by Annie Kelly
I stare at the closed door of the men’s room, unsure of how to proceed. Seconds later, I don’t have to decide. The drummer comes back out, stopping a few feet from me. He has a towel wrapped around his injured hand, but he’s wearing a different expression as he looks right into my face.
“You’re still here.”
I lick my lips, then nod. “So are you.”
I trail off as the drummer’s eyes scan me from head to toe, and this time the fierceness in his face has changed. Evolved. It’s more like lust and I can smell it from a mile away. His eyes are almost glassy in their focus, like he’s seeing all of me and right through me, both at the same time.
“So, tell me something, Carson.” he says then, his voice raspy and thick.
I bite my bottom lip and his eyes flash with heat. “Sure.”
“What would you say if I said I wanted to fuck you?” he asks.
I blink at him.
“Um, what?”
“I said,” he says, his words even and measured, “that I want to fuck you. And I want to know if you’d like to fuck me.”
Wow. Direct. I like that. Especially when I can’t seem to find any words. I open my mouth, then close it. Instead, I lick my lips again.
He takes that to mean yes.
His lips come crashing down onto mine. He is anything but gentle. He’s as brutal and as fierce as his expression, just like his music. He maneuvers my mouth open with his, then plunges his tongue inside. I’m pinned up against the wall with his body. My back arches and I press my breasts into his chest, feeling my nipples pebble against the pressure of him.
“You know what I’d like to do with you, Carson?” He murmurs against my mouth.
I can only whimper as he dives back in, licking my lips and tongue like a treat he’s been hungering after for years. He grabs my ass hard, squeezing a handful of my flesh for good measure, then lets that same hand coast up my body to the nape of my neck. And there he anchors his fingers in my hair and tugs it. Hard. My head tips back involuntarily and I groan with the guttural pleasure of it.
I’ve never had it like this—this rough. This charged. This focused. It’s the opposite of drunken fumbling. It’s the opposite of my average Friday night.
“I’d like to take you home with me,” he’s saying now in my ear, his tongue and teeth coasting over my lobe. “I’d like to bend you over my kitchen table and fuck you nice and hard and deep. Would you like that?”
I don’t know if it’s the drugs or the sexy talk, but I’m legitimately losing feeling in my lower half. At least until I feel his free hand move from my waist to hover just above the fly of my jeans.
“Then I’d take you to the bed and tie you down tight. I’d get my mouth all over your tits and your skin and your sweet, sweet pussy. I’d lick you until you went crazy.”
The moan that comes from my mouth is far more animal than human. I feel myself pressing my body up toward his hovering hand. He chuckles a bit, then lets it fall right between my legs. Right where I want it.
“Please,” I whimper.
“Oh, I like hearing you beg,” he growls in my ear, then coasts his tongue down my neck to my collarbone. I’ve got my hands in his hair now and I’m surfing the wave of my high like it’s some kind of sporting event. This beautiful man who plays the drums like a god is now playing my body in precisely the same way. I don’t protest when he plunges his hand down under my jeans. When his fingers hit my wetness, I’m done for. I’m keening and he’s got one finger inside me while another strokes my clit with a maddening rhythm.
“That’s right, fuck my hand. You know how bad you want it. You can taste your own come already, can’t you? You know what you need, baby. Let me give it to you.”
I feel the waves of pleasure frothing over me, like a physical force. I think I’m going to pass out. I think I might be in love.
Then suddenly, as suddenly as we began, he’s pulling his hand out of my pants. He’s got a wicked glint in his eye and I watch as he puts his fingers in his mouth and sucks.
“Sugary sweet, baby. I shoulda known.”
I reach for his shoulders—maybe for balance, maybe to make him stay—and he’s got his hands at my waist when a guy with dark hair comes barreling into the corridor. He stops short when he sees us, looking from the drummer to me and back again.
“Yo, dude , we gotta get outta here. Zeb’s gonna get behind the wheel and someone’s gotta stop that shit.”
The drummer glances at me, then curses softly.
“Fucking lead singers—they’re always the biggest drama queens.”
The guy guffaws. “Dude, you should talk. You fucking laid that guy out back there. Zeb just finished him off, then finished off a bottle of Jäger. The least you can do is drive him home.”
I rock back on my heels and let go of the drummer’s body, immediately missing the sensation of his skin under my hands.
“Go take care of your friend,” I say. He gives a curt nod, then leans forward to claim my mouth again in a brutal kiss.
“You’re a firecracker, Carson,” he whispers against my mouth. “Don’t think I’ll forget the way you taste.”
And then he’s gone.
I practically collapse against the wall behind me, blinking. It feels almost like a dream, save the fact that my pants are unbuttoned and my body’s strung so tight, I could come at any moment. Slowly, I turn around and head back to the dance floor. This time the music isn’t half as good, but I start swaying to it anyway.
I think of the drummer again—the intensity he exhibited playing his set, the heat emanating from his body when he kissed me, the lightning in his eyes when I started coming as he stroked me, and the desire that’s roaring through me like a freight train now. I wonder if I’ll remember any of this tomorrow.
For the first time in a long time, I actually hope I do.
Chapter One
Six Months Later
“How about that guy over there?”
I glance over in the direction Rainey’s pointing, then snort.
“Dude, do I look like I’m desperate? He’s got to be at least sixty. I think his tattoos are older than me.”
She shrugs. “It’s Sunday night and the clientele at Dino’s is limited, Cars. What do you want me to do?”
I don’t know what I want her to do, honestly. Our other best friend, Cyn and her cop boyfriend, Smith, left an hour ago, all wrapped up in their romantic cloud, even though this is actually Cyn’s graduation celebration—she just finished her master’s degree in education. Since she took off, though, Rainey and I have both had far too much champagne and too many shots and a little too much time ogling down-on-their-luck ex-bikers at the pool tables.
“I thought we were going to go out tonight,” Rainey says. “Aren’t we staying in a hotel or something?”
I shrug. “I made reservations, but I’m not sure if we’re in any shape to go out downtown.”
“But—but . . .”
Rainey sort of sputters in protest. Man, she’s got far more energy than I do. It never used to be this way—I’ve got party-girl blood with concert-lover DNA. I used to make it on two hours sleep times ten cups of coffee. But that was before.
“Okay, we’re jumping ship, ladies.”
Cyn’s dad, Gary, is grinning up at us from his wheelchair.
“It’s time to head back to Holly Fields. I hope you girls will think of coming around to visit every once in a while.”
“Of course, Mr. Hendricks!” I lean down to kiss his cheek. I’ve known Cyn for years, and watching her deal with her father’s poor health has been really difficult.
When I look up again, my eyes land on Wyatt Sands. He’s one of Gary’s friends from Holly Fields—a former musician recovering from recent brain surgery who is inexplicably managing to rock leather pants and a wheelchair at the same time. Apparently, he got in a terrible car accident about six months ago—lost his best friend who was also the lead singer of his band. Since waking from a month-l
ong coma, he’s been recovering down the hall from Cyn’s dad at the assisted living facility.
Now he’s watching me with his head tilted and those deep brown eyes flash with something I can’t quite decipher. But just as quickly, he glances away.
Damn. Either I’m fucking drunk or he’s really fucking gorgeous. Let’s be honest, it’s probably both.
I wish I could figure out why he looks so familiar. When I pressed Cyn for details on her dad’s buddy, she said he was a drummer in a local band before his accident. I should probably ask Lennon if he knows him, since recently that’s been more his sort of scene than mine.
But, then again, that would involve actually talking to Lennon, which I’m determined to avoid doing until he gets his ass into rehab. If I can stop using, so can he.
I look at Wyatt, then lower my lashes and, drain the last of my PBR draft. I can see the scar from his surgery through his dark blond hair—it curls up and over his ear like a misshapen horseshoe. But when you think of someone with a brain injury, you think of someone . . . well, someone who is messed up. Who is unable to function. Who is damaged.
And Wyatt? Well, just about nothing about Wyatt looks damaged. Especially those eyes, man. There is nothing damaged about those eyes. They slay me. They’re like melted chocolate meets sex.
I walk over to him while Rainey hugs Cyn’s dad good-bye.
“So, I’ll see you soon?”
Wyatt nods, then rubs a hand across the back of his neck. A few tendons tighten there.
“Yeah, thanks again for agreeing to help me out with my classes.”
Even though I usually only tutor high school students, I made an exception for Wyatt since he was Mr. Hendricks’s friend. I shrug and sling my purse over my shoulder.
“It’s no problem. I can use the money. This should be a cinch.” He laughs. I notice how straight and white his teeth are. How pink and wet his tongue is. I can imagine it sweeping down along my—
“You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,” Wyatt says, interrupting my reverie. “I wasn’t exactly a good student before my accident. You’ve got your work cut out for you.”
You know, he’s got one of those voices that, if he ever were to sing, you just know it would be more of a growl than a melody. I give an impish little smile.
“I think I can handle you.”
“Oh, do you now?”
Wyatt cocks a brow at me and I glance down, then start fingering the fringe at the bottom of my shirt, which is only slightly covering my midriff. When I look up again, his focus is glued right to that fringe. His irises have somehow darkened in the last few seconds, and as I watch him, it’s like storm clouds are rolling over his gaze.
Sexy storm clouds.
When his eyes meet mine again, I freeze up. Like, literally just turn to some kind of awkward, tequila-filled statue. I want to say something clever. Or sexy. Or both.
But instead, I say, “Right. Okay. See ya.”
And I bolt. Like, fucking bolt, to the door of the bar and outside into the night. Suddenly, my shirt feels too small and my skirt feels too short and my skin is basically on fire.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I lean up against the side of the restaurant and watch the cars pass in a steady stream of traffic. This feeling—it’s like I’m coming down off something. It’s like Wyatt makes me high.
I breathe deep.
Nope. None of that. I haven’t thought about that shit in months and I’m not going to think about it now.
Instead, I check my phone. It’s almost ten and I really don’t want to have to call a cab from here to home. God, that will be expensive . . .
I stand up, teetering a bit on my heels, then look straight ahead. I lift my leg. I lift my arm. Then I balance pretty well actually.
Until I topple over into the hood of someone’s Mazda3.
“Fuck.”
“Walk much?”
I straighten, rubbing my now-aching knee, and glare at Rainey. She’s standing just outside the restaurant door with her arms crossed and she’s grinning.
“I was attempting a field sobriety test on myself,” I explain. “Clearly, I’ve failed.”
She snorts. “I can see that. Did you really think you were going to be able to drive us out of here?”
I shrug. “I don’t want to pay for a cab, Rain. It’s gonna be a fortune.”
She walks over and helps me back up onto the sidewalk.
“I know, that’s why we’re going to crash at Holly Fields.”
I turn to stare at her.
“We’re going where now?”
She doesn’t answer me, just strides forward through the gravel lot toward my Jeep. I follow behind her, but really slowly, like the rocks are lava or something. At this point, I’m not trusting these shoes for shit.
“We can’t stay at an assisted living facility,” I hiss at her.
Rainey yanks my purse off my arm and starts digging through it for my keys.
“We can and we are. Cyn’s dad called over there and got the all clear. They’re allowed to have overnight guests, Cars. It isn’t prison.”
“I know, but—”
I sputter, unable to form a good reason why driving drunk is better than staying with our best friend’s dad.
“Don’t you think it’ll be weird staying with Mr. Hendricks?”
Rainey laughs. She hauls our overnight bags out of the backseat, then drops them on the ground.
“Totally weird,” she nods then. “Which is why we aren’t staying with him.”
I blink at her, then lean up against the Jeep.
“I don’t get it. Who are we staying with?”
“Me.”
Shit.
I pivot really slowly around to look at Wyatt. He’s sitting with his arms crossed and one eyebrow lifted. When I don’t look away, he shrugs.
“I’ve got a foldout couch. You guys can crash for the night. It’s not a problem.”
“What about my car?” I ask. My tongue feels thick and numb as I speak.
“The shuttle can bring you back over in the morning,” he offers. “They’re picking us up in a couple minutes.”
“Come on, Carson,” Rainey says, nudging me. “There’s no way you can drive right now.”
Wyatt wheels forward into the gravel lot and I can’t help but watch the muscles in his arms flex as he grips the wheel guards.
“You should listen to her. Driving right now would be a huge mistake.”
I open my mouth, then shake my head.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking about it.” He leans forward and props both elbows on his knees. “So, what’s it gonna be? A DUI, a $100 cab ride, or a night with me?”
Fucking hell.
There’s only one viable option on that list. I take a deep breath, then close my eyes.
“I don’t usually spend the night with guys I don’t know,” I say. When I look back at Wyatt, his smile has morphed into a downright wicked grin.
“Then I suggest we spend the night getting to know each other better.”
I want to groan at that, but instead I just sort of nod and turn to grab my bag off the ground.
Fucking Rainey.
Fucking Dino’s.
Fucking Jose Cuervo and cheap-ass champagne.
“Well, then, lead the way,” I mutter to Wyatt.
He chuckles, then says something under his breath. I’m not sure I caught it correctly or not, but it sounds a lot like, “With pleasure.”
Chapter Two
Drool.
It’s the first thought in my head, since it’s all over my face and the pillow beneath it.
And my second thought?
“Am I naked?”
“No, and that’s a damn shame,” Rainey drawls. She snorts a laugh and I shift over on the foldout bed to see her sprawled next to me. I roll my eyes.
“What?” she asks, giving me an innocent smile. “Never woken up with a girl
in your bed before?”
“Nah, they’re just usually hotter,” I shoot back.
I push up with both hands, squinting. It takes me a second to remember where we crashed last night. When I do, I want to groan.
The morning sunlight shafts into the room through filmy curtains. Last night I couldn’t see the décor of Wyatt’s apartment. Now I’m sort of surprised with what I find. I’ve seen Mr. Hendricks’s apartment before—some fairly basic furnishings that you’d expect from assisted living. Here, Wyatt’s clearly put his own stamp on things. The durable fabric couches have been replaced with dark leather ones, including the foldout we crashed on. The walls are painted a deep gray and there’s framed artwork on the walls that’s abstract versions of skulls and musical instruments. It’s a lot grittier than the stereotypical pastel flower arrangements or landscapes you find in medical facilities.
I lever myself up and pad over toward an extra-large print on the living room wall. I narrow my eyes at the white splotches, haphazardly thrown against a deep midnight background. When I get closer, though, I realize they aren’t splotches at all.
They’re birds.
Some are falling, some are diving. All of them are slightly blurred, as though made of light.
“Kick ass,” I murmur.
“That’s a Ross Bleckner.”
I jump at the sound of Wyatt’s voice, then turn to find him in the doorway of the bedroom. He’s leaning forward in his wheelchair, both elbows anchored to his knees. He’s watching me in a way that brings my entire body to life.
“It’s amazing,” I finally manage, smiling at him. “I’ve never heard of Bleckner.”
“He’s the shit.”
Wyatt’s eyes haven’t left my face and I start feeling my cheeks grow warm. I take in his casual dress—dark green T-shirt, loose jeans, and bare feet. His hair is wet from a morning shower.
I wonder if the water was hot. I wonder if he showers with a chair or if he takes a bath. Or if he uses soap or shower gel.
And now all I can think about is Wyatt naked and wet.
“So,” Rainey says brightly, breaking into my very explicit daydream, “who’s making coffee?”