“Sort of?” Dammit. Now I have to explain. “Okay, here’s the thing.” God, this is embarrassing. “I really didn’t buy you the drink. It was my friend.”
“Oh.” He looks back at Alex, alone at the table. Is it my imagination, or does he sound disappointed? “So she’s the fan then?”
Is it my imagination, or does he sound disappointed? “Excuse me?” If by “fan” he means “the girl who’s strangely, inexplicably drawn to him”, then no. That would be me. Total fangirl here.
He doesn’t repeat himself, turning his focus back to me. “Nothing. Sit down for a minute.” He’s so authoritative as he says it, as if he knows there’s no way I’d say no.
It’s not the way men usually talk to me. And it does something to me—makes me light-headed and dazed. Makes me want to do anything he tells me to do.
I bite my lip. I should politely decline and go back to the table with Alex, and then go home to finish packing. I should forget how the husk in his voice makes my insides quiver. I should definitely not think anymore about what’s under his clothes. I should—
His deep, teal eyes focus on my scarf for a long, lingering moment. Most women would kill for eyelashes that long and thick. Most women would kill to be looked at with such a lingering stare. “That’s a nice scarf.”
Even if Alex hadn’t explained what she had earlier, the tone of his voice says it all. He’s most certainly not talking about my scarf.
And for the millioneth time tonight, I find I can’t help myself. I slide into the booth beside him. “Thank you.”
“So.” His thigh is close to mine, radiating heat that makes me want more and is too hot all at once and I wonder if its too late to sit across from him instead of next to him, knowing that even if it’s not ,I’ll never move.
“So.” I repeat, unable to look anywhere but at my hands fidgeting on the table.
His eyes are on mine though. I feel them, warm and curious. “Why would your friend buy me a drink and say it was from you?” There’s a hint of teasing in his tone, and it’s obvious that he’s guessed the answer.
I throw a glare at Alex, who beams my way. “Well.” I lick my lips, stalling. “I’m moving soon and she was trying to find me a date before I left.”
“Why bother if you’re moving?”
“She wasn’t thinking long term.”
“Hmm.” The simple sound reverberates through my body like I’m a string that’s been plucked. “And why did she choose me? There are plenty of other single men in the bar tonight.”
You were the only one I noticed.
But I shrug. “I’m not sure. I guess you looked like the kind of short term guy who’d fit the bill for a short term thing.”
He leans in. “That’s funny. I was thinking the same thing about you.”
All words leave my vocabulary at the dark, brazen lust in his voice, at the words that can’t possibly be true. There’s no way anyone would peg me for a hook-up type of girl, no matter how much I might secretly want him too. “I, uh—”
“Why are you leaving town?” he asks as he straightens, creating a more comfortable distance between us.
Even though he’s lightened the mood, my belly is tight and my head confused.
“Work.”
“Don’t tell me. Let me guess what you do.”
I set my purse on the table and angle my body so that I can face him. Or maybe so that my knee will brush against his like it is now. “Why?”
“It’s a game. I’m good at playing this one.” His gaze crawls up my body. “You do something important with finances. Banking, maybe?”
I roll my eyes. “You’re terrible at this game. I’m a musician.”
“Oh?” His easygoing smile fades a bit. “Like in a band? Are you moving to Hollywood to find your big break on a television talent show? Or Nashville to lay down some demo tracks?”
I grimace at both suggestions. “Hardly. I’m a cellist, and I just took a contract with a symphony.” I shouldn’t sound as proud as I do, seeing as how it wasn’t merely talent that landed me the seat.
“Interesting. Congratulations.” The smile is back in full force, and it makes my heart do a flip. “So you’re serious about music.”
“Very.” I cross my legs, which is silly. I shouldn’t be getting comfortable.
“I’ve never met a cellist before.”
“We don’t show our faces in public often. We prefer scuttling around in orchestra pits.”
He laughs and holds out his hand. “Dylan.”
I hesitate, not sure of the path I’m staring down. If I give him my name, that’s it. It doesn’t mean I’m going home with him, but it means I’m committing to the conversation.
And what’s the harm in pretending that committing to a conversation could mean committing to something more? I’d never go home with him, but it’s fun to imagine that I could.
“Rachel,” I say, taking his hand. Electricity sizzles up my arm at the touch of his palm against mine.
“So, Rachel-who-is-moving, tell me what made you get into the cello?”
“I couldn’t fit inside the violin.”
“Bah dum chh!” His throaty laugh exposes the strong lines of his throat, and the gentle beginnings of a five-o-clock shadow. I’m stricken by the desire to feel it. With my tongue.
God, what am I doing? Fantasy aside, I am so out of my league with this guy. And I shouldn’t even be thinking about leagues at this point in my life. I need to be league free. League-less.
I open my mouth to tell him I need to go. The words are really just on the tip of my tongue. But then he says,
“So, you’re a fan of the classics, huh?”
And dammit. He’s found my weakness.
I nod. “They’re the only kind of music worth listening to.”
“Really.” He studies me, as if deciding to refute me. “So the rest of the world’s been wasting it’s time and money creating and listening to all the other genres for a couple centuries?”
I know I shouldn’t engage in a musical debate—I’ll be here all night arguing the superiority of Vivaldi and Bach.
But he’s gently teasing and it does something to me, loosens my shoulders and lips. Makes me want to be here all night, arguing with him. Or, just, with him. “Yes.”
“That’s a pretty controversial opinion in this day and age.”
“Is it?” I know it is but the coyness of my response is a challenge—one I don’t recognize. Is this..am I…flirting?
If this is flirting, I should be embarrassed at how bad I am at it.
And why am I flirting? I should be leaving.
But then Dylan’s talking again, and I’m pinned to my seat.
“Most people don’t listen to classical music anymore,” he says. “I’m not saying it’s right, but you can’t call yours the only kind of music worth anything when the consumers aren’t backing you up.”
I turn in the seat to better face him, my knee grazing his again in the process. It goes weak, but I’m staying strong in my opinion. “Are you saying that all that matters is what’s popular in the mainstream culture?”
“To an extent.”
“Because if that’s true, there are plenty of bands who never see commercial success who are amazing musicians. Or grungy little rock bands no one appreciated but you probably love.”
He snags his lower lip between his teeth, slowly releasing it. I’m mesmerized by its shape. “Maybe it’s more about sales instead of fame. Or a combination of both that gives a band staying power.”
If he’s trying to distract me from my arguments, he’s doing a fine job. I blink hard a couple times. Focus, Rachel. What’s that band Alex is always making fun of? “Ah! Nickelback!”
“They do not count. At all.”
I point in his face triumphantly. “They’re rich and wildly famous. Even I’ve heard their name.”
“They’re also terrible musicians.” He takes my hand and lowers it, keeping it captured in his, bringing it
beneath the surface of the table to rest on the seat between us.
My thighs squeeze together at the way he slides his fingers between mine, lacing our hands together. Focus is a struggle. My whole world has just shrunk to the point of contact between us. “But they, uh, have sales and fame, so by your reckoning, they must be successful.”
“Not all popular things are good, obviously. But rock is classic. It even says so in the name: Classic Rock.”
“Please.” My body isn’t mine tonight. I’m not used to being betrayed by something I’ve built a career by controlling. “No one will know who any of those people are in two hundred years.” But I’m not as convinced by my own argument as I usually am.
“You can’t tell me the Beatles will fade away like that. The Stones.” He strokes his thumb against the back of my hand, and I want that thumb stroking me in other places. I want it so badly that it scares me.
I take back my hand and with it, a modicum of control over my galloping hormones. “There are exceptions to every rule.” Now I miss his warmth. “But for the most part? No one will know their names and you know why? Because the music people are playing is bubble gum. It tastes good for a minute or two, then the taste of it fades from your memory and you move on to something else. It even says so in the name: Bubblegum Pop.” I smile as I parrot him, and I’m rewarded with a flash of an answering smirk.
He shakes his head. “You’re cute.” He’s looking at me like he wants to devour me.
“I’m not interested.”
He leans in, so close that I can breathe in his musky scent and it sends me spinning. “Aren’t you?”
I can’t answer. My mouth has gone dry and, even if I could find the words, I wouldn’t be able to get them out. Because I can’t refute him. I am interested. No matter how much I don’t want to be.
Dylan stays close, his breath hot on my neck. “Do you know what I’m into?”
“Uh…” I know what I want him to say. It terrifies me.
But he surprises me, sitting up, away from me.
“Rock. That’s what I’m into. It’s raw and real.”
I laugh, half out of nervousness and half at his statement. “No, really?”
“That obvious?”
“You’ve definitely got the whole rocker-vibe going on.” To put it mildly. His vibe screams “danger”, but it won’t let me run.
Dylan stretches his arms along the top of the booth, drawing my gaze toward his sleek muscles, the mysterious inkings. “Something wrong with that?”
I’m not sure if he means his look or his choice in music. Either way, the question flusters me and I can’t answer.
A wicked grin lights his eyes up, and he digs into his pocket for an MP3 player and a set of small, white earbuds. “Promise you’ll listen all the way through one song.”
It’s that commanding voice again, and I can’t refuse. “Okay.”
He gently tucks the buds into my ears, tingles spreading up my spine when his fingers softly tracing the delicate cartilage, and the din of the bar fades. Noise-cancelling headphones.
“Turn it up,” I say, aware that the quiet in my ears might mean I’m the one that’s too loud.
“Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to ruin those classically trained instruments.” But he’s smiling as he increases the volume.
I give him a thumbs up as the music begins, bold chromatic strikes in an ostinato, almost discordant, but…interesting. A bit percussion-heavy, but it drives along nicely. I adjust the buds and close my eyes to better feel the notes. By the time the singer starts, my fingers are itching for my cello to join in.
The singer’s voice is familiar, dreamy and scratchy, but his name eludes me. Brass cuts in then things change, zig zags of harmonies and oohs and a voice stalled by emotion, like everything was caught up in the singer’s mood and he sings of waste. Maybe not waste, but heat, and sand, and a dreamy emptiness. An unfamiliarity.
I drift between loving and hating his voice. It pierces and seduces and rasps and is too sharp. It doesn’t know what it wants to be, but beneath that is the same beat, same pulse driving us along in the journey together. I can’t decide if it would be better with more singing or less, but when the song begins fading, I strain to hear more, to stay in the moment. I open my eyes. “It was good.” Amazing, actually. I remove the earbuds and hand them back to him. “Who was it?”
“You really don’t know it?” He eyes me sceptically.
“I really don’t know.”
He grins and shakes his head, winding the cord around the device after powering it off. “It’s like you grew up under a musical rock, starved in contemporary and only fed the classics.”
“Are these guys new and huge?”
He drags his fingers through his hair. “Well. Yeah. Fresher than Beethoven, anyway.”
I shrug, not feeling one bit deprived because of my musical tastes. “I love what I love.” Okay, that’s a lie. Because if my musical tastes have been what have kept me from intelligent debates with hot tattooed men, then I do feel deprived. Very deprived.
“That band is on the top of the charts. And there’s no cellos on any of those tracks.”
“There could be, though.” I’d even heard a counter-melody as I’d listened. It would be easy to throw in the line. “And that band—” he still hasn’t told me their name, “would never be able to mesh with my symphony.”
He takes a sip of beer. “And your point is?” He smirks. Somehow even sexier when he’s smug.
I lean closer so I don’t have to yell over the music that’s gotten louder with something auto-tuned and lifeless. “Real music is the stuff I play.”
Dylan’s expression loses all humor, and he turns his face toward to mine. Is he going to kiss me? I lick my lips, unable to exhale at the need that slams through me.
He swerves at the last second, bringing his mouth to my ear instead. “Real music is the stuff that makes you feel, Rachel. It transcends genre, musician, time, place, everything.” His words tickle my neck.
“Mmm.” I close my eyes, savoring his closeness and his words because they’re true. “The way a melody sweeps you away and you’re powerless to stop it.”
He grazes my neck with his lips and his next words come out in a deeper voice. “But you wouldn’t even if you could because it feels so damn perfect.”
My heart thunders in my chest. “How it builds and builds inside you.”
“Taking you higher, faster.”
“And then it bursts and floods you with everything.” Opening my eyes, I squeeze his hand, not knowing when I took it again. Maybe it’s the wine. Maybe it’s how far he is from my usual type, but I need to experience this kind of man once in my life. Alex is right.
And even if she were wrong, I’d still be going home with this guy. My body buzzes with anticipation. I have no idea what being with someone like him would be like, whether I could even begin to keep up, but I’m desperate to try. “It’s powerful. Undeniable.”
“It’s orgasmic,” he says.
I swallow hard, not moving away from him, not even wanting to. In fact, I want him a whole lot closer than he is right now. I’ve never felt so connected to someone before who understands music yet has such varied taste from mine. I’ve also never been so turned on by a guy so completely opposite from me.
Hell, I’ve never been this turned on period. This connection is as primal as my reaction to Bach’s prelude if it was played by a thunderstorm. While I don’t understand this thrum of electricity between us, I want to. I want to know it as well as I know the placement of my fingers on a G chord. And I think Dylan could be the one to show me.
“Hey, Rachel?” He feels this too, and he’s going to ask me to go home with him.
And when he does, my answer is going to be yes. I peer up at him in response..
He leans back and traces my jaw with his thumb. “Wanna get out of here?”
3
“Yes.” The word comes out breathy, and my skin flushes with s
hyness and anticipation.
Those gorgeous lips that are going to be on mine soon pull into a smile. “God, your sexy when you pink up like that. I can’t wait to see if that blush extends to all your skin.”
My breath catches. This is the dirtiest anyone’s ever talked to me, and I have a feeling it’s only the beginning. Heat runs through my veins, and I’m sure that I’m both not ready for this and more ready than I’ve ever been.
Dylan leans in to kiss the lobe of my ear and I shiver. “Let me take care of my tab. Don’t move.”
It’s that tone of his—the one that makes me want to obey. But even though I’m about to do the craziest thing in my life, I’m still responsible.
“I should probably say goodbye to my friend while you’re doing that.”
He nods and heads to the bar.
My phone buzzes in my purse as I slide out of the booth. I’ll look at it after I talk to Alex… who’s already looking at me, holding her phone up and motioning for me to stop, so I pull my phone out and read her text.
Alex: You have my blessing, go forth and fuck!
Rachel. You’re terrible. And possibly psychic.
Alex: And you’re getting laid! Don’t worry, no one will ever know you have a fetish for tattooed badasses.
I shake my head. Rachel: Love you. I’ll call you.
Alex: Turn on your GPS and send me the address, wherever you end up. Safety first. And then I’m going to need DETAILS about this guy! Length, girth, time. And “the sex was adequate” is not going to cut—
“Ready?”
God, that was quick. I guiltily jerk and turn my phone off before reading the rest of Alex’s inappropriate message. I feel myself blushing. Again. Even though
Dylan seems like he couldn’t care less about who talked about him, and I somehow doubt anything about him can be summed up by a mere ‘adequate.’
I nod, unable to squeak a word out as his hand splays across my lower back and gently but firmly guides me to the door and outside into the cool, night air. What the hell am I doing? Can I handle a night with a guy like Dylan?
I’m scared of the answer. Not because it might be no but because it might be yes. And if I can handle him, what happens after that?
Long Ball: A Secret Baby Sports Romance Page 15
