by Cate Masters
Intense pleasure stunned him. He wouldn’t let himself move. Don’t give in. The sensations sent him reeling. Ah, fuck. He crushed her in his embrace, his mouth hungrily exploring hers. The longer he kissed her, the more he wanted.
You. Can’t. Do. This. A freaking runaway train would’ve had a better chance of stopping. He forced himself to slow. Pull back.
“Satisfied?” He almost croaked the word.
She brushed her mouth over his. “Not even close.”
Neither was he. His body trembled from head to toe from the shock of her touch. He did his best to clear his head. “We shouldn’t do this.”
“Yes, we should.” She kissed her way up his neck. “Every day.” Her tongue teased his ear.
Too good. Have to stop. He held her tighter, burrowed his face into her shoulder. “Layla.”
“Hold me a little while longer. I don’t want to go back yet.”
“Gladly.” He didn’t want to ever go back. When he held her, emotions struck him with the force of lightning. His universe had just changed. He sensed the distant click of the tracks of fate shifting. Derailment dead ahead. He didn’t love her. He hardly knew her.
The far-off laughter of the old witch echoed through the night. It curled through his head, into his heart, and squeezed until he was sure he bled.
Only Layla’s touch eased the pain. He breathed in her scent. “What happens if you don’t show up?” Stupid, stupid thing to say. But all he could think about was running. Taking her far from here. They’d travel by night, hide in motel rooms by day. Hold her, keep her safe.
But who’d keep her safe from him? The thought vanished when she leaned her forehead against his, stroked his hair.
“I have to,” she whispered.
“No—”
“Listen to me, Jackson. I don’t want to stay with Mal. But if I leave…” She pulled away. “No, it’s not an option. Not yet.”
He drew her close again. “Tell me. Please.”
“No.” She clasped his head. “I’ll change things. Soon.”
“Let me help.”
“Only I can do this.”
“Do what?” The suspense drove him crazy.
“I can’t say. Trust me.”
His lip curled in disgust. “It’s him I don’t trust.”
“Good. Don’t.” She stroked her thumbs along his cheeks. “No matter what he promises you.”
He gave his pledge with a kiss, his mouth against hers, a sacred union he had no right to enter into but had no strength to resist.
Only the threat of Mal finding them out, punishing her, made him pull away. He led her to the edge of the parking lot, kept watch over her until she reached the bus. Before entering, she looked back and waved, though he remained in the shadows.
His heart twisted in his chest, part joy, part anguish. What the hell had he started? The clarity of the moment slammed into him. One kiss had set into motion a force much larger than him, something he couldn’t undo. A price would have to be paid. That was how his life worked now.
The only way for him to protect her from more danger was to stop this before it went any further. He told whatever power might be listening that she meant nothing to him. Years of loneliness, of not letting himself care for anyone, had weakened him. She could have been any girl, but Layla happened along at the wrong moment.
In his soul, he knew better. He’d fucked other girls, but not before numbing himself, checking his emotions into deep freeze, and leaving them there until he moved on. Some had tempted him to stay more than others, the very thing he couldn’t do, especially with Layla. She’d awakened long-deadened pieces of his heart, made it beat faster. He looked forward to waking up so he could see her. Be with her. He’d been down this road only once after he lost Sarah. It nearly killed him then, and very nearly killed the girl, too. It had taken all his willpower to piece his shredded self back together. He didn’t know if he could do it again. He would be able to survive losing Layla if he left her breathing and in one gorgeous piece.
One of these nights, he’d slip away during a concert, let the entourage disappear without him. The thought of abandoning her to Mal’s control churned his gut. He couldn’t go until he knew for sure that Mal was out of her life for good.
Leaving Layla might rip out his heart, but that part of him was useless anyway. Better he suffer than her.
Chapter 7
So this was what normal was like. Climbing aboard the dimly lit bus, Layla finally understood every heart-wrenching love song. Every lyric held truth that struck deep. Finding someone who understood her, cared about her, made her feel like she soared far above the earth was more exciting than anything she’d ever known. And more terrifying. She whirled toward the window, leaned over the seat, and pressed her hand against the cool glass. All clear outside, no sign of anyone. No. Mal wouldn’t find out. She’d keep Jackson safe.
His name revived the feel of his lips moving against hers. So much better than she’d dreamed it could be. So much more addicting. She rose slowly.
“Careful.”
At the man’s voice, she froze, then relaxed when she saw it was Fred. “Sorry. I didn’t see you there.” Silhouetted against the window in his usual spot at the table. In more steps, she’d have tripped over his big boots in the aisle.
Fred chuckled. “So I gathered. Lost in your thoughts. Good to see you smile, though.”
She erased any expression. “I’m so tired, I’m goofy. Or I’d have paid closer attention.” And wouldn’t be yammering on.
“Yeah, no problem. Always a pleasure to bump into you. Or almost.” His grin faded when he glanced outside.
She followed his gaze to where Jackson strode by. His pace slowed near Layla’s bunk window, then he strode to the second bus, his swagger all pent-up testosterone. How had she never noticed the sexy way his hips swayed before? A thrill shot through her. Good Lord, the man had moves. And she wanted to test-drive them.
“Excuse me,” Fred said from behind.
She moved to the side. “I’m in your way again.”
He skirted past her. “Good night. And,” he said in a lower voice, “like I said before, be careful.”
She stiffened. “Nothing to be careful about. Have a good night.”
From his brief wince before he stepped down and off the bus, she hadn’t convinced him. He was a nice guy, the only nice person in the entourage. He wouldn’t give her away—unless push came to shove, then of course his allegiance would go to Mal, not her.
Another thought brought her to an abrupt stop. Oh, no. She’d forgotten to ask Jackson to meet her after the next concert. Did she need to? Or did their kiss mean he would seek her out? Or try his best to avoid her?
With no show tomorrow night, and the band on the road for two days, she wouldn’t see him. Maybe in passing at a refueling stop, but the rest of the time, he’d be stuck in the roadie bus and her on the band bus.
Frustration welled up, threatening to burst from her in a loud groan, but the noise would draw attention. Instead, she climbed the short ladder to her bunk, closed the curtain, and stared at the ceiling. Wanted to pound on the walls. No bars held her prisoner, but she was trapped all the same.
By the damned guitar. Mal always kept it with him, so she’d have to wait until he’d passed out. She had to get rid of it. But how?
A vague memory of her sixteenth birthday surfaced. Her mother handing the guitar to Mal, a type of ceremonious move, symbolic of passing Layla over to him. At the time, Layla had been too stunned by the betrayal to take in the full meaning of what her mother had said, but now the words began to trickle back. Her mother had whispered a warning in a desperate rush that Layla shouldn’t try to free herself. Only one person, through bravery and selflessness, could release her from the spell. Not just anyone, but a representative of the griffin, the protector from black witchcraft and evil. The same hero the roadies spoke about in reverent tones, only when they knew Mal co
uldn’t hear.
Exactly the savior she needed. Her own personal warrior, someone who’d save her for the sake of performing a good deed, and then go the hell away. Let her live as she wished. No payment, no obligation. She would never be bound to anyone again except through her own choice. Someone like Jackson.
Raucous laughter outside grew louder. Mal had returned. Instant mood killer.
The thick scent of beer preceded his stumble past. The curtain rustled when a girl bumped her bunk with an “oops” and laughed.
Another girl? Mal must be on a nonstop banging rush, but Layla would enjoy the perk of freedom, however small, except for the screams of exaggerated ecstasy from Mal’s room. So pitiful, that no one else, apparently, wanted any real kind of love.
“Shh.” He chuckled and dragged her to his tiny cabin at the rear. “Don’t wake her.”
What Layla wouldn’t give for a simple door. The privacy that went along with a real life. Yeah, she wanted one of those, too. The short time she’d spent with Jackson kick-started something. If not an actual life, then a greater desire to claim one. She’d experienced more energy, more passion in those few minutes than in her lifetime. His gentle touch had imprinted on her more deeply than those forced on her. His soft words coaxed emotions from her that she’d thought she’d locked away forever. And that kiss… Even after one small, sublime taste, she couldn’t settle for anything less.
Two days without him. Pure torture.
Screw Mal and his rules. She’d find a way to see Jackson before then. With that thought came blissful sleep.
* * * *
Two days. Only two days to sort out the mess Jackson had created. The biggest war, he fought with himself. He stared into the darkness, wishing the hum of the bus’s tires on the road would lull him to sleep. No chance, not with arguments racing through his mind, clashing and battling with the practical logic he’d used to shield himself from emotion.
Whenever thoughts of Layla swept over him, threatening to fool him into wanting more, he blocked the invasion by remembering Sarah. Lovely Sarah, sprawled on the hard ground, porcelain skin marred by bloody gashes. No matter how many times he begged her to wake up, her lovely brown eyes stayed shut. No matter how many times he called her name, she couldn’t hear him.
The same, or worse, would happen to Layla if he didn’t stop now. Relationships other guys took for granted had become a fantasy for Jackson. The life he dreamed of always stayed beyond his reach, behind a wall of pain. Until now, it hadn’t mattered.
A low groan sounded from below. Stubby’s feet hit the floor with a thud, and he shuffled to the back. The restroom door clicked shut.
Why had it not occurred to him that being trapped in a bus with the other roadies might drive him crazy? The others roused, as restless as him. Someone drew out a deck of cards and most gathered around.
“Hey, Jackson,” Kev called, “there’s still room for you.”
“What, and lose my paycheck before I get it? No, thanks.”
The guys laughed, and thankfully paid him no more attention. Jackson had no patience for cards. He’d much rather practice guitar, but not anywhere near them. Instead, he dug the harmonica from his duffel bag. An innocent enough little instrument, no threat to Mal’s rock-god status.
He pushed and pulled air through it, coaxing a tune to life. Soon, he forgot about them, about where he was, but chuffing the harmonica brought visions of Layla to mind. No matter if he played fast or slow, blues or rock, each breath conjured her anew. Unavoidable and achingly vivid. An abrupt halt, and he jammed the mouth harp back into his pack.
“Aw, don’t stop now,” Stubby called. He laughed along with Grumbles.
“Don’t beg him,” Rad sneered. “His ego’s bad enough.”
“My ego?” Jackson sat up so fast, he thumped his forehead on the bus ceiling.
“Yeah, pretty boy. You’re stuck on yourself.” Rad leaned a hand on one knee and peered over at him, lips curled down.
The guy wanted a fight. One way to ease the tension, but Jackson knew one brawl would give Rad an excuse to start another, and another. No way did he want to give Kev any reason to can his ass.
“Nope, no reason to be.” Jackson dropped to the floor and flexed his arms.
Crazy eyes narrowing, Rad grunted. “And here I thought you disappeared after the shows to take advantage of Mal’s second-string groupies.” He swaggered nearer. “Bet you leave broken hearts in every town.”
“Not my style.”
“Bullshit.” Rad’s response came like a whiplash.
Jackson refused to react to the asshole’s challenge. “Tell that to the witch who cursed me.”
Every head swung toward him. Yeah, he thought that would get their attention, and hopefully get them off his back.
“What witch?” Head cocked back, Rad still looked ready to fight.
“My dead girlfriend’s mother.” Hell. He hated to bring up Sarah like this, or at all. These jerks didn’t deserve to hear Sarah’s story.
Kev knit his brows, ready for a different type of fight. “You killed her?”
Only someone looking for a way to get rid of Jackson would phrase it that way and bark the words like a sergeant. “Motorcycle accident killed her. I just happened to be driving.”
Rad sank to the lower bunk across the aisle. “But her mother blamed you?”
No more than he blamed himself. “Yeah. And made sure I’d never love anyone again. Or she dies. So that’s my sad story.” There. His secret was out. Now, let it drop.
Kev shook his head. “Man, that’s rough.”
Why look so relieved then? Jackson must’ve removed one worry off the man’s mind: Layla. He wanted to puke, but doing so wouldn’t relieve the nausea that overtook him with each memory of Sarah. “Life’s a bitch, then you die, right?”
“There’s gotta be a way out.” Rad swung his leg over the chair and stood. “They always leave a loophole for these things.”
Great, Rad must be Jackson’s new best friend. “I wish.”
“Leave it alone, Rad.” Kev frowned at his hand of cards. Obviously, he wanted no part of any loophole.
“Seriously, dude. Every curse has some weak point. A keyhole.” Rad poked his chest. “You just need to find the right key.”
Jackson hated to respond, but had to maintain his choir-boy innocence. “I’m open to suggestions.”
Rad gestured. “Repeat the wording of the curse. Exactly.”
He blew a sharp breath. “Man. At the time, I was so blown away by losing Sarah… That night is all a blur.”
Rad clasped his shoulder. “Think on it awhile. The words are hidden deep in your brain, underneath all your hurt and anger. Dig them out.”
Who knew the roadie had an interest in curses? Maybe from first-hand experience? “I’ll try.” Or not. The less Jackson thought about that night, the better. “Dying’s probably my only way out.” Enough morbid talk. He grinned. “You sound like the old guy who gave me my last tat.”
“With age comes wisdom, right? Let’s see.” Rad sat straighter, straining to see him.
Jackson feigned ignorance. “What?”
“The ink. What’d you get?” Rad’s lazy eye rolled, but his good eye focused on Jackson like a laser.
No mistaking the guy’s curiosity, or the reason for it. “Not really what I wanted. I let the old man talk me into this one.”
All the roadies waited to see, for some reason, and if he didn’t show them, they’d only grow more suspicious. He jumped to the floor, slowly lifted his T-shirt, and turned.
In the sudden, thick silence, Kev said, “Holy shit.”
Jackson strained to see the ink over his shoulder. “What’s wrong? The griffin have two heads or something?”
“He’s right. The tat’s a griffin.” For once, Grumbles spoke audibly and with a kind of reverence. Maybe a bit of fear.
“Yeah. Grundy said it’s a noble creature. A protecto
r of kings and treasure. Guardian against evil.” He recited the old man’s words as if mocking him, but Grundy’s description of the griffin, in the end, had convinced him to relent and get the tattoo. He heaved a breath. “Griffins mate for life. Once their mate dies, they don’t look for another one. Seemed appropriate.”
Rad narrowed his good eye at him. “You do know the design on your back is the same as the guitar.”
“What guitar?” But the way Rad had said it, Jackson already knew. Mal’s guitar. The one binding Mal to Layla. Jackson faced them and tucked his shirt into his jeans.
Their expressions confirmed the fact before Kev said, “Mal’s. This better be nothing more than a coincidence, son.”
“What else could it be?” Jackson’s attempt to laugh off the accusation fell flat.
Rad shrugged. “Uh, the prophecy coming true, maybe?”
Jackson did his best to look dumb. “Prophecy about what?”
The men exchanged wary glances.
Finally Kev spoke up. “None of us are supposed to know anything about this, so the only reason I’m telling you is so you’ll keep your mouth zipped around Mal.” He sighed, as if the burden had grown heavier. “Layla and Mal have…an arrangement. Through the guitar.”
“It’s cursed,” Stubby added with a bit too much glee.
Kev elbowed him. “Enchanted. Used to belong to Jimi Hendrix. A witch had it made especially for him.”
Rad grunted. “Layla’s grandmother, Mary, gave Jimi the guitar during her affair with him. He loved her, and it pissed off some of her coven that Jimi ignored them. He wrote “The Wind Cried Mary” for her, you know.”
“Was the whole coven obsessed with Hendrix?” Jackson could only imagine all that Layla’s grandmother had gone through.
Kev shook his head. “Nah. But the witches in that coven all specialized in musical magic. They offered it freely to musicians.”
“One other witch constantly offered Jimi bribes, claiming her magic was better, but Jimi wasn’t interested.” At Kev’s sigh of frustration, Rad said, “Hey, if you’re going to tell a story, tell it right.”
