Crash and Burn (Love You Like A Love Song #1)

by Michele Callahan

  With a groan, Chance held his right hand perfectly still on the curve of her hip. If he started exploring, he’d never stop, and he didn’t want her first orgasm to be in the front seat of his car. He didn’t move an inch and his wrist was almost as stiff and tortured as his aching cock. The heat of her body burned under his palm. She was heat and life and passion, and he wanted it all.

  Her kiss stole every ounce of self-preservation that he possessed, but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t bear to tear his lips free of hers, not even to taste the rest of her. Not yet. This was too damn good.

  He had no idea how much time passed. Time seemed irrelevant with her breasts pressed to him, his hands on her body and the taste of her so strong in his mouth that she replaced months of pain and grief with hot desire.

  No one else had ever felt this good in his arms. He wanted her naked, straddling his lap, sitting on his cock with her head thrown back and his name on her lips as she came over and over again…

  Beep! A loud horn sounded close by and bright floodlights filled the car. She jerked in his arms, startled, and he wanted to strangle the driver of the full-sized blue van that had pulled up in front of his car, nearly touching bumper to bumper. The van’s headlights were on high beam and hit him square in the face, momentarily blinding him.

  “Oh, no.” She groaned, then arched her back so she could look up at him.

  The added weight of her shoulders pressed his hand against his steering wheel and he bumped the horn. The sounding of the car’s horn startled both of them and she jumped like a frightened rabbit.

  “What an idiot.” Chance shook his head to clear it and tried to pull air into his lungs, but the scent of her skin scrambled his brain and his breath came in short, jerky gasps.

  She sighed and tilted her head as far back as it would go, exposing a long and very delicate line of skin to him as she twisted around to look at the other vehicle. He wanted to taste her…right there, below her ear, where the curve of her neck tempted him from the shadows and her pulse pounded in a rhythm that proved she wasn’t immune to his touch.

  “Sorry.” Her apology crashed him back to reality.

  “What?”

  “That’s my brother. They must be done loading the gear.”

  Chance leaned forward and made sure his hand was clearly visible through the windshield as he made a rude gesture at the van. He couldn’t see AJ behind the van’s high beams, but no doubt her little brother could see him just fine.

  The van’s horn honked again before backing up. They took off with a squeal of tires on the pavement.

  Chance lowered his gaze to find her watching him with a strange look in her eyes. He leaned down to kiss her again, but she stiffened in protest and slid back across the car to her own seat in an awkward bumble of elbows and shifting weight. He missed her heat and his body shivered in protest of the loss. Or maybe he just wanted her so much that lust had made him shaky.

  “Your brother is a piece of work.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s barely twenty-one. He’s still sowing his wild oats.”

  “That’s no excuse.”

  “He’s my brother.” She wiped at her mouth with her left hand and his gut twisted. Was she trying to wipe the taste of him off her lips?

  Like hell.

  Before he could figure out what to do or say to repair the damage he’d just done, she turned away from him to stare out the window. Shit. She obviously loved her brother. But AJ’s behavior needed to change. When protecting this woman had become his personal life’s mission, he had no idea. But somewhere in the last few days his stubborn heart had made the decision that she was his to watch over. Which meant that immature little shit of a brother wouldn’t be allowed to take advantage of her again.

  Preventing AJ from breaking her heart was going to be an issue, but Chance had no intention of backing off. AJ was screwed. Chance could eat scared little boys like AJ for breakfast by the time he was thirteen.

  What he hadn’t been able to do in all those years was figure out women. He had no idea how he’d gone from pure lust to possessive caveman in a week, but something about Erin had caused a fundamental shift. She was like his personal lightning bolt. He wouldn’t go so far as to say it was love at first sight, but fuck. It was something like that. Erin had hit him hard, like a sucker punch to the stomach.

  “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  “Okay.” He left Erin sitting in his car, staring out the passenger window as he ran in and grabbed the chicken strips and fries he’d ordered for her to take home. He hurried back to the car and handed her the white box.

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Just take me home now, please.”

  Chance started the car, but waited, his hands twisted back and forth on the steering wheel as he tried to think of the right thing to say. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything about your brother. It’s none of my business.” That was a lie, but the stubborn set of her jaw told him she wasn’t ready to deal with the truth.

  “You’re right. It’s not.” She turned back to him with sad eyes. The sudden need to reach over and comfort her ate at him until he could hardly sit still. He wanted to help, but he didn’t know how. He didn’t know enough about her life or her situation.

  But he would. He would learn everything there was to know about Erin, every secret and every dream.

  “Just take me home. Okay?” She sounded tired, and the ache in the center of his chest spread at the defeated tone in her voice. He’d hurt her, just like her brother.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She leaned her head against the glass. “It’s not your fault, Chance. I just want to go home.”

  When was he going to learn? The words to fix this kind of problem didn’t exist. And if he wanted to be part of her life, he would need to earn her trust the hard way, by being there when she needed him.

  Chapter Nine

  Erin stared at the number on Wesley Shipton’s business card for the hundredth time in the last hour.

  “Just call him!” Samantha yelled the order over the feather duster she was using to clean the drum sets out on display.

  “I will. I just have to work up to it.” Erin’s stomach twisted into knots. Years and years spent chasing a dream, and she might be holding everything she’d always wanted in the palm of her hand.

  Not everything. Her mind chose that moment to throw the memory of Chance’s scorching-hot kisses back in her face. She’d crawled all over him like an overeager—

  “Chicken.” Samantha put her hands under her arms and flapped her elbows in the air as she sank down on bended knees and walked around in a chicken squat. “Bock-bock-bock-bock, ba-bock!”

  “Shut up.” Erin grinned at her friend but reached for the phone.

  “Bock-bock-bock-bock.” Samantha’s head wobbled forward and backward on her neck like she was pecking for grain.

  “You’re crazy. Seriously, shut up. I’m going to call him.”

  Samantha stood up straight as a rod. “Right now?”

  “Yes.” Erin entered the ten-digit telephone number and focused on moving air in and out of her lungs in a slow, steady glide as she lifted her cell phone to her ear. The call connected and she heard the first ring. “Right now.”

  “Sweet!” Samantha hustled to stand opposite her at the counter and waited in silence, her complete attention focused on Erin’s face. Her bright eyes and the excited glow worked its way under Erin’s skin and rubbed her nerves completely raw. Maybe she should just hang up and call back later.

  “Shipton Records, this is Phoebe.”

  Too late. “Yes. Hello. I’m Eva James and Mr. Shipton gave me this number last night.”

  “Of course, Ms. Michaelson. Please hold. I’ll let him know you’re on the line.”

  “Thank you.”

  Had his assistant just used her real last name? How did he know who she was? She never used her real name during shows, and it wasn’t on the band’s web
site either.

  She didn’t have more than a few seconds to wonder before Wesley Shipton’s deep voice replaced the hold music.

  “Hello. Erin?”

  “Yes.” Well, so much for her alter ego’s ability to offer her any anonymity at all.

  “Fantastic. It’s great to hear from you. I wasn’t sure you would call.”

  Right. Like she’d just shred the card of one of the biggest record producers in the world. “Well, I did.”

  He laughed and she found herself grinning at the wall, despite her nerves. “Excellent. I’m glad because we need to discuss your future in this business.”

  “Okay.” Great. Really intelligent conversational skills, Erin.

  “I’m still in Denver. Don’t head back to L.A. for a couple days. I’d love to take you to lunch. I can meet you in two hours.”

  “Today?”

  “Today. Unless Friday’s your day off?” Was he laughing at her? “How about Finley’s?”

  Erin agreed to meet him at the restaurant in LoDo, about a ten-minute drive from the music store.

  “See you there in a couple hours.”

  “Wait.” Erin snapped at him before he could hang up.

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t you want the rest of the band to come?”

  “I think it would be better if we spoke alone before we involve your brother or the rest of the band.” His voice had gone deeper and hard, with no give.

  He hung up and Erin rubbed her forehead with her fingers. Why didn’t he want to talk to the rest of the band? True, her brother could be immature and impulsive, but he could clean up and behave when he really needed to.

  “Well?” Bent at the waist, Samantha had her entire upper torso resting on the glass display case in front of Erin. “What did he say?”

  “He wants me to have lunch with him.”

  “When?”

  “In two hours.”

  “Yes!” Samantha screeched and launched herself into a disjointed mix of moves in the middle of the store accompanied by a fierce chant any grade-school girl would be proud of. “I knew it! I knew it! You’re gonna be a rock star!”

  Of course, Samantha was a classically trained opera singer who only worked at the store so she could pay off her student loans faster. Her voice could cut through the air like a dagger and strike anyone listening straight in the heart.

  Samantha chanted the oddly sing-song words over and over as she twisted her body into peculiar positions. The dancing continued until Samantha looked back to Erin, who hadn’t moved, and wasn’t smiling.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “He doesn’t want the rest of the band there. He wants me to come alone.” Erin slipped Shipton’s business card back into her phone case and slid her phone into the back pocket of her jeans.

  “So what? Would you want AJ around if you were talking about contracts? Or money? Or anything remotely serious?” Samantha shook her head and puckered her lips. “I know you love him, and he plays a mean guitar, but AJ’s a mess. You know that, right?”

  “Yeah. I know.” And Samantha did have a point. Money and AJ did not mix. He only knew one thing about money, and that was how to blow it.

  <><><>

  Finley’s Irish Pub.

  The restaurant sign loomed above her head like an axe about to fall. The pub owner had shipped in an authentic bar top, tables, and interior from a pub in Ireland that had gone out of business. The ale-stained bar and worn wood gave the place an air of authenticity impossible to fake.

  The pub was popular and the high-rent parking lot in front of it was packed.

  Wesley Shipton was inside.

  Waiting for her.

  This very moment, her future might be seated next to a window, ordering a pint of ale, and wondering where the hell she was.

  Five minutes late. That was where. I-25 traffic was a bitch on a good day. A three-car pile up just north of the Park Avenue exit made sure that today was not a good day.

  She ran up the handful of steps to the Irish pub’s front door, which opened like magic as soon as she neared. A smiling host wearing a dark green uniform greeted her before escorting her to a corner table.

  Wesley Shipton looked up from the menu as she approached and a broad smile transformed his face from fierce to friendly so quickly she thought she’d imagined the powerful scowl she’d seen first.

  He stood and she held out her hand so he could shake it.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Shipton. There was an accident on the highway and I had to go around.”

  “No problem. I just arrived.” His grip was firm, warm, and just a bit too hard for her liking. A firm handshake was great, but squeezing the life out of her guitar-playing fingers never earned anyone brownie points from her. “Please, call me Wes.” He pulled out a chair for her and she sat down.

  “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.” He returned to his seat. “May I call you Erin?”

  “Of course.” Erin curled her legs beneath her chair and made a mental note to straighten her shoulders and lift her chin. No weakness. She wasn’t going to bleed in front of a shark and start a feeding frenzy. And, she held no illusions as to Shipton’s true nature. One hundred percent shark. No one survived in the music business being weak.

  They want you, Eva James. Not the other way around.

  A server approached and she ordered a light lunch with ice water.

  “Please, Erin. May I buy you a drink? My treat.” He lifted his brows. The server paused, mid-step, and waited for her response.

  “No, thank you. I don’t drink.”

  “How long has it been?”

  “What?”

  “Since you gave it up.”

  Holy hell, this guy must have done some serious digging. Had he brought her to a pub and offered to buy her a drink as some kind of test?

  Jesus, he really was a shark. But she wasn’t going to deny anything. She’d walked through fire to learn how to live with her body’s addiction to alcohol. Some days, the struggle was easy, and some it roared up and tried to dig its way out of her soul like a caged animal. One day at a time. That was her motto. She bled, and some days it hurt more than others, but she hadn’t given in. Not yet.

  Not ever.

  “I haven’t had a drink in four years.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Wesley leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s been eight for me.”

  She grinned at him with shared understanding and respect. “What were you, twelve when you went to your first AA meeting?”

  “Young. I was nineteen.” He had on a pale green dress shirt, a dark brown, orange and green tie covered in a psychedelic, tie-die pattern. His pants were pressed, the sharp line of the iron’s crease came to an end at the exact center of a pair of shoes that looked Italian, and worth more than she’d make in a month. He was gorgeous, with golden blond hair and dark green eyes. He was young, sober, cover-model handsome, and he was worth millions? What was she even doing here?

  I’m a cash cow. Cash cow. Cash cow. He wants you, Erin. He wants your music. He wants you bad. The internal pep talk helped and she took a sip of her water.

  “I’ve heard rumors about you, Erin Michaelson.”

  This was not exactly the way she had imagined this conversation going. “Really? Most people have never even heard my name.”

  Wesley didn’t move, just studied her as if she were a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. “Would you like to know what people are saying about you?”

  Oh, boy. Here we go. “Sure.” She smiled but knew that he’d see the wary, stubborn foster kid coming to play if he looked too deeply into her eyes.

  “Erin Michaelson. Genius songwriter.”

  “Is that all?” Okay, the guy had moves. Calling her a genius? Brilliant. She liked him better already.

  “Unfortunately not.” Arms still crossed, he used them to brace his weight on the edge of the table as he leaned forward. “Your mom died nine years ago. You were fifteen. A
J was twelve. She was a drunk and lost control of her car. Deadbeat dad with a gambling problem. He couldn’t hold a job so you and AJ ended up in foster homes for most of your teenage years.”

  He had everything right so far, so she just sat back and crossed her arms, waiting for the rest.

  “In high school you smoked pot, drank too much, and slept with multiple young men who were not worthy of your time. You play a mean guitar, aren’t half bad at piano and you sing like a siren. You rarely speak to your father and live in a house with the rest of the band, struggling to make rent. Fourth Strike has been playing gigs together since you were nineteen, but in five years the band has never had its big break.”

  Holy crap. Hearing her entire life summed up in a few sentences sent shivers down her spine. The entire monologue sounded bad. All bad. “What did you do? Hire a private detective?”

  Wesley tilted his head to his right and met her challenge head-on. “I always do a background check on people I want to work with.”

  “And? You seem to think you know everything there is to know about me, so I’m not sure why we’re still sitting here.”

  “I wasn’t finished.”

  “I’ve heard enough.” Erin repositioned her arms over her chest but didn’t drop her gaze. She refused. If this guy didn’t want to play nice, fine, but she’d be damned if she was going to cower or apologize for the chaos she had survived.

  “Please. Just bear with me for another minute.”

  “What’s the point? You’ve already made up your mind about me.”

  “Yes. I have. But I doubt you know what I’ve decided.”

  Anger lent steel to her spine. “Okay, Wes.” She placed a heavy emphasis on his name. “What is the point of all this?”

  “Let me finish. Then you can decide what you want to do.” His gaze slid to the glass of ice-cold water as she wrapped her right hand around it. “You can even pour that over my head if that’s what you decide is necessary.”

  “Okay.” They should be talking about music and contracts. About touring and music video production. Writing. Singing. Anything, anything but this detailed recounting of all her personal demons.