by Lyla Dune
“No worries. Every inch of you is delightful. Cold, hot, wet—“
“Don’t go there.” She faced him with a devious grin on her lips.
He had a hard time keeping his eyes on the road.
“One of the songs I recorded with them has hit the charts. I’m talking Billboard charts, like the top 100. I think it’s at 48 right now and climbing. Bear in mind, this has all happened in just a few days’ time.”
“That’s exciting. So, you’re playing on a song that is hugely popular on the airwaves here in America?”
“Yes. Apparently Spider’s mom—Spider’s the drummer, by the way. Anyway, Spider’s mom has connections with someone at the movie studios, who has connections to someone at VH1, and boom—some VH1 head guy called Spider and scheduled an interview with the band. Brandon, their normal bassist, can’t gig right now because he got banged up in a car accident recently. So there you have it. I’m their backup bassist, and I’ve been invited to sit in with them on the interview.”
“That’s fantastic. Will you continue to play with this band?”
“No. When Brandon heals, I’ll be out of the loop. I’m just enjoying my fifteen minutes of fame while it’s here.”
When she said the word fame his insides churned.
She flipped down the visor and primped in the mirror. “I feel like I’m living a dream. My father always wanted to be a part of a hit song on the radio. He’d be thrilled by this. I guess as a way of feeling close to him, I’ve always wanted the same thing for myself, to have a hit. I just never thought it was possible. I’m still having trouble believing it.”
When they arrived at Provisions the gravel parking lot was packed, and a line wrapped around the bar. There were local TV crews as well as local radio crews. Reporters with microphones and cameras were everywhere.
He parked along the road and wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans. His stomach clenched.
Sam beamed and appeared practically electric as she scanned the crowd and waved to people calling her name. She barely made it into the parking lot before fans and photographers swarmed her.
He kept his eye on her blonde bun and hung back, wishing he were invisible. For a split second, he envisioned what life would be like if she were a famous musician long term. He cringed. Hopefully, this was a passing phase—she would have her moment of glory, and things would return to normal.
A tall man with a loud voice grabbed Sam’s arm and pulled her toward him. He said, “Come over here, Miss Carlisle. I need to ask you some questions for WRNX.”
Every muscle in Brock’s body flexed. Sam looked distraught and irritated. She was running late for the interview inside the building, and this selfish prick was demanding her attention, and laying hands on her. On instinct, Brock lurched forward and shoved the guy away from Sam. The guy stumbled backward and nearly knocked his sound man over before both men bumped into their van and steadied themselves with bewildered looks on their faces. Brock hauled Sam up into his arms and forced his way through the crowd.
She frowned at him. “You’re embarrassing me.” Her voice was a quiet, seething hiss.
“You’re late, right? You don’t have time to be mauled, do you?” He pushed the front door open with his foot and stepped inside.
As he lowered her to the floor, she twisted her mouth. “We’ll discuss this later.”
A heavily tattooed bloke with a shaven head and muscular frame approached. “Sam. Thank God you’re here. You had me worried.” The bald man eyed Brock with curiosity.
Sam motioned to the bloke. “Tox, this is my…“she paused and flashed a confused glance to Brock then continued, “friend, Brock Knight. Brock, this is Tox, the lead singer for Inked Religion.”
Friend? Is that what he was? Just a friend? Didn’t making love to her all afternoon move him into a new position? Boyfriend, lover, significant other, roommate, housemate, shag partner. Anything that gave the impression they were more than friends would work.
When Sam turned her back to Tox, he looked her up and down, his gaze lingering on her bum. This wanker was definitely checking her out, and he needed to know she was taken.
“Keep your eyes off her arse.” Brock stepped toward Tox and squared his shoulder with him. Tox stepped back nervously. Brock then turned to Sam and winked. “Don’t be shy, I don’t mind if you let people know I’m your sex slave.” He looked back at Tox to make sure the tosser got the message. Tox scurried away.
Sam cut Brock a look he’d never seen in her eyes before. It was pure evil, murderous.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Flowers
Sam wished she had laser vision that could burn a hole through Brock who stood on the other side of the bar, his hands in his pockets and a glacier on his shoulder. He might as well have been marking his territory by peeing on her leg when he pulled that stunt with Tox. Joking about her calling him her sex slave pissed her off. Actually telling Tox he needed to keep his eyes off her ass had sent her through the roof. Brock was good in bed, but if this was any indication of what her life would be like as his “girlfriend,” she was ready to opt out and move on.
The guy interviewing the band turned to his camera crew. “Let’s take a break.”
The two camera guys nodded and turned off the bright lights aimed at the band.
“Are you all right?” The blond male journalist with more makeup on than she was wearing, put down his microphone and touched her arm.
Tox released an exasperated huff and marched over to the bar. Spider and Jones followed him like lemmings.
The blond reporter offered a weak smile, but she could tell he was irritated with her. She’d not given him her undivided attention, and she was sure she’d looked like a fool.
Was she all right? No. She was far from all right, but she couldn’t say that. She couldn’t tell him that the man she’d pined for had returned and rocked her world in bed then proceeded to destroy her happily ever after dreams with his caveman behavior. She couldn’t tell him that the more she saw Brock’s possessive side, the more she felt like going off on him. Oh no, she had to pull herself together and smile, act humble and delightful. Concealing her moods was next to impossible for her, always had been.
Tox approached Brock and said something while pointing toward the door. Brock rocked on his heels and tensed his jaw, then turned and walked out of the bar. A part of her wanted to run after him. She hated that part of herself. The stronger part, the part that wouldn’t run after him, looked up into the blond reporter’s eyes and said, “My source of distraction has just left the building. I’m sorry for ruining the interview. I’m ready to try again, if you are.”
He looked over his shoulder at Tox who gave him a thumbs up. “No problem. We’ll take this from the top. We have plenty of time. I only need a ten minute segment.”
BROCK LOWERED HIS head to the steering wheel. What had he done?
After seeing cameras and reporters forcing their way into Sam’s space, watching that wanker named Tox —who was obviously a coochie-hound—ogle her arse and flirt, hearing her refer to him—the man who’d made her feel like a queen in his arms—as a “friend” and nothing more—to put it delicately—he’d snapped.
A florist painted a hideous shade of chartreuse sat across the street. The arrangements displayed in the window revealed an artistic flair. Flowers were a man’s best friend when it came to apologizing to a woman, according to his dad. He checked for oncoming traffic in his side mirror, waited for a cargo truck to pass by, then stepped out onto the road while the coast was clear.
A bell jingled when he opened the door to the flower shop. The small showroom was crammed full of fresh flower arrangements. In a refrigerated section along the back wall sunflowers and lilies were artfully displayed.
A young woman seated in an electric wheel chair peered up at him from behind the counter. “Looking for anything in particular?”
He stepped closer to the counter.
A blanket covered her legs. The frilly
pink top she wore hung loosely over her boney frame. Chestnut curls framed her slender face.
He cleared his throat. “I’m not quite sure what I’m looking for.”
“Tell me the occasion, and maybe I can help you out.” She offered an encouraging smile. “You don’t sound like you’re from around here.”
“I’m from Wales.”
A golden retriever lounged in the doorway to the back room. As the dog yawned, a shadow moved across the floor behind it. “I know that voice.” The young pianist named Kendal poked her head out from around the doorframe and greeted him with a bright smile. “You’re the knight in shining armor. Sam’s guy.”
Kendal stepped over the dog and walked toward him.
The other girl maneuvered a lever on the arm of her wheelchair, drove herself around the counter and into the main showroom. She came to a halt next to Brock. “So you’re the guy who punched out Franklin. I’ve heard all about you. I’m Spencer.”
“Nice to meet you, Spencer.” He gave her a slight bow then directed his attention to Kendal. “Nice to see you again, Kendal.”
Kendal waved and walked over to stand beside Spencer. “I thought you’d moved away. I’m glad you’re back.”
“It’s nice to be back. Thank you.”
Spencer studied him then said, “You look like you’re troubled. So tell me what kind of flower arrangement are we talking about here?”
Brock tunneled his fingers through his hair. “I’ve pissed Sam off, and I need to beg forgiveness.”
Kendal giggled. “Give her twenty minutes, and she’ll be laughing. Sam never stays mad long.”
“I hope you’re right.” He sighed.
Kendal’s smile faded and her brows pleated. “Wait. Does she know you’re back in town?”
“Oh yeah. She knows. We sorted things out about my disappearance, and everything was going splendidly, until I met her band mates and embarrassed her during her interview—the one that is presently taking place across the street.” He glanced out the window. A stream of cars pulled out of the parking lot. Maybe the interview wasn’t still going on after all.
Spencer lifted her chin and gazed out the window. “Looks like that interview has wrapped up. We don’t have much time. Come with me.” She turned toward Kendal. “Kendal, what’s Sam’s favorite flower?”
He should know that himself, but he didn’t.
Kendal twisted her mouth in concentration then snapped her fingers and grinned, “Stargazer lilies. I’m surprised I knew that, but last summer we played for a wedding and there were a bunch of stargazer lilies near the stage. Sam raved about their fragrance. She said if she ever had a big wedding, she’d want a church full of them.”
Brock filed that tidbit away in his brain.
Spencer rolled over to the refrigerated area and pulled out a huge bundle of lilies and a few sprigs of greenery. She placed the flowers in a cut-glass vase and poured some sort of blue liquid around the stems, then tied a gold bow around the neck of the vase. “I’d do a fancier job if I wasn’t so rushed, but I think this ought to get her attention.”
He picked up the vase. “It’s perfect. How much?”
“We’re having a knock-out special. Free flowers for any man who has knocked out Franklin Buchanan. Oh my, only one man has had the guts to do it. Lucky you.” Spencer smiled up at him.
Kendal snorted. “Knock-out special…I like that. Good luck, Brock.”
THE FLAMING CLOUDS of sunset had faded into the gray haze of dusk. The parking lot had cleared, except for four vehicles—an old station wagon, a small sedan, a muddy work van, and a jeep with mag wheels. Brock bet the old station wagon belonged to the drummer with the pierced eyebrows and mohawk because there was a Zildjian decal in the rear window. The small sedan with the glittering Hello Kitty ornament hanging from the rearview mirror was probably the cute bartender’s. The hopped up jeep with the personalized license plate that read—Toxic—had to belong to Tox, Mr. Tanned and Tatted. That meant the muddy van was the long-haired guitar player’s.
Would it embarrass her if he took the flowers in now? Maybe he should wait for her get in the Hummer, then present them. If he took them to her in front of Tox, it might send a stronger message. He grabbed the flowers and opened the car door. Sam came out of the pub with Tox, who rolled her bass toward his jeep.
Brock waved at Sam. She looked straight at him and put her hands on her hips then turned and followed Tox.
Toxic Waste loaded her bass into his jeep and pointed toward the passenger door.
She opened the passenger door.
Was she really going to leave with that idiot?
Bloody hell. She got in the jeep, and the moron didn’t even help her. He just stood there with a lecherous expression, while she shoved his rubbish around and carved out a place to sit. The man was a slob. The jeep was so crusty who knew what color it was supposed to be.
As Tox screeched out of the parking lot, kicking up gravel and dust Brock’s direction, Sam stabbed him with a death-stare from the passenger seat, a placating grin plastered on her frozen mannequin like face.
He watched them drive away, his mouth full of grit, his gut full of barbed wire.
SAM’S PHONE RANG. Brock Knight lit up the screen. She held her thumb on the side button and powered down. He’d called at least twenty times in the past five minutes, and she’d hadn’t answered him once. The man needed his phone license revoked.
Tox eyed her from across the table at The Hungry Possum. “Maybe you should cut the guy some slack.” They sat in a corner booth of the crowded restaurant with trippy abstract murals on the walls and unsavory doodles and names of guests scribbled onto the wooden tables with sharpies. It was a little like eating off a graffiti splattered door, but cooler and cleaner.
“Cut him some slack? You saw how he acted. Neanderthal.” She took a sip of her beer.
“All’s I’m saying is—if you were my girl, I’d want to stake my claim around other guys too.” His gaze fell to her mouth.
Eww. She pulled the beer bottle away from her lips. “Women aren’t possessions.”
“No, but men know how other men are. It’s not about possessing a woman. It’s about telling other guys to buzz off. There’s a difference.”
“How is there a difference?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know how to explain it. It’s not that a guy wants to boss his woman around or keep her on a leash, he just doesn’t want other guys lusting after her or making advances. He wants her ‘off the market’, you know?”
“No. I don’t know how a man views his woman. Besides, I never realized I was on the market. I’ve done a pretty good job of portraying myself as unavailable since I moved here.” She dipped a chip into the salsa on the table between them and took a bite. Her mouth went up in flames and she coughed.
“Oh man. I’m sorry. I forgot to tell the waitress to bring out some mild. She knows I always get the hot stuff. Are you okay?”
Sam blinked back the tears filling her eyes and gulped down ice water.
“Here. Eat some plain ones. That’ll help.” He pushed the basket toward her.
She fanned her burning face and said, “How do you eat that stuff?”
“Grrr. I love it. The hotter, the better. That’s how I feel about a lot of things.” He waggled his eyebrows like Groucho Marx and placed his hand over hers.
Was he actually flirting? “When’s Jensen coming back?” His girlfriend probably wouldn’t approve of them having dinner together.
“We broke up last week. It was a long time coming. For what it’s worth, I’m officially on the market. You know, since you’re done with the Brit, if you really want to get back at him for acting stupid, I can think of one perfect way to do it, a way that will leave you feeling great and him feeling like shit.” He licked his lips.
“Are you suggesting we…” She shook her head in disgust and chugged her beer.
“You’re telling me you never thought about us?” He traced a finger ov
er the back of her hand.
“You’re a player. I’ve always known that. You’ve had at least four different girlfriends since I’ve known you, and that isn’t counting God knows how many one-night stands. I’m surprised Jensen put up with you as long as she did.”
“Now, hold on. I never cheated on her. Not once.” Something flashed in his eyes that told her she’d hit a sensitive spot. He still had a thing for Jensen. It was written all over his face.
He leaned back and said, “We’re adults, Sam. If you’re not interested, you’re not interested, but I think you’re hot as hell, and it was worth a shot.” He folded his arms across his chest. “So, you still want King George.”
“He’s not a king and his name isn’t George.”
“What’s his name again?”
“Brock. Brock Knight.”
“Right. He’s a knight, not a king. How do you suppose he would feel about us having dinner together?” He raised an eyebrow.
“What does it matter?”
“If you have any feelings for the guy, it matters.”
Tox was right. She’d have a fit if Brock were having dinner with another woman. She must still like him if she’s feeling guilty. How could she still want him after he’d embarrassed her like that? Why did a part of her like knowing he felt jealous and acted possessive? Everything in her mind said that type of behavior was unacceptable, but everything in her heart said he was simply insecure in their relationship, and his outbursts showed he wanted her in his life as more than a friend or a roll in the hay.
She grabbed her purse. “I’m ready to go. I think I need to have a heart to heart with Brock.”
“I think you do too, but before I drive you home, there’s something I want to ask you.” He sat up and put on his serious face. “The band has found a new manager, and he’s setting up a tour for us. Brandon may not be able to play again for quite awhile. Would you be interested in touring with Inked Religion for a few months?”
Her heart fluttered. An honest to God concert tour. Holy shit. “I’d need more details about performance venues, dates, pay, accommodations, and all of that stuff, but I’d consider it.”
