by Cherrie Lynn
Savannah looked surprised. “Am I pushing it? I only thought you need to get out a little bit, have some fun.”
“I did.”
“You can do it more than once, you know. I’m almost certain of it.”
“Yeah, but . . . I don’t know if I’m ready to start seeing someone. It’s so, so soon.”
Savannah paused with a forkful of eggs halfway to her mouth. “Seeing him? I thought you were just friends.”
Rowan stared at her, aghast. Fuck, she shouldn’t have said that. “I only mean . . . if we keep . . . Shit, Savannah. Why can you always get these things out of me? You’re worse than your mother. He kissed me.”
“He kissed you?” She set her fork back down carefully. Too carefully.
“Just a little. Um, a little one. Nothing, like . . . oh, hell.” Sighing, Rowan dropped her face into her hand, trying not to remember all the feelings he’d stirred up within her. She’d been trying for three days not to remember them, but she always lost the battle. The more she fought them, the stronger they grew.
When she looked back up at Savannah, she found her staring down at her phone resting on the table as if she were about to snatch it up and call Mike to send out a lynch mob. Then she sat back in her chair, her expression hard. “I didn’t think he would pull anything. Mike was supposed to have a talk with him.”
“I’m not frigging sixteen,” Rowan snapped.
“I know, but . . . we were worried about something like this. Mike was, at least. I guess he knows him best.”
“Let’s not make a big deal out of it, please. It was only a small good night kiss and we haven’t even made any more plans. He didn’t ‘pull’ anything.”
“Rowan, you know it was a big deal to you.”
That stopped her short, and she gazed down at her food with the smallest appetite possible. Any other pregnant woman would have fallen on it in a frenzy. “It was,” she said softly. “But please, please don’t tell Mike. I don’t want him getting on Zane’s case about it, and you know he will. I can take care of myself. I’m not a child.”
“You’re vulnerable,” Savannah said, still with that protective vibe that grated Rowan’s nerves. Then she waved her hands as if the entire conversation was offensive to her. “I’m sorry I brought the whole thing up. You can do what you want, Rowan, don’t get me wrong. Don’t feel like I’m going to guilt you for moving on if that’s what you need. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“And you think he’ll hurt me?”
“I don’t know. Not necessarily. But be careful, okay?”
“I will,” Rowan assured her, and right then, she meant it. She just didn’t know about the next time she heard Zane’s voice over the phone—rich, gentle, soothing her wounded soul. But here in the light of day, with her best friend and the only sister she’d ever had, it was easy to make these promises. “No one is more careful than I am right now, Savvy, trust me.”
“Okay,” Savannah said after a moment. She didn’t look convinced in the least.
Chapter Five
Okay, so I’ve waited, but you haven’t said anything about the files I sent.
Zane hit send on the message, a half smile curling his lips. Quickly, he added another, thumbs flying over the screen. Do they suck that bad? I’ve been on pins and needles awaiting your assessment.
She began typing back almost immediately, and it was practically stupid how excited that made him. Around him, in his home studio, banter flew, sudden guitar riffs erupted, and the familiar, familial laughter from the other guys echoed around him. They were trying to lay down some tracks but kept getting distracted. Texting with Rowan among them all felt like a sweet little secret only he knew.
No way, Zane, I LOVED them. I’ve listened to them over and over. It sounds like everything I’ve been wanting to hear. Thanks so much for sharing.
Glad you liked. Are you where you can talk?
Yes. :)
“Hey guys, I’ll be back in a few.”
Deke threw a wadded-up piece of paper and hit him in the forehead. “Quitter.”
“Quit this.”
“I wish I knew how to quit you, Zane,” Holden the drummer said, twirling a drumstick between his fingers. It was Holden and Zane who had first hooked up and gotten this band off the ground, with the eventual additions of Deke and Solomon on guitar and Wills on bass. Now all four of them gave him shit as he left the room, when they hadn’t gotten any work done in the past hour anyway. He left them with a middle finger salute and closed the door on their bitching.
He’d given her a few days, not wanting to pester her, because she had things going on in her life that he couldn’t begin to understand. If she’d been any other woman, sure, he had the whole rock star thing at his disposal. Rowan was different. She might be a fan of his music, but she wasn’t the typical fan.
He bypassed calling and went to FaceTime, thinking it would be nice to look into her eyes as they talked like the other night. But she didn’t pick up. As he frowned down at his phone, another text came in.
OMG! You can’t just FT a girl like that.
He laughed out loud. And why not?
I just got out of the shower.
Maybe he was going to hell, but he let that picture fully unfurl in his head. And he liked it. He added a crying-laughing face and then Your point?
You’re bad. Trust me, you do not want to see me right now.
I don’t know about that. Why don’t you answer and let me be the judge?
Nooooooo. Just call me please!
Ugggh FINE
Chuckling, he hit her number again, abandoning his FaceTime dreams even though he wanted to pout. She answered right away, giggling.
“I don’t see the big deal,” he griped teasingly.
“My hair is wet.”
“And?”
“I don’t have any makeup on.”
“And?”
“Zane! It’s quite scary.”
“You could never be scary, Rowan. You have the face of an angel.”
She paused a moment, then laughed. “Right now I have the face of an angel who fell from heaven and hit every branch on the way down. No one warned me that I’d be revisiting my acne-ridden teenage years when I got pregnant.”
He liked that she was funny, and that she talked about real shit. That was rare in his world. “Well, I’d still like to see your face, zits and all. But since you aren’t cooperating, tell me what you thought about the tracks.”
“Amazing,” she breathed. It was sexy as hell the way her voice deepened when she talked about his music. “So heavy and emotional. Everything you guys are about.”
“Good. That’s what we were aiming for. Glad to hear we’re nailing it.”
“You really are. I wish I could be there every day, listening to what you’re coming up with. I could listen to you sing your grocery list and be happy. I might actually be the wrong person to ask about these things, because I’m totally biased.”
Zane found himself grinning from ear to ear. “If the only people I make happy from now on are the hard-core fans like you, then that would be enough for me. There will always be people bitching and moaning about our sound changing or some such shit, but as long as we have that core fan base, and they stick around, hell, we have it made.”
“This should definitely make them stick around. I think this might even make the bitchers and moaners happy.”
“You can never make bitchers and moaners happy. I’ve tried. For years. I’m done.”
“And now that you’re done, you’re putting out some of the best stuff I’ve heard from you in a while. Don’t get me wrong, I love it all. This is special, though. If every song on this album is like these, it will be a masterpiece. I’m calling it now.”
He hoped so. Often he feared they’d already peaked. Already made their masterpiece: their most popular, multiplatinum album, Awaken Too Late. It had changed all their lives, but while they had enjoyed steady success with every album since,
they’d never reachieved that level of success. Always there was that inner drive to outdo it, to push himself to something greater. Time after time since, he’d come away feeling he failed. He fucking hated failure.
“Thank you,” he said, meaning it so much. “Really, from the bottom of my heart. That makes me excited to hear.”
She laughed a little awkwardly, and something fluttered around his chest. He liked the breathy sound of her laughter too. Shame it had been extinguished for so long. “So, besides us, of course . . . what other kind of music do you like?”
“I’ve always been a rocker. Sometimes I’m in the mood for some pop. Never country. I like some rap. Tommy always worked out to rap music, and it grew on me.”
“I’m a huge, huge Peter Murphy fan.”
“I knew that.” He could hear the smile in her voice.
“Oh, yeah? I guess that’s been publicized enough. Kinda makes me worried about what else you know.”
“Don’t be. You’re pretty guarded about your personal life. You mostly talk about music, yours or someone else’s, so I don’t know much dirt.”
“I try.”
“Anything personal you want to share?” Still with that smiling tone. Goddamn, he wished he could see her face.
“Personal, like . . . I like my eggs sunny-side up?”
“It’s a start. Favorite country to visit?”
“Germany.”
“I’ve always wanted to go there,” she said wistfully.
I would take you. His brain kept throwing these things at him that he could never say to her. “Let me see you, Rowan.” He probably shouldn’t have said that, either. This time, however, she didn’t argue, even though she seemed to debate with herself for a few seconds.
“Okay. Will you give me five minutes?”
“Of course.”
“Well, then . . . see you soon,” she said, and hung up.
That was the longest five fucking minutes of his life, but he gave every second to her, and even a few more before placing the FaceTime call. He grinned when her beautiful face came up on his screen. “What zits?”
Ah, a real laugh. Her lips formed the most perfect heart when she did so; it was infectious. Her hair hung in damp, loose waves around her face, and her green eyes were bright even in the muted lighting of what looked like her living room. “Are you in your house right now?” she asked.
“Yeah. Would you like a tour?”
“Oh my God. Totally.”
So he carried her around, showing her his fucking obnoxious pad, commenting on all the bullshit decorations some designer had talked him into, while she laughed and gave her input. “You know,” she said, “I was always interested in interior design. I could totally make your place over. You would love it.”
“Honestly, I might take you up on that if I actually gave much of a fuck about any of it. See this shit? What is this shit? I’m an asshole to approve some shit like that.” He indicated a weird sculpture on an accent table while she giggled.
“What is that? Seriously?”
He picked up the weird shiny brown creation, turning it this way and that. “It’s like some Rorschach test. I see . . . a donkey.”
“How do you see a donkey?”
“It has four legs. Could be a horse, too.”
“It has a trunk. It’s an elephant.”
He put the thing down and turned the phone back to his face, cocking an eyebrow at her. “You think that’s what it is?”
“Either that, or it’s a well-hung donkey.”
“Most donkeys are, to the best of my knowledge.”
She was laughing so hard she had to wipe her eyes, and she was blushing. He loved it. “Are we really talking about this?”
“Donkey dicks? You are, darling.”
“I tried to say it was an elephant and save us from this embarrassment. You wouldn’t have it. Now, show me your kitchen. Is it awesome?”
“For a place I never use.” He walked into the huge stainless steel and granite chef’s paradise . . . only he was no chef. Except for his studio or his bedroom—when it wasn’t invaded by women he hadn’t invited—the kitchen was the room in the house he liked the most, with its dark wood cabinets contrasted against the light countertops, backsplash, and floor. The huge window at the end showed a view of the lagoon pool, with a window seat the decorator had stocked with comfy cushions and pillows.
“Ohhh,” she said, making him think naughty things. “I would use it. I would use the shit out of it.”
“You would be most welcome to it.” Suddenly, his mind showed him an image that disturbed him a little . . . Rowan standing at the island rolling out some cookie dough or something. Savannah had said she loved to bake and excelled at it. He could see her as if she already lived here, licking frosting from her fingertips and smiling as maybe a kid or two tugged at her shirt asking for their own taste. A woman like her could turn a cold, impersonal place like this into a home, warm and inviting, much more than a place to dump his shit and sleep between tours. A home like nothing he’d ever had in his entire life.
“I love the window seat so much,” she said. “You could just curl up there and read all day.”
He could see her doing that, too. He could see himself interrupting her reading . . .
Clearing his throat and banishing those pictures from his brain, he walked out, keeping the camera on his face as headed toward his studio. “I’ll show you something I think you’ll like,” he said, letting suggestiveness unfurl in the words. He hadn’t really meant for it to happen, but courtesy of the fantasy that was still trying to infringe on his thoughts, there was no stopping it.
Rowan gave him an uncertain look, her perfectly arched eyebrows rising, as if she wanted to flirt back but was unsure if she should do so. Her little moral struggles killed him. They made him want to turn her bad in the worst way, but only for a little while. Strip her to her core, see what lurked there, see what she would do without the claws of propriety holding her captive. “Oh yeah?” she asked, drawing out the words a little, and he was proud that she had given in to the temptation of going there with him.
“Yeah. Wait until you see this.”
His studio was completely soundproof, so when he opened the door to the guys’ wild laughter, it was sudden and rowdy—obviously little had been accomplished in the way of music making while he’d been on the phone. But he turned the device so that she could see them all sprawled on the couches and chairs, and her laughter was musical. “Have you ever seen a bigger group of more useless motherfuckers assembled in one place? Say hi to Rowan, guys.”
“Hi, Rowan!” they chorused. Some of them had met her when she’d flown over with Savannah for their hometown concert a while back. Deke played her a little riff on the guitar in his lap, fingers flying over the fretboard.
“Oh my God! Hey, guys!”
“Rowan, blow me a kiss,” Wills called, and Zane heard her make a mwah sound while Wills feigned catching it in the air and expiring across the couch. Of them all, he’d been the biggest womanizer until he got married, and Zane gave him a pointed glare.
“Useless?” Solomon demanded. “We’re not the ones talking up hot girls when your janky ass should be writing.” Zane gave him the finger where Rowan couldn’t see.
“Okay, enough of them,” he told her, shutting the door on the band again. She was laughing with a hand to her mouth.
“That was amazing. Should I let you get to work?”
“Trust me, they weren’t working when I was with them. That’s why I called you.”
“I’d love to be a fly on the wall while you guys are recording.”
“You would be sorely disappointed ninety percent of the time.”
“I don’t think so. It would be nonstop entertainment.”
He was lucky. Not many bands made it as long as they had with all their original members intact. There was no denying that they didn’t share quite the same brotherhood they had when they’d been playing local shows for f
ifty people or touring the country in a shitty van with mechanical problems that made them miss almost as many gigs as they made. Some things you didn’t want to know about the people in your life . . . but he knew everything there was to know about the four guys in his studio right now. Lots of things he wished he could forget.
Now, their shows were colossal, their production huge, and they didn’t even have to share the same tour bus anymore. In some ways it was better, in others, not so much. Sol and Wills had moved to LA and Miami, respectively. When they were all reunited to record, it required more focus and less goofing off so the guys could do their parts and get home to their families—something else that had changed for many of them over the years. Sobriety. Families. Kids.
Sometimes he envied his bandmates who had settled down, until it was time to go on tour. He’d watched them leave their kids and wives crying at the airport too many times. Sol had a newborn baby at home, but he’d still flown in so they could keep the new album on track. Zane thought of his imaginary Rowan, baking in his kitchen with the kids . . . and having to kiss them all goodbye knowing he wouldn’t see them for weeks. Maybe months.
How the fuck did his bandmates do it? His chest hurt enough just knowing his fantasy Rowan wasn’t here now. He couldn’t imagine having her and leaving her.
“I probably should get back in there,” he said reluctantly, looking into her eyes through the distance that separated them.
She nodded, but her smile was sad as she gazed back at him. “I did want to ask one thing, if you have a second.”
“Of course. Shoot.”
“Why can’t you let me read what you said you wrote for me?”
Because it says some things you might not be ready to hear. “It needs some work. I didn’t want you to see it until I’m satisfied with it.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “Is that all right?”
“Sure, whenever you’re ready. I was just curious.”
“Do me a favor, Rowan.”
“Okay.”
“Listen to ‘Your Face’ by Peter Murphy tonight when you go to sleep.”
He loved the way her gaze took in his face, alighting on every detail, from his eyes and hair to his lips and back, seeking answers that, yet again, she might not be ready for. “Why?”
