All Over You (All Falls Down #3)

by Ayden K. Morgen

  "Oh?"

  "I play in Los Angeles periodically."

  "When did you last play there?"

  What is this, an inquisition?

  "I don't know. It's been a while." Casting my mind back, I try to remember the last time I played in L.A. Erin and I were there visiting her parents and she and Antonio talked me into giving a show at his bar. "Maybe seven or eight months ago? I'd have to check to find the exact date."

  "I'd appreciate if you could do that for me. I'll need the name of the venue as well, and the contact info for the owner if you have it."

  I momentarily stop trying to scrub the mascara off my face, uneasy with this request. Does he think I'm lying to him about not knowing this Rory kid? "What is going on, Detective Lewis?"

  "Just routine questions," he says.

  I'm not sure I believe him. He's prying a little too much.

  Someone says something in the background, and then Detective Lewis murmurs, the sound of his voice muffled as if he's covering the receiver. A few seconds later, his voice sounds again, to me this time. "Will you be available sometime in the next few days to look at that photograph?"

  "Ah, yes."

  "Great. I'll be in touch."

  "Okay…"

  "Good luck with your hangover," he says with another wicked chuckle, and then he disconnects.

  "I'm never drinking again," I mutter and drop the phone to the counter before picking it back up to fire off a quick text informing Erin that she's no longer my best friend.

  Love you too, she responds immediately, making me smile.

  I'm in the middle of brushing my teeth when the phone rings again. Rinsing my mouth out, I make sure to glance at the screen this time. Erin's name and number, alongside a photo of the two of us, is displayed on the screen.

  "I'm killing you," I inform her, tossing my face swab in the trashcan. "I just called a cop a whore and told him that I'm naked. Why is your name and number written on my arm?"

  "You don't remember?"

  "No."

  "A drunk frat boy kept hitting on you," she says, laughing. "When he refused to take no for an answer, you told him that I'm your girlfriend. He said lesbians should come with a warning label, so I gave you one."

  "Good lord," I groan, padding toward the tub and turning the water on, in desperate need of a soak. Maybe the water will wash away my humiliation along with her brand on my skin.

  "Dammit," Erin mutters into the phone. "Push the peddle on the right, you old bird!"

  "Are you on the road already?" I ask, pouring lavender and chamomile bath salts into the running water.

  "Yeah, I left about an hour ago." She curses again and then the horn blows. "Why can't people in this state freaking drive?"

  "Is Livvie going to the lake with you?" I ask instead of answering that question. She's a crazy person behind the wheel. Riding with her gives me serious anxiety. And there is no talking to her about it. She just tells me I'm overreacting. Maybe I am. But I lost my family to a car accident. I don't want to lose her the same way.

  "No. Apparently she's failing calculus so my mom has her on house arrest."

  "Ouch."

  "Yeah." She sighs, sounding dejected.

  "I'm sorry I couldn't get away." I hate the thought of her moping around by herself all weekend. While I wasn't exactly crazy about her dating a guy I've never met thanks to him living on the opposite coast, she's obviously bummed about the break-up. I hate that for her.

  "It's okay. I'm just going to chill for a couple of days and get my shit together. And you can make it up to me when I get home. We'll go for drinks."

  "Uh, hell no."

  She laughs. "Fine. Dinner."

  "Deal."

  "Love you, bestie."

  "Love you, too. Drive safe, and call me when you get there."

  "I will. Oh, wait! You said you called a cop a whore and told him you're naked. Was it that detective?"

  I groan loudly. "Yes. He called a few minutes ago, actually." I quickly relay our conversation to her.

  She laughs her ass off when I tell her exactly how I humiliated myself, and then she sobers. "So he thinks you know this missing guy?"

  "I don't know. I guess so." I frown again, thinking back over our conversation. "It was weird."

  "What's his name?"

  "Detective Cameron Lewis."

  "Not the detective. The missing guy."

  "Oh. Roy Clark, I think? No, Rory. Rory Clark. I guess he's a college student. The detective didn't really tell me much about him. He just asked a bunch of questions and told me to find out the date I last played at Antonio's bar."

  "Weird," Erin says.

  "Right?" I turn the faucet off and trail my hand through the water to check the temperature. It's perfect. "Anyway, he's going to get in touch at some point in the next few days to show me a picture of the kid, see if I remember him from one of my shows. And I guess he wants to talk to Antonio and see if he saw him around last time I played there? Maybe he goes to school in L.A. or something? I don't know. I guess I'll find out next time I talk to the detective."

  "Well, keep me posted," she says.

  "Yeah, I will. Talk later."

  "Yeah, later!"

  I hang up and stand there for a long moment. The conversation with Detective Lewis replays in my mind, unsettling me again, and I'm not really sure why. It was just…odd. Why is he so interested in where I played and when?

  Deciding I'll find out sooner or later, I shake off the feeling and step into the bathtub.

  "You gotta be kidding me," I mumble to myself, my gaze catching on Tall, Dark, and Brooding as I take a drink of water before my first set. He's sitting in the back of the room, looking as gorgeous as he did last night.

  He's in jeans and a slate gray t-shirt this time, with his tattoos peeking from beneath the sleeves, drawing my attention. The colorful ink looks amazing against his biceps. He's staring at me again, a devilish smirk on his face.

  My stomach dips and spins at the look in his gray eyes. It's pure sex.

  I sip my water, watching him over the top of the bottle. When the tip of his tongue peeks out to swipe across his full bottom lip, my hands tremble, causing some of the water to spill down my chin before dripping onto my chest. I gasp and wipe it away, but not quickly enough to keep several drops from trickling down my breasts. My sweetheart dress plunges into a deep V that ends in a flirty little bow around my waist. The bottom flares out at mid-thigh. It's retro and very cute, but I can't wear a bra with it, so my nipples immediately tighten when the cold water spills across my chest. I look around for a napkin to dry myself off, but there isn't one in sight, and the nearest waitress has her back to me, flirting with a group of college students sharing a bottle of whiskey at a table near the stage.

  Screw it. It'll be burning hot in here in a few minutes, anyway.

  My gaze shifts back to the mystery man in the corner, taking in the way his long fingers wrap around the beer bottle on his table. His gaze roves openly over my breasts, which only makes my nipples that much harder.

  He notices.

  His cocky smirk grows as he meets my gaze again, a dimple in his cheek popping out.

  God, he's hot.

  No way am I about to let him know that though.

  I arch a brow at him, silently telling him to keep his eyes off my tits.

  "You ready?" my drummer, Chad, asks, sliding into position behind his drum set.

  "Yep, I'm ready." I set my water aside and step up to the microphone as the rest of the band takes their places. I'm not playing the guitar tonight so I grab the mic from the stand so I can move around a little. My gaze sweeps over the crowd as they quiet down a notch. The place is packed, bodies crammed into every available seat in the house.

  Situated close to San Fran State, the audience at the Red Room is always a little younger than my audience at Mitch's. They're mostly college kids out to let loose and have fun after a hard week of studying. Except for the gorgeous bastard in the
back corner, anyway. He's definitely not a college kid. He's all man and he knows it.

  He's still watching me when my gaze flickers to him again.

  Who is he?

  And since when did blatant staring become sexy to me?

  I turn to the band and mouth the name of the song I want to open with.

  A couple of the guys chuckle at me, knowing damn well I reserve it for instances when someone in the crowd crosses a line and pisses me off, but they don't argue.

  "How y'all doing tonight?" I ask the audience, who clap and whistle and shout their responses.

  "I'm fucking horny!" One guy shouts after everyone has quieted, causing laughter to erupt around the room.

  "I'm sure you are," I tease him before glancing back at the mystery man in the corner and giving him a smirk of my own. Two can play this game of his. "I gotta ask you guys in the room, has anyone ever turned you on so much you just had to do something about it, but you were too chicken shit to actually make a move so you just kind of stared all night?"

  "Fuck yeah!" The same guy shouts.

  Some of the girls in the crowd boo. One little redhead yells out that he's a creeper. It doesn't deter him. He just laughs along with the room, obviously too drunk to give a shit what anyone thinks about him.

  "This one is for you then, sweetheart," I say to him, before moving my gaze back to Tall, Dark, and Brooding, making it clear that I'm talking to him. "Maybe it'll help you grow a pair."

  As soon as the last word leaves my lips, Chad counts off behind the drums and then the first bars of Radiohead's Creep roll across the room. The crowd explodes into cheers and laughter, shouting out, "Because I'm a creep!" at the top of their lungs.

  I belt out the lyrics, staring right at Tall, Dark, and Brooding.

  The gorgeous bastard throws his head back and laughs before lifting his bottle in a mock salute.

  I don't take my eyes off of him the entire time I sing, shimmying on the stage to the beat of the music. I love performing. Nothing else makes me feel as free as being on stage with a microphone in my hand. I get lost in the music, letting it carry me away.

  When the song ends, my mystery man claps along with the crowd, shooting me another devilish smirk. And then he walks out.

  My traitorous gaze follows until I can no longer see him.

  "Good morning, Miss Hazel," I call out, waving to my elderly neighbor as I jog down the front steps of my building, past her and Boo, her little terrier.

  Miss Hazel's curlers are firmly in place, her bathrobe cinched tight around her thin waist. She's almost ninety, and she's a hellion. So is her dog.

  "Morning, honey!" She tries to rein in Boo, who wags her tail and barks, tugging against her leash in an attempt to reach me for a cuddle. "Stop that now," Miss Hazel says, snapping her fingers at her hyperactive dog.

  Boo barks once more and then huffs.

  "Out for your run?" Miss Hazel asks me as Boo catches sight of a moth and starts jumping up, trying to catch it.

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Don't you go too far now. You're too pretty to be runnin' by yourself."

  "Yes, ma'am," I say again, the same thing I've said every morning since I moved into my building a year ago. Miss Hazel watches too many true crime shows. She's certain I'm going to be kidnapped or worse on my run. She tried to give me a gun once, but I refused. I'd probably only end up accidentally shooting myself with it.

  She beams at me before her attention drifts back to her dog.

  I slip my earbuds in and crank up the music before jogging out onto the sidewalk. Tech N9ne's Riotmaker blares as I run through another quick set of stretches. I focus on the beat and start out easy, jogging to the stop sign at the end of the block before hooking a right. Riotmaker ends and Beast comes on. My pace increases, my bright orange Asics striking the ground in solid measures. I control my breathing, pumping my arms.

  I love running, and San Francisco is the perfect place for it. The weather is balmy, rarely reaching the scorching temperatures in the desert, and the hills and valleys offer plenty of challenges and scenery options. My neighborhood is a little rundown, but even it has its charm. Everyone rubs elbows here, from teachers to small-time businessmen to families just starting out to those who retired years ago, like Miss Hazel. The architecture is diverse, with newer buildings situated right beside elegant older buildings that have survived the various disasters that have shaken the city over the years.

  The song changes again and I push harder, racing past the market on the corner.

  "Hi, Miss Kendall!" Treyvon, one of my students, waves wildly. The comic book in his hand flaps back and forth.

  "Hi, sweetie," I call, giving him and his mom a little wave. I don't stop though. They don't expect me to; I pass them every morning. Kim brings Trey to work with her at the market where he catches the bus to the school. On weekends, he hangs out for an hour or so before his aunt picks him up for the day.

  Kim smiles and waves at me.

  I run harder, pushing myself to my limits in an effort to make up for the run I missed yesterday. And for the copious amounts of vodka I imbibed the night before. As I race through the neighborhood, following the same path I take every morning, my mind drifts to Tall, Dark, and Brooding. I kept searching the crowd for him last night, half hoping he'd snuck back in while I was working, but I never did find him again.

  Why has he been at two of my shows in a row? Is he a fan? I immediately reject the idea. He looked a little too surprised when I started my set at Mitch's, like he had no idea I could actually sing.

  Whoever he is, I doubt I'll ever see him again.

  Turning the corner near the gas station, I push myself up the steep hill and then hook another right, heading back toward my building. I'm already a mile and a half in. By the time I finish my usual circuit, I'll have finished my three miles, with the last mile and a half consisting of several large hills. I propel myself up the next one, my chest burning in that familiar way. My heart pounds, thumping evenly.

  Tech N9ne gives way to Eminem. I lose myself in the music, and before I know it, my building looms into view down the street. Slowing to a jog, I gulp a lungful of air and then another. Miss Hazel is nowhere in sight, having long since gone inside to catch up on the local gossip with Judy and Sarah, spinster sisters who live a floor above us.

  My stride slows and then halts altogether when I approach my building and see two men standing outside. I narrow my eyes on the familiar figure leaning casually against the railing in jeans and a blue button down. It can't be―

  My heart leaps.

  It is him. Tall, Dark, and Brooding.

  Why is in standing outside my building? Is he stalking me?

  Holy crap. He is stalking me.

  Wariness shoots through me. I suddenly wish I had accepted Miss Hazel's gun last time she offered it. I have a stalker. A gorgeous, cocky stalker. Disappointment filters through me at the realization. I push it down, refusing to dwell on the feeling. It's not like I knew him, anyway.

  I take a step backward, determined to slip away and call the police. Before I can make a run for safety, though, he turns his head in my direction. Our eyes meet.

  Crap.

  I hesitate on the sidewalk for a long moment, eyeing him and his companion warily. I don't recognize the guy with him. He doesn't live in my building. He's older, maybe mid-fifties. With salt and pepper hair and a kind face, he seems harmless enough, unlike his friend.

  I'd have to be blind to ever think Tall, Dark, and Brooding is harmless. He's used to being in charge. Authority hangs in the air around him, wrapping him in it. Danger radiates from him, like he's capable of kicking serious butt if necessary. He doesn't seem like the violent type, but the ability to protect himself is definitely in him. The way he plants his feet just so with his arms crossed over his chest is kind of intimidating.

  Screw that. I've dealt with men like him before, and I'm not going to be scared away from my own home.

  I march forward, m
y eyes narrowed.

  "First you're at Mitch's, and then the Red Room, and now you're lurking outside of my building. Are you stalking me?" I demand when I reach the bottom step.

  He's even more breathtaking up close. Those gray eyes of his are nothing short of perfection, all deep and penetrating. With a day's worth of stubble on his cheeks and full, kissable lips, the man is seriously hot. He has to be a good six-four. He towers over me, making me feel small. At five-nine, that rarely happens.

  Amusement flickers in his eyes, a little smirk tilting his lips up at the corners.

  "Who are you and why the hell are you on my doorstep?" I ask, my gaze locked on him and my hands in fists on my hips. "You need to leave before I pepper spray you and call the cops."

  His friend mutters something under his breath, causing Tall, Dark, and Brooding to grunt quietly. He pushes away from the railing and takes a step toward me. One hand goes into his back pocket.

  I take an uncertain step backward, preparing to make a run for it if he pulls out a weapon.

  He pulls out a wallet instead.

  "Miss Kendall," he says, his velvety voice as sexy as the rest of him. It's familiar, too. Before I can place it, he flips open the wallet and then turns it so I can see what's inside, which causes my heart to drop. "My name is Detective Cameron Lewis. This is my partner, Thomas Jacoby. We're here to escort you to the precinct to answer some questions about the disappearance of Rory Clark."

  Well…crap.

  chapter three

  numb

  I cannot believe Detective Lewis is the guy I've been lusting after for the last two days! I accused him of stalking me. And told him to grow a pair. Wrapping my arms around myself, I fight the urge to whimper like a little girl as I remember also calling him a whore and telling him that I was naked.

  How humiliating.

  I want to go home and hide under the covers. Except I can't. I'm stuck in an interview room in a tank top and compression shorts, waiting for the sexiest detective I've ever met to come and ask me questions about a kid I don't know if I've ever even met.