Who Do You Love (Rock Royalty Book 7)

by Christie Ridgway

  Proving Irish picked only the clever ones for his crew, the prospect touched two fingertips to his forehead and turned away. Yes, sir.

  Cami frowned and squirmed, the wiggle of her ass a provocation against his half-hard dick. His arm tightened around her waist as he lifted his beer to his mouth.

  Her frown deepened. “This possessive act of yours could get annoying.”

  Not an act, he thought, and took a long swallow of beer.

  “‘She’s mine’,” Cami said, lowering her voice in a failed attempt to sound like him. “What’s up with that?”

  “It’s the way of this world,” he said, shrugging. “The world I was raised in.”

  “But you…surely now you know it’s not acceptable to just announce to the world a woman is yours. A woman’s her own person.”

  Eamon set his beer on the table. Then he took her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing her cheeks as he stared into her eyes. Her hand reached out to clutch the front of his shirt, and he leaned in to take her mouth in a long, tender kiss. When he lifted his head, she looked dazed, and he rubbed the moisture from her bottom lip.

  “Isn’t that what you want, a ghrá?” he whispered. “To belong to a man?”

  She huffed, a small sound signaling irritation, but her face was flushed again, and she wasn’t trying to escape his lap any longer. Her gaze slid away from his. “Well, I’m certainly learning new things about you tonight.”

  “Yeah?” He took up his beer. “Let’s be real, babe. You know I’m a take-charge kind of man.”

  Her flush darkened. “I’m talking about more than that.”

  “You got off on my domineering ways in bed.”

  “Eamon!” She glanced around in obvious fear of eavesdroppers.

  He laughed. “Another thing about this world…no shame, sweetness. If they find out you like me tying you up, they’ll volunteer the bungee cords they use to fasten things down on the back of their bikes.”

  Her eyes flared wide in alarm, as if he’d already called across the room to Irish or Linc to supply sex aids. He felt her body heat. “You can’t…you won’t…” she stammered out.

  Fuck, no wonder he’d fallen so hard. What an endearing bundle of innocence and eagerness she was. He bussed her burning cheek then chucked her under the chin. “You’re too easy.”

  She relaxed, and he laughed again then leaned to her ear. “Bungee cords…never,” he whispered. “They might leave marks on your beautiful skin.”

  Maybe he’d gone too far, because her spine shot straight and she slid him a censuring look. “I wasn’t talking about anything like that,” she said, voice and posture prim.

  He adjusted them on the chair so that he was sitting with his shoulders to the wall. Cami sat sideways across his lap, and he could watch her face as well as the action going on in the bar. The group around his father had grown, and it was a typical rowdy night—drinking, laughter, bullshit being exchanged.

  And typical, too, was his position outside the circle. The familiar melancholy began to cast a shadow over his mellow mood.

  “…about your return to the biker community.”

  He tuned back in to Cami’s conversation. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “Linc told me. That you went to a fancy private boarding school when you were fourteen, and he thought he’d never see you again.”

  Frowning, Eamon glanced over at his old buddy. They’d been close as brothers growing up. It had been just another blow to leave Linc behind as well as Irish and the rest of the club to attend the elite school in the San Francisco Bay Area.

  “My mother insisted. It was when she and Irish were divorcing, and he wouldn’t fight her on it.”

  None of them had battled Samantha Rooney on any point whatsoever, not after what she’d suffered. Irish had taken the loss of his beloved wife as his punishment for what happened, and Eamon had lived as a fish-out-of-water for four years and accepted permanent exile from the club as his. But Eamon didn’t think Linc would have mentioned those particular details—even to his old best friend’s “woman.”

  “But then you went on to become a lawyer,” Cami said.

  He grimaced. Maybe not his best decision, but he’d still been trying to make things up to Samantha. Even then, he continued to have nightmares so real he could smell his mother’s blood and hear her moan as she slid to the floor, one hand reaching out for him.

  Since he hadn’t been the son to save her, he’d figured the least he could do was be the one who attempted to fulfill the dreams she had for him. “Turns out I’m a lousy lawyer.”

  “That’s not true.” Cami frowned. “Just because you like the P.I. angle more doesn’t mean you’re not helping people.”

  “My partner, Spence, has a do-gooder side. I think it rubbed off.”

  “Oh, I suppose that might be why no fewer than six people stopped me tonight to tell me how you helped them with their legal troubles.”

  “This demographic has more legal troubles than most,” he muttered, lifting his beer.

  “Or maybe,” Cami continued, “it’s like Linc says, and what you do is your way of remaining loyal to the club and to the life.”

  Eamon’s hand froze, beer midway to his mouth. “Linc said that?”

  “Your father agreed.”

  His gaze shot to the table filled with members of Irish’s MC. His father pounded the table, underscoring some point, and those crowded around him broke into laughter. It made Eamon smile, enjoying the sight of Irish in his element, and of the people he’d grown up loving still living loud and proud.

  And he did what he could to help with that when necessary.

  What you do is your way of remaining loyal to the club and to the life.

  Huh. Eamon brought his beer to his lips and took a long swallow. Then he leaned the back of his head against the wall and let the beer wash through him, the happy noise of the crowd and the warm weight of his woman chasing away the darkness hanging over him. For the first time since he’d been fourteen, he didn’t feel as if he was standing so far outside the circle of family.

  With Cami tucked close to his side, he liked his place here just fine.

  Chapter 10

  Cami tried ignoring the tension wafting off Eamon as he prowled the dressing room in the small club on a side street off Sunset Boulevard. “I don’t think this is a good idea,” he muttered, not for the first time.

  “I think it’s great idea,” she said, in a tone full of cheer.

  It was true, she was happy to be preparing to perform. A step toward normal. Previously, she’d managed to find substitutes for the couple of gigs she’d had scheduled, but when another performer came up with laryngitis, she’d told Eamon she was going on stage.

  “And anyway,” she added, eyeing him as he took another turn. “Your dad and his crew are going to be here tonight. Irish said he wants to see me play.”

  Eamon shook his head. “Just what you need. A bunch of bikers in the crowd.”

  “Have your forgotten who and what happened in my back yard growing up? Your club isn’t going to tarnish my crown, Eamon. You know I don’t have one.”

  He muttered something under his breath but grabbed up a water and downed half of it instead of saying more out loud.

  Then knuckles knocked on the door, and it was time for her to hit the stage.

  “I’ll be right behind you,” Eamon said, holding the door open for her. “You need me, you only have to look over your shoulder.”

  She tried not to think how she liked the sound of that. Instead, she concentrated on the pleasant flutter of nerves in her belly—the foreplay of a performance.

  As usual, she slipped onto the stool while the stage was unlit and the club dark. It gave her another moment to anticipate beginning and she inhaled, breathing in air and the energy of the crowd. There was a new buzz in the atmosphere tonight, or maybe that was the unfamiliar fizz in her bloodstream at the idea that Eamon wasn’t in the black void before her, but instead at her back. />
  She’d decided upon tonight’s set list during the afternoon, but now she closed her eyes and gave her mental roulette wheel a spin. Then her fingers began plucking a tune, and the spotlight washed over her as she started to sing a cover of “First Day of My Life” by Bright Eyes.

  The crowd appreciated the song, if she could judge by the applause, even though it was one of her quieter openings. To ramp it up, next she played a kick-ass country tune that brought the audience into the palm of her hand. The last chord inspired several ear-splitting whistles, and she grinned, pretty sure the Unrulies were having their say.

  She relaxed and enjoyed herself throughout the remainder of the first set, interspersing originals with covers and ending it with her signature interpretation of “Motherless Children.” As she held the final note, the spotlight flipped off, and she disappeared behind the curtain, only to find Eamon there, with a fresh bottle of water and a half-smile on his face.

  “You’re killing it,” he said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

  With a nod, she moved past him, needing a moment to herself.

  He let her have her space, bless him. But short minutes later it was time to hit the stage again, and he grabbed her hand as she walked by. He turned her to him, placed a kiss on her forehead, and another on her cheek. “Go.”

  The touch, the kisses, the encouragement acted like caffeine. She jumped onto the stool and set off in a fast and wild rendition of Chris Young’s “I’m Comin’ Over.” If the song hit a little close to home—why put out a burning fire?—she focused on giving the words a confident, devil-may-care attitude.

  Another fan favorite, she noted, as the audience applauded with enthusiasm.

  She worked her way through her list, and then, a small smile on her face, began performing a song that was new to her. Little Big Town’s “Girl Crush.” Moving her mouth close to the mic, she gave it a sultry, just-short-of-campy vibe, and as she’d suspected, the bikers made noise at the end.

  A woman yelled out as it died down. “Stand Up Sisters!”

  Cami froze, and her smile fell off her face. “Stand Up Sisters,” the song she’d written about her break-up with Eamon. The last time she’d sung the words, she’d imagined him in the audience, learning just how little she cared for the shabby way he’d treated her.

  Tonight, she didn’t want to remember that.

  But then she pinned her smile back in place. She was a professional performer, after all, and someone in the crowd had a request.

  Go, she heard in her head in Eamon’s voice. He’d said that and, soon enough, he’d do that once again.

  Go.

  Closing her eyes, she began to play.

  You did it, you broke through

  I should have been smarter when it came to you

  Your goodbye struck hard, sliced deep

  So cold, you made me weep.

  Then a second verse, as plaintive as the first. Now her voice gained in volume and strength, and she looked into the audience in the direction of that woman’s voice.

  Stand up sisters, we’ll start a trend

  No time for tears, even less for revenge

  We’ll move on and that ice blade

  Will freeze the heart that he unmade.

  She slid off the stool, to stand on her booted feet, shoulders square, her first and so-loyal love cradled in her arms.

  Stronger, colder, better

  We’ll be free from him, girls, and finally free from silly dreams.

  As before, the females in the audience loved the girl-power ballad. It was a high-energy note on which to end the night.

  She signaled to cut the spotlight, then strode to the curtains, ignoring the calls for an encore. Pushing through the thick fabric, she nearly walked right into Eamon. He pressed a water into her hand, then she noted the grim expression on his face.

  “I didn’t…” he started, then shook his head. “I hate that I…”

  Before, she’d wanted him to know what the break-up had done to her and how she’d come out stronger than ever. But she didn’t feel strong in the face of his concern.

  “Eamon…”

  “I fucked up,” he said. “From that very first night.”

  “Don’t—”

  “I took something from you. That dreamer…I never intended to crush her spirit.”

  Out in the club, the crowd was stomping and calling for her return to the stage. Cami set the bottle of water aside and reached up to stroke his hard cheek. “Her spirit’s still alive and well, I promise.”

  A lie. Because though the dreamer’s heart might continue beating, her spirit had grown leaden feet. Experience had lassoed her most romantic flights of fancy and tethered them to the earth.

  That might not be so bad—sadder but wiser and all that—yet Eamon’s remorseful expression made her ache.

  “What we had…there were some great moments. Great…fun, right?” She looked down at her boots then up at him again. She could make this better. “Let me change the mood, okay? Didn’t you say your dad is an Eddie Vedder fan?”

  Before her resolve deserted her, she turned around and found her way to her stool once again.

  “With a shout-out to Irish Rooney,” she said, and the spotlight flipped back on. “Here’s Pearl Jam’s ‘Just Breathe’.”

  Then she stripped off everything and sang what was in her heart.

  Afterward, after the applause and the gathering of her instruments and the ride back to Malibu, as was often the case, Cami couldn’t settle. She and Eamon hadn’t discussed any more about their past or her night’s performance—for which she was grateful—but that didn’t mean her mind had quieted.

  Poking her head out her bedroom door, she assessed the situation. It seemed Eamon had retreated to his own room, too, making it safe for her to head toward the balcony and the ocean view. Grabbing up a thick blanket, she tiptoed out the sliding glass door hoping to find some serenity.

  The silver disc of moon looked pasted to the night-and-stars sky. She settled onto one of the loungers, snuggling beneath the blanket. And though the sound of the surf should have had a soporific affect, a carousel of revolving thoughts kept her awake.

  What if she’d never met Eamon?

  What if she’d resisted wicked impulse and not fallen into their secretive and ill-fated affair?

  And would she ever become accustomed to the Cami she was as the result of that affair and break-up? There was a bitter and sharp thorn now embedded in her heart that sometimes made it hard to breathe.

  Could she ever trust herself not to make another egregious error in judgement?

  Stupid, silly dreamer.

  Could she ever forgive that woman who’d been her?

  “Hey.”

  Her head whipped around to see Eamon standing in the small slice of doorway that she’d left open. Barefoot and shirtless. She supposed he’d just rolled out of bed and pulled on his jeans.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Did I wake you?”

  “Your thoughts sound like bumper cars colliding at the arcade.”

  She grimaced. “I’m okay.”

  “I started you a bath.”

  Her fingers clutched the blanket. “Eamon—”

  “In the master,” he said. “The window above the tub overlooks the ocean. You can hear the surf.”

  “That’s really kind of you.” Cruel! It brought to mind other nights, other baths, when her romantic dreams had floated like soap bubbles above the surface of the water, intact and glistening with rainbows. What a fool. “But no thanks.”

  He didn’t appear to hear. Instead, Eamon’s “domineering ways” kicked in. Without a by-your-leave, he managed to pull her from her blanket nest and half-carried her toward the master suite—master, being the operative word, she supposed.

  “You know…”

  Her objection trailed off as she glimpsed the huge tub topped with cloudy mounds of bubbles. A bath pillow sat waiting for her head at one end and, yes, she could hear the
surf through the half-open window that let in a breath of salty air to contrast with the delicious, flowery fragrance steaming off the heated water.

  His hands squeezed her shoulders, giving them a massage, and he chuckled when she let out a tiny whimper.

  “Gotcha,” he said in her ear.

  She tried gathering the will to move away from his magic fingers. But the knots had tightened into vicious coils since the first regrets struck after she’d closed the show with the Vedder encore. But she’d turned some of her inner world over to the man, so why not her overtight muscles?

  Silly dreamer, still not knowing to protect herself.

  After a few minutes, he touched his mouth to the top of her head.

  “Better now. So get in before the water gets a chance to cool.”

  She glanced at him over her shoulder, but he was already exiting the bathroom, pulling the door shut behind him.

  And she could berate herself inside the steam and liquid heat just as easily as outside it, she decided. Her yoga pants, t-shirt, and underwear were thrown off in an instant. Then she poked a foot in the water, hitching in a breath as her chilled toes met the change in temperature.

  With another quick glance at the door, she sat her bare butt on the cool tiled edge then swung her legs, followed by the rest of her, into the bath. Sucking in another breath, she stilled, allowing herself to become accustomed to the heat. Within seconds she could move again, and she scooted toward one end of the immense tub, positioning her head on the waiting pillow and stretching the rest of her along the slick bottom surface.

  “Ahh,” she whispered, closing her eyes.

  Some of her tension seeped away. But it only seemed to make her more aware of that spike skewered in the center of her heart. One hand fisted, and she bumped the side of it against the edge of the tub. Nothing in her Laurel Canyon childhood—the one filled with self-indulgence and dissipation and never anything close to monogamy—should have built in her an expectation that when a tempting stranger walked into her life he could spell for her something other than trouble.

  That he might spell forever.