Where Lightning Strikes (Bleeding Stars #3)

by A. L. Jackson

  Lost in his deep, haunting voice.

  It floated on the dense air, as if the sadness it bore was alive, its ethereal fingers slipping through the cracks of his apartment into mine during the deepest, loneliest hours of the night.

  As if voice and guitar wept as those vapors wrapped around me like ribbons of his sorrow. Each time, he’d play the same song. It was a song I’d never heard before, other than coming from within the walls of his apartment, the lyrics muted and obscured, though the message was clear.

  Sorrow.

  In those few foolish moments? I hazarded this idea we had become partners to the other’s void. Filling up that dreadful, hollow space. As if we somehow fit.

  Because the anguish in his voice?

  It promised he was as empty as me.

  That emptiness was blatant in the times I caught him watching me, too. In the moments when the intensity in those dark, cryptic eyes spiked with something regretful and real. Overridden in shame. Gone before I could give it a name.

  Like I said, foolish.

  Shaking off the thoughts, I grabbed the railing and jogged up the steps.

  A loud clatter coming from his apartment slowed my ascent.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” he cursed in a quick panic, his unmistakable voice coming from his open window.

  Cautiously, I edged up one step and then another.

  My heart was beating like crazy when I hit the landing, a gasp shooting from me when his door suddenly flew open. A billow of smoke came filtering out.

  “Shit,” he said again, his door standing wide open while he disappeared back inside, clearly not noticing my presence.

  At a loss to stop myself, I inched forward.

  The old, broken pieces inside me flailed, fighting to break free, that naïve, ignorant girl led by curiosity.

  And that was the root of it all, why I knew I should stay away.

  Lyrik West threatened to zap her back to life.

  “God damn it,” I heard him mutter.

  Another shiver of unease wound with the pique of interest that traveled my spine.

  The buzz before the strike.

  In hesitation, I sucked in a breath, held it in as I tiptoed forward.

  Drawn.

  Like one of those ditsy actresses in a horror flick you knew was walking straight into a trap.

  You know the kind. That senseless girl who runs up the stairs where there’s obviously no possible chance of escape, stumbles and falls flat on her face the second before she has a knife impaled through her heart?

  Yeah. Her.

  So rash and predictable, yet here I was, inching closer.

  The pull.

  How was it possible this man held some kind of spell over me? But it was there. Invisible strings tied in all the wrong places, to my heart and my mind and my spirit, those wicked eyes tugging and tugging and tugging until I stood helpless before him.

  Run.

  But I found I couldn’t.

  I stood at his open door. And just like that ignorant girl in the movie, I stepped forward in a daze.

  My eyes widened as I took in his apartment that looked as if the Tasmanian Devil had come spinning through.

  Smoke billowed from the oven, and Lyrik was tossing down potholders next to a burnt cake he’d yanked out and dumped on the stovetop.

  “What happened in here?” Concerned words I had no business speaking were out before I could stop them, and Lyrik’s attention snapped toward me.

  Shirtless.

  Of course he was.

  Could I have hoped he’d be any other way?

  The sad part was I really didn’t know the answer to that.

  He came closer, waltzing back to a small round table where another cake rested on a platter.

  My eyes flicked to where a streak of chocolate frosting was smeared across one sharply angled cheek then down to the dab on his shoulder where he’d obviously tried to wipe his cheek without using his hands.

  I had the overwhelming urge to lick it.

  I sent up a thousand silent curses.

  Dark eyes narrowed, and a flash of that same mischief lit them up.

  I felt their spark from across the room.

  “Oh, I’m thinking the better question would be what the hell are you doing in here, wouldn’t you, Red, considering you’re standing uninvited in my apartment? Lookin’ like a pin-up girl straight outta my favorite fantasy, no less.”

  The words came out sounding like he didn’t know whether to be angry or amused.

  I glanced down at my attire, at my sleeveless floral-printed button-down blouse with the bottom tied just below my breasts that revealed a thick strip of my belly, to the flare of my short shorts, down to my little white loafers.

  “It’s hot out,” I mumbled almost incoherently, completely caught off guard.

  “Obviously a little too hot,” he muttered just loud enough for me to hear.

  He turned right back to the high crystal cake platter, a white pastry bag with a swirly tip positioned in his tattooed hands. He bent over and his tongue poked out to the side in concentration as he applied another flower.

  Okay, so maybe I hadn’t stepped into a horror flick.

  I’d stepped right into the Twilight Zone.

  Ripping my eyes away, I made a quick pass over the normally immaculate rental. The trendy furniture was covered in tissue paper and ribbon. Boxes were upturned and on their sides, shopping bags of fabric and yarn and sewing supplies dumped out on the couch and chairs.

  His suit for the wedding day hung in a plastic garment bag over the French doors.

  My stunned gaze moved on to the kitchen where every cabinet door sat wide open, every tool and small appliance cluttering the counters, the sink overflowing with dirty dishes.

  “Seriously…what in God’s name are you doing?”

  So maybe this time I was concerned for his sanity because I was sure this rock star had dove right off the deep end.

  “What does it look like I’m doing?”

  “It looks like you’re baking a cake.”

  “Baked a cake,” he corrected with a shrug of a muscular shoulder. “Now I’m decorating it.”

  “And…why would that be?”

  “What, I don’t look like The Pillsbury Doughboy or Betty Crocker or Paula Fucking Dean?”

  A chunk of that silky hair flopped over one of his eyes as he inclined his head, his too-pretty face entirely trained on the task at hand.

  I laughed.

  Shit.

  I laughed.

  He was right. He was asking the better question. What the hell was I doing here?

  A million warnings shouted in my head, but still, I found myself taking another step deeper into his apartment, a forced lightness twisting through my words. “Uh…no. Not even a little. Should I be concerned? Call someone? I’m worried for your safety. You could have burned the place down.”

  A soft chuckle rolled from him and I watched the subtle rise of his brow that was still level with the cake.

  “You’re concerned for my safety, huh? I figured you wouldn’t mind one bit if it all went up in flames…me included.” His teeth tugged at his plump bottom lip. “Hell, I bet you’d be the first in line to strike the match.”

  “Well, I kind of like my apartment, so I wouldn’t be happy if it all went up in flames.”

  I felt the smile pulling at my face.

  Damn. Damn. Damn.

  Now I was joking with him.

  That same smirk he loved to wear curved one side of his mouth, before something set in those jet-black eyes. Like twilight taking hold. Dimming the world in an aura of severity.

  He set the pastry bag aside and blew out a weighted breath as he pressed both hands flat to the table on either side of the cake.

  “Listen… There’s something I’ve been needing to say to you.”

  Uneasily, I swallowed. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” Dropping his eyes, he breathed again. “I…uh…fuck.”

 
A harsh laugh escaped him. One filled with pure disbelief. Obviously directed at himself.

  He rocked back enough to study his bare feet between his outstretched arms, those vibrant designs dancing above the sleek, rippling muscle of his back and chest and arms.

  “I don’t do this…” he finally said.

  I crossed my arms over my chest in the same second I lifted my chin.

  Searching for the shield.

  “Don’t do what?”

  He looked up, hands clutching the edge of the table, the air loaded as he pinned me with his unwavering stare.

  “Care.”

  The word struck me like an electric prod. My pulse went haywire and that same shiver of adrenaline prickled across my skin.

  Was he even capable of caring?

  My thoughts traveled to the song.

  To his voice.

  To the intangible words inscribed with mourning.

  How could he not?

  Straightening, he raked a hand through his hair. He glanced off to the side, before he reluctantly looked back at me.

  “I don’t usually give a whole lot of thought to anything.” He frowned. “The things I say? The things I do? I do them without a second thought. Without concern. And the girls surrounding me are usually game. No questions asked. And I was wrong…thinking that same standard applied to you.”

  “You assumed I was easy?” I forced it out like a tease, tamping down the quiver of unease.

  He cast a coy grin. “Isn’t everyone?”

  “Wow…you really are a charmer.”

  A shot of bemused air puffed from him as he set his hands on his narrow waist and looked to the ceiling with a shake of his head. He dropped his questioning gaze back to my face.

  “But I’m starting to think there isn’t one easy thing about you, Red. And whatever the hell I said the other morning…”

  In discomfort, he gestured behind me to the stoop between our doors, and I did my best at not revealing how vulnerable he’d had me in that moment.

  Did my best to keep up the walls.

  “I’m fucking sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you, and I saw it, how badly I did. God…you don’t want to know how fucking bad I don’t want to care that I hurt you. But I do.”

  His admission stabbed like a stake to the heart.

  For him.

  For me.

  Could we really be so much the same?

  “I don’t know whether to take that as a compliment or an insult.” My attempt at a joke fell flat, the words as wispy as they were dry. I struggled to remain aloof, to grasp onto the bratty bitch who cared about nothing. To align myself with the same kind of indifference usually given by this man.

  But right then, he was giving me more.

  Is that what I wanted? Is that why my skin tingled and my heart hammered every time he was near?

  God, it was foolish.

  But I wanted to give it, too.

  He huffed. “Take the apology however you like. Just know they’re rare and chances are there won’t be another one where that came from. But we have to do this wedding thing, and I don’t see much use in the two of us wanting to kill the other.”

  I forced a playful smile, pretending as if I didn’t feel little pieces inside unraveling.

  Coming undone.

  “Are you asking for a truce?”

  “I guess I am.”

  “Then I’m sorry for the drink.”

  He quirked a brow. “Are you really?”

  “No.” I felt the smirk taking hold, this one not so feigned. “Not at all. You totally deserved it.”

  “Guess I probably did, didn’t I?”

  That deadly smile reemerged.

  My insides shook.

  It had to be my favorite kind.

  “You’re a dangerous woman, Tamar King.”

  “Only to those who are a threat.”

  I plucked a wrinkled black tee hanging from the back of a chair and tossed it his direction. “Here. If we’re going to be friends, you need to put on a damned shirt.”

  He snatched it out of the air. “You know, when I suggested we be friends, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. How about you take off yours and we’ll call it even?”

  I tapped my foot. “Sounds like someone’s gettin’ thirsty. Do you need me to whip you up another drink?”

  He tossed his head back and laughed.

  Gone was the sorrow I heard at night. For once, his expression was totally carefree. He looked back at me with a smile that threatened to shatter my stringent little world.

  Because just for a little while, I wanted to fall into his.

  To know this other side of him. This irresistibly sexy badass rocker who baked cakes.

  He pulled the tee over his head. The tight material stretched across all those perfectly cut ridges and planes, doing nothing but accentuating just how perfect he was.

  He roughed his hands through his mussed-up hair in an attempt to tame it. “I think I’ll stick to my regular, thank you very much. Don’t think I’m up for any more surprises from the likes of you.”

  “Oh, come on, you’re a big boy. You can handle it.”

  He grabbed the pastry bag, and I focused on the way his fingers curled around it. A large red rose covered the back of one hand and a skull covered the other.

  But it was the words sing my soul tattooed across his knuckles that twisted me somewhere inside. Without reason or doubt, I knew this beautiful man sang from his soul. Knew there was something greater than the shallow surface he showed.

  As if I got an inch deeper, I’d be in a different plane. In a place where emotion reigned and shut down the superficial.

  “Nah, I doubt it,” he said as he went back to work. “Might not look like it, but I’m a routine kind of guy. Same drink. Same friends. Same kind of easy lay. Write some music, hit the studio before I hit the road. Rinse and repeat.”

  “That sounds horribly boring.” Sarcasm dripped free as I made myself at home and walked toward the table.

  “Sounds stupid, right? But it all becomes mundane. Predictable.”

  I glanced at the cake sitting between us.

  “And baking. You can’t forget baking.”

  He laughed. “Right?”

  Then his expression shifted into something soft as he stared across at me.

  And again, that rigid place inside softened.

  Apparently I’d launched myself into a perfect swan dive, right into a downward spiral. Dipping my toes into dangerous territory. Immersing myself in the realm of new. For a few ignorant seconds, giving into that feeling of being free and uninhibited and spontaneous.

  Needing a breath, I turned away from him, my feet searching for safer ground. I began to snoop through the things strewn around the living room.

  We were friends, after all.

  “Seriously, what are you doing, Lyrik?” I asked with my back to him. “I have to admit when I broke into your house, this was not what I expected.”

  A lumbering sigh filtered through the air, and I could sense the severity of his hesitation. He barely glanced my way when I peeked over my shoulder at him. He shifted, waging what to say. “My mom…”

  My heart clenched at the sudden shift in his tone. At the bald affection that infiltrated it and the expression of love that flickered fast across his face, the fleeting vulnerability woven in between.

  On a self-conscious laugh, he dropped his eyes back to the cake. “Jesus…why am I telling you any of this?”

  I realized I was holding my breath. “Because I asked.”

  “My mom…” The words tightened, coming thick and heavy from his mouth when he finally began to speak. “She always told me ‘make it if you want it to matter’.”

  He shook his head, the words strained and choked when he admitted, “And I want it to matter.”

  Caught off guard, I twisted my upper body toward him. “This is for Shea and Sebastian? For the rehearsal party tomorrow night?”

  “Yeah.”


  That buzz hummed.

  The air was so full, my strained breaths skidded in and out of my lungs. My chest trembled with a heave of confusion.

  Unable to continue looking at this perplexing, infuriating, beautiful man, I turned away again. Pretended I didn’t feel the roll of the ground as it shook beneath my feet.

  But it was there.

  Intensity skating the space just below the surface of my skin.

  Something significant and scary.

  Something powerful and bold compelling me toward twilight.

  As if I was drawn to the darkness that set around him as if he held the power to cast away the light.

  And I knew I should pack it up and leave. Run because running was what I did best.

  Instead, I got sucked deeper into his living room, unable to tear myself away.

  My fingers played along the pieces of cut fabric, trying to make sense of what I’d walked into. Trying to make sense of this menacing, dangerous boy who wanted it to matter.

  My attention caught on the crude patchwork teddy bear on his couch. I reached for it.

  “Don’t touch that.”

  The dark desperation in his voice stalled my hand that was already wrapped around the thin body. The mismatched pieces were tied and sewn together with brightly colored yarn to create a long, lanky bear in a way that had to have been taught but never perfected.

  I could feel the deep furrow pulling between my brows as I looked his direction. Dumbfounded, I held it out toward him. “Is this for the baby? You made this?” It came out almost an accusation.

  Pain flashed across his face, before it hardened. “Put it down.”

  I shook my head. “Why?”

  He threw the bag of frosting down and stalked toward me. “I’m warning you, Red. This truce only goes so far. I said to put it down.”

  Good God. Who was this guy?

  I blinked, searching desperately for my shields, but my heart was hammering, blood pulsing in my ears as he neared, that towering boy pressing his hard, hard body into mine.

  He pried my fingers from the bear and tossed it back onto the couch. In the same movement, he had me backed into the wall, hands planted above me to keep me caged.

  “What do you think you’re doing, Red?”

  My head rocked back to see his face, his ridiculously tall body obliterating mine.

  I felt so tiny beneath him. Small and insecure.