One Wicked Lick from the Drummer (The One Book 3)

by Ainslie Paton

  Hitting something was cathartic and hitting it with intent required concentration and for an hour, none of those kids worried about what was happening at home, or in class or in the playground. In his lessons, they were all equal, all had an important part to play, and the only issue they had was keeping the beat.

  After Mena had walked her fingers up his body, he’d needed to hit something with intent. He’d wanted her touch and yet it made him twitchy. There was this line drawn between them and it wasn’t a security rope barrier they could hop over. This was a kind of line he’d never encountered before. It was supposed to be solid, the kind you couldn’t get around with limbo or a choice bit of parkour. It was supposed to be that way, so he wasn’t tempted to look down her shirt or want her touch to sear his skin because he needed her professional advice and it had to be untainted by all that getting hot for each other distraction.

  Sucks they were maybe, kind of, possibly hot for each other.

  Aside from that, Mena knew things about him he hadn’t expected and wasn’t sure he liked.

  She hadn’t held him any tighter on the bike and they’d not spoken much after the beach. She’d given him a chin lift, nod when she left him surrounded by parents and kids at the end of the class to get her own way home.

  That was a week ago.

  Since then nothing but wall.

  As each day with no contact passed, Grip’s confusion grew. Surely one afternoon where things had gone red-hot not suitable for work wasn’t the answer to all her questions. He’d clearly screwed it up with his unorthodox get-to-know-me scheme. He should’ve called but what was he going to say, you didn’t like me in my underwear, and hell, wasn’t that her job to chase him up? Brooding over it felt right somehow. Very tortured muso.

  Very not Mark Grippen.

  And now here he was staring at seven emails from Mena, one for every day he thought she’d ignored him. Which was a screw-up of a different kind, because her last one, the one sent this morning simply said, Mark—erg, we’re back to that—I’m worried you’re not seeing these emails. If you are, perhaps you’d rather set up a video call to complete the assessment.

  He hit reply. I thought you were more interested in my tattoo ink than my red ink. Way to be hostile, dude. Delete.

  Hey, I thought you weren’t a fan anymore. Delete.

  Try again. Hey, I was kidnapped by aliens. Delete.

  Hello. Backspace, backspace, backspace, backspace. Who even says hello?

  Hi Mena, I just rescued these from my spam. Fucking liar. Delete.

  Hi Mena, I’ve just seen your emails now. I’m not much of an email user to tell the truth. I’ll catch up and come back to you. Did that sound cold? Is that how he felt towards her, cold, hostile? Build a wall. If that was the case, why was he not so secretly buzzed to hear from her, even if it was in the most hands-off way possible.

  He needed to read those emails, but he needed a clear head first and thinking about Mena had him thickheaded. It was bumblebee time.

  He took his coffee into the music room, sat at the piano, flexed his fingers and launched into “The Flight of the Bumblebee.” Good old Rimsky Korsakov. The composition was so pacey and challenging, he had to trust his fingers knew what to do without thinking about it, that he could strike the right keys if he let go trying to control the sound and relied on muscle memory to get it right.

  He could separate his head from his hands easily in a Lost Property performance so much so he could play well and have space in his brain to think about things happening on stage or in a sound booth and not crap it all up. But there was nothing more cleansing and confidence boosting than having to let go thinking entirely to be able to do his best.

  Well, there was one thing better. But sex with Mena Grady wasn’t on any playlist ever. Except the ones in his dirty, filthy, overly devious, undeniably sex-starved mind.

  He’d played the night of the rockpool too because hitting things hadn’t resolved how he felt about Mena’s touch. He loved being touched. For the most part, didn’t matter who was doing the touching. He didn’t discriminate. Evie was constantly at him about not letting fans get handsy, but he always forgot to have his guard up until someone grabbed his junk in a meet and greet.

  Mena’s touch had triggered all his sleepy warning, warning, inappropriate touch sensors even though nothing about how she’d touched him had been a genuine violation. Except a part of him had registered it that way, because Mena was supposed to be above all that. She was supposed to see his money as the thing she wanted to get her hands on, not his body.

  Evie said it was up to him to practice safe touch procedures in meet and greets to reduce the number of arse slaps, nipple tweaks, tongue kisses and crotch grabs he got. It had to be his fault that Mena touched him, looked at him like she wanted to lick him, but fucking hell, what other way were you supposed to get wet but close to naked. He’d had no idea the water drummers were going to invite him to play with them.

  He thought he’d resolved to keep his distance from any temptation, which is why he’d gotten frosty with her, but that didn’t grok with how he felt about Mena ghosting him.

  Turns out she hadn’t gone ghoul; she’d gone arm’s-length. Which essentially solved the problem. Kind of.

  The bumblebee piece was a minute fifteen of intense focus. He played it twice, and at the end he’d worked up a sweat and the necessary clarity to go read her emails. That took way longer and now he needed to respond.

  He stared at his laptop keyboard; the blinking cursor was the wrong kind of metronome. A countdown to dysfunctional fingers as his brain got in the way again. Partly what Mena needed was stuff he flicked to his accountant to confirm, cc-ing Mena so she’d know what was going on, but there were other questions only he could answer.

  Had he considered buying property for his parents? Did he have an interest in nanotech, biotech, fintech, medtech, scitech, regtech and a bunch of other techs he’d never heard of, where did he stand on ethical investments and venture capital?

  He channeled a busy bumblebee and snapped out his next response.

  I tried to buy my parents a new place, but they like where they live, they’ve made friends of their neighbors and they refuse to move. Best I could do for them is spend up on renovations and a new car. They get an overseas holiday whenever they want one, but they don’t like the neighbors to think they’re showing off. Pain in the Goddamn rear. They both still work and they don’t need to and they sacrificed a lot so I could have music. Now that I’m finally in a position to pay them back they don’t give a flying fuck what I want. So yeah, I considered doing more for my stubborn-arse parents and struck out.

  He didn’t read it back, he hit send and opened the next mail but before he could think of a way to say he didn’t have a feel one way or another for tech of any kind, other than sound tech—was that an investment thing, Mena responded.

  Mark, glad to hear from you. Thank you for getting back to me.

  He replied to that mail with one word, his preferred name. Then he refreshed and refreshed again. Email was painful, no little dots to show someone was online and replying. And then, there it was. Mena’s reply.

  Grip, you were incredible with those kids. I should’ve mentioned that. They loved their lesson with you. Thank you for inviting me to watch.

  Now what was wrong with that? Proper use of his name and a warm and fuzzy compliment but that formal thank you was a Debby Downer.

  You’re mad with me, aren’t you? Delete.

  What the fuck? You’re mad with me, aren’t you? Send.

  There was a go-pour-more-coffee gap before she responded. Of course, I’m not mad with you.

  “Pigs in space, honey.”

  A new email came in. I’m mad with me. I shouldn’t have touched you like that. It was a complete breach of trust and professional standards. You’d be within your rights to report me to management and have me removed from your account. I’m feeling more than a little ashamed.

  He repli
ed. Even if I liked it, because he had liked it, even knowing he wasn’t supposed to, and then held his breath while stabbing send/receive until he got, Grip, please don’t tease me about this. It’s very serious. It’s an ethical breach and I could lose my job over it.

  Shit. He hadn’t thought it through to that sticky end. Was it really that big a deal? Wasn’t like he was going to report her to the principal and get her put on detention. I must not maul the client. I must not maul the client.

  I’m not going to go getting you into trouble. I liked it. But I shouldn’t have. I get that. As fricking annoying as that was. But did she like it too? Beneath the heavy layer of ethics and professional conduct, did she still want to lick him?

  Because he very much wanted to be licked by her.

  There was a delay and then she replied. This is a problem, you know that, right? We need to have a business relationship.

  I get that. I’m with you. Build that wall back. Brick by brick. It’s my fault. I keep making you blush. I see how it compromises you. I promise I’ll do this the normal way from now. Whatever you need. I don’t want to start again with someone new. Figure we could just say that happened and move on.

  She came back with, You’re more pragmatic than I gave you credit for.

  What are you wearing? Delete. He smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand. I’m full of surprises. I don’t know how to answer your other questions.

  That’s an answer in itself. Thank you.

  What next?

  He looked at the new merch artwork while he waited. It slapped hard, and he approved it, and then Mena came back with, I’ll finalize my recommendations for you in the next week. I suggest we meet with your accountant and broker to discuss the way forward. Once you’ve approved things, I can work with them directly on implementation.

  Wait, that was it? Ah hell, that was a bit too damn businesslike. That wall was ninety-foot tall and electrified. Hold up. I need you to see the escape room experience.

  His phone rang, and he scrambled to grab it from inside the house. “I’ve read the investment proposal for Seven Gates,” Mena said.

  Her tone wasn’t unfriendly, but it was crisp, like the snap in a stick of celery. “Yeah, but that’s not the same thing as seeing the concept.”

  “I don’t need to see the concept to understand the investment potential.”

  And that was almost wintry. “It’s because I stripped off, isn’t it? I thought about going in dressed but I didn’t want to have to ride wet or wear soaked clothes to drum practice at the school.”

  Mena sighed. The sound of her thawing out came down the line at him like a struck match. “You want me to go see an escape room.”

  “The test prototype, Gate Five. I like it, but it could be my next tea-tree plantation so I want your reaction.”

  “Grip,” she said, with the same snippy tone his mum used when she wanted him to behave a different way.

  “Yes, Mena,” he said, in the same pseudo-obedient tone he used to answer his mum when he didn’t intend to change anything but her mind.

  “I’m not sure this is a good idea?”

  “There’s no water involved. I promise.” Silence. This was the part where you wore them down. “I’ll stay fully dressed at all times.”

  She sighed again, it was almost a balmy sound and he knew he’d hooked her. “Only because you were magic with those kids.”

  He couldn’t take any credit for that. “All kids are magic on their own. Some of them just need a little encouragement to let it out.” The only thing he’d done was buy the instruments and show up.

  “You’re incorrigible.”

  He grumbled in happy agreement at the full thaw. “Occupational hazard.”

  They met late the next afternoon at the doors of Gate Five. As a potential investor, Grip had organized for them to have the place to themselves for an hour without other paying participants being around.

  Mena got out of a taxi wearing a lavender-grey dress with its own matching coat and towering heels. With her hair pulled back in a low bun, she looked untouchably glamorous. She offered her hand to shake. “Mr. Grippen.” She was smiling, messing with him.

  He went with it. He was lucky she’d agreed to come. “Ms. Grady.” He took her hand, held it, didn’t shake it, only just stopped himself from rubbing his thumb over her knuckles, enjoyed the way her lashes fluttered.

  “Let’s do this,” she said. No flutter in her voice, must’ve been dust in her eyes.

  Gate Five was like a theme park ride on steroids. Part Ghost Train scare fare and part treasure hunt. The game was simple. They were guests checking into a hotel and had to find their room. The idea was to find it as quickly as possible and beat a clock.

  They checked in and left their gear at the registration desk, which was styled like something out of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, complete with a gum snapping receptionist who was a Harley Quin clone and a snoring big-bellied bellhop. They signed a waiver that essentially covered management for anything and everything that might go wrong and received their room key.

  Grip had been through this before and he knew the ropes. His plan was to stand back and make sure Mena got the full experience.

  “This looks like a place that might specialize in spiders. You probably should know I’m not keen on things with more legs than a cat.”

  “No spiders that I’m aware of, but I’m your spider man if it comes to it.”

  Did I really just call myself Spiderman? He’d Goddamn ghosted on his own cool.

  The look she gave him was the kind that made him wonder if he had his shirt on inside out. Quick check revealed that no, the flaming airship on his fake vintage Led Zepplin tee was facing the right way around.

  She pushed the double swing doors that opened out on a long corridor, off which were a series of other corridors and doors. There was no map. None of the doors had room numbers. Some of them had no handles. Mena looked at her key in time to see the number fade to nothing. She flung her hand out at him. “Show me yours.”

  He held it out; blank already.

  “Clever.” She put her blank key down on a rickety plant stand, which lurched violently and almost toppled, making her take a step back and smack into him. He steadied her briefly, fingertips to her hips, conscious of not wanting to touch her inappropriately, but not wanting her to fall on her gorgeous arse either.

  “I read about the animatronics,” she said. “Very Disney.”

  “Try a door,” he prompted.

  She scoffed. “You try one.”

  He reached for the nearest handle and the dim emergency-style lighting stuttered and went out, leaving them in darkness.

  “Very funny,” she said. Next minute she shrieked. “Something touched my leg. If that’s a spider, you had better be Spiderman, Mark Grippen.”

  It was so dark he couldn’t see her, only sense her, smell her complicated perfume. Didn’t know what she’d felt but whatever it was got to her. He knew a small light would begin to show above a door further down the corridor. He also knew their eyes would adjust just enough not to walk into walls but that meanwhile something else was coming for them.

  It came with a burst of cold air, a dark figure in some kind of cloak, brushing past, muttering, making Mena bump against him and yelp.

  “I think, it would be a good idea if you stayed close. I don’t want to . . . oh damn it, I really don’t want to touch other people.”

  Her hand skated across his thighs, making him reach for it. “You okay there?”

  “I’m going to hold on to you because this is creepy.”

  He was glad she couldn’t see his grin. “You knew it would be creepy. It was in the prospectus.”

  “Reading about creepy and, oh starlight, something touched me again,” she said, climbing his arm like a rope until she was almost tucked under it.

  “You mean reading about it and experiencing it are different,” he said, trying hard to keep the laugh out of his voice. He failed, specta
cularly.

  “I hate you,” she said, but she was laughing too.

  Locked together, they moved down the dark corridor to an illuminated door. Her fingernails were pricking his forearm. “Is something terrifying going to happen in there?”

  “No. I won’t let you be terrified.”

  “Spiders?”

  “I won’t let spiders get you.”

  “I think this is a terrible investment,” she said, burying her face in his shoulder, stifling a half-laugh. “Can we go home now.”

  He opened the door to an ordinary if tired-looking hotel room where the bedside lights were on. Mena let go of him, strode inside and looked around. She flinched when the door slammed and locked behind them. The bed was turned down and there was a suitcase full of clothing open on the floor. “Not our room but no one is home, thank heavens,” she said.

  Cue the moaning from inside what Grip knew was a bathroom.

  Mena lurched for the door, only to realize it didn’t open without a key. The key she’d left in the corridor. “Oh shit,” she said laughing, but in a tipsy-scared way.

  He knew if he didn’t stick his key in the door, there was another by the fake fireplace. He also knew the bathroom door would open and a woman in a nightdress with her hair all over her face would jump out at them. She’d hiss at them until they left.

  “Give me your key,” Mena said, taking charge.

  As he handed it to her, the bathroom door banged open and the woman appeared, shouting, “Get out of my room. Get out. Get out.”

  Mena dropped the key and yelped. Grip swiped the one off the mantel, jammed it in the lock and they were out of the room and back in the dimly lit corridor.

  She slapped his arm. “I’m scared, you shit of a man.”

  She was laughing in that half-hysterical way, but he had to ask. “We can go back. We don’t have to finish.”

  “We’re finishing. All we have to do is find our room, right? How hard can that be?”

  Hard was one of those words that took some explaining. The first time he’d done this it took ninety minutes to find his room. The second time it still took more than an hour. While there were repeat patterns, it was different every time and the clues were deliberately difficult to find.