by Tara Leigh
I hoped.
Of course, the real reason I didn’t want to give an interview were all those questions about “Bombshell Rebel” being a thinly veiled jab at Jack Lester. Travis had put out a statement saying that it was impossible, given that I didn’t write the song myself. But I wasn’t sure that I wouldn’t give something away just from my reaction to his name.
I hated myself for taking the coward’s way out, for not sharing my story, my shame. But I wasn’t ready. Not yet.
Tonight the Hughes Quintet was playing at Walt Disney Concert Hall. Dax had asked me to go with him last week at the brewery and I’d nearly choked on my apple cider. I wasn’t expecting it—at all. Then again, nothing about my relationship with Dax had been expected, certainly not by me.
I was feeling very Audrey Hepburn in my sleek, off-the-shoulder black sheath, my hair pulled back in a French twist that was just messy enough to feel modern. I was even wearing pearls at my neck.
Pearls.
The faint strains of Dax’s perfectly tuned piano slipped beneath the closed bedroom door as I refreshed my lipstick. Holding my black stilettos in my hands, I followed the haunting notes to find him bent over the keys, dressed in what appeared to be the same suit he’d worn the day we first met in New York. At least playing the piano prevented him from tugging at his collar.
I stood a few feet away, not wanting to interrupt. But Dax’s nose twitched, as if he smelled my perfume. The second he looked up, his hands stilled. His expression softening from one of intense concentration to undeniable appreciation.
The bench whined as Dax stood, pushing it back over the floor, my chin tipping up as he strode toward me, the difference in our heights more pronounced when I was barefoot. A shiver of awareness trembled within my bones. With each step he took I realized how deeply I’d fallen for this man.
How much I wanted him in my life.
With my whole heart and mind. With my body and soul.
When it came to Dax Hughes, I was full to the brim, overflowing with want.
Intoxicated by it.
“You look beautiful,” he whispered, his breath a minty whisper.
“So do you.” The response rolled off my tongue.
Dax laughed. “Beautiful? Now, there’s something I haven’t been called before.”
The sound was so rich and decadent, delicious really, I swear it filled up parts of my soul I didn’t know were empty. And the way he looked at me—really looked at me—made me feel like all my chips and cracks were precisely planned, just to let the light shine on his face.
I felt lighter these days, too. That protective mantle I’d wrapped around myself, so thick and battered I could have been a hundred-year-old turtle, was lying on the side of the road somewhere. I didn’t know where, only that I didn’t need it anymore.
Dax made me want to be open, vulnerable. Even if it meant taking the risk of being hurt.
He was worth the risk.
“No?” I reached for his hand. A rush of sparks erupted at the simple contact, and I led him toward the mirror hanging from the opposite wall. Positioning Dax so that he was in the center and I was to his side, I nodded at our reflections. “See? Beautiful—inside and out.”
His eyes were on my face when he gave a solemn nod in return. “Yeah. I see.” Dax’s voice, normally as smooth and textured as velvet, was a husk of itself, a gritted rasp.
I jerked away from the intensity of his stare. There was a burning grind of emotions inside, all directed at me.
But once I wasn’t held captive to Dax’s brooding, burning gaze…I was free to take in our reflection. Not just me. Not just him. Us.
Holy shit.
Us.
My breath caught for an instant, somewhere between my lungs and my throat, a knotted air embolism that was lost, stuck. My heart raced, erratic and fast. The breathless moment felt like a warning. A reminder that life was fragile. Temporary.
And damn it, I was going to make mine count.
“Do we have time…?” I stuttered, knowing I didn’t care how long I’d spent getting my hair and makeup done just right, or that the zipper on this dress had stuck earlier and I was afraid if I took it off I might not be able to get it back on. Or even that I would meet Dax’s family for the first time with the taste of him in my mouth, his slick wetness between my thighs, and a damp patch on my lace panties.
Dax grinned, wearing his dark good looks like a weapon as he unclasped the hook and eye closure at my back and tugged at the zipper. It cooperated for him, and the roughened pads of his fingertips traced a devastating path down my spine. My dress fell in a puddle of black satin at my feet, my stilettos dropping, one by one, from my tingling fingers. I watched Dax’s large hands curve around my shoulders, then slide down my arms. Entwining his fingers with mine, he brought them up to cup my breasts.
I exhaled a trembling breath, completely captivated by our reflection. His tanned skin so striking against my fair coloring. His body so much larger than mine. All that brute strength, and yet Dax was the most gentle man I’d ever known. Even when he was rough, he took infinite care of me. And he made me want to take care of him, too—in endless ways.
One of his hands slid down my belly as I stared into the mirror, long fingers probing between my thighs. I shivered, moaning Dax’s name as pleasure wound hard and fast inside me. “Have I told you how much I like watching you come for me, Verity?”
I shook my head, unable to speak.
He lowered his head, kissing the side of my neck as his hands worked all kinds of magic. “Bought this place because of the view, but all I want to look at is you.”
In the mirror, our eyes met.
Everything hit me at once. The look of love on Dax’s face, the thrill of his touch, the tempest in my core. The fire he’d been building suddenly raging out of control. I cried out, closing my eyes from the intensity of it all. Until I was nothing but a shattered stack of ash.
And then I dropped to my knees. Clinging to Dax, I took him in my mouth and sucked hungrily. I might never get enough of this gorgeous man.
But I would try.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Dax
For once I was in a great mood heading to one of my family’s concerts. A state of mind entirely due to the woman beside me. Verity Moore.
True.
We were running late, but I didn’t give a shit. Let them start without me. Let them look over to my assigned seat and see it empty.
It would remain empty for the entire show anyway.
Rather than tell my parents I was bringing someone, I had bought two tickets through the box office.
I wanted to focus on Verity’s reaction to the music, not my family’s reaction to Verity.
Most musicians regarded their audience with an air of benign negligence. I play for myself; be grateful you are allowed to observe my talent. My parents were no different, and yet somehow I always felt their eyes drifting in my direction during their performances. It wasn’t noticeable; there was never any eye contact. But today I was happy to stay wrapped up in my own world with Verity.
We made it inside the theater just as the lights began to flash, the curtain parting seconds after we were escorted to our seats. Verity squeezed my hand. “Thank you for inviting me.”
I leaned over, my lips a breath away from the fleshy lobe I loved to bite. “My pleasure.” She blushed at the blatant innuendo behind my words, goose bumps prickling the satiny skin of her neck.
Music had been the one constant in my life. All kinds. Every kind. Despite my issues with my family, during their shows, everything fell away but the music. It lifted my spirits, affirmed my soul, sustained my sanity. But today it was merely a soundtrack to the beautiful performance unfolding in the seat to my left. Verity’s first exposure to classical music.
She sat forward in her chair, mouth slightly open. Appreciation shined from her eyes, excitement vibrating from her body. Verity wasn’t just listening to the music; she was experiencing it,
absorbing it. Her expression vacillating between ruin and rapture, envy and intrigue.
Through Verity, I was hit by a double dose of excitement, a double dose of awe. Compositions I’d heard hundreds, maybe even thousands of times before, felt new to me. Resonant.
Verity was the first to shoot up out of her chair at the end, the final notes still vibrating in the air. I rose to my feet more slowly, along with the rest of the audience. I noticed my parents surprise when they looked our way, though they quickly covered it by giving their traditional bow to the audience.
My brothers walked off the stage, followed by my sister and then my parents. Rather than rush for the exit, Verity instead slumped back into her seat, regarding me with awe written all over her face. “I had no idea classical music could be so intense, so passionate. Sure, when you play the piano for me, I feel every note to the depths of my soul, but I chalked it up to the intimacy of being an audience of one.” She tilted her head to the side, lowering her voice. “That and the fact that you’re the sexiest piano player I’ve ever seen.”
I smirked. “So, you liked it?” Few people actually appreciated classical music, including other musicians. I loved that Verity had, and I knew exactly what she meant.
“It was incredible. I had no idea I would enjoy it so much. Words—lyrics—were completely unnecessary.” She looked back at the stage and sighed. “I just wish I could have seen you up there with them.”
Every time I came to a performance, I was reminded how much I missed it. Even after so much time had passed, it still felt as if a piece of me had not only been lost, but stolen.
We took our time leaving the theater, waiting for everyone else to file out of their seats and through the doors. Although there would be a small reception backstage, mostly for donors and patrons, I had reserved the private room of a restaurant not far from the concert hall. The menu was written in French, the service was atrocious, the food overpriced and undercooked. My parents would love it.
I hadn’t told them that I was bringing Verity, but since I was footing the bill, I’d bring whomever I damn well pleased.
It was a short drive to the restaurant, and rather than head directly to our table, we took a seat at the bar.
The good thing about places that practically required a Black Card with your reservation was that there was no “scene.” The bar was small and dark, with just one other person nursing a highball glass at one end, his eyes glued to his phone.
“Champagne?” I asked, but Verity shook her head.
“It would be a letdown without hollow stems. Maybe just a white wine spritzer? I don’t want to be tipsy when I meet your folks for the first time.”
I gave her order to the bartender, deciding to have an aged bourbon myself. Unlike Verity, time with my family called for high-proof alcohol.
Forty minutes later, my parents texted that they were on their way. “I’m nervous,” Verity whispered, squeezing my hand as we left our empty glasses on the bar and headed to the private room.
“Nervous? Why?” Verity Moore was the most fearless woman I’d ever known.
“Are you kidding?” Her eyes rounded. “These are your parents. I want them to like me.”
I chuckled. “I’m sure they’ll like you more than they do me—although that’s not saying much.”
Verity’s brows pulled into a frown, but Julian and Sebastian burst into the room before she could say anything else.
They skidded to a stop in front of us, staring at Verity. “Told you. It’s her,” Seb said in an awestruck voice. Julian just nodded.
Aria followed. I could tell she was just as impressed to be meeting Verity Moore as my brothers, although she did a much better job at covering it.
Despite her claim of being nervous, Verity took it all in stride. Drawing each of them into an excited hug.
When my parents came in, she shook their hands, already gushing about their performance as we all took our seats. “I was so moved. I didn’t realize classical music could be so passionate, so powerful.”
My father grinned. “Yes, well. When you play the master composers, you don’t need sound effects and pyrotechnics to engage your audience.”
I let the not-so-subtle dig slide off my shoulders, but Verity apparently picked up on it. “I’m sure you’re right,” she said, her tone light. “Although engaging an audience of thousands requires a slightly different approach than hundreds, wouldn’t you agree?”
“How many people were at your last concert, Dax?” Julian asked.
I shrugged. “In L.A., I think it was about twenty thousand at the Staples Center.”
Verity nudged my shoulder. “And how long did it take to sell out?”
I knew what she was doing. It was incredibly sweet, but unnecessary. “An hour and a half, give or take.”
She looked back at my parents. “You must be so proud of him.”
“Of course we are,” they answered, fussing with their napkins.
“So, is it true?” Aria asked. “You’re touring together?”
Verity’s broad grin mirrored my own. “We are.”
“I think we’re playing both the Barclays Center and Madison Square Garden in New York. Do you like to be down on the floor, or do you prefer watching from a box?”
I hadn’t told Verity that my family had never seen me play, and it was interesting to watch my parents squirm in their seats at her question.
But then my mom flashed Verity an embarrassed smile, offering a very unexpected answer. “Maybe you can convince Dax to invite us one of these days.”
“Yeah, Dax. We want to see you play,” Sebastian said.
I glanced around the table. “I’ve asked if you wanted to come to my shows.”
Aria pouted. “No, you haven’t.”
“Really?” I glanced back at my father. “Are you sure?”
He sipped from his water glass. “Dax, I might not understand your music, but I would love to see you perform.”
“Me too,” my mother added.
“Me three,” Aria said.
“Okay. I’ll arrange tickets.”
My brothers high-fived. “Nothing but Trouble tickets—level achieved!”
Verity
Dim morning light filtered in through the shades Dax had drawn last night. Had he been alone, I knew he wouldn’t have bothered, using the encroaching dawn like a visual alarm. Heading outside with his wetsuit and board, surfing until the sun was high in the sky and the best waves had been taken.
But since we made love until the sun began to creep over the horizon, he’d promised today would be a lazy morning.
My naked body lay draped over Dax’s naked body, my cheek pressed to his chest, his heartbeat a soothing rhythm. Outside, waves clawed at the sand, crashing and receding relentlessly. The two rhythms—Dax’s heartbeat and the tide—should have been a jarring contrast, but instead they were the perfect counterpoint to each other.
Lying here, it was impossible to believe that a more perfect morning existed. Dax and I, tangled up together, our bodies sated, our hearts full.
I hadn’t moved, but Dax must have heard the change in my breathing as my mind transitioned to consciousness. His hand swept along my back, fingers combing through my hair cascading across his chest. “Morning,” he crooned, his voice still heavy with sleep.
“Don’t you mean good morning?”
“Yeah? What’s so good about it?” Half tease, half groan.
I gave a contented sigh, unable to contain the swell of happiness filling me from head to toe. “Everything,” I answered.
“True.” He was feeling it, too. Content. Happy.
Everything.
“This is real, right?” The question had been floating around my mind for days, but today it escaped.
Dax gave my shoulder a gentle nudge and I pushed up slightly, so we could be face to face. His eyes narrowed at me, tiny little lines appearing at their corners. “Are you asking because you aren’t sure?”
I pulled my
lower lip behind my teeth, knowing the answer, just slightly afraid of admitting it. As if saying it out loud would change things somehow. Strip some of the magic away.
But Dax wasn’t looking away. His stare burrowed into me, and I searched for evidence that my fears were unfounded. “I have a bad track record when it comes to taking people at face value. My instincts are completely unreliable.”
“You mean Jack?”
“Yeah. And his assistant, too. I trusted her when I shouldn’t have.” I settled back down on Dax’s chest, needing an escape from his probing gaze. “But it’s not just them. There was this guy, in New York.” I felt Dax’s muscles twitch, then tense beneath me.
My life had been a merry-go-round of auditions and commercials since I understood what to do when someone said, “Smile pretty for the camera.” And once The Show went into production, I’d barely had a second to breathe. Three years later, when it was canceled, I’d thought I’d earned some time off.
When I realized the state of my financial affairs, that all of my paychecks had gone straight to my mother, I’d rebelled. Leaving L.A. Drifting through a series of rich boyfriends, as calculating as any trophy wife. I drank champagne like it was water, treated sex like it was a currency, and did whatever drugs would keep me from realizing how low I’d sunk.
Marko was different. He was from Montenegro and had the most charming accent. The kind of guy that sucked up all the energy in the room. He didn’t treat me like a Hollywood starlet. In our relationship, he was the star.
I thought I loved him.
“We’d been seeing each other for a few months. Marko had a friend staying with him and we were all partying together at a club. When we left, it was the three of us.”
“What happened?” Dax’s voice was a low growl.
I cleared my throat, blinking against the growing light making its way into the room. “Back at Marko’s apartment, his friend kissed me—in front of Marko. I pushed him away, furious. Expecting Marko to be furious, too.”
“But he wasn’t. He was into it. I started to cry and Marko got mad. He said that if I loved him, I would want the same things he wanted. Marko’s friend kissed me again, and I didn’t push him away. When he took my dress off, I let him.” A shiver of revulsion trembled through me. “The whole thing felt like just another audition. A scene I had to perform to earn the role I wanted—Marko’s girlfriend.”