Lie to Me (Rising Star Book 1)

by Lee Piper

  “I’m not going with you.”

  “Yes. You. Are.”

  With each word, his grip on my hair tightens, and my eyes almost roll back in my head. I bite back a pleasure-filled groan. Damn, he never used to be this forthright.

  “Oh, you’ll come with me,” he growls, his gaze glued to my lips. “Not because I ask you, not because I force you, but because you want to.”

  Truer words have never been spoken.

  My eyes dart to his mouth. If he loosened his hold slightly, I could lean that bit closer and taste him once again. I really want to taste him.

  Well, shit.

  A fire hose couldn’t have done a better job at calming my raging hormones.

  I push his hand away. “Get off me. Jesus, Mary, and Petunia, arrogant much?”

  The jerk-off grins.

  “Screw you, Tate.”

  “Never gonna happen, darlin’. You don’t deserve my forgiveness, let alone my cock.”

  All the blood in my body floods to my face. Taking a decided step forward, I narrow my gaze. “Get the fuck off my property.”

  Fishing the keys out of my pocket, I turn and insert them into the lock. Reid takes my hand and thrusts it above my head, slamming it flat against the wooden door. Gripping my hip, he presses his hard body against mine, forcing my cheek against the cold surface. A gasp escapes me. Not from the frigid temperature.

  “Going somewhere?” Reid growls in my ear.

  A shiver runs down my spine. Despite the delicious sensation, I can’t help but whisper, “What happened to you?”

  The Reid from my past was the sweetest, kindest, most generous soul. He created playlists of my favorite bands when I was sick. He bought me vinyl records from secondhand stores. He murmured sweet lyrics between even sweeter kisses, knowing I breathed in the words. He was beautiful, he was perfect, he was… gone.

  “I grew up.”

  “You grew bitter.”

  “I grew wiser.”

  “It would be wise for you to release me before I reverse kick you in the balls.”

  His deep chuckle sends tingles across my skin. For a long moment, Reid remains pushed against me. The planes of his hard body juxtapose the soft contours of my own. It takes everything I have not to beg for more.

  With one last squeeze of my hip, he moves back. “You always did fight dirty.”

  Now, I don’t know if it’s the way the word dirty rolls off his tongue or if it’s the fact I haven’t slept with a guy in forever, but I want him to do dirty things to me. All. Night. Long.

  Gwendolyn is a fickle bitch.

  Turning to face Reid, I say, “Where are we going?”

  His eyes lock with mine, and time stands still. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

  Nodding, I retrieve my keys before following him down the street.

  “Why aren’t we driving?”

  Reid leads me from one darkened street corner to the next. We’re heading toward the coast. There’s a salty tang in the air, and despite the balmy night, it’s growing damper, cooler with each step.

  “Well?” I ask.

  Somewhere nearby, a punk rock band is heralding in the apocalypse. I’m also pretty sure a commentator is yelling through a poorly mixed PA system. How one person can drown out the sounds of impending Armageddon is a mystery I sure as shit can’t understand. Random words tease the edge of my memory as laser flip, caballerial, and nollie are bellowed through the mic.

  “No parking spaces,” Reid calls over one shoulder. He has been three strides ahead of me the entire way. Not once has he checked to see if I’ve been pulled into a white mini-van by an abductor. Nope, his proportionately long legs continue to stalk toward our mystery destination with no cares given. My urge to slink home is real, if only to see whether he notices.

  We round a final corner.

  “No.” I stop, shake my head, then take an instinctive step back.

  Reid holds my gaze. “Yes.” He makes his way to the ticket booth.

  “Are you crazy?”

  Through the entrance and to my left are rows upon rows of white canvas-clad stalls. They’re oozing merchandise. Hats, hoodies, tank tops, stickers, water bottles, even state-of-the-art, custom-made skateboards. Skateboards.

  Reid ignores me.

  “You’re a sadist, Tate.”

  He rolls his eyes.

  Looking past the man at the very top of my shit list, I spy a vertical halfpipe. It’s huge, over twenty feet high and sixty feet wide. Skaters are crazy.

  To my right is a set of bleachers set up on the shoreline. It blocks the view of the ocean, though I can still hear the crashing waves behind it. The bleachers are partially filled with spectators eating, drinking, and hollering at the contestants performing under high intensity discharge lights. Since most people are milling around the food trucks, merch stands, and what I’m guessing is a stage erected behind the halfpipe, the bleachers are the least crowded section of the entire event.

  “Here.” Reid hands me my ticket.

  “I can’t go in there.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  “There are so many people.” My voice is weak. I hate it.

  He stares at me. “You’ve got this.”

  “I really don’t.” But with a deep breath, I take the ticket before flashing it to the attendant.

  My heels echo on the pavement as I stalk to the bleachers. Okay, sprint. There’s definitely a sprint involved. By the time I reach the highest bench seat, I’m all but hyperventilating.

  Reid settles in beside me. “All good?”

  I’m too busy trying not to pass out to reply.

  He doesn’t say anything further, just watches the competitor carve it up in the halfpipe.

  When my breathing finally settles, I can focus on the contestant too. “Holy crap.” My hair falls about my shoulders as I shake my head. “That’s an insane trick.”

  Reid rubs both hands along his thighs.

  “How’d he do?” I point at the skater who clearly has a death wish.

  He grunts. “Pretty good.”

  The competitor does another crazy flip, trick combo. If memory serves, it’s called a Front 360 Pop Shove.

  “What about now?” I ask.

  “He needs to watch his lines. If he’s not careful, he’s going to—”

  There’s a collective groan from the audience as the skateboarder flies ass over tit. I cringe, and Reid swears under his breath.

  “Do you miss it?”

  Reid’s gaze meets mine, his expression purposely blank. “Sometimes.”

  “What was it like being on the national squad?”

  He shrugs. “It was all right.”

  “All right?”

  His eyes blaze. “What do you want me to say? That the day I tore my ACL was the day my future was shot to hell? That not being able to realize my childhood dream is a nightmare I can’t wake from? That it’s only when I’m drumming I can forget the shitty hand I’ve been dealt?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Leave it, Shiloh.” Reid’s jaw is tight. He turns away from me. “We’re not bonding over childhood memories. That’s not what’s going on here.”

  “What is going on here then?” I scowl. “You’ve left your autograph book and pink Sharpie back at your place, so I’m guessing we’re not here to swoon over that guy.” I gesture to the competitor still comatose in the halfpipe. “You’ve also made it perfectly clear you can’t stand the sight of me, so this sure as fuck isn’t a date.”

  He narrows his eyes.

  “And I don’t know about you, but I hate bands who can’t move beyond a four-chord progression, so it’s not for the music either.” I gesture to the punk-rock trio who are in desperate need of either a music tutor or an impending zombie attack.

  Reid stands. “Fuck this, I’m getting a beer.” He glares at me. “Stay here.”

  “Yes, master.” So much disdain is dripping from my voice, I’m lucky my shirt isn’t saturated.


  Leaning close, his hands rest on the seat on either side of my hips. “Don’t test me, darlin’.”

  My mouth waters. It must be his smell, equal parts woodsy spice and orgasmic zest. A purr-inducing combination as far as I’m concerned.

  “Or what?” I challenge, my voice husky.

  “Or I’ll strip you from those jeans, bend you over, and spank that hot little ass until it’s covered in my handprints.”

  Jesus, Joseph, and all the saints.

  To my dismay, rather than grow incensed at Reid’s sordid use of imagery, I inadvertently moan. Out loud. Christ, one murmur from the devil himself and I’m begging for debauchery, Tate style.

  Reid registers my lust-induced mania and snarls. Turning on his heels, he strides back down the bleachers.

  “What a clusterfuck.” Biting my lip, I refuse to make any more sounds, embarrassing, filthy, or otherwise. My mind however? Rampant.

  Fuck me already.

  I want my mouth on your cock.

  Let me spank your ass.

  I shake my head.

  My gaze shifts to the stage on the right side of the halfpipe. In front is a mosh pit with revelers going bat-shit crazy. It’s been forever since I’ve enjoyed watching a live band.

  Sigh.

  “Here.”

  I’m so wrapped up in my own melodrama, I don’t even notice Reid shoving a beer in my face. I take it, blatantly ignoring the heat spreading down my neck when our fingers touch. He resumes sitting next to me at a polite, respectful, I’m-so-not-gonna-spank-your-ass distance.

  Disappointing.

  I sip my drink. Reid places his bottle by his feet before taking a bite out of some fries. With gravy. He covered—correction drowned—his fries in gravy. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s flaccid strips of deep-fried potato smothered in shit-colored gelatinous gloop.

  Not on my watch, buddy.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Reid raises a questioning eyebrow. Whether it’s at my high-pitched shriek or frenzied gestures, I can’t be sure. He swallows. “What does it look like? Eating.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re sacrificing perfectly crispy golden deliciousness to the evil gods of animal drippings. You’re ruining crunchy flawlessness with sloppy butt sauce. You’re…” Shaking my head, I bemoan, “You’re one of them.”

  He rolls his eyes. “One of who?”

  “Whom.”

  “What?”

  “It’s whom, not who. Willow is always going on about it.”

  Reid throws a fry back into the container, rounding on me. “What the fuck, woman? Pick a damn topic and stick to it already. Jesus fucking Christ. Talking to you is like talking to someone with Multiple Personality Disorder and Tourette’s all rolled into one.”

  “Now you’re just being mean.”

  “Not mean, honest. What I eat is none of your damn business.”

  I lean in close, sifting through his fries. Finally, I stumble upon one that hasn’t been bludgeoned to death and pop it in my mouth. Chewing slowly, I smirk. “It is now.”

  His gaze darkens. “Did you just steal my food?”

  “Yep.” I make sure to pop the p. More impact that way. “What are you gonna do about it?”

  Egging on the man is a treacherous game. The logical side of my brain registers his low tone as a definite red flag, but the horny side… I blink. The horny side wants to ride this bull like a bow-legged cowgirl at a rodeo.

  He grips my jaw with one hand, his strong fingers digging into my skin. I shift in my seat. Reid dips the index finger of his other hand into a puddle of gravy, and his pupils dilate while he deliberately smears it onto my bottom lip.

  Now it’s his turn to smirk. “This isn’t a game you can win, darlin’.” His gravelly tone does dangerous things to my nipples. “I won’t let you.”

  Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore.

  My tongue darts out to lick the gravy off my lip. My breathing hastens when I notice Reid’s gaze drop to my mouth. The condiment is salty and, when not smothering helpless fries, actually quite delicious. Not that I’d ever admit that to Reid, of course. Where would the fun be in that?

  Instead, I murmur, “Bring it on, Tate.”

  A feral growl escapes from deep within his chest. Not even bothering to finish his fries or beer and certainly not letting me drink mine, he stalks down the bleachers. “Come on.”

  “You’re so bossy.”

  Under his breath, he mutters, “You’ve got no fuckin’ idea.”

  We end up near the stage. Okay, there’s every chance a football field complete with scantily clad cheerleaders could fit between us and the crowd milling before the live band. It’s still way too close as far as I’m concerned.

  Reid looks at me. His gaze is resolute.

  “No.” I step backward. “No fucking way.”

  He clasps my hand, his cool palm pressing against my clammy one. “Yes.”

  If I wasn’t so preoccupied with digging my heels into the ground while looking uncannily similar to a child being dragged away from the confectionary aisle, I would have relished this moment. Reid’s hand in mine, strolling-slash-being-forcibly-hauled through a live music event on a balmy summer night. Hell, rock ballads have been written about this shit. But no, I’m too busy being petrified. Of living, of life, of the very activity which used to make me happy.

  Cue the violins, I’m ready for my slow-motion despondency montage.

  When Reid moves to step into the throng of people, I rip my hand from his grasp. He turns to me.

  I shake my head. “Not happening. No way. No how. Nope.”

  He strides forward until our bodies are flush against one another. I would love to savor the way his heat warms my chest, but I’m too frantic to care.

  Lifting my chin with his fingers, he challenges, “I thought you wanted to play.”

  I swallow. “Yeah, I did. I mean, I do, but with”—I gesture to the lack of space between the hottest man on record and myself—“the thing we’ve got going on here, not…” I nod in the direction of my worst nightmare. “Not with that.” Moving away, I throw over my shoulder, “Besides, what do you care? I would have thought seeing me humiliated would be at the very top of your Sweetest Paybacks of All Time list. You know, kinda like Forbes but with less middle-aged men and more me being miserable.”

  “When are you gonna realize this isn’t about you?” There’s a distinct edge to Reid’s voice. “This is about your bandmates, about Jasper, Tobias, and everyone else invested in this competition.” He stares at me for the longest time. “Don’t fuck this shit up.”

  My temper jumps to eye-gouging levels. “No problem.” My voice is sickly sweet. “After all, overcoming a legitimate phobia is that simple, isn’t it?” I point at the crowd. “I’ll walk right on in there, give random people some hella high fives, jump into the mosh pit, welcome a gazillion fucking bodies pressed against me, and ta da. Have the time of my goddamn life.” I lift my face to the night sky. “Thank you, Jesus! It’s a miracle, I’m saved.”

  When I turn back to Reid, the tic in his jaw is a testimony to his anger. Good. Now he can experience what I’ve been feeling for the last three years—a seething frustration at my inability to do something so flipping simple.

  Shaking my head, I turn my back on him. Sadly, my killer exit is foiled on account of being unexpectedly thrown over his wide-ass shoulder. Damn, he’s got great shoulders. I mean, jerk.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  He doesn’t answer. He simply advances toward the crowd.

  “Reid Tate, I swear on your Tama Star Bubinga drum kit, you’re gonna regret this!”

  His grip on my flailing legs tightens, thwarting any attempt at clocking him in the face with my boots.

  “Put me down!”

  He does. In the middle of the audience. I am going to die.

  Taking in my new surroundings, I gasp. “Oh, fuck.” I blink. Many, many times. “Fuck, fuck,
fuck.”

  All I see are bodies, a wall of flesh surrounding me. They’re on my left, my right, behind me, and in my peripheral vision. My breath catches, my head swims, my legs turn into liquid goo. I’m fairly certain if I stay here much longer, I’m gonna pee myself.

  “I’ve got to get out of here.”

  So many people.

  I. Cant. Get. Out.

  Panic overrides logic as my body shuts down. With an alarming whooshing sound in my ears, my vision blurs.

  Just as the darkness is about to close in, Reid grips my face, forcing my gaze to his. “Shiloh, look at me.”

  No.

  I shut my eyes, hating him with the passion of a hellhound’s flaming snout. Hating the tears streaming down my face and the snot dripping from my nose. But most of all, I hate the joyous laughter from the crowd nearby.

  It cuts me deep.

  “I’ll never forgive you for this.” I’ve got no idea if he can hear me over the band, the partygoers, and my own deafening heartbeat. Here’s to hoping he can lip-read.

  My fingers clutch Reid’s hands, my nails digging into his skin. I need something, anything to keep from going under. To save me from drowning.

  His lips brush my ear. “Open your eyes. Come on, look at me.”

  So help me, I want to but can’t. There’s no way I want him to see me like this. A sob escapes. I try to check it, to force it back, but the bastard is determined.

  “Fuck.”

  He kisses me.

  It’s not a gentle kiss, not by any means. It’s hard, confrontational, borderline harsh. Yet somehow the shock of his touch is exactly what I need to return from my dark, terror-filled nightmare. My grip on his hands loosens, and suddenly we’re no longer in the middle of an audience. Hell, I’m not even having an episode. Instead, I morph into a livewire of pulsing energy, channeling endless electric waves toward a single source.

  Reid.

  Sounds recede, the music stops, and all that is left is him. Mauling me in the best way possible.

  Reid angles my head, his tongue darting along the seam of my lips. He demands entrance, and with a low moan, I open to him. His tongue delves inside, searching, claiming, conquering my mouth.