DARE You, Dare Duet, Part One: Billie and Sawyer: Unchained Attraction Series

by Shandwick, K. L.

  "Hey, beautiful. You are a sight for sore eyes," he offered in an unhurried tone. For a few long seconds, we ignored everyone around us and stared intently at one another. The way Sawyer stared, his eyes full of desire, should have made me feel self-conscious, but I'd missed him and I knew him well enough to know he really didn't care who saw us.

  Dipping his head, he kissed me again, this time slow and tender and only half as long as the first. Leaning away to look at my face, he shook his head and chuckled.

  "Come on, got to get you back to the bus."

  "The bus?"

  "Yeah, we're leaving tonight for North Dakota. I didn't want to wait another day for you to meet me there." Sending a text from his cell to someone, he took my hand and led me toward the pickup zone. Anxiety rose, tightening my chest again. I'd expected to meet his band, but I hadn't expected to travel on a bus with them.

  Once in the car, the journey to the bus took less than twenty minutes, but night had fallen by the time we reached the double-decker band coach.

  As we pulled up, I took in the blacked-out windows and what looked like burnt orange, cream and brown band logo emblazoned on the side.

  Leading me to the center door, he knocked on the window and the tour bus door opened with a smooth, hydraulic sound.

  When he gestured to me to go inside, I shook my head and he chuckled because I felt shy. Cupping the back of my head, he kissed my forehead, grabbed my hand, and pulled me inside behind him.

  Two young, good-looking guys in their late twenties sat around a large leather sectional couch. They were playing cards, a pile of hundred dollar bills crumbled carelessly in a heap at the center of the large coffee table in front of them. I noted the furniture was bolted to the floor.

  Cans, cups, glasses and discarded take-out coffee containers had been shoved to one end of the table, and the stench of stale beer, hard alcohol and the sweet smell of weed made my stomach roll.

  "Hammer, Strings, meet Billie. This is Hammer, our drummer," Sawyer informed me, pointing to the taller of the two. He had a blond buzz haircut and looked fit, ripped and toned. He had biceps as thick as my thighs.

  "Pleasure to meet you," he offered, as he stood and edged his way out from the fixed furniture. "I feel like I know you already. This guy's been nonstop with his 'Billie this' and 'Billie that,'" he informed me, chuckling and ducking like a boxer when Sawyer took a swipe at him. "I rest my case," he offered, gesturing toward me and making me blush.

  "This is Strings," he told me, pointing at the less well built but still muscular six-footer with dark brooding looks and a square set jaw. Strings never got up but offered a wave. "Keyboard player."

  "Keyboard? Not guitar?" I asked, stating the obvious.

  "Yeah, he eats those horrible cheese string snacks like they're gonna be rationed any day now, and leaves the empty wrappers all over the place." I noted there were two among the snack wrappers piled up on the table as well.

  "High protein diet," Strings chipped in with a wink. "This body's a temple," he joked, smoothing his T-shirt down at the front. "It's good to meet you, Billie. Hammer's right, this guy has been a miserable fuck since he met you. No fun at all listening to him bleating about not having your number."

  "I agree, I've not been fun to be around, but you guys know I've had a lot going on."

  "True. Sorry, dude. How's Tammy doing?"

  "Better. They're sending her home tomorrow. Where's Wiggy?"

  "Where else?" Hammer replied, his eyes rolling up toward the ceiling.

  "Fuck. I pity that poor kid. She must be raw by now," Strings muttered, sitting back down and picking up his playing cards again. "Anyway, speaking of stripping ... I was in the middle of taking the shirt off his back. Mind if we get back to finishing our game?"

  Sawyer turned to face me and burst out laughing, intuitively suspecting I was flustered at Strings' comment regarding Wiggy, whom I assumed was their missing fourth bandmate.

  Still holding my hand, Sawyer nodded at the back of the bus. "Billie's been traveling all day. We're going to rest until the food gets here."

  "Is that what they're calling it these days? Enjoy your…" Strings paused and looked at Hammer and they laughed. "Rest," they both offered in unison.

  "Respect," Sawyer snapped. Strings' face immediately lost his smug expression from cracking a joke at our expense, but it was too late for me.

  I felt mortified they could have thought Sawyer was taking me into the room to have sex. My back immediately stiffened, and Sawyer pulled me into his chest.

  "Ignore them. You'd never guess they were thirty-year-old men." His sarcasm may have put the men in their place, but it hadn't made me feel any better.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I'd never regarded myself as a prude, however being married to a very conservative academic man for over a decade had inadvertently conditioned me to accept certain standards of behavior.

  This wasn't because I was a snob; it was due to the pompous asses Logan dealt with every day. I supposed my naturally reserved nature helped during their stuffy social occasions, and being in that environment for so long had inadvertently spilled over to my day-to-day life. I'd never been exposed to the Sawyers or Tricias of this world, and although respected by my peers through school, college and in my places of work, I was known to be shy.

  Despite being aware of my failings, I couldn't make allowances for Sawyer's bandmates' unfiltered and uncouth remark.

  Following Sawyer as he led me to the back of the bus suddenly felt like a walk of shame, and we hadn't done anything wrong to warrant it.

  When he opened the last door at the back, I saw a bedroom with a disproportionately large bed for the size of the small space surrounded by flush-fitted shiny laminate cupboards and fitted nightstands. Concealed purple strip lighting illuminated above the headboard at the top of the bed, and I was instantly filled with shame.

  How the hell do I lie in here with Sawyer knowing what his bandmates think? Another thought came to mind: How do they see me? Am I one in a long line of women Sawyer had taken into his bed? I'd hoped not, because it would have crushed my faith in all men if I had thought for one minute he'd humiliated me this way.

  Panic rose from my stomach to my chest, making it feel so tight I could hardly breathe as I toyed nervously with my purse strap on my shoulder.

  "Sorry," I croaked, fighting back tears that threatened to rise from my closing throat. "Th … this was a bad idea," I blurted, shaking my head vigorously as my anxiety grew. My heartbeat pounded erratically as I mulled over how stupid I felt. "I can't stay here. This …"

  I gestured around the room, struggling to describe how cheap and aware of my age the situation had made me feel. When I saw the hurt dull Sawyer's eyes, it made my heart sink to my stomach and I knew he was disappointed with me. "I shouldn't have come. I don't know what I was thinking," I finally managed to say.

  Stepping close to me, Sawyer held me by my forearms and slowly shook his head. Gazing into my eyes, his injured feelings poured out of him as his expression changed from the brilliant happy smile he'd had when he led me onto the bus, and he frowned in regret at my words.

  For a moment the air between us, which usually felt electric, grew heavy until he blew out a forced breath and pulled me into him. He cradled my head to his chest, and for a few seconds, I listened to his heartbeat. Pushing me away to look at me, he sighed.

  "You were thinking of me. At least, I hope that was what got you this far. Billie, I was so excited this morning when I knew you were coming and now that I've gotten you here, I'm not just gonna let you walk away. That idiot out there has a smart mouth and he's as mature as my sister's youngest at best. Remember what I told you, darlin', this isn't about anyone else. We're all that matters."

  I wanted to believe him and when I looked up at him, I chewed the inside of my cheek, nervous again when I wondered for the umpteenth time how the hell he and I slotted together in life. I knew I wanted him, but I also knew there was a real poss
ibility I might never feel confident about the world that he lived in.

  My chest tightened again as I absorbed how deeply I had offended him, but the ache I felt there confused me and I considered why I couldn't meet him halfway. I knew he had continually tried to make what we had work.

  "I know, and I know you keep making all these excuses for me, but …"

  "It's new, you're old, and I'm in a band, so I can't possibly think this would work?" The way he boiled down my insecurities and thoughts felt like a knife to my chest.

  "When you put it like that, yes. For all of those reasons. Plus, I have a child who's been through enough trauma to last him his childhood, and who knows what effect it will have on him as he grows and becomes a man."

  Sliding my purse strap off my shoulder, he took it away from me and lay it down on the bed. He stepped back and unbuttoned my jacket, took it from me and he folded it neatly, beside my bag.

  "Sit." When he saw my hesitation, he pressed his hands gently on my shoulders. "Sit down and hear me out." By the stern look on his face, I knew he wasn't asking—it was a demand. Taking my hand from my lap, he held it between both of his in a warming embrace and his touch instantly centered me.

  "Billie, don't tell me what to think. The fact that you've come all this way tells me you want me, and the effort I made to come home to see you should demonstrate how I feel about you. Those pricks out there are only the beginning of what we may face. This isn't about their lives, it's about ours. We don't need anyone's permission to do this, and it doesn't matter how long we've been together; all that matters is we are. We set the pace. Five weeks or five years makes no difference to me either way. Listen, I've known people my whole life and never figured out what they were thinking or why they behave how they do."

  "From where you're sitting, being with me sounds so easy. It's not as simple from my side of the track," I reasoned.

  "What side would that be?" He scowled and studied my face for a beat. "Huh? What I see is a smokin' hot mom with a banging body and drop-dead gorgeous face. You have a clever-as-fuck mind and a fragile and vulnerable, beautiful soul." My heart squeezed when his thoughts spilled from his lips without a moment's hesitation.

  "Smooth."

  "Smooth?" He frowned, glaring at me with a look that was alien from him to me. "What is? Airing my thoughts about you? I could say more, how hard I am when you're near me, how addictive you taste, how your sweet pussy has me almost creaming my pants like some teenager in heat at the thought of your taste on my tongue …"

  "Shh," I hissed, my eyes darted to the door. "Don't."

  "Don't what, Billie? Don't be honest? Talk dirty? Say it is what it is? You're the one who keeps going on about how old you are, about the age difference between us. Personally, in terms of emotions and frank adult conversation, I'm way ahead of you."

  For once his words stole my breath and my thoughts, and I felt firmly put in my place. I huffed out a defeated breath. "That's just it. You're confident, handsome—so handsome I can't stop looking at you—but the way that you are …" I shook my head, lost for the words to describe how amazing he was.

  "The way I am?" he repeated, his gaze intensifying like the answer was written in my eyes.

  "This … all the reasoning, your patience with me when I'm—" I replied, gesticulating at him with my hands.

  "Being a dick?" he asked, his face completely deadpan, but with his eyes locked determinedly into mine.

  "Is that what you think?"

  "Sure. We've spent the last …" He glanced at his cell. "Almost fifteen minutes in here with you having an emotional meltdown that's made you want to run away, after coming all the way here. Meanwhile, we're wasting valuable time and, quite frankly, my patience is only good for so long when my dick is straining in my pants like a condemned man with a rope around his neck, waiting for the trapdoor to drop."

  His funny comment broke into the tension between us. "Jeez, couldn't you think of a less disturbing analogy?" I asked, chuckling at his unbelievable choice of comparison.

  Ignoring me, his hazel eyes brightened and dropped to look to my lips. Glancing back up at me, he gave me a look of intent, leaned forward and planted a closed kiss on my lips. Pulling away again, he sighed. "Ah, that's better," he murmured, his warm breath an inch from my mouth.

  When he kissed me again, what started as a tender small peck on my lips quickly turned to heated desire as Sawyer kept his hands on my head. I willed them to move and when they didn't, I moaned, "Oh, yes."

  Encouraged by my praise, Sawyer's hands moved frantically from my head to my hair, down my back, until he stopped where my butt met the bed. Skating his palms around to my hips, he slid them from there to my ribs.

  "Damn, Billie," he whispered. His low raspy voice sent a shiver of delight down my spine. Goosebumps erupted from head to toe when his hands slid under my sweater and his thumbs brushed the curve of my breasts. "Your tits are amazing," he muttered.

  "Oh, Sawyer, shhh," I whispered. Then he growled and shoved me back onto my elbows on the bed, barely containing his lust as he bunched up my sweater, yanked down my bra at one side, and sucked my pebbled nipple into his mouth.

  "Oh God," I moaned breathily, as I tried to stay focused on what he was doing, but lost all thought for a moment when his hot greedy mouth left my breast and trailed over my neck. My panties were drenched, and all thought of who or what was on the other side of the door didn't appear to matter as much anymore.

  Sawyer knocked my arms away and I fell onto my back. He slid his hand down my leg, knocking a shoe off my foot. "Stop," I rasped. "You are not fucking me here," I ground out, as I came to my senses again. Ignoring me for a second he climbed over me and caged me in with his limbs.

  "No?" he teased. "You're fucking beautiful, Billie. I missed you … missed this," he whispered, huskily with ragged breaths as he peppered small kisses along the waistband of my pants. "Tell me you don't want me, and I'll stop."

  "No, I want you," I said, quickly, surprising myself at how decisive I sounded. "But not here, not like this," I protested, shaking my head. I pressed my hands to his shoulders and pushed him away to the side.

  "Not like what?" he asked, his voice shaky with need as he jerked his head up and met my gaze.

  "I'm not letting you fuck me in a band tour bus, like some groupie with your bandmates ten feet away, Sawyer. I'm not ready for this, and if I'm honest, I can't see a time when I'd ever be ready." Rising to his feet, he swept his hands through his hair and shoved them deep into his front jean pockets.

  I immediately sat up and straightened my clothing back in place, finger combed my hair, and stared at the floor. It would have been easy to feel guilty but my mortification overrode this. I wasn't a tease, but I felt that may have been how Sawyer saw me after I'd let him go so far.

  Maybe if Strings hadn't made his comment about the other band member's girl or the one toward us that intimated he knew where we were going, I may not have felt how I did. But once his sleazy comment was in my head it had been one I couldn't ignore. All I had left from my time with Logan was my dignity, and no matter how much I thought of Sawyer, the circumstance I'd been placed in did nothing to help me feel dignified.

  I felt bad for leading Sawyer on, but I was damned if I was going to go along with something, I felt uncomfortable with. If my moral standards made me stubborn or prudish at any age, then I was happy to take on those labels.

  The silence stretched between us, neither one of us willing to break it. Negative thoughts ran through my head; my main one being how to get home. With how Sawyer had previously been toward me, I expected him to reason, to make me see how I had read the situation wrong, but his silence told me he knew I wasn't budging.

  At one point, when I saw how annoyed he was, I wondered if he was considering how he could offload me and still save face with his bandmates.

  A sharp knock on the tour bus door spurred him into action. "Food's here. Come on," he coaxed. It was like he had bipolar disorder; the
scowl immediately fell from his face and a smile set in its place again. I wondered if this was for his bandmates' benefits as well when he reached out a hand.

  At first I stared down at it, but decided to take it, knowing if I left straight away it would surely embarrass him. Although I felt humiliated, I knew deep down none of their behavior was down to Sawyer.

  Glancing toward me, he pulled me toward him with his spare hand and kissed my forehead again like he had read the conflict going on in my head. "I get it," he muttered beside my ear. "I don't like it much, Billie, but I get it." I felt relieved for his small gesture of support.

  Leading me out to the left, a six-seat dining booth came into view under the stairs. Sawyer gestured for me to take a seat and from where I was situated I could see Hammer and Strings. They didn't look over at us and continued to play their card game, an open pizza box balanced on top of the empty beer cans on the edge of the coffee table.

  "Ham and pineapple, pepperoni, barbeque chicken, vegetarian or Meat Feast?" he asked, reading from the printout check laid on top of the large pizza boxes.

  "Ham and pineapple, please."

  Taking two large slices from the box marked "HP," he flopped them onto a plastic plate and slid it in front of me. "Slaw, garlic bread, or salad?" he asked, lifting some plastic see-through containers and reading the labels.

  "None for me," I stated. I had little appetite after what had gone down between us before.

  Quietly I watched as Sawyer stacked his plate with a piece from each box, piled it high with scoops from all the sides and slid in beside me as we heard footsteps coming downstairs. "Fuck," he muttered under his breath.

  Rounding the stairs toward us was a tiny slip of a girl, barely eighteen I'd thought at first glance, with mascara smeared on her cheeks and bruised swollen lips. She was skinny and much smaller than me; I had her pegged less than five feet tall and all of around ninety-five pounds.