Miles smiles that same smug smile. He throws up four fingers and uses them to count down.
The song starts. It's one of their singles, on KROQ constantly. It has a slick guitar riff, a throbbing beat, and, of course, a perfect vocal melody.
Kara squeezes my hand. I can't bring myself to look away from Miles to catch her expression. No doubt, she's ecstatic, too. I squeeze her hand back. I shift my hips to the music. I scream. Just another fan. Just another girl who wants that sexy boy on stage she'll never have.
Only, I can have him.
The song transitions into the next. The last song, according to Miles's earlier claim. There is something final about it. It's like everyone is playing harder. Miles goes all out with his vocals. He's not in smug mode, not flirting with the crowd. He's there, in the music, in the moment that made him write this song.
It's captivating, sexy, and terrifying all at the same time. There's way more to Miles than bad boy rock star. There must be, or he wouldn't be so lost in his words.
The song ends to a chorus of screams and cheers. The Sinful guys wave goodbye. Miles takes a bow. The drummer blows kisses. He even holds his hand up to his ear to make the call me motion. They walk off stage, and a roadie collects their discarded t-shirts.
Kara pulls me backstage. The area is crowded with gear. There are other musician types here—must be the opening act—but most of them are busy soaking in groupie adoration. One of them is sucking face against the wall. And, oh, God, he's getting a hand job.
I guess they don't call it sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll for nothing.
There's a door marked Sinful Serenade. It's a lot less busy than the rest of the backstage area. Drew is sitting on the couch alone. The light-haired drummer is surrounded by a cloud of fans. His attention turns to us.
He addresses Drew. "Who are your hot friends?"
"People I'd like to see again." Drew waves the guy off. “So why don’t you get Aiden to put another one of our songs in a commercial while I’m occupied?”
The drummer offers his hand. "Tom. And you are?"
We introduce ourselves.
"Sometimes, I think I'm the only person in the band who cares about making money." Tom nods goodbye and returns to his cloud of fans.
"Want a drink?" Drew asks. His gaze fixes on something behind me. "Maybe a shirt."
I turn. It's Miles, standing there in his tight jeans, still without a shirt. He shakes his head but still grabs a t-shirt off the couch and pulls it on.
Miles throws Drew a cocky wink. There's no challenge or animosity to it, just mutual understanding. They have their roles. Miles is the sexy, attention-loving singer, while Drew is the serious, all about the music guitarist. Miles has to strip. Drew has to stay above it all. The band would be lost without either persona.
Drew shakes his head like he's tired of the conversation. He goes to grab Kara's wrist but she pulls it into her chest. He looks at her a little funny. She shrugs like it's nothing.
"Come on, Kendrick. You'll miss the good tequila."
She nods. "Meg, you want something?"
"No thanks."
She follows Drew to a table in the back, leaving me alone with Miles. Or as good as alone.
He runs his fingertips over my exposed shoulders. "I like your dress."
"Thank you."
"And the heels, too. Tall girls are usually afraid of them."
I shrug like his words have no effect on me.
"Bet they give you extra leverage when you're pressed against a wall."
A blush spreads across my cheeks. From the smug look on his face, I know he's trying to screw with me, to do something to get a reaction.
It's not happening. This is my night to be a tiger. To stalk my prey and pounce when I'm ready.
"I'm sure they would," I say.
The way he's looking at me is too much. I'm going to crumble.
I step aside. "Excuse me. I'm going to get a drink."
The bar in the corner is mostly booze in every color. There are mixers. Only one interests me. Grapefruit juice. Truly the most under-appreciated fruit in the world—tart and sweet and sour all at once. I pour myself a large glass and take a sip. It's not fresh squeezed, but it's not bad.
My purse buzzes.
Miles: We can try it right now if you want.
Miles: For scientific purposes only.
The heat starts at my cheeks and spreads to my throat and chest. I fill my glass with ice and take another sip. Not enough. I press the glass to my chest.
It only helps so much. I'm still flushed and sweaty.
My phone buzzes again.
Miles: A bed would be more comfortable.
I'm a deer in the headlights again. It's no good trying to keep the upper hand in these conversations. Even though I barely know Miles, I crumble under the weight of his seduction.
It's ridiculous. I've gone twenty-one years without any major attraction. Sure, I've found guys hot. I've had crushes, been on pleasant dates. But nothing like this. My entire body is on fire with the idea of touching Miles and having him touch me.
I slide my phone back into my purse and vow not to look at it unless absolutely necessary. I do my usual wallflower thing, drinking my juice and taking in the action from the sidelines. Tom goes off with his harem. He's quickly replaced with the guys from the opening band plus their entourage and fan girls.
By the time I'm done with my juice, the room is packed. People bump into me, nod at me, say hello in a breathy voice meant to imply I'm another girl here to hand out blowjobs to anyone with the ability to play a musical instrument.
I slip out of the room. The backstage area is just as slammed. It's a real party scene—people drinking from red cups, flirting, kissing, sharing stories, and laughing at the top of their lungs. I find the closet door and push through it. Air. I need air. And I need to not be here.
The alley-slash-parking lot is an asphalt wasteland. There are a few loners leaning against the wall smoking cigarettes. I copy their position, leaning against the wall and breathing deep to suck in as much breath as possible. Instead, I get a lungful of smoke.
Forget that. I move to the corner of the parking lot.
A girl in a mini-dress and stilettos waves at me. "We don't bite, hun."
She giggles and motions for me to come closer. I do. She moves out of the way, and I can see what these people are milling over—
One of them, a skinny guy in a suit, is tapping white powder out of a baggie onto the back of his cell phone. He drags a credit card across it and rakes it into straight lines.
They're doing cocaine.
My heart races. I can't be around this. That's how it starts. How it started for Rosie. First, it was her jerk boyfriend dragging her to parties where everyone was desperate to be up or down. Then she was trying drugs—Rosie never was the type to back down from a dare.
Then she was gone.
It happened so fast. Just playing along, being one of the cool girls at the party, and then she's gone. Overdosed. Dead.
The skinny guy leans over, bringing his nose to the back of the phone. And just like in a fucking movie, he snorts the line.
He snorts the other line, sits up, and rubs his nose. Then he's back at it, tapping the baggie again, raking his credit card over the phone again. He passes it around the table.
My phone buzzes in my purse, but I don't go for it. I have to watch these people, to see what they're doing, to see why this had so much power over my sister.
They laugh. They stare at each other with the deepest anticipation, like they can't wait to be in the middle of bliss. Another person snorts. The skinny guy taps out another two lines. Snort.
I can't move. I'm not a tiger. I'm a deer, and I'm staring straight into the headlights.
There's a sound behind me. Someone else is out here now. Maybe a smoker desperate for an even stronger high.
"Meg."
It's Miles.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
/>
CHAPTER SEVEN
He takes steps towards me, but still I'm stuck in the headlights. I can't move. Who the hell are these people, and why did this stupid thing have so much power over my sister?
He's behind me. I can feel his body, hear his breath. His fingers wrap around my wrist so tightly I can barely feel my hand.
"Excuse us." He pulls me away from the people, all the way to the sidewalk across the street. "Do you do coke?"
It's dark here. The headlights are finally gone. "No."
"Then what were you doing waiting your turn?"
I have no response.
His grip tightens around my wrist. "You do drugs?"
I dig my heel into the concrete. "That's none of your business."
"We're friends. Makes it my business."
I grit my teeth. "We're not friends. You only said that so you could get in my pants."
His expression gets serious. "I never say things I don't mean." He takes my hand and tugs me away from the scene. "Now, look me in the eyes and answer me. Do you do drugs?"
My gaze goes anywhere but his eyes. "No. I don't do drugs." The sky is dark enough that I can see stars. So many stars. "I don't even like being around drugs."
"I'll take you home." He pulls me towards the sidewalk.
Apparently, I'm not cool enough for this party.
I pull my hand free. "That's not necessary."
His voice gets serious. "You look like you saw a ghost."
Those people might as well be ghosts. How long until one of them is lying in a hospital bed, heartbeat fading to zero?
I take a deep breath. "It's nothing."
"No lies. That's our deal."
"I just remembered something awful." I hug my purse against my chest, something to keep the warmth in my body. "I'm not going to talk about it."
He shifts. His expression softens. His eyes brighten like he's trying to lift the mood. “You want to give me some hint what’s wrong?”
“Not particularly.”
"The sooner you tell me, the sooner we leave, and the sooner you get to fuck me."
My cheeks flush red again. "You're—"
"Don't say dreaming, because we both know what my dreams are like." He leans closer, holding my stare like he’s daring me to explain.
I need to not be talking about this or thinking about this. And there’s no way I’ll be thinking about it if we really do sleep together.
So, fine, I’ll tell him as much as it takes to change the subject. “There was someone in my life who went down a bad path with drugs. It still hurts and I’m not going to talk about it.”
“Oh.” His voice is soft. There’s a hint of vulnerability in his eyes. “I’ll take you home.”
“You have to promise to drop this subject.”
“It’s dropped.” He leads me around the corner. We walk in silence for a few blocks then Miles stops.
In front of a motorcycle.
He pulls two helmets from a compartment and hands one to me. Then he slings a motorcycle jacket around my shoulders. "This might make your thighs a little sore."
I climb on after him and hold on for dear life.
***
I'm a terrified mess when we arrive. My knuckles are white. My wrists are numb. Every muscle in my body is tense from the vice grip I have around Miles's waist.
Miles drives like a Goddamn maniac—-super—fast, sharp turns, darting between cars as often as possible.
I pull the helmet off my head and shove it into his hands. As usual, he's effortlessly cool and I'm trembling. Only known the guy three weeks, and we already have a pattern that gives him all the cards and leaves me with none.
He locks his bike, looking me over like he's trying to read my mind. He shrugs his leather jacket off his shoulders. "You'll want one before you know it."
"Fat chance." I dig my purse out of the bike's tiny trunk. "You've saved the poor damsel in distress. You can go now." I turn and step towards the door.
"Meg."
"What?"
"You're wearing my jacket."
Ugh. I am wearing his extra jacket—it's early fall in Los Angeles, but the air is cold when it's whizzing by at eighty miles per hour. I slide it off my shoulders and shove it into his chest.
He smirks. Amused by my attitude. Whatever. Not my issue. I make my way to the lobby, not sure whether I want him to follow me or not.
He does. Effortlessly, of course. His steps are even and calm while mine are clumsy and erratic. I blame the heels.
We stop at the elevator. He presses his palm flat against my lower back. "I hope the bike didn't wear out your thighs."
A blush threatens to form on my cheeks. I bite my lip to distract myself. Cool, calm, composed. It's my mantra. "It didn’t."
"Good."
The elevator doors open, and we step inside. Miles hits the button for my floor. He says nothing.
Ding. We're at my floor. I step into the hallway. Miles moves steadily, his hand still pressed gently against my lower back. His touch rekindles the fire inside me. Suddenly, I can't think about anything except how much I want his hands on my bare skin.
I unlock my door and slide it open.
"Is that an invitation?" he asks.
I say nothing.
"’Cause I'd really hate to leave without making you come."
The mouth on this guy! He doesn't lack for confidence. "Come in."
He laughs at my choice of words but follows me inside without any more smart-ass comments.
Shit. I promised Kara I'd text her if I left. I stop at my door and dig through my purse.
Miles looks at me quizzically. "Someone else you'd rather talk to?"
I shake my head. "Kara. It's a girl thing."
"Tell her you're about to have the best sex of your life."
"Not a lot of competition there."
He slides his hands over the hem of my dress. That hand is so, so close to exactly where it needs to be.
I find my phone and tap out a text to Kara.
Meg: Went home early. Everything is fine. See you Sunday.
Miles plucks my phone from my hand and slides it into his pocket. He presses his body against mine, pinning me to the wall.
I close my eyes and soak in the weight of his body. God, he feels so good. We're almost there.
His lips connect with mine, and everything in me releases. My awful memories fade away. Everything except this moment fades away.
The kiss breaks. My body is buzzing with the most desperate desire, but I can't let him know how much he affects me. I sit on the bed. Cool, calm, collected. No problem. No problem at all.
His eyes pass over me again. "You look amazing in that dress."
"I know."
"You're supposed to compliment me after that."
"I know that, too."
He sits next to me. "You've got to butter me up a little if you want me naked."
“I already saw you naked,” I say.
“But if you want to do it again.”
I press my thigh into his. "You have tattoos, right?"
"Several."
"And you got them just so you'd have a reason to take off your shirt."
"You caught me." He laughs. "You sure you weren't drinking at the show?"
I run my fingers over the hem of his t-shirt. "Positive."
He moves my hand gently and pulls his t-shirt over his head. Damn. It's the first really good look I've had at his tattoos. There's a dragon on his shoulder and bicep. It's intricate, inviting, and deadly dangerous all at once. On his chest, there's a rose covered in thorns. It would look cheesy on anyone else, but on Miles, it's perfect. And right above it, the words: be brave, live.
I trace the words with my fingers. "When did you get that one?"
"A year or so."
"No women's names?"
"Love is temporary. Ink is forever."
His chest and shoulders are strong. Not an ounce of fat to cover a perfect six-pack. I run my finger down
his torso to that sexy v-line guys get. It’s like an arrow pointing to a prize.
I look back into his eyes. "So, you won't fall in love, or you won't fall in love with me?"
"I won't fall in love."
"How can you be so sure?"
"I am."
"But how?"
"Because I know."
I press my hand against his stomach to remind myself why I invited him in. "That's not an answer."
"I'll make you a deal. You accept my answer and—"
I meet his eyes. "You can believe whatever you want."
He ignores my objection. "If I ever do fall in love, I'll add her name to my collection."
"Whatever makes you happy."
He digs his hand through my hair. "This makes me happy."
A blush spreads across my cheeks. He's in control again, and I'm the prey again. I need to do something to affect him, too.
I brush my hand against the waist of his jeans.
"Doing some more investigative work there?" He asks.
I nod.
His breath gets heavy. "What are you hoping to find?"
I tilt my head so my lips are inches from his. "The reason why you're so arrogant."
He laughs. "Is that curiosity or hope talking?"
I cup the bulge in his jeans. I've got no amusing comeback. My brain has no room for amusing comebacks. All it knows is how much it wants to touch him.
I rub him over his jeans.
He kisses me. He starts slowly, sucking on my lips and scraping his teeth against them. He tastes amazing, like salt, sweat, and Miles.
I shift, my hands on his shoulders, until I’m straddling him. He moves faster, his tongue sliding into my mouth, but there's still such a control to it. It's perfect, and I don't even care that his body has this command over mine.
He rubs my shoulders and brings his mouth to my ear. "I've been dying to get my hands under that dress all night."
His voice is heavy. He pulls the straps off my shoulders. I didn't bother wearing a bra—I'm not well endowed—and my breasts slide out of the dress with ease.
His eyes go wide, again, just like they did last time he was here. He grabs my breast with his hand. "Damn." The pad of his thumb brushes against my nipple. "Better than I remembered."
I swallow hard.
"What do you remember?" I ask.
Sing Your Heart Out Page 5
