by K. Bromberg
Hell yes I wanted it—won’t deny it even to myself—because damn, the man can kiss. I shove the thought away that he’s probably had many women to practice on to get that kind of skill; it was so mind-blowing, I don’t care so long as I got the benefit of it.
His lips were the perfect combination of firm and soft, he used enough tongue but not too much, and then added to it the gentle coaxing of his fingertips to get me to open up to him, and ugh, I want more.
But therein lies the problem. I’m sure wanting more means different things to him than it does for me. For him it’s probably a quick fling that would run the duration of his seminar. And while I’m all for quick, fun, and meaningless, the way I just reacted to his kiss alone scares me into thinking that I might not be able to keep it on that level, promises made to myself be damned. That I’d be falling headfirst into something serious without a moment to enjoy it before heartbreak crashes down around me.
I roll my shoulders, stand up, and do something uncharacteristic of me. I’m usually a go-for-it, damn-the-consequences-later type of girl … and yet as I head back toward the auditorium with thoughts of how to play this with Hawkin, I tell myself not this time, not with this guy.
He may embody all of the things that call to me on so many levels—and I’ll probably curse myself later for it—but with the start of my career on the horizon, I need to be smart.
And walking headfirst into heartbreak is not smart.
“You okay?” Axe asks, his expression stoic, and his eyes hidden behind dark lenses scanning the students beginning to line up for the lecture.
“Yeah. Thanks,” I tell him as he opens the door for me. I walk through it, head down as I try to figure out how to handle this. Do I take the blame, apologize, and then hide behind the facade of hostility that helps me to resist him?
I’m still deciding what to do when I’m startled by a scuffing sound ahead of me. I look up to find Hawkin leaning against a pillar, arms across his chest and a condescending smirk turning up the corners of his mouth. “Well, well, well. So good you came back for more, huh?”
His words startle me. And not in a good way. I came in here willing to apologize, worried about everything, and he greets me like that? Pretending to be hostile is no longer a necessity because it’s a reality.
“Excuse me?” I take a step closer, eyes narrowed and disbelief undoubtedly written all over my face.
He straightens up some, and the smarmy look stays on his face but he drops his hands. I briefly notice he’s changed his shirt to a white button-up—and I can see the hint of another tattoo through the open collar—but my frazzled state leads me to not give it a second thought. I’m too busy watching how rejection doesn’t sit well with the rock god Hawkin Play.
Well, he’d better get ready for more of it if he thinks he can be an asshole to me. So what if I kissed him and then changed my mind? And standing here, eyes locked on each other’s, I’m dismayed by the way he’s handling this. Stupid me thought he’d be more hurt and less jerk. Guess I thought too highly of myself. The reality check that I really am just another in a long line of women to him is welcome.
Good thing I found out now rather than in a month when my heart’s already invested. I use my own hurt, the revelation of truths I didn’t expect—the spite in his glare—to keep my guard up. But guard or no guard, I become uncomfortable under his intense scrutiny when he just stands before me, posture in itself threatening, and doesn’t say a word.
“What do you want?” I snap, shifting my feet.
“You for a start.” He ghosts a smile and where before I found it sexy, right now, the sight of it mixed with the look in his eyes unsettles me.
“If my actions didn’t say it earlier, then my lips will say it so you can understand: Dream on.” I take a breath, eyes flickering over my shoulder to see if Axe is still there just on the other side of the door, because for some reason alarm bells are sounding in my head.
He laughs low and mocking and if he’s trying to freak me out, he’s doing a damn good job. I’m done here. Carla can pull my thesis for all I care but I refuse to work with this schizophrenic asshole. In the span of one minute we’ve gone from flirting to kissing and in the next making me uncomfortable.
I start to walk past him to go grab my bag I left when I ran away and he grabs my arm, fingers digging in. A shocked gasp falls from my mouth but I refuse to give in and meet his eyes.
“Believe me, any dream I have of you will be a wet one.”
I yank my arm from his grasp, disgusted by his comment and how far off the mark I was in judging him. How did he go from hot and desirable to cheesy and creepy?
I ignore his laugh at my back and all but jog to the open doors of the auditorium. I rush through them, head turning to glance back at him, and find myself colliding into someone.
“Jesus!”
I’m shocked by the voice, the scent of cologne, and the face when I look up to see Hawkin’s surprised expression.
What the hell?
“Hawkin?” His name comes out in a flustered gasp as I try to process the fact that he’s standing before me when I thought he was behind me. I push back from him, adrenaline hitting me now so that my hands are a little shaky and take in his black Def Leppard T-shirt and the hair mussed earlier from my hands.
How can? … And then it hits me. I recollect an article I read during my intermittent cyberstalking about Hawkin that he had a brother. It definitely didn’t say he had an identical twin.
He stares for a beat, trying to figure out what’s wrong, when his eyes lift to over my shoulder. Hawke’s gaze immediately turns hard, jaw clenched and shoulders squaring in irritation as he delivers an unspoken warning to his brother before falling back on mine and softening with concern.
“You okay?” His focus is solely on me, hands reaching out to touch my arm in a reassuring manner.
“Yeah?” I say it like a question, asking him if the man at my back is really who I think it is.
“I’m sorry.” Hawkin murmurs the apology, somehow realizing that his brother has unnerved me, and he positions himself so that he’s standing between us.
“What are you doing here, Hunter?” The two men stare at each other, animosity palpable between them as they speak without words.
“Wanted to see my big bro’s new gig. Got quite a nice surprise though when I came early and went looking for him. Alcoves can be fun places, no?” Hunter says with a chuckle, giving me the chills that he was watching us. He lifts his chin toward me and raises his eyebrows. “She yours?”
As much as a part of me wants to speak up, assert my position, the obvious discord vibrating between the two of them has me biting my tongue.
“New gig’s courtesy of you, right? If you wanted this for yourself,” Hawke says pointing to the auditorium behind him, sarcasm all but dripping from his voice, “all you had to do was have a little integrity.”
“Integrity is overrated. Contracts, a man’s word, family bonds—nothing holds anymore these days. But you already know that, dontcha brother?” Hunter chides him with a wink, and I notice Hawkin clench his fists. Hunter’s eyes glance over and meet mine, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips.
“Leave her alone, Hunt. She’s with me.”
And I’m not sure if it’s the fact that he seems like he’s protecting me from his brother or if it’s him saying I’m his, but hearing those words pulls on some inherent female part of me, a part that longs to be someone’s. Despite the tension of the moment, I find it sadly comical that my resolve to keep Hawkin at arm’s length crumbles with that simple statement.
“Does she’s with me have a name?”
“Trixie,” Hawkin states, beating me to the punch when I was going to give my real one. And then I wonder why he’s giving his own brother my fake name but in the same breath I’m glad he does.
“Trixie.” Hunter rolls the false name around on his tongue before nodding in acceptance. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”
Hawkin’s sigh
is audible and his voice monotone when he speaks. “Trixie, this is my brother, Hunter…. Hunter, this is Trixie. Satisfied?”
“Very,” he murmurs, eyes finding mine again and I have no problem being the first to look away this time as he takes a step closer. “So Trix—”
“What do you want, Hunter? If you wanted to be here, I know a surefire way you could be.” The derision in Hawke’s voice is frigid.
“Testy, testy. Do you let him talk to you like this?” Hunter directs the question at me, and it’s more than obvious he’s enjoying taunting his brother.
“Answer my question, Hunt.” Hawkin’s tone tells me he’s had enough of whatever game his twin is playing. I just wish I knew what exactly it was.
“I need to borrow your car.”
Hawkin physically startles at Hunter’s request. “You have your own.”
“It’s in the shop. Besides”—Hunter shrugs, completely unapologetic—“I like yours better.”
“You always like mine better.”
“Yes, I do,” he drawls the words out, a predatory gleam in his eye as he glances my way, “since you seem to enjoy taking what I deserve.”
“Cut the crap,” Hawkin orders, authority resonating in his voice as it echoes around the empty theater. “Why do you need it?”
“Mine’s in the shop so—”
“So you thought you’d trek halfway across town to a place you’d never go otherwise to ask me for my car? Ever heard of a taxi? Kind of presumptuous to just assume I’d hand it over, dontcha think?”
From the way they glare at each other—testosterone mixed with what I can guess is familial bad blood—I can’t help but wonder what else they are speaking about because it sure as hell isn’t a car.
“You’d do anything for family, isn’t that right?” Hunter angles his head at his brother, lips pursed, attitude prevalent.
“Try me again. Seems my generosity is running thin.” Hawke’s body vibrates with anger.
“Hmm.” Hunter laughs, the sound in itself mocking. The two spitting images stare each other down, animosity and irritation dueling between them. “Mom needs me.”
The simple statement causes everything about Hawkin to immediately alter despite the cocky raise of Hunter’s eyebrows that says, see, I told you, you’d bend for me. His shoulders fall and he glances back my way for a split second, indecision mixed with concern marring his face, before walking closer to his brother. “She okay?” he asks in a hushed whisper, his back toward me now.
I can’t hear the rest of what is said, just bits and pieces that don’t make sense as Hawkin digs in his pocket for his car keys and hands them over. He gives him some sort of instructions, and then puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes.
The mirror images look at each other for a prolonged period of silence before Hunter nods his head and walks out. The students, in line waiting for the lecture to start, call out “Hawkin”—mistaking Hunter for his brother—as the door shuts behind him.
I study the lines of Hawkin’s back as he watches his brother’s movements outside, shaking hands, posing for cell phone pictures … acting as if he is his twin. It vaguely crosses my mind to wonder how often he does this, impersonates his brother. I turn my focus back to the man himself. His demeanor seems altered now, so far from the arrogant, self-assured man from earlier or the clips I’ve seen of him performing. A part of me wants to ask what’s wrong, figure out what can affect him so quickly, but I also understand that I know absolutely nothing about him besides the image he feeds to the media.
And growing up in a household under the scrutiny of the Hollywood magnifying glass, I know better than most how image can be a manufactured product.
Standing here beside Hawkin I can feel his angst, sense his restlessness, and I want to know more. Every person has two sides, the side they let everyone believe and the side they let few see. Usually I couldn’t care less because each person deserves their own story, but for some reason with Hawkin, I want to see that private side. The man has been making me question my own sanity with the reactions he’s pulling from me. Maybe the rest of his story will explain why I respond so strongly to him.
His audible sigh pulls me from my thoughts. “Everything okay?” I can’t help it. I know he won’t answer, but I have to ask anyway.
“Fucking stellar,” he snaps, and then hangs his head with a self-deprecating groan. When he turns and faces me, I can see the lines etched in the sculpted perfection of his face, the remorse in his eyes that melts my heart. “Sorry, I just …” His voice trails off as we stare at each other. Just when he’s about to explain, Axe pushes open the door and peeks his head in.
“You ready for them, Hawke?”
Hawkin holds my gaze for a second longer, relief flickering that he doesn’t have to explain further, before glancing over to Axe. “Yeah, I’m ready.”
He walks past me and down the steps to the podium without another word. Students file in and do a double take when they take their seats and realize the imposter outside was not really him. You can hear the hushed buzz grow louder until Hawke clears his throat and a hush falls over the room. When he begins to speak, the students hang on his every word.
But it’s the words he’s left unspoken that captivate me the most.
Chapter 7
QUINLAN
I watch the lecture from the cheap seats near the very top of the hall. This time I pay attention, listen to his lessons buried under the glamour and glitz of his stories. His charisma comingled with his star power mesmerizes the other students in the room. They laugh with him, groan in the right places, and are rapt with attention.
I see the attraction now, why they hang on his every word because despite telling myself he’s off limits, I’m doing the exact same thing.
The lecture ends and while everyone stands, I remain seated as student after student approaches him to get their five seconds of personal attention. He comes off as approachable and yet after about thirty minutes and a line that never ends, I catch the glance Hawke slides to Axe in a practiced move so smooth that most wouldn’t notice it.
“Okay, folks! We’ve got to clear the room for the next lecture. Those who need to speak to Hawkin can do so through the Fine Arts department Web site or after the next lecture.” Axe starts ushering the stragglers out, walking behind them up the steps to assure that they keep moving toward the exit.
The minute they clear the door, Hawkin takes a deep breath and runs a hand through his hair before reaching for his phone on the podium shelf. Irritation flickers on his face when whatever he’s looking for isn’t there.
When I start to stuff my papers in my bag, his voice booms, echoing through the empty theater. “What do you mean Hunter hasn’t been there?” I jump when his fist pounds on the podium, obviously not happy with whatever answer he’s getting on the other end of the line. “She’s okay, though? … Okay. I will…. Later.”
He shoves his phone in his pocket and hangs his head down for a moment. “Do you need something?” Impatience, irritation, annoyance—so many emotions laced in the tone of the question.
I didn’t realize he knew I was still here and now feel like a voyeur, unsure of what to say or do. He lifts his head to meet my eyes across the distance of the room as I stand and lift my bag to my shoulder.
“No, I—uh—was just gathering my stuff.” I apologize without saying the words.
“You good if we take off, man?” I’m startled when Axe speaks behind me.
Hawke’s eyes shift from me to him. “Yeah. No. Fuck, Hunt’s got my car so—”
“I can take you home.” The offer is out of my mouth before I can think about it or the ramifications. “Or wherever you need to go,” I correct realizing no way in hell is Hawkin Play going to let some random woman he knows nothing about take him to his house.
Then again, he is a successful musician, aren’t random women a way of life?
His eyes move back to mine and although the agitation from moments before is stil
l there, I also see intrigue. “You gonna drive me home, Trix?” He begins to walk up the steps as he asks the question. I don’t even get a chance to respond before he lifts his chin to Axe. “I’m good. Thanks man.”
Axe leaves without a sound. I wait for Hawkin, and with each step he takes, I can see him shed whatever it is that’s bugging him bit by bit so that by the time he reaches me, he’s the same man from earlier. Arrogant, enigmatic, and sexy as hell.
He stands in front of me, tongue flicking out to wet his lower lip, and all I want regardless of what I’ve told myself is to kiss those lips again. Screw caution because I’m throwing it to the wind when it comes to Hawkin Play.
“Are you afraid to take a ride with me?” I ask, knowing full well how the question will be received.
A dimple deepens with his lopsided smile, eyes dancing with mirth. “I assure you, I’m not afraid of riding anything with you.” He gestures in front of him for me to lead the way. “Just be warned, I like to take shotgun.”
“Good thing I’m great at driving a stick,” I say over my shoulder as the welcome sound of laughter returns to his voice.
“I have to tell you I’m seriously turned on here.”
The subtle change of subject from my question about whether he and his brother were close does not go unnoticed. I mean we’ve driven for forty minutes through traffic filled with idle chitchat, but the constant glances at his phone for a text he told me he’s waiting for have caused the somber mood from earlier to settle back over him.
So I figured why keep dancing around it and instead I would just ask. And of course, he just delivered the comment that has my mind shifting gears faster than my car climbing up through the hills of Bel Air. So now I’m left to try to figure out what it is he’s turned on by, hoping like hell it’s by me.
It’s one thing to be in a large lecture hall where there is space to move about, to step away. It’s another to be in the close confines of a car where everything about him is mere inches away, causing my libido to go into overdrive.
I wet my bottom lip with my tongue and nod. “And …” I’ll let him lead this conversation, see where it takes us.
