The Crow Brothers: JET - TULSA - RIVERS - RIDGE

by Scott, S. L.

  “I can’t believe you went off and moved to LA without me.”

  Leaning against the wall, I look down at the pool area. That’s when I spot him. The sexy bastard with his tan body, eight perfectly built abs, and tattoos he probably only got to impress women.

  What are those on his chest anyway? I squint and lean forward to see if I can make out the black design across Tulsa’s upper left pec when I slam my head into the window. “Ouch.” Grabbing my head, I rub, furious at him for making me hit my head.

  “Nikki?”

  “What?”

  “Have you been listening or not?”

  Yikes. I rub the pad of my palm over the sore spot on my head while scrunching my eyes closed. “I’m here. I’m listening.”

  “Girl, you didn’t hear a thing I said. You’re already in deep. Have you slept with him?”

  “Who?”

  “Really? It’s me. I know when you’re lying and dodging a question. Now answer.”

  “No way. I’ve been focusing on my performance and improving each show. I took a yoga class before I left LA last week to help loosen me up.”

  “Your body or your mind? You can get a good workout with sex too, but you might have forgotten about that.”

  “I have forgotten,” I say, joking. “But I’m not going to give it up just because he’s cute.”

  “There could be worse reasons to sleep with him other than he’s cute.”

  Laughing, I watch him. Two eager beavers are chatting him up as he lounges on a chair with his too perfect arms behind his arrogant head, that smug smile still on his conceited face. He sits up and has one of the bikini-clad girls rub lotion on his shoulders. What a player. Resting my back against the glass, I say, “We haven’t talked since LA, a week ago.”

  She laughs gently. “Why?”

  “I might have snapped at him.”

  “Might have?”

  Sighing, I reply, “Fine. I did. It was early, and he was just sooooo . . . Tulsa.” When she doesn’t say anything, I know what she’s doing—judging me. He’s another girl-chaser. It’s nothing I’m not used to because it’s the same with Shane and Laird. But when he flirts with me, it’s like he’s taunting me. And that’s ticking me off. And confusing me. “You know what? I wasn’t totally cold-hearted. I watched them play in Sacramento. That’s support.”

  “It is. And?”

  “And he was good. Really good. He has really great arms, and he makes this sexy face sometimes when he’s hitting hard up there. I’ve dreamed about it.”

  “It or him?”

  “Same thing. What’s wrong with me? How can a man who annoys me so much consume so many of my thoughts?”

  I turn and lean forward again to catch another glimpse, but this time, I’m more careful with my head. As for other parts of my body—sexy bastard.

  Lauralee’s voice cuts into my annoyance at the man who’s taking up way too much space in my head today when she says, “Cocky. Arrogant. Smug. Conceited. Now bastard.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what you just called Tulsa Crow. By the way, I’m looking at him online now. Wow.”

  “No to the wow.”

  “Yes to the wow. I see the problem. He’s hot.”

  My ponytail swings side to side when I march to the bathroom to start getting ready for the night. “He definitely does not need more attention than he already gets.”

  She adds, “You’ve got it bad, girl, and I clearly see why. I’ve seen photos of his band, but damn, these paparazzi pics from LA are private time worthy.”

  “Do not even go there.”

  “I won’t, but will you?”

  * * *

  The female bartender is over here a lot faster when Laird and Shane arrive than when it was just me sitting here. I’m neither stupid nor blind. My brother and cousin are good-looking guys, taking after my father and uncle. If you held their high school photos up side by side, it would be hard to tell them apart.

  California surfers with tall, lean bodies and blue eyes that match the sky. They were both catches. Back in the day, Laird took the Prom King title, and Shane won Homecoming King, despite their shared distaste for such mundane rituals.

  Laird has a type, and it’s not fake boobs and a smile injected with silicone. The waitress reminds me more of LA than Seattle. I’m sure she has an interesting story, but I just want to spend time with my family tonight.

  He sits back when she leaves and says, “Did you talk to Mom?”

  “No. Did you?”

  “She said she misses us.”

  “I miss her too.” She’s been a good mom, but she’s also been a friend. I don’t tell her everything because I don’t want to break her heart, but she knows a lot of what’s gone on in my adult life.

  I’m the spitting image of my mother—a former model who quit her day job when she said “I do” to my dad. Guys used to talk to me so they’d eventually get a chance to talk to my mom. That was until I turned fifteen and grew into my lanky legs and big eyes. By sixteen, I was modeling swimsuits for local surf shops and had already won my fair share of pageants. My mother was convinced I’d either become less of a tomboy and gain poise or meet my future husband. She didn’t say I had to trade my Miss San Diego County title for an M-R-S to a CEO, but she didn’t discourage using my looks for gain.

  Neither happened.

  Like my brother, I preferred the guitar to the pretenses of our wealthy upbringing. We may have grown up on the beaches of La Jolla surfing, but we spent evenings around a fire pit playing our guitars.

  The bartender sets a beer down in front of Laird, his smile and laughter keeping her here a little longer than most customers do. He makes her laugh and then turns to us, making it clear we’re a package deal.

  We can see everything we ever wanted taking form; a dream we’ve worked toward for the past four years—full time for the past two. I’m not naïve enough to think luck hasn’t played a part. An early following to our beach rock sound set us apart, but it’s like what Tommy once told us before we got offered a contract—schticks come and go. Find your sound and believe in it. We wrote a new song, played it for him and Johnny, and got signed on the spot. Luck didn’t play any part in that. We get the credit, and now we’re reaping the rewards.

  “Cheers.”

  8

  Tulsa

  My brothers and Dave sleep all day and decide to stay in their rooms for the night, the tour already wearing on them. We played hard on stage last night, but it’s still not like them to let me hang by myself. But sitting at a bar with a preseason baseball game on the big screen and a full beer in front of me doesn’t leave me much to complain about.

  I can find company to pass the time with, but I’m not in the mood. I’m wound up too tight, and the little black book in my phone won’t give me the number of anyone in Seattle.

  Three barstools down from me sits an opportunity I could have taken back to my room forty-five minutes ago, but I don’t have to act on every opportunity I’m presented with. Despite what Nikki Faris thinks, I can keep my dick in my pants when I want. Most nights, I just don’t want to.

  I don’t have to prove myself—not to her or anyone else—but it has been over a week. Not that I deserve a ticker tape parade, but damn, I deserve a celebratory lay.

  Trouble walks in as if I summoned her myself—sweet, pink lips, big, blue eyes, short, cutoff jean skirt, a tee that hugs her tits, and her signature Converse sneakers. She plops down on the barstool next to me and swivels my way until her knees press against me. “I’ve been thinking.”

  “All right,” I reply with a sly smile. We haven’t spoken since the morning I ran into her getting my coffee. I thought it best to keep some distance and let our heated exchange cool down.

  Despite what she said that morning, she’s become a regular creeper of mine, and I like it. I catch her watching me on stage, checking me out backstage, and she even hopped into our SUV the other night coming back from the arena. I don’t kno
w what her real deal is, but I don’t think she hates me.

  She says, “Will you buy me a drink?”

  “Absolutely. What are you drinking?”

  “What are you drinking?”

  “Shots and beer.”

  “That sounds good.”

  I’m about to signal to the bartender, but she’s already sending him a little wave to get his attention. When he strides over and presses his palms wide in front of her, she flips her hair behind her shoulder. I don’t like the weird knot in my stomach as I watch them smiling at each other. Is she flirting with him?

  Planting her ass back on the stool, she says, “I’ll have what my friend is having and get him another round please.”

  “Coming right up.”

  With her elbow on the bar, she rests her chin on her hand, then smiles as if she’s admiring me.

  I can’t help but wonder what’s going on. “Are you drunk?”

  Popping upright, she rolls her eyes. There’s my girl. “No, I’m not drunk. I’ve had two glasses of wine all night.”

  “High?”

  “Tulsa. Stop. I’m not high, and I’m not drunk, but I am here to offer a truce.”

  “Surrender or truce?”

  Her bony elbow needles my bicep. “Truce.”

  “After the way we left things back at the Outlaw’s house, I didn’t think you were even talking to me, much less wanting peace between us.”

  The bartender sets two shots of tequila and two draft beers in front of us. “Tab?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I reply and take my shot in hand at the same time she takes hers. There’s no toast to seal this new deal or even a pause. She shoots that shit like a guy. “Damn, woman. You know your way around tequila.”

  “I’m usually more of a vodka girl, but like I said, I’m here to call a truce. So if that’s what you’re drinking, I’m drinking it too.”

  I can’t let her make me look bad, so I shoot my shot and push the empty glass forward on the bar. Her finger swirls in the air, and the bartender refills our glasses.

  She takes the second shot like the first, without hesitation, but this time, she cringes a little at the end.

  “You should probably slow down if you don’t drink tequila. It’s not the same as drinking a margarita.”

  Poking me in the shoulder, she says, “It’s stuff like that, that annoys me. I’m not some damsel in distress who needs the suave Tulsa Crow to swoop in and save me. Guess what? I saved myself.”

  Sounds like she’s now on a mission to get everything off her chest, so I let her continue. “I don’t need a guy to talk to me as if I prefer mixed drinks to hard liquor. I love a glass of whiskey, neat, when I’m in the mood. And when I’m not, a beer is great. Maybe a glass of wine if I’m feeling like something a little more refined. And sometimes, I order an iced tea just because.”

  She’s cute. So cute I find myself sliding closer just to be near her. “My apologies for insulting you. That wasn’t my intention.”

  Her hands go up as she looks at the big screen hanging on the wall in front of us. “Intentions. Intentions. Intentions. You know what they say about the road to hell.” When I nod, she adds, “Let’s not travel down that road. This tour is going to be a long one, and we should spend our time celebrating that we’re on it.” She holds her hand out to me. “I’m calling a truce. Can we be friends?”

  I happily accept her hand. “Friends.”

  It slips away too soon, and she takes a sip of beer. “Don’t let me get drunk tonight.”

  “Too late.” I chuckle, but I really do think the liquor’s already going to her head.

  Her gaze shoots to mine, but instead of contempt, I find excitement brightening her eyes. “We travel to Tempe tomorrow.”

  “Sucks to travel when you’re hung over.”

  “Sure does.” Tapping her glass against mine, she says, “Cheers.”

  * * *

  Nikki Faris is amazing.

  Not only is she gorgeous, she’s also smart and strong. She says what she thinks, not worried about sharing her opinions or anyone judging her for them. She can defend the craziest ideas and has theories on everything from what she thinks jackfruit tastes like to why the stars always shine on the darkest nights.

  Nikki Faris is mesmerizing.

  Her lips.

  Her eyes.

  The way her head tilts back when she laughs at her own jokes. She’s adorably funny. Even the way she rolls her eyes is growing on me.

  Nikki Faris is the sexiest woman I’ve ever spent time with, and I haven’t even slept with her.

  Yet.

  Her denim skirt rides up really fucking high when she’s sitting. I don’t know whether I should cover her or encourage her to wiggle more. Every time she moves around on that barstool, my eyes dash between her blues and those bare legs. I’m so tempted to run my hand over the smooth skin of her thigh, but I resist because I’m just starting to earn her trust.

  But then she leans over, resting her hand on my leg, the tips of her fingers dipping toward my cock, waking it up, and whispers, “I think you got me drunk, Crow.”

  Chuckling, I reply, “You got yourself drunk, Faris.”

  Suddenly, her free hand wanders into my hair. “Your hair is soft. No gel. I like that.” She drags the bridge of her nose along my neck, causing my dick to harden. “You smell so good. So manly. What cologne do you wear?”

  “Soap and sweat, sweetheart.”

  “Tulsa. Tulsa. Tulsa.” Leaning back to look me in the eyes, she confesses, “It shouldn’t, but that really turns me on.”

  I laugh again and stop her hand from wandering higher on my leg. “You’re a horny drunk.”

  “I am,” she replies, resting her head on my shoulder. “Have you ever heard the phrase sleeping with the enemy?”

  “I have.” I touch her, not able to stop myself as I tuck those wild strands of hair behind her ear.

  The bartender sets the tab down in front of me. Nikki reaches for it, but I grab it first. “My treat.”

  “I have a feeling I’m going to be swearing your name in the morning.”

  I do a double take. “You mean because of the alcohol, right?” While waiting for her to answer a question I already know the answer to, images of her swearing my name for other reasons cross my mind.

  She doesn’t answer, which is probably best. I sign the check and pull her to my side. As soon as we walk out of the hotel bar, I say, “C’mon, let’s get you upstairs to bed.”

  Her sneakers actually skid when she stops. “I’m not sleeping with you, Tulsa Crow.”

  “Don’t worry, darlin’, I don’t sleep with drunk girls.”

  When she looks satisfied, we start walking to the elevators again. “Darlin’.” She smiles. “That name goes against all my feminist beliefs, but when you say it with your accent, I want to take off my panties. Why does it affect me like that?”

  “I’m not sure, darlin’.”

  We step right into an open elevator and push the buttons for our floors. As soon as the doors close, she reaches under the sides of her skirt and slinks down her hot pink panties. Fuck me, a thong.

  She peeks up at me as the doors open on my floor. I ask her, “You okay? Want me to see you to your door?”

  “See me to my door? You sound so old-fashioned, Tulsa.” With the strip of pink distracting me, she laughs. “I’ll be fine.”

  I step off the elevator and turn back, my hand on the nearby door so they don’t close on me. “I think I’m going to like this truce.”

  “I’m glad we’re seeing eye to eye.”

  “Me too.” When I step back, I add, “Good night, Nikki.”

  “Catch.” The doors are about to close, but she tosses the panties at me and says, “Good night, darlin’.”

  The doors close and I’m left standing there with her hot pink thong in my hand. I reach to push the UP button but stop. We just called a truce and had a great time tonight. I’m not going to ruin it by chasing her upstairs ju
st for her to reject me at her door. Anyway, she’s drunk.

  If I didn’t know before, her taking her panties off is the final proof of her inebriated state.

  Sure, she claimed it was my accent and the way I called her darlin’, but I know better. It’s just the tequila talking. That’s all.

  I toss the panties in the air and catch them as I walk to my room.

  Catch and release.

  Catch and release.

  Catch, but this time I hold on, not ready to let the strip of fabric go and definitely not ready to let the girl go. Friends? Can I be friends with Nikki Faris? Yeah. But I turn her on when she’s drunk . . . and I get turned on whenever I’m around her. Shit.

  Don’t get Nikki Faris drunk. Problem solved.

  I think.

  9

  Tulsa

  “Did you hit it last night?”

  “The bed?”

  Dave narrows his eyes as if he doesn’t recognize me. “No, did you bang a chick? I’m living vicariously, man.”

  “Should’ve gone out. Then you wouldn’t have to live through me.”

  He doesn’t seem satisfied and appears to be waiting for a legit answer. My brothers turn to look at me over the light brown leather seats of the private plane. “It was good,” I say, emphasizing the good a little too hard. Hopefully, that satisfies their nosy asses.

  Kaz and Derrick toss their bags on the floor next to their seats, across from Jet and Rivers. Johnny’s already onboard, I was told, but holed up in one of the bedrooms. Dex takes up space in the corner. His eyes are closed, and his headphones are on. That’s gonna be me as soon as we take off.

  All that’s missing is Faris Wheel.

  We’ve flown on the private jet a few times now, and the buttery leather seats and the legroom cannot be beat.

  I’d thought about Nikki all night, wondering how she was feeling and if I should check on her or send her some food. She’s tough to figure out, though. She made it more than clear she can take care of herself but then goes and gets drunk. I should have seen her to her room. I have a feeling she wouldn’t have accused me of trying to sleep with her. If it was her idea, then she’d be all over it. In the meantime, I don’t want to step over some imaginary boundary she’s drawn around herself that would ruin the truce we agreed on. That would set us back, and, after last night, I like the direction we’re heading.