  Low groans sounded out. Kendall snatched the laptop from Kristen. “This is supposed to be girls’ night. No business talk.”

  “Not even about a 70’s themed party?”

  “Oh my God.” My mouth fell open.

  “No way.” Kendall breathed out.

  Hannah blinked, then glanced at each of us. “I don’t get it. What’s so shocking about a 70’s party?”

  I jumped up, balancing on my cushion. Kendall launched from the couch, then leapt onto the wingchair.

  Kendall grabbed the stem of her daiquiri glass with a closed fist, holding it a few inches from her lips like a microphone.

  I did the same, then glanced down at Hannah. “In junior high, we used to stand on our parents’ bed, dressed in their old clothes, singing into hairbrushes to their disco record albums.”

  Kristen popped up onto her end of the couch.

  Hannah sat where she was on the middle cushion, clapping and laughing as Kendall began to belt out Sister Sledge. We all joined in. “We are family…” I crooned into my almost empty glass.

  “Wait.” Kristen leaned forward, then planted a hand on the wall to steady her wobbly self. “Kiki, do you still have Mom’s wig?”

  I grinned. “Sure do.”

  Kendall shot a pointed hand up to the ceiling like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. “The ’fro!”

  Yep. We were already set for the Industrial Grunge party tomorrow. And we would plan Hannah an amazing baby shower. But the 70’s party? Would be epic.

  My thoughts flashed immediately to Darren.

  He would be there.

  And that would seal the friends deal. No sex on a stick for me. Because after I let my inner 70’s loose? He’d think I was certifiable.

  Darren…

  Waiting? The worst part.

  The audition yesterday had gone great. At least I thought it had.

  But artists needed to mesh to work together. A rare magic flowed between the best musicians. Separated out the icons from the rest. And Dino Mathis was a rising star. So whatever he wanted? Happened.

  Nervous energy cranked tighter. From only the audition?

  I blew out a hard breath. Didn’t even want to consider what else it might be.

  Instead, I grabbed the brushes I’d auditioned with. Drove to Nick’s. Opened the garage. Grabbed my favorite drumsticks from their case. Took a seat. Then took aim.

  During the basic warmup, cold air chilled my bare arms. But at some point after I walked in, I must have turned on the heater. It glowed red from across the garage. Must’ve tuned my drumheads too—always did. But I didn’t specifically remember that either.

  Eyelids falling closed, muscle-memory flowed through my arms and legs, translating into familiar sounds. Up, down, cross-over, cross-under, forward, back, crisscross, clockwise, counterclockwise. Single-stroke roll. Double-stroke roll. Buzz roll.

  Though the tempo increased, my pulse began to calm as I ran through my ingrained patterns.

  Then I set the sticks down and grabbed my brushes as yesterday’s session replayed in my mind: slower tempo, more fluid rhythm.

  With my left hand, brush held palm up, I marked time on the snare drumhead with an easy quarter-note pulse. I struck with my right, then drew back diagonally.

  Left-hand tap.

  Right-hand arc, sweep.

  On and on the session played out.

  Delayed eighth note after-beat.

  Left-hand sweep.

  Cymbal brush scrape.

  Bass drum soft pedal.

  Dino had been in the sound booth, arms crossed, expression intent—almost the entire time. He, his saxophone player, his manager, and the sound engineer had given me sheet music. I’d played it once through, then repeated by memory with my eyes closed, adding subtle improv elements where I thought the music could handle it.

  When I’d opened my eyes, they’d leaned in toward one another, talking animatedly.

  Then the manager stepped out to give me additional sheets of music. Faster tempo. More complicated changeups. And I demonstrated my skills all over again.

  After a few rounds, Dino and his bandmate joined me. Well, actually, Dino began, and we joined him.

  I exhaled, reliving the moment when I’d done my best to complement the jazz great.

  Then the moment was over. The memory faded.

  The garage grew silent.

  But an electric buzz still hummed through my veins.

  Kiki? No. Not going there.

  I grabbed my sticks again. Only this time I unleashed a heavy rock rhythm. Needed to work out whatever had me on edge.

  Before long, sweat broke out on my skin. I started breathing heavy. Muscles began to burn: shins, forearms, biceps, shoulders. Over and over, wood stick met drum skin, vibrations radiating up my arms, into my chest.

  I became the rhythm.

  So many things in my life would be better if Dino wanted me as his studio drummer. Graduating next year would be a technicality—wouldn’t even need to finish if D
ino wanted me right away. No more juggling two jobs to make ends meet; money would be a nonissue.

  I could be home every night. Maybe things with Logan would improve.

  There might even be a chance for a social life again.

  Not a damn thing in my control about it now, though. I closed my eyes and gave myself over to the punishing rhythm. Sequences I’d practiced over the years flowed from my body through my kit and echoed off the walls.

  Time warped. It usually did when I jammed by myself. What felt like a blink ended up being an hour, sometimes more. Years ago, I played for thirteen straight, not realizing it.

  But my tight schedule didn’t allow any room for not caring about time. Needing to stretch my legs, I stood from the stool, grabbed a water from the minifridge, then leaned over and pulled my phone from my jacket pocket.

  When I clicked the side button, it lit up with the time, 4:27 p.m., and a text alert—from Kiki.

  I stretched my neck left, then right, thinking about the rest of the night. I had just enough time to make it home, change, then head over to the new Eiselmann’s Gallery for the setup of the Industrial Grunge party.

  I stowed my favorite sticks into the box I’d made for them long ago. Cedar. Kept the elements away from the wood. And beat up as the sticks were, they were a part of my past: the original tools that helped me find what I loved about music. And I took care of them—I’d broken plenty of sticks, but never these—because they’d taken such good care of me.

  Kiki’s message remained in my phone. Unread. But it crept into my thoughts.

  Still, I downed the rest of my water, then tossed the bottle into the recycle bin. I punched the garage code into the keypad and waited until it closed securely.

  Phone in hand, I took a lung-clearing breath before I walked to the end of the driveway. I crossed the street, opened my truck, then took a seat and shut the door. Its clang reverberated through the cab.

  I stared through the windshield off into the distance. So much had changed in such a short period of time. And so much hadn’t.

  Past and present were colliding, morphing, becoming something new.

  I’d driven to Nick’s to get the anxious excitement out of my system. The new person in my life calmed me further, well beyond what the spur-of-the-moment drum session had.

  Even from miles away, through the small electronic device I held in my hand, she quieted the racket in my head. And I hadn’t even opened her text yet.

  That’s the power she’d begun to have over me. The simple fact that she’d thought of me, had taken the time to reach out.

  Probably with some adorable smartass comment.

  Finally, I hit the control button on the phone, opened the text.

  What are you wearing?

  I blinked. Then typed.

  You coming on to me again, Flash?

  She snapped back instantly.

  NO! I meant to the party tonight?

  I scowled.

  Uh…don’t GIRL friends do that? Trade outfit advice n shit?

  Her reply came back:

  It’s what -I- do with my friends. Scared yet?

  Shaking my head, I snorted.

  Nope.

  Another bubble. Another text.

  Waiting…

  I began typing as a grin spread on my face. The high I felt when being with her, even through texts, had become addictive.

  Graphic tee. Jeans. Boots.

  The usual.

  Her reply fired back seconds later.

  Boooring…

  I ran my tongue over my teeth.

  And you?

  A pause, then her text appeared.

  Not telling.

  Figures.

  Tease.

  Her reply popped up.

  You know it.

  Wouldn’t want her any other way.

  Out of time, I tossed my phone down on the seat, then drove away from Nick’s.

  But as I headed toward my place with just enough time for a quick shower, excitement hummed through my veins. A different kind than earlier, though. A calmer, heavier anticipation warmed my blood.

  All because of Kiki.

  I let out a slow breath, unsure about the past and present colliding.

  Kiki…

  “Find me something to do.”

  Guests had begun to arrive. Waiters with hors d’oeuvre trays rotated through the crowd. Music pulsed loudly around us, vibrating into my body—keying me up.

  “There’s nothing to do.” Kristen glanced up from her clipboard, attaching her pen to the top edge.

  I grabbed the clipboard and tugged it from her grasp.

  “Hey!”

  I ignored her and scanned the page.

  Security? Check.

  Decorations? Check.

  Cake? Check.

  Music?

  I stared at the name beside the music slot: Darren Cole.

  With a slow exhale, I lifted my gaze. There he stood, across the room, doing what he did at every party he’d been hired to work: jammed music.

  No different than any other time.

  Only tonight, everything felt different.

  Kristen crossed her arms. “Well?”

  When I turned, she arched a brow. I handed her back the clipboard. “Nothing to do.”

  She snorted. “Told you.”

  “We’re running these parties too efficiently.”

  “Sounds like a great problem to have.”

  “Yeah.” I slumped onto a barstool.

  Cade walked up and stood beside Kristen. When he said nothing, I glanced at them.

  He stared intently at me, but nudged Kristen. “What’s with her?”

  “If I had to diagnose it, I’d say she’s lovesick.”

  I gasped so hard, a sudden coughing fit seized my lungs.

  Cade hit my back with a couple of hard thwacks. “I concur.”

  With a shove to his shoulder, I pushed him out of immediate reach. “You’re both delusional.”

  Amusement brightened both of their expressions. Kristen hugged the clipboard to her chest. “Sure it’s us?”

  Cade raised his arm and snapped his fingers, giving a short nod toward Ben who worked the bar behind us. “Something strong is in order.”

  Ben gave me an assessing once-over. “Vodka? Scotch?”

  I let out an exasperated sigh. “A pomegranate martini will be fine.”

  Hannah sidled up alongside me, then leaned in, whispering, “What are we talking about?”

  Cade nodded across the room. “Kiki and Darren.”

  I scowled. “No, not Kiki and Darren.” A flashback of elementary school playgrounds and teasing kids hit my brain.

  Leaning back a little, I rapped impatient knuckles on the empty bar top. “Martini?”

  Seconds later, a cool glass stem slipped between my two fingers. I flashed a smile at Ben. He gave me a nod. Then I lifted the drink to my lips, touching my tongue to the sugar-dusted rim before taking a sip of the pink liquid.

  “I dunnnooo…” Cade crossed his arms, then leaned toward Kristen. “Darren looks awfully ‘busy’ for someone who’d already laid down a soundtrack for the night.”

  Kristen cocked her head, casting me an appraising look. “And Kiki has been desperate to find something to do, on this side of the room, looking everywhere but somewhere in particular.”

  Curiosity got the better of me, and I finally darted another glance toward Darren.

  He stared straight at me. His arms were braced wide on the edge of his sound board. His face was tilted down ever so slightly. Gaze intense. Fierce, almost.

  Then one corner of his mouth lifted.

  Sudden awareness hit me. I glanced right, toward Hannah. Then left, at my meddling brother and sister. The four of us formed an evident line—and stared directly at him.

  My face instantly flamed hot with embarrassment.

  Cade nudged me off the stool. “Go. Correct the poor guy. He probably thinks we’re talking about him.”


  I stumbled forward a few steps, holding my martini high to avoid spillage. Then I shot a death glare back at Cade. “There will be retribution.”

  He grinned wide. “Counting on it.”

  Huffing out an irritated breath, I turned back around and worked my way through the throng of people who milled about in the center of the room. Two slower deep breaths later, and three feet from the raised temporary stage where the sound booth had been installed, I mustered enough courage to look up at him.

  Annnd…he’s still staring at me. With a smug expression. Like he enjoyed my discomfort.

  I stepped up on the platform, forcing him to turn if he still wanted to look at me.

  He leaned a shoulder on the exposed brick wall, not saying a word.

  After another gulp of my sweet drink, I arched a brow. “Enjoying yourself?”

  “Immensely.”

  “At my expense, it seems.”

  He gave a half-shrug. “Hey, I’m just an observer here.”

  “Good.” I waved a dismissive hand out at the peanut-gallery-three who still watched us with clear glee. “Do not read into any of that. They’re just harassing me.”

  “Us.” He gave a nod to our audience across the room.

  Cade had the audacity to give Darren a mini salute.

  I rolled my eyes. “Fine. Us.”

  “Why would they do that?” His penetrating gaze remained fixed on me.

  To stall, I scanned over the rest of the partygoers. The turnout exceeded even our estimates. Win for Invitation Only, win for the client. As the weight of the silence between us grew, I took another taste of the sugar edging my glass. Then I took a fortifying sip.

  All or nothing. “They might have thought I was interested in you. At some point.”

  “Oh?” He swung his gaze toward them for a brief second, before landing it squarely back on me. “And what would’ve given them that idea?”