Hinder (An Off Track Records Novel)

by Kacey Shea

  Austin doesn’t seem insulted or derailed by Trent’s opinion and whispers something else to Opal that makes her laugh.

  I trudge to the bathroom and crank the shower. Peeling off the stretchy black jeans and my underwear, I step into the hot stream and with more gusto than necessary scrub the sweat from my skin and wash my hair. It shouldn’t bother me. I shouldn’t care. But I fucking hate that Austin and Opal are alone right now. Which is stupid.

  She’s not mine. She’s obviously with him, though the thought of it drives me mad. There’s no way someone like him treats her right. I saw the way he flirted with all the VIP ticket holders after the show. Right in front of Opal, too. Sure, the women were gorgeous, but they had the piranha vibe I’m all too familiar with. Users. Women looking for a step up or maybe just a loaded baby daddy. I might not be used to the rock star attention, but it doesn’t matter if you’re famous or born with a silver spoon, there are always women who will exploit their assets to get what they want.

  Dressing quickly, I bang the door open with more force than necessary and fake a harsh cough. If Opal and Austin are sucking face, or worse, I don’t want to see it.

  “Can I get in there?” Sean says at my back and I startle, not expecting him to be there.

  “Yeah, sure.” I shuffle out with my dirty clothes, surprised to find the area empty. Laughter and the murmur of voices come from outside the bus, but I don’t feel like joining everyone yet. Blowing out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, I try to relax. I reach one hand over my shoulder and rub at the back of my neck. The shower clicks on, the rush of water heard through the wall.

  “Hey.” Trent bounds up the steps and back inside the bus. “Shower free?”

  “Sean’s in there.”

  “Cool. Everyone’s outside.” Trent gives my back a pat as he passes through to his room in the back of the bus.

  My fingers tap at my side, and my stomach grumbles loudly. God, I hope we go somewhere good. The fine dining and cuisine San Francisco has to offer is outstanding, but I can’t say I’ve wandered the city past midnight before. All my prior trips here were with my parents.

  Walking over to the kitchen, I pull open different drawers and cabinets. I’m hungry. I’m irritable. I’m coming down from the stage high, and if we don’t leave soon I’m going to eat this entire box of crackers and then pass out from the carb overload. “God! What’s taking so long? I’m starving!” I mutter to myself.

  “You hungry? I can whip something up.” Opal’s sweet voice interrupts from behind, simultaneously kicking up my excitement and slowing my racing thoughts.

  I turn to meet her stare. “Cinnamon buns?”

  She laughs and though it’s still guarded, her smile lights up her face. “Those take a while. Something else?”

  “Honestly? I could eat my hand right now and it’d taste good.”

  “Worked up an appetite, huh?” she says with a soft grin, careful to slide past my body without brushing against me. I try not to dwell on the disappointment at her guardedness. “Hmm . . .” She stares at the rows of ingredients. “How about biscuits?”

  My stomach rumbles loudly. “That’s a yes.”

  She giggles, and I swear the sound does something to me, because instantly my lips pull into a grin. Without another word she busies herself, dropping flour, milk, and a few other things into a ceramic bowl.

  “These won’t take too long.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Of course.” She mixes the ingredients with an ease and practice that cannot be faked. She doesn’t look at her phone or reference a cookbook either. I admit I haven’t spent much time watching anyone prepare meals, but it’s clear she’s done this often enough that it comes naturally.

  A roar of laughter and boisterous conversation from outside draws her attention. Opal glances at the door, and then at me with an entertained smile before setting the bowl to the side and dusting the counter with flour. “I had a hankering for these myself; gives me an excuse to make them. Sorry, I won’t have time to make gravy, too.”

  “I don’t know how to make toast,” I deadpan but it’s the truth.

  She laughs, a sound I realize I’m eager to hear again. With the dough flattened, she cuts out circular shapes and sets them on a pan.

  “Where’d you learn to cook like this?” I don’t know anyone my age who can cook.

  Her lips pinch together before she answers, and if I hadn’t been staring I wouldn’t have noticed. “My Grams.”

  A real family. For the second time today my heart pangs for a life I never had. One with nurturing grandparents, family gatherings in which the hired caterer wasn’t the greatest priority. One with laughter and love. I shake my head at my own ridiculousness. No one feels sorry for the rich boy who wasn’t hugged enough, and I’m not about to start.

  Opal places the pan into the oven. “Okay, these’ll only take a few minutes.”

  The sight of flour spread on the counter, a small mess compared to yesterday, kicks my hands into action. Here she is making me food, and I’m standing around like an idiot. I should at least clean up.

  I reach for a towel and wet it from the sink.

  Down the hall the shower shuts off, doors bang open and shut, and then the shower clicks on again, but neither Trent nor Sean emerge. I’m not ready to share my time with Opal, and secretly delight at their distance. Squeezing the extra water from the towel, I wipe it along the counter.

  “Oh, you don’t have to—”

  I lift my gaze to Opal, her voice halting mid-sentence at my raised eyebrows. “It’s the least I can do.”

  “Okay,” she says, almost breathless.

  My entire body tingles with awareness at the sound. As I wipe the counters clean, my mind wrestles up dirty images of Opal on top of this counter. Her wearing nothing more than that damn apron again, legs spread wide and pussy open for me to feast on. Shit. My dick presses against my jeans, a thick outline begging to be set free. I shake my head and intentionally imagine my mother’s disappointed face as I told her I was joining a rock band. My erection shrinks back and I’m all good when I turn back to meet Opal’s sweet smile.

  “Did you enjoy yourself?”

  I open my mouth, confused and also scared she’s a mind reader in addition to a talented cook.

  “The show. Tonight. Did you like being on stage?”

  Oh. That. “Loved every second.”

  “I was surprised.” She meets my gaze and grins. “The way you looked.”

  “Oh, yeah.” I chuckle and scrub a hand over my now makeup-free face. “Nineteen nineties called and they want their eyeliner back.”

  “No!” she says but lets loose a trail of soft laughter. “I think you looked good.”

  “You did?” Interesting. I quirk my head and meet her stare. Did she think I looked as good as she looks to me right now? Not possible. But if she’s attracted to me in the least, then that’s a start.

  Her mouth falls open as if she might answer my question, but a timer pings.

  “Biscuits,” she whispers and turns away from my gaze. She pulls the flakey bread from the oven and sets them on the counter.

  The scent alone causes my mouth to water.

  “This bus smells way too good.” Trent pokes his head around the corner, running a towel over his wet hair. He snags one of the biscuits from the pan, taking a bite that scalds considering how he chews, mouth open and fast. Instead of another bite, he sets it down on the counter and grabs a water bottle from the fridge. “Did you make these?”

  “Just a li’l something I whipped up,” I say.

  “Smartass,” he retorts, rolling his eyes before settling into one of the chairs. He turns to Opal with a smile. “They’re really good.”

  “Thank you.” She beams, dishing the rest onto a cooling rack.

  “I’m starving. Who are we still waiting on?” Austin strides back inside. “Holy fuck. Are these—?” He swipes one of the biscuits and takes a bite. He moans as his mouth sinks
around the bread. “Babe. My God!” He finishes the damn thing in three bites and reaches for another with one hand. His free hand brushes her hip, the touch familiar and intimate. “These are amazing.”

  I step forward, nearly knocking into Austin as I reach for a biscuit before they’re all gone. “She didn’t make them for you,” I grumble and shove the bread into my mouth. It’s rude, but I don’t care. I haven’t eaten since this morning—nerves from before the show stealing my appetite—and my patience is thin, especially with a front seat to watch Austin put the moves on Opal while he eats the food she made for me.

  “Chill, man.” He takes another off the rack and tosses it at me.

  I catch it, but the entire exchange sours my mood and Opal won’t even look at me. I take a gigantic bite. Good God, these are delicious. Not that I expect anything less. I tip my chin at Trent. “We leaving or what?”

  Trent nods. “Sean! Come on, man! Call her back later!”

  “Her?” I raise my brow, this news to me. “I didn’t know he had a girlfriend.”

  “Doesn’t. They’re just friends who love each other.” Trent chuckles.

  “I think it’s sweet.” Opal says.

  “Dude would wife her tomorrow if she’d let him.” Austin rolls his eyes. “Poor bastard.”

  I catch Opal stiffen at his words in just the slightest. Good girl. Stay far, far away from this asshole. Not that I’d be any better. Hell, I am not looking to get twisted up on some girl, even one as compelling as Opal. Yet there’s this need to protect her, to keep her away from anyone who might hurt her, and it’s the strangest thing. I’ve only ever cared about myself.

  13

  Opal

  “Come on, Sean! Time’s a wastin’.” Austin’s shouts surely reach the far end of the bus.

  “I’m coming! Jesus!” Sean says, coming to a stop when he finds everyone gathered in the small kitchen. “What’s this, a tea party?”

  “Opal made snacks.”

  Sean’s eyes bulge with interest. “Yum.”

  Trent snags a roll and shoves it in Sean’s hands. “One for the road. We wait any longer and everything good is gonna be closed.”

  “Fuck yeah. Let’s do this.” Austin slides out of the kitchen and he’s the first one out the door. Everyone else follows, but Trent hangs back.

  He meets my stare. “You need anything, call.” His thoughtfulness is no doubt prompted by his relationship with my sister. I’m glad she found a good man. He gives me a stern glare. “I mean it. Anything.”

  “I will. Promise.”

  As soon as they’re out the door I breathe a sigh of relief. Our driver, Jay, won’t be back until it’s time to roll out. The security guards on shift, who Trent introduced me to earlier, are outside if I need them, but other than that I’m alone for the next few hours. I can do whatever I want.

  So, what to do?

  I’d call Lexi, but she’s three hours ahead on the other coast and most certainly asleep. I hope she had a good show tonight. I’ll text her in the morning.

  Unable to sit with my thoughts, I get the practical stuff out of the way first. A shower, which helps wake me up. I snack on some fruit and finish the last biscuit. Not the most well-rounded of meals, but it’s good enough. Besides, I don’t want to waste this precious alone time with more cooking.

  My eyes fly over to the acoustic Austin brought aboard earlier. When he lugged it along, and set it out of the way where I could see, I swear my stomach turned to butterflies. Did he bring it for me? He must have. Such a meaningful, sweet and simple gesture. Or I’m being silly and stupid, reading into something when he very well brings a guitar on every tour.

  It’s not mine. I should ask permission first. But that nagging thought only lasts a few minutes before I succumb to my own curiosity. Walking over to the case, I unsnap the brass latches. Inside is a sleek black varnished Gibson. I didn’t think it possible, but this one’s even more beautiful than the guitar in Lexi’s room. Austin only gave me one lesson, but the need to play is still as strong. Practice. The advice he drilled into my head during our lunch out afterward. No matter how bad you suck, you won’t get better unless you actually play. It’s the truth, too. It’s how I learned to play violin as a child. Grams never cared about the racket I made. But gone is my youthful confidence and I glance around, self-conscious as I pick up the instrument, worried someone might see or overhear.

  I have no idea about tuning, or much other than how to hold the instrument. Settling on the floor with my legs crossed, I practice strumming it as Austin taught me.

  Dear Lord. I wince at the sound. Horrible. Lightening my touch, I try again. Better.

  “You’re doing it wrong.”

  I startle, my eyes flying toward the voice and fight the impulse to shove the guitar back in its case. Which would be totally pointless considering Leighton’s already witnessed my lackluster playing.

  He leans against the wall of built in shelves and his brows tip up as if to ask what I’m doing. Plain rude considering he’s supposed to be out with the rest of the band right now, not judging my novice playing skills.

  I muster all the nerve I have and lift my brows right back. “Excuse me?”

  “Don’t practice that way. You’re training your muscle memory wrong.” He struts over, and I try not to stare at his skintight jeans or how sinfully good he looks wearing them. Without an invitation he plops himself on the floor next to my side and reaches for my hand.

  I straighten my spine and tighten my grip on the instrument, abhorred that he thinks he can come in here and order me around, or touch me without permission. I don’t care how good looking he is. “This is how Austin showed me to do it.”

  “Well, he taught you wrong.” Leighton lets loose an arrogant chuckle.

  I narrow my glare. “Aren’t you supposed to be a drummer?”

  “Yeah, well, I know how to play a few things.” The cocky smirk that travels across his face tells me he’s a player when it comes to women, too.

  “Sure of yourself.”

  “I am.” His gaze pours into mine and although his lips still hold a smile, his words contain no humor. “If you’re serious about learning to play, don’t pause on the down beat. And do it with conviction. You’re gonna suck for a while. No need to do it softly.”

  He thinks I suck. Because I do. I pull the guitar closer to my body, a useless shield against his truthful words. “Awfully bossy, aren’t you?”

  “You have no idea.” His eyes darken and yet his lips twitch with a smile that leads me to wonder exactly what he likes to be in control of. Or why it sounds appealing. The man is probably used to getting everything he wants.

  “Why . . . ?” The question falls short on my lips. Why are you here? Why do you want to help me? Why are you so darn handsome?

  “Why do I like to be in control?”

  “No. Why do you think you can come in here and interrupt my time with unsolicited advice? Aren’t you supposed to be out debaucher-izing or whatever the hell y’all do?”

  “Did you just make up a word?”

  His arrogance hits all the insecurities I have. That I’ve never been good at school. Or that I don’t know how to play guitar, even though it’s something I’ve wanted for as long as I can remember. Anger bubbles at the sight of his attractive smirk and I feel myself snap. “Fuck you, dickwad.”

  His brows shoot up.

  I practically drop the guitar to my lap as my hands fly to cover my mouth. “Oh, my!” I can’t believe I said that. Lord! How did those words come from my mouth?

  His gaze holds mine, his face full of the same shock I feel. Then, his lips split into a full smile. Laughter, deep and throaty, flows from his belly.

  “I’m so sorry!” I apologize, but the ridiculousness of the situation causes a giggle to escape my lips.

  He continues to laugh and shake his head. “No. It’s fine. Really, I deserved it.”

  “You did!” I’m smiling. I can feel it in the way my face pulls, and
it hits me that I miss this. The joyfulness that I used to experience regularly has now become a rare occurrence.

  “But I wasn’t wrong about the guitar. Try it again.”

  He’s doing it again. His bossy demands, but I don’t want to sour the easiness between us by calling him out so I set my fingers on the strings, pick up my pick, and try again.

  “Good. Don’t pause, keep the rhythm.” He pats his hand against his jeans, and sets a pace I try to match. “That’s it.” His affirmation means more than it should. A happiness settles with his encouragement. For the next hour I play and he tells me where to put my hands, or how to move my arm. I think he might know his stuff, and may be a better teacher than Austin, because the longer I play, the more my songs resemble actual music. He even teaches me a few new chords and my transitions aren’t a complete failure.

  “Keep playing.” He pushes up to his feet, stretching as soon as he stands straight.

  I glance up and catch a glimpse of his lean stomach. Sweet Jesus. My hands falter, blundering my near perfect streak. Blushing, my gaze falls back to the strings before he catches the source of my slipup.

  Not two minutes later he returns with two bottles of water. Lowering next to me on the floor, he scoots closer this time so his jeans brush against my knee. The touch sends goosebumps across my skin, but if he notices he doesn’t mention it.

  “You’ve earned a break.” He holds out one of the bottles while I place the guitar safely in its case.

  “Thank you.” I uncap the lid and take a sip. The cool water is soothing to my parched lips. I glance at the clock on the wall. A quarter after one. The guys should be back soon. Curious as to why he’s not out with everyone, I stretch out my legs and lift my chin to meet his eyes. “So, why did you come back early?”

  “To correct your technique.” He squishes up his nose and his lips spread wide with a grin.