Make Me: The Black Lilith Series #3

by Hazel Jacobs

  Sersha snorts. “Not even close. Black Lilith got that Grammy nom a few weeks after I got the job. It’s just weird, I guess. I’ve seen Dash cry over Star Trek.”

  Dash is currently being draped by women and giving the cameras they’re holding a smoldering look.

  Security finally arrives. The fans are moved on and Black Lilith’s flight is called. Harper, Mikayla and Sersha lead the way to the gate and climb into their seats. Harper had never even been within spitting distance of first class before she came to Manhattan. Now she’s flown first class three times in a month. Dash takes the seat next to her. Slate sits across the aisle from him. Sersha and Tommy already have their heads bowed over a notebook, arguing adorably over some metaphor that Tommy thinks should be worded differently, while Mikayla and Logan have their fingers entwined over the armrest between them.

  As they do their pre-flight checks, some of the flight attendants give Slate considering looks. He’s taken off his leather jacket and his muscular arms are on display. Once the plane is in the air, one of them gathers the courage to approach him, swaying her hips a little so that the skin-tight outfit she’s wearing shows off her curves. She steps up to his seat and leans over so that he gets the full view of her cleavage.

  “Can I get you anything else, sir?” she asks.

  She says sir in a husky voice that makes Harper wonder if she’d practiced it a couple of times to get the tone right before she came over.

  Slate looks up and gives her a smile. “No thanks, I’m fine.”

  It’s not exactly impolite. But it’s not warm, either. It’s a careful, neutral statement that betrays nothing, and his eyes are on her face for a whole two seconds before he’s turning away, pulling the in-flight magazine out of the pouch in front of him and flipping to the first article. Dash gives him a strange look as the flight attendant hesitates, clearly unsure of what to do now.

  Finally, the woman leaves. When the seatbelt sign comes on, Slate unbuckles his belt and walks to the bathroom, wobbling a little when the plane hits some turbulence. Harper watches him go, paying particular attention to the flight attendant who’d taken an interest in him, but as far as she can tell Slate doesn’t acknowledge her.

  When Slate is out of ear-shot, Dash swivels around to look at Harper.

  “Okay, here’s the deal. That’s literally the first time I’ve seen Slate not hit on a sexy woman. Flirting is like breathing for him.”

  “Mmm?” Harper says. She’s not sure what she’s expected to say to that.

  “He hit on both Mikayla and Sersha when he met them. Fuck he even hit on Tommy when he met him.”

  Harper snorts, trying to lighten the mood. “Who wouldn’t?”

  Dash gives her a wry smile but it doesn’t last long. He goes straight back to serious in the blink of an eye, and Harper is left to wonder how she didn’t know this side of him. Usually, personal trainers get to the serious side of a client within a few sessions. Until now, Dash has only ever shown her tired, distracted, and amused.

  “You know he’s crazy about you.”

  Harper snorts. “Sometimes it’s hard to believe it.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Dash says. He cranes his head around to make sure that Slate is still in the bathroom. Then he leans over to speak quickly, clearly worried that Slate will return and cut off their conversation before he’s had the chance to say what he wants to say. “Slate’s kind of appointed himself the band love guru. He got Tommy and Sersha together, he got Logan and Mikayla together. Hell, he helped me lose my virginity. He’s spent half his life building up this image of the cool bad boy rockstar who likes to party and fuck, and doesn’t take life seriously.”

  Harper is nodding along. She’d known that Slate got the other band members their girlfriends, though the way he’d told the story makes her think he might have exaggerated some parts of it. And the idea that he’s still trying to work his shit out was something she’d figured out on her own.

  “Why are you telling me this?” Harper asks.

  Dash gives her a sad look. “Like I said, Slate’s put a lot of energy into helping the people he loves find someone special. So maybe I think it’s about time someone returned the favor.”

  “But… you’re single?”

  “Logan’s my brother. Mikayla’s his soulmate. They would never have gotten their shit together without Slate.”

  Harper realizes that she’s felt this way before. When she sees puppies and kittens and kids who share their ice-cream.

  “If Slate’s still working out his feelings and what he wants, there’s not a lot I can do about it,” Harper says.

  “I know,” Dash says, quickly glancing over his shoulder again. He spins around fast and leans over to speak right into her ear. “Look, I’m working on it, okay? Just don’t give up on him. Hang in there. I promise, he’s worth it.”

  And then he pulls away and presses his back to his seat, whipping his phone out his pocket and pretending to scroll through as Slate returns and plunks himself into his seat again. Harper is left to turn her eyes to the back of the chair in front of her. She glances at her watch and sighs. Still a few hours to Vegas.

  That’s a lot of time to think.

  Harper seriously needs a smoke before she kills someone.

  It doesn’t help that people are smoking all around her. It doesn’t help that there’s literally an ashtray in the center of the table she’s sitting at, the dark room and pulsing music bending and softening with cigarette smoke, as people inhale and exhale while they listen and move their heads. It doesn’t help that Slate is sitting so close that she can feel every dip and curve of his muscled arms as he moves a bottle up to his lips.

  “Night clubs suck,” Tommy shouts from beside Slate.

  The club they’ve found themselves at is ‘celeb-friendly,’ meaning that they keep the paparazzi out and no one is allowed to go into fangirl mode while they’re here. There are still women eyeing off Slate and the rest of the band. Harper can’t tell if they’re actually famous themselves or if they got in because they know someone. Harper sure as hell isn’t famous. She’s just attached herself to Black Lilith like a very confused parasite.

  Logan and Mikayla are on the dance floor, grinding slowly to the music with their eyes closed and their bodies entwined. Dash is dancing like a complete dork in the center of the floor, a pretty dark-haired woman with ebony skin laughing at him as he goes. Tommy and Slate are guarding the table, with Sersha and Harper at their sides. Harper refuses to think about how this is similar to a double-date.

  Slate looks good. He’s left his leather jacket at home, opting for a blazer with the sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms and jeans that should be illegal. His hair is falling in his face in a way that makes Harper scrunch her fingers into a fist so she isn’t tempted to reach over and brush it out of his eyes.

  “You’re right,” Sersha shouts back at Tommy, patting him consolingly on the thigh.

  Slate’s tapping his feet in time with the music. Harper actually hates clubs—but thinks dancing is great cardio. She’d tried her best not to notice that Slate had opted for a low-calorie beer instead of his usual Red Bull. It doesn’t mean anything. Nothing at all.

  “Hi.”

  Harper and Slate turn. The woman behind them hadn’t shouted loud enough for Tommy and Sersha to hear her.

  She’s gorgeous, though Harper thinks it’s mostly makeup. Her face has that too-perfect quality that can only be achieved with rigorous contouring, which is something that Harper’s never been able to master. Even though Harper had heard the woman speak, she clearly hadn’t been meant to. She has eyes only for Slate.

  “You’re Slate, right? The drummer from Black Lilith?”

  “On my better days,” Slate shouts back, leaning on the table with his elbow and giving the woman his attention. His legs are turned toward Harper. “Can I help you?”

  “You wanna get out of here?” she asks, giving him a significant look.

  So much for beating
around the bush, Harper thinks. She looks over at Tommy and Sersha, who still haven’t noticed the intruder. It does look like a double-date. In fact, there’s no reason for this woman to think that Slate isn’t here with Harper. She’d just come over and presented herself to Slate as if Harper didn’t exist, as if even if Harper and Slate were there together it would be no impediment for her.

  Harper has to admire her nerve, even as she wants the earth to open up and swallow her whole.

  She hadn’t dressed sexy. She didn’t want to. She’s wearing ballet flats with jeans and a nice top, just like what Sersha is wearing. Mikayla had gone a little fancier. But it isn’t until Harper gets a good look at the woman hitting on Slate, dressed in a skirt and top that looks like it was sewn onto her body, that she feels underdressed. Even frumpy.

  Sliding out of her seat, Harper heads toward the bar so she doesn’t have to hear Slate’s response. Then, halfway to the bar, she decides that she’s tired.

  Pulling out her phone, she sends a quick text to Sersha and Mikayla to let them know that she’s heading back to the hotel. They’ve been wonderful, really making an effort to make Harper feel like part of the Black Lilith family, but it’s hard to feel that way when they have romantic connections to the band and she doesn’t.

  She takes one last look at Slate, through the dark and the noise and the cigarette smoke. He’s still talking to the woman. He doesn’t even seem to have noticed that Harper had left.

  “I will not feel sorry for myself,” she says firmly, safe in the knowledge that no one is close enough to hear her talking to no one. “I refuse to feel sorry for myself.”

  She heads outside, past the crowded line of people waiting to be let into the club, and hails a cab.

  The band got a suite at Red Rock Casino, which had horrified Harper when she first laid eyes on it. The curved cream building practically drips with decadence, and the suites that Mikayla had arranged are bigger than Harper’s family home twice over. But the gym is something to take Harper’s breath away. So when the cabbie drops her off in front of the hotel she goes straight there, saying a friendly hello to the Concierge as she passes because she doesn’t want to be one of those assholes who never acknowledges the help. She’s not dressed for the gym, but she’s less interested in a proper work-out and more interested in forgetting her problems.

  Downstairs, the gym is fully mirrored and deserted. Most of the hotel guests are probably either at the slot machines or hitting up the nightclubs like Black Lilith did within moments of their arrival. For a trip that’s supposed to help them unwind, they’re certainly not doing much relaxing.

  Harper climbs onto an elliptical, sets it to maximum resistance, and starts working. Her jeans immediately feel tight and restrictive on her thighs, but she pushes through. She hadn’t even bothered to stretch. What is wrong with her?

  She keeps an eye on the clock. She evens out her breathing so she’s taking breaths in five-second intervals. At the ten minute mark, she feels a hand on her shoulder.

  “Shit Slate… I didn’t even hear you come in. Jesus.”

  He shouldn’t have been able to sneak up on her, but she’d been so focused on the timer that she hadn’t even noticed his reflection in the mirror.

  “Everything all right?” he asks, frowning at her. “You left without saying goodbye.”

  Harper climbs off the elliptical. She hadn’t even had the chance to break into a sweat. In fact, only working for ten minutes has had the opposite effect on what she’d intended. She’s all wound up now, with a tidal wave of pent-up energy in her chest and arms, waiting in vain to be released.

  “I was tired,” she says. “How did you know where I was?”

  “The Concierge.”

  Fuck it, from now on I’m going to be an asshole, she thinks.

  She steps around Slate, ever conscious of the way he smells like he’s bathed in chocolate. The memory of their kiss from the wedding hits her in that instant—unwanted, unwelcome. A reminder of the way he’d held her close and buried himself in her mouth. It makes her want to whimper and press herself close.

  “I was worried,” he says, following her to the elevator that will take them back to the room. She slides in as the elevator doors close and she’s trapped in there with his scent.

  Does he know what that does to her? Probably not.

  “Harper… are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. More than fine. I’m great.”

  “You look a little strung out.” He frowns even harder and reaches out to grab her chin and pull it up so that he can see into her eyes. “Your pupils are dilated. Did someone slip you something?”

  His immediate concern is touching, and for a moment Harper has to ask herself if that is, in fact, what happened. Is she under the influence right now?

  “I didn’t even drink anything,” she says. She pushes his hand away. She’s not under the influence of any drugs. Just Slate. “Pupils dilate for other reasons, you know.”

  Slate’s eyes flutter closed and he looks chagrined as he turns back to the elevator doors. Harper feels the familiar swoop of the elevators rising, taking them up to Black Lilith’s suites.

  Mikayla rented out an entire floor for them. Because Black Lilith is such a big deal now that apparently they need the privacy. There are also a couple of security guards waiting outside of the elevator when Harper and Slate arrive and the doors open. Slate gives them both a nod as they pass on their way to the suite that Harper shares with Slate and Dash—the only two single men.

  “I know I’m being an idiot,” Slate says when the door is closed and they’re alone.

  The suite is all white and gold and it makes him look even better in his casual blazer and jeans. Harper wonders if the sweat from her brief workout has ruined her makeup before she remembers that she’d barely been wearing any. And even if it had, she still wouldn’t have been able to compete with the woman who’d been chatting up Slate when she’d left the club.

  “Why are you even here?” Harper asks. “That woman you were talking to seemed like she’d be much better company than me.”

  “That… Harper, I turned her down,” Slate says. He takes off his blazer and Harper wants to slap him in his beautiful face. It was hard enough to pay attention to what he was saying when he wasn’t showing off the size of his shoulders and the perfect curve of his abs beneath a plain white shirt. “Then I turned around and you were gone. Don’t tell me you left because you were jealous?”

  “Why would I be jealous? There’s nothing to be jealous of. You’ve made it abundantly clear that you don’t want me. And that woman—whatever her name was—seemed to be offering. Honestly, it’s no contest.” But it’s not true. They’ve already established that he wants her. It feels good to lash out when she’s still wound-up from the interrupted workout.

  “Harper…” Slate lets out a frustrated noise and runs a hand through his hair.

  Harper decides she can’t take it anymore. She’s done taking it. She doesn’t want to feel this way, to be wondering what his feelings are and wondering what she can do to make him forget his so-called chivalry and accept the way that he feels.

  “Slate, don’t you fucking move.”

  She surges forward, grabs his face and presses her lips against his. When he gasps she takes the chance and plunges her tongue in his mouth. Within a moment, he’s got his arms around her and he’s lifting her off of her feet as he kisses her back groaning with full-force.

  Finally.

  Harper feels his kiss right down the middle of her spine. This is exactly what she needed. Not a half-hearted workout still dressed in jeans, but a kiss from the man who has been giving her nothing but sleepless nights and erotic dreams for weeks. This is what she’s been needing since the moment they met.

  Slate pulls back suddenly, and Harper lets out a frustrated growl.

  “Oh, come on,” she says.

  “Not here,” he whispers.

  He’s still holding her up, and when he looks at
her and she looks down at him she can see the pure want in his gaze, the way his pupils have blown out to make his eyes almost demonically black. His hands grip her so tightly that she can already feel the delicious pain that promises bruises.

  He carries her to her room. Slate tosses her on the bed, and immediately climbs on top of her to draw her into another searing kiss.

  Harper groans, raising her hips to press against him, and when she feels his erection through his jeans she reaches down to cup him, earning a short, hitched groan.

  “If you leave me hanging this time,” she mutters into the kiss. “I’ll cut it off.”

  Slate grins. She can feel it in the way his lips move against hers. He reaches down to grab her hands, slamming them up so that they’re on either side of her head.

  He pulls back to look at her. To really look. Harper feels suddenly exposed under his gaze, but she meets it firmly with one of her own.

  “You’re fucking gorgeous. And terrifying.”

  Slate presses her into the bed. For a man who’d carried her into the bedroom and thrown her onto the bed, he doesn’t seem to be in any hurry. On the contrary. He seems happy to be grinding his hips languidly against hers while he kisses her. Exploring her mouth as though he’s never kissed anyone before, as though this is all new to him, and as though there’s nowhere in the world he would rather be than right here, right now, on top of her.

  Harper loses herself into the kiss. She’d been impatient to begin with, but this feels so much more important than getting off. This feels intimate in ways that sex never could. The more he kisses her, the more she feels herself warming up, almost melting into the gentle caress of his fingers around hers.

  A sudden, inexplicable thought occurs to her. She can’t help but laugh.

  “What’s funny?” Slate asks, licking up her neck playfully. He’s got a lazy grin on his face that makes Harper want to melt.

  “Kissing’s more intimate than sex,” Harper tells him, laying her head back and relaxing her body, feeling utterly safe in his arms. “Something Vivian Ward told Edward Lewis.”