by Tamara Hogan
“Why the hell would you do that? Her judgment’s obviously not worth shit right now.” Lukas pushed the vase of mums sitting on the corner of Sasha’s desk out of his way. Their cheerful color annoyed him. “Why didn’t you cancel some dates, make her take a break?”
“You seem to be under some mistaken impression here,” Garrett replied dryly. “I work for her, not the other way around. She wanted to stay on the road, so…” he gestured with his hand, “we stayed on the road.”
“And you couldn’t influence a weakened, shaky woman to change her mind?” Lukas said as he stood up, not even attempting to hide the derision in his voice.
“Lukas.” Sasha stepped between them.
Garrett budged Sasha out of the way. “No, he’s right, Sasha. Scarlett insisted we stay on the road, finish out the bookings. I don’t know why, but there it is. The good thing is that the tour is over after tonight’s performance. She’s home, and she can rest. If you have questions about Scarlett’s health, you need to ask her yourself.”
Garrett’s PDA chirped. He extracted it from the breast pocket of his suit jacket, glancing at the small display. “Tansy,” he said to Sasha. “She’s asking if sound check is being pushed back.” He quickly text-messaged a response. “If we don’t go now, Tansy will drag those boys of hers off for some afternoon delight. Then the rest of them will scatter and I won’t be able to find anyone for hours. We have to go. Now.”
“Start walking. I’ll be right behind you,” Sasha said.
“If you happen to see Scarlett before I do, please let her know I need the set list as soon as she can swing it. God knows where her head will be at tonight,” he muttered as he left the office. “We could be listening to anything from Gregorian chants to Marilyn Manson.”
Sasha pursed her lips as she watched him walk away. “That is one excellent ass.” She shut the door behind her and rolled her shoulders.
“He’s lucky I didn’t carve it into rump roast.”
“He’s just doing his job, Lukas. Cut him some slack. You know how stubborn Scarlett can get.” Sasha made a beeline for the lime green crushed velvet love seat. “I need to sit down for a few minutes.”
His high-energy sister needed nothing of the sort. The inquisition was about to begin. Lukas watched her flop onto the couch, stretch her body out full-length, and pull her right leg up so her shinbone touched her nose. She repeated the movement with her left leg, her leather boots creaking as she flexed and pointed her toes.
“Show-off.”
“I’ve been called worse. By you. It’s your fault I have such fragile self-esteem.”
“Yes, you’re obviously permanently damaged.”
She pulled herself into a sitting position, crossed her legs. And then she looked at him, waiting silently.
Lukas met her blue eyes, stared her down with a glare she wouldn’t find the least bit intimidating, damn her. Just to be an asshole, he made a show of looking at his watch. “Aren’t you late?”
She held his gaze for about ten seconds, and then threw up her arms. “Screw this. I don’t have time for a game of chicken. And I always win anyway.”
Unfortunately, this was true.
“Damn it, Lukas, when are you and Scarlett going to stop this masochistic dance? It used to be entertaining to watch and all, but now it’s just getting sad and old.”
BAM. Jab to the ribs. He leaned back in her tiny chair as Sasha’s frustration, her concern, crept onto his tongue, a sting of tin.
Sasha glared at him. “If you blast out the sides of that chair, I’m going to shave you bald.”
As usual, she’d served up her verbal sucker punch, and then gave him a chance to step back and recover his equilibrium. Only to set him up for the uppercut he knew would be coming. He was being danced around the ring by an expert, a fuchsia and black-haired flyweight less than half his size. Lukas glanced down at the tiny desk chair he was wedged into. And, meeting her eyes, shifted his hips side to side so it creaked and groaned even louder.
“If you had something other than doll furniture in here, it wouldn’t be a problem.”
Sasha watched him, nostrils twitching. He stopped punishing the chair and looked at her with a scowl. “Do you know how annoying it is to have your sister know everything you’re feeling?”
“Duh. There’s no such thing as a secret in this damn family.” She stretched her arms overhead with a sigh. “Now you know how I felt when you and Rafe kept cock-blocking me and Jacoby back when we were dating.”
He leveled a steely glance at his sister. “Sasha. You were fourteen. The cock needed blocking.”
“It’s a wonder I ever had sex with anybody, with you two on the job.”
“Well, it sure as hell backfired,” Lukas grumbled. “You just learned to be sneakier.”
She grinned, but then became serious again. “When did you last sleep?”
He shrugged and didn’t answer. It felt like years ago.
“You’re tired, frustrated. Horny. Worried. And trying to hide it.” She looked up at him and sighed again. “Me too. She’s not registering much of anything, is she?”
He hesitated before answering, considered brazening it out. But it was worthless to front when the other person could pretty much tell exactly what you were feeling. It was almost a relief to ask. “Do you know what’s wrong with her?”
“I think she’s just plumb worn out. Their road schedule was outrageous. Sustaining a pace of four shows a week is challenge enough, but five? For over a year? Obscene.”
“It’s Garrett’s job to keep her healthy, damn it, to overrule her when she’s pushing too hard.”
“Your hypocrisy is staggering.”
“Sasha, this isn’t about me.”
“It just as well could be. I swear, you and Scarlett are like two peas in a workaholic pod,” she shot back. “I bet you can’t tell me the last time Scarlett was home.”
Four months, three weeks, and two days ago. He’d made sure they avoided each other, but no one had said a damn thing about Scarlett looking like she’d just been sprung from Bergen-Belsen. He mentally added Jack to his shit list. “Okay, you might have a point. But do you know what’s up? Has she talked to you?” It drove a stake in his heart to ask. “Relationship trouble?”
Sasha got up off the couch, stood behind him, and rubbed at the slabs of muscle in his rigid shoulders. “Annika barged in and woke her up this morning, and we chatted a bit about that picture in The Tattler—they’re not dating, by the way. Then Jack called, asking for a meeting, and then we were off and running.” She karate-chopped her hands up and down his right bicep. “She’s… thin, but not anorexic. If you didn’t know her, weren’t familiar with what she looked like before, you wouldn’t think anything of it. But she’s lost those edible curves.” She nudged him with her sharp elbow. “Though you seem to find the ones she still has tasty enough.”
Lukas didn’t respond; the spike of lust he pumped into the room as he remembered her slim wand of a body pressed against him said it all. But he was relieved to hear that Scarlett wasn’t involved with the musician who’d been with her when that paparazzi shot had been taken. Seeing the man’s hand on Scarlett’s shoulder, reading the suggestive caption, had given him a jolt. He’d almost started a background check on the guy—deep background. Proctology-level background. But once he settled down and looked at the picture objectively, he noticed things he’d missed the first time around: the fear in Scarlett’s eyes, the tension in her body. The man’s defensive position. Musician or not, the guy had been ready to fight.
“The tour’s been a huge success, the reviews are great,” Sasha was saying. “But thank the aurora it’s over. Like Garrett said, she’ll get the break she needs now.” Her voice firmed. “I’ll make sure of it.”
“No more sex, drugs, and rock and roll. How sad. Might be too quiet for her here at home.”
Sasha’s head snapped up. “The rock and roll part is certainly true. Scarlett doesn’t do drugs. As for the s
ex…” She shrugged.
Lukas’s temper surged.
His sister sensed it, and went in for the kill. “Hey, why shouldn’t she fuck a dozen fanboys a week? You won’t go near her.” She examined her nails. “A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.”
Lukas opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, Sasha barreled on. “And you’re a fine one to talk. You treat sex like a workout, like it’s mere body maintenance. Safety in numbers, no emotional involvement. As soon as someone wants more from you than your admittedly spectacular body, you move on.” Her voice gentled. “How much longer are you going to punish yourself?”
BAM. Solar plexus shot.
“You big dolt.” Sasha clenched a tiny fist and slugged him. “Pull your head out of your ass. She wants you, and you want her. Finish what I interrupted in the hall.”
He swallowed before answering, trying to lubricate his suddenly dry throat. “Sasha, you said it yourself. She’s tired, exhausted. She didn’t realize what she was doing.” The universe help him if she did. He wasn’t certain he could fight himself and her at the same time. “It wouldn’t work anyway.”
Sasha burst out laughing, a laughter so knowing it made the blood rush to his face. “Looked like it was working just fine to me.” She stepped around the chair and put her hands on his shoulders. With him sitting down, they were almost the same height, and he couldn’t avoid her eyes, damn it. “You’re scared to let your guard down, to meet her halfway.”
Lukas didn’t deny it.
“You’re scared it could work too damn well.”
When Sasha’s cell phone rang, Lukas welcomed the interruption.
She pointed at him. “Don’t move.” She huffed a breath, chanting “there are no tickets left. There are no more tickets. No, I don’t have any tickets put aside or tucked away” like a mantra.
“Did I mention that there are no more tickets?” she said to Lukas, her frustration palpable. “My phone has been ringing off the hook for weeks. I should make a damned recording.” But despite her annoyance, she picked up. His sister was too much of a businesswoman to let a phone call go unanswered during business hours.
Distorted bass pulsed in the background, making the phone’s tiny speaker buzz in protest. “Tomas! Turn that damn music down, I can’t hear you.”
The caller was probably Tomas Diego, the drummer for Ten Inch Screw. Lukas had seen his name on the VIP list. He’d slapped cuffs on the man himself nearly a decade ago, after that notorious sex tape featuring Tomas and his pneumatically blessed wife had been beamed to all of humanity. The investigation had cleared him, determining that the tape had been stolen from Diego’s home and hadn’t been purposely leaked, but Lukas still thought the man took too many chances, drew too much attention to himself—to them all—with his hedonistic lifestyle.
Sasha’s job certainly brought her into contact with some real characters.
“Yes, I have your ticket right here,” she said, “and I swear if you’re late I’ll give it to the first mutt sniffing on the sidewalk.” Her eyes narrowed. “It’s not my fault you haven’t been to bed yet.” She looked at her watch. “Check into the hotel, take a nap. No, I will not give you a wake-up call. You’re not that adorable, you degenerate.”
Lukas worked hard to keep his eyebrows stationary. What kind of relationship did his little sister have with Tomas Diego that the man felt comfortable asking such a thing?
Some things a brother didn’t want to think about.
As she hung up, she silenced the ringer on the phone. “Did you see that Jacoby called to cancel the Woolf family’s RSVP for the show tonight? With everything going on with Andi right now, it was completely unnecessary—but so like him.”
They both sat silently for a moment. It didn’t take long for Lukas to fume once again that he wasn’t out on the street, helping Gideon to find the maggot who’d assaulted Jacoby’s sister Andi.
“Hey.”
Shit, she’d snuck up on him. Looping her arms around his shoulders from behind, she scrubbed her product-stiff hair into the nape of his neck. “Damn it, stop that,” he said.
“Lukas.”
Her voice was too soft.
“What are you going to do when Scarlett gives up on you? Bonds with another man?” She rested her chin on his shoulder. “Has children with him?”
BAM. BAM. BAM. Knockout blow. He took a shaky breath. “Damn, you fight dirty.”
She stroked the hair at his temple, and then gave it a yank. “I’m just tired of watching you punish yourself for nothing. ‘I should have known better.’ ‘She was too young.’” Sasha threw up her hands. “Bullshit. You’re just scared.”
Lukas stared at her. How did she—this was one secret he thought was tucked way, waaaaay back in the dark corner of the safe, never to see the light of day. He drove his hands into his hair, swore when his fingers got caught in snarls. “I… lost control.”
“You’re supposed to lose control.”
“Yeah, right.” His self-disgust filled the room. “Enough to leave bruises? Her first time? Jesus.”
“Hey, some bruises a woman enjoys earning,” she said with a knowing smile which made him really uncomfortable. “Knowing you caused your man to lose control like that is very empowering. Perform a root cause analysis, Mr. Risk Management. The problem isn’t that you think you hurt her—it’s that she made you lose control in the first place.”
Lukas didn’t respond. She was wrong.
“And I don’t suppose you’ve discussed this with her?” She held up her hand, an expression of disgust on her face. “Why did I even ask? Of course not.” Sasha broke off in frustration, popping him with her fist once again. It felt like a pebble against his bicep, but he wasn’t about to tell her that. “You know, Lukas, some people actually like to make decisions for themselves.”
Lukas finally spoke. “Look at the condition she’s in. Do you really think she’s making good decisions right now?”
“You’re a fine one to talk. Don’t think your family hasn’t noticed that you’re well along the way to burnout yourself. If you stay busy enough, there’s no time to feel, no bandwidth to spare for those pesky emotions.” Wrapping her arms around him from behind, she whispered, “But it doesn’t work for very long, does it?”
No. He allowed himself to lean into her hug for a moment.
“Will you think about it? Think about what could be. And talk to her, Lukas. Talk to her, don’t decide for her.” With a smacking kiss to the back of his head, she removed her arms and walked to the door. “I’m going to sound check. Since you’ve already reeked the place up, you might as well stay awhile. Take a nap, clear your head.” Before he could say a word, she left, closing the door with a snick.
His head was already plenty damn clear, thank you. And if his emotions were buried so damn deep, why was his throat tightening up? Sasha didn’t know shit.
“What could be?” Lukas scoffed aloud. Nothing could be. He’d evaluated all the data, analyzed all the angles and risks, both then and now. Nothing was possible.
Nothing had changed.
But as he sat there in Sasha’s quiet office, the minutes ticking by, he twirled the combination lock on that mental safe and pulled out his most precious memory: he and Scarlett in her bedroom, their youthful bodies writhing together in the moonlit darkness, her siren’s moans luring him closer to the cliffs with every minute that passed. Languorous hours spent stroking her with his body, his hands, his mouth and tongue, learning what she liked, teaching her what her body wanted, her gasp of pain quickly becoming pleasure as she exchanged innocence for knowledge with a single, inevitable stroke of his body. And afterward, Scarlett looking up at him with her luminous eyes, saying simply, “More.”
He’d obliged, until they were both exhausted.
When he’d awakened the next morning, his body was curled around hers, and a place inside him that he hadn’t realized was so parched and thirsty had started to fill. Holding her exhausted body, stroking h
is fingers through her glorious hair, he’d let himself start thinking about a future—until the moment the rising sun illuminated the bruises he’d left on her delicate wrists and pillow-soft breasts. Bruises his massive hands had inflicted as he’d mindlessly lost himself in her untried body.
She’d given him the gift of her innocence, and he’d… hurt her.
His hands clenched into fists against his thighs. Sasha didn’t know the whole story, because if she did, she’d agree that he’d done the right thing by backing off. And if anything, Scarlett was more delicate now than she had been then, a fragile, crystal stem that would snap the minute he wrapped his fingers around her.
No, she was safer without him.
And yeah—he was safer too.
Chapter 7
Stephen shuffled out of the bathroom stall at Crackhouse like an old man, ignoring the PDA vibrating in his pocket, and extended his arm to turn on the faucet. His elbow cracked, and pain shot up to his shoulder. He could practically hear his muscle filaments groan with each movement. If something as simple as washing his hands was this difficult, how the hell would he get through sound check?
Moving cautiously, he sluiced hot water over his face, stole a quick glance at his watch, and swore. There was no time to contact his favorite masseuse to work the kinks from his carcass before sound check.
When he’d woken up, his body had been stiff and tight, like he had rigor mortis, but his first thought had been about his Candy Girl. She’d been responsible for the most sublime sex of his life, and how had he thanked her? By leaving her dead on a cold bathroom floor.
What was he going to do to recapture that feeling again? He’d killed the source of his pleasure.
Standing in the buzzing, fluorescent light of the restroom, Stephen started his warm-up sequence, a series of motions usually as mindless and automatic as walking. Pain zinged down his spine as he shifted his shoulders and scapula. He made himself continue, instinctively disassociating the way he used to when he’d worked on the pleasure cruiser. Small moans escaped as he stretched and flexed, working his pecs, delts, biceps, triceps. Each movement felt like one of those pinching, skin-twisting “snakebites” his older brother used to torment him with when they were young. When Stephen bent his arms at the elbows, they snapped audibly, but he made himself repeat the motion, over and over, and, sure enough, each movement hurt a little less than the previous one. Minutes ticked by as he worked his forearms, wrists, and the small twitch muscles in his hands, palms, and fingers. They felt positively arthritic.
