by Lee Piper
A sudden exhaustion overpowers me. It comes from above and presses an unbearable weight on my shoulders. It’s an effort to keep my head up, my back straight, and my legs moving as I nod once, then step from the tour bus.
When the door closes behind me, I choke back a sob. It echoes in the dusk.
Chapter Three
An hour later, I step out of a long, hot shower, dry myself, and wiggle into my favorite hip-hugging jeans. There are thin slashes in the material from well below my knees all the way up my thighs. Meaning, the pants expose more skin than denim. I don’t give a shit. They’re comfortable and look killer, so I’m wearing them. I then pull on a tight, black tank that does wonders for my cleavage, and step into some old combat boots.
After loosely braiding my blonde hair until it drapes over one shoulder, I tie it off at the end and leave the van. I’ve got work to do.
With a determined step, I stride toward the music venue. My chest is hollow, my eyes red-rimmed, and I could sleep for a decade and still wake up tired. But nothing, not even an asshole lead singer intent on sabotaging my dreams, is going to stop me from doing my job.
Feeling more like the badass girl I used to be, I make my way to the music venue, injecting a purpose in my step. However, just as I’m about to walk inside, my phone rings.
With furrowed brows, I retrieve it from my back pocket. There are only three people who have my number; Ray, The Collector, and Drake. Since my uncle is in his van, it must be one of the other two. My stomach twists at the thought of it being Drake. Then it twists again, reminding me I’m an idiot for hoping it’s him.
There’s no way in hell I can read the name, let alone decipher it through the hundreds of tiny cracks on the shattered screen, so I take a deep breath and answer the call. “Hello?”
“You have fourteen days.”
Tension seizes my body. It locks each muscle in place, forcing me to freeze midstride. My hold on the phone tightens to the point of pain, so I focus on the discomfort, using it to fuel my response. “That wasn’t the deal. You said I had more time than that.”
“The deal’s changed. You have two weeks.”
“And how do you expect me to repay you, huh? How can I get you the cash when you keep shortening the length of the loan? You originally gave me a month, remember? And now it’s two weeks?” I bite out a curse. “Choose a fucking date and stick to it.”
“You speak to me like you’ve forgotten who I am.” His words seep through the phone like carbon monoxide oozing from a car exhaust. Each poisonous utterance bleeds twisted toxins in my ear. I don’t let on how his cruelty-wrapped vowels and consonants affect me, how they churn anxiety through my limbs, making them heavy with dread. Instead, I bite the inside of my cheek until the metallic taste of blood coats my tongue.
“Let me remind you,” he continues. “I am the man who’s going to come for you if you don’t pay me on time. I am the man who’s going to slit the throats of your loved ones just so I can hear you scream. I am the man you don’t want to cross, Harper. Never forget that.”
The line goes dead.
Helplessness swamps me, causing previously rigid muscles to turn liquid. Collapsing against the building, I barely notice how the rough exterior scratches my skin, biting into my shoulders and scoring my flesh. What the fuck am I going to do?
“Who was that?”
Snapping my head to the side, I narrow my gaze. “Excuse me?”
Drake’s measured stride eats up the distance, and before I can blink, he’s in front of me. “I said, who was that?” A lean torso covered in a dark, button-down shirt looms dangerously near. He rests a large palm on the wall behind me, his hand so close to my head a little finger traps loose strands of my hair beneath it. I pull away slightly, wanting to feel the sting, needing the reminder that hurt follows wherever he leads.
Dipping his chin until the stubble from his jaw teases my flushed cheeks, he murmurs, “Answer the question.”
“No.”
“Harper.”
“I said no, Drake. Besides, why would I tell you anything? It’s obvious you can’t be trusted, or have you already forgotten what you’ve done?”
“I haven’t forgotten anything.” The cuffs of his dark, long-sleeved shirt are rolled up, exposing taut corded muscles that shift and move when he adjusts his weight. “You talked yourself into believing bullshit lies just so you can justify running away from me. From us.”
“Us?” I scoff. “There is no us. You made sure of that the second you dialed Zeke’s number.” Lowering my voice, I let venom drip from each word. “Don’t turn this around and blame me. You’re the one in the wrong here.”
He growls. The idiot growls, and I hate how it resonates through my body, causing a tremble to shimmer down my spine. “I was trying to help, am still trying to help, but fuck if you don’t love making it difficult.”
“How many times do I have to repeat myself? I don’t want or need your help. Leave me alone.”
“Never gonna happen, princess. I’m never giving you up.” He presses his hips against me, the heat from his stomach searing through my top. “Sometimes I wish I would. It’d make my life a fuck ton easier if I could walk away from you.”
It’s hard to breathe. I inhale but forget what to do after that.
“But then….” He glances away, his jaw tight. Moments later, he pins me with a look so heated, so intense, I fear I’ll burst into flames. “I see what’s inside you and I can’t. My feet won’t fucking move.”
My lungs scream for me to do something, anything. I’m stuck in a purgatory of my own making.
“So, push me away all you want; it’ll never work.” Leaning in until his lips hover above mine, he murmurs, “Do you wanna know why?”
“You keep doing that,” I whisper, my tone almost pleading. I hate how weak it sounds, how pathetic it makes me.
Drake blinks. Dark lashes kiss the top of his cheeks before fanning his eyelids.
“You keep wanting me to ask why you do things. It’s like standing on the edge of a cliff and being told to jump.”
He stares at me for a long time. “So jump.”
The honesty floors me. It demands no other alternative but to launch myself from the precipice. I swallow. “Fine. But only because I want to get this over with. I’ve got a stage to set up.”
The corner of his lips quirk into a half smile.
I’m so enraptured with the way his dimple winks at me that it takes longer than necessary to get my mind working again. Shaking my head, I nibble my bottom lip. “Why won’t pushing you away work?”
Drake’s nose skims the length of my throat. I bite back a moan. “Because your body doesn’t lie. Your head is telling you to push me away, but your pulse is racing.” Sharp teeth nip below my jaw, and I hiss. “Right here.” His tongue soothes away the sting. “You want me. Even when you tell yourself you shouldn’t, even when you distract yourself with work, your body craves mine.” Straightening, he tips my head back with a thumb and forefinger. Our eyes clash. “And I want you.”
I gulp. So help me, I want to forget his deception. I want his shitty decisions to disappear so I can pretend they never happened. My heart is safe, our future is bright, and our romance is a sparkling, shiny cliché complete with slow-motion montage.
I’m a logical creature, I know this, and yet Drake makes me irrational in the worst way possible.
So yeah, I’m screwed.
“I’m gonna ask you one last time.” Tearing my eyes away from his piercing stare is futile. “Who was on the phone?”
“The Collector.” The answer rockets from my mouth before I’m ready.
The effect on Drake is immediate. The slash of his lips, the cut of his jaw, the way he stands so still he almost seems ethereal—it all speaks of a predatory prowess I’ve yet to see. And a suicidal part of me really wants to see it. “What did he want?”
Since I’ve already thrown myself into the snake pit, I figure I might as well roll around in
it for a while. Who knows? Maybe I’ll grow immune to the venom. “He told me I have two weeks to pay him back.”
Drake’s eyes almost bug out of his head. “Two weeks?”
“Yeah.”
Cursing, he spins on his heel and eats up the asphalt as he paces forward and back. My eyes remain glued to his lean frame, gorging themselves on the sinuous lines of his body.
Beautiful bastard.
It sucks that I want him. Even now, after everything he’s done, I’m stupidly letting him into my life. And worse, he wants to be here. What kind of fool willingly throws himself into my chaos? We’re a disaster waiting to happen.
Drake stops and his gaze snaps to mine. I don’t pretend I’m not watching. I mean, the guy’s been inside me, for Christ’s sake. He knows the sound I make when I come. We’re way past false modesty at this point.
“I’m calling Zeke. Tonight,” he rumbles.
“The fuck?”
“Don’t argue with me on this. It’s happening.”
“The hell it is! You’re not calling Zeke Danton, and that’s final.”
“I am. Deal with it.”
“How about you deal with my fist in your face?”
The corner of his lips quirk in a half smile. “Good luck with that.”
Shaking my head, I disregard the sparkle of amusement intent on distracting me and focus on what’s important here. Drake threatening to contact Zeke again. “Is a memory lapse making you dense or something? Why the hell would you call him when I purposely told you not to?”
The lead singer takes a decided step toward me. “Because he’s the answer.”
“He’s not the answer; he’s the fucking thief!”
Drake prowls to where I stand. With each step, the air grows heavy, expectant. It’s as though it’s waiting for his signal to crash and thunder around us, surrounding our argument in its very own storm. I can only hope he gets struck by lightning and it knocks some sense into him. Lord knows, the guy is certifiable.
Drake continues shifting toward me until the warmth of his body burns mine. The hard angles of his features fill my vision, and his scent wraps me in a cloud of confusion. The hammering of his heartbeat echoes in my chest. It reminds me what having a heart feels like. I’d almost forgotten.
“Listen to me. You only know half of the story. After the gig, you’re gonna hear all of it. So help me, Harper. If you fight me on this, I’m gonna remind you exactly who’s in charge.” He dips his head and sharp teeth score my bottom lip. “And it’s not you.”
Straightening, he levels me with a molten look. I swallow, trying to pretend his threat has no effect on my brain cells or my center. Lies, obviously. Thinly veiled ones too, if Drake’s smirk is anything to go by. “Later.” And with a wink, he leaves.
I remain where I am, praying a strong breeze doesn’t knock me flat on my ass. After staring at the space the infuriating lead singer filled moments ago, I mentally smack myself upside the head and move inside.
In a haze, I set up the instruments and sound equipment. On autopilot, I rely on muscle memory and years of experience as I move around the stage in a haze. My mind is full of half-spoken questions and jumbled answers, none of which make any sense. I might as well be trying to read a doctoral thesis on neuroscience in Belarusian for all the good it does me.
An hour and a half later, when Benji’s behind the mixing desk, lighting tech standing to his left, and back of house staff are scurrying every which way frantically waving their arms while cursing at each other, I’m no closer to figuring out what I’m going to do. I mean, there’s no way I can let Drake get in touch with Zeke Danton. The producer already knows far too much about my design. He’s probably got someone building a prototype of my speaker based off what Drake already told him, for all I know. Like I told the pigheaded lead singer, Zeke doesn’t need me to get it up and running or help him make a ton of cash at my expense. The guy has so many connections in the music industry, he could sell it in under sixty seconds.
And yet… what’s the other half of the story I don’t know about? Surely I didn’t misinterpret the phone conversation I overheard? Drake did sell me out.
Didn’t he?
Fuck.
I need to get out of here. However, just as I’m about to slip from the wings of the stage and make my way outside, the front doors open and excited fans swarm the music venue. Bubbling chatter, quick footsteps, and house music combine in a raucous noise that has me reaching for my earplugs. The room swarms with buzzing energy as patrons not-so-patiently wait for the support band to begin. With a resigned sigh, I position myself side of stage, nod to the four-piece as they stride past, and wait for their set.
It’s going to be a long night.
Chapter Four
Surviving Drake’s set is harder than usual. Normally, I focus solely on sound distortions that I can fix later. It helps keep my attention on the job at hand—or the one I’ll eventually have when I become a kickass sound engineer who designs her own equipment. Sadly, while I was MIA, I made all the improvements needed on the dodgy speaker. It helped pass the time in between choking down stale crackers and staring unseeing at the ocean. Suffice to say, the quad box isn’t playing up anymore. But I’m desperate. I need something to take my mind off—
Drake’s voice booms through the venue. Goose bumps prickle my skin, sending shockwave after shockwave of tremors across my ribs. My chest constricts. Breaths flutter, then pause. My hands, previously hanging loosely by my sides, clench into tight fists.
It hurts.
Standing side of stage while listening to this man bleed lyrics that I swear mirror my deepest pain really fucking hurts. It’s as though he’s making me relive every agonizing experience from my past. As I hide in the shadows of the wings, dreading yet anticipating the next verse, his words grip the base of my neck and force me to step into the blinding light. They dare me to face every hidden torment head-on and embrace the pain.
No thanks.
Give me avoidance any day.
It’s times like this I wish I wasn’t a roadie. If I’d chosen a different career path and worked at, say, a gas station, I’d never have to worry about a godlike man terrorizing me with his kindred soul. I’d be too busy selling cigarettes and porn mags to company-starved truckers as they drone on about travel times or some shit.
Damn my desire for a better life. If I gave up on my dream I wouldn’t be here. I’d be far away from the charismatic lead singer who holds the hearts of hundreds in his palm. All from a smoldering look and his poetic verse.
Asshole.
In a different life, I’d be blissfully ignorant. Hell, I’d be naively living an existence devoid of anything other than intermittent hunger and tiredness. Maybe there’d be some joy thrown in to spice things up a bit. However, there’d be no fleeting rapturous pleasure, no eternal crippling hurt. I’d pass my days predominantly numb. Content.
The crowd erupts. Drake hits a high note as hollers, whistles, and catcalls break out amongst the heaving throb. The pandemonium causes me to blink, and I cast my gaze to the audience as it gyrates in time with the song. The music is heavy. Willow’s guitar is dirty, the riffs as complex as they are catchy. Reid’s drumbeat is brutal and intense. He pounds his way through mad off-beats and intricate drum fills that only true music fans can appreciate. I’m conceited enough to label myself as one. However, I’m well aware too that this conscious thought is a smokescreen. It’s a vapid attempt to take my mind off the lyricist intent on ripping my insides out every time he opens his damn mouth.
The mosh pit turns into a free-for-all. Legs, arms, torsos, and feet go every which way as bodies ram against other willing bodies all in the name of music. The people standing behind them step back, smiles on faces as they sing along with the lyrics echoing through the packed space. It seems everyone is digging the band. And they’re going stark raving mad over Drake’s special brand of musical genius. Well, everyone but me.
“Get it together, Har,”
I mutter to myself. “Focus on the sound. Isolate the instruments and then the equipment. You’ll find what you’re after if you listen hard enough.”
Squeezing my eyes shut, I force the background noise to recede and separate the noise emanating from each instrument. Not gonna lie, I’m begging for something to jump out and smack me in the eardrums. Anything to stop me from feeling the damn lyrics. However, luck is a moody bitch who has no time for the likes of me. The longer I listen, the more I realize the PA is clear, the quad box is on point, Willow’s guitar is pristine, Reid’s drums are crisp, and Drake’s vocals….
“Goddammit.”
He nails another high note. His vocals are fucking perfect.
I never realized how much I rely on distractions to get me through this band’s set before. It’s like my brain tried to protect my heart by busying itself with speakers, clarity, and pitch. That way it wouldn’t get punctured over and over again by the voice he uses as a weapon. The weapon that’s slowly killing me.
Deep, husky, yet so freaking clear, Drake’s voice is my undoing. His range is insane. He can reach notes, both low and high, that very few artists can. He makes it look so easy, and it’s not. I can attest to that. I’ve watched many a vocalist butcher songs through ego alone. Sadly, Drake’s ego is supported by his crazy talent, which is the caramel fudge topping on the shit sundae that is my life.
It’s his screams that get me. When he cradles the mic between both hands—like he’s doing now—holding it in a lover’s caress, I’m lost. I’ve felt those hands. They’ve traced every inch of my body. They’ve brought me to the brink of orgasm time and time again before finally letting me fall. Afterward, they whispered across my skin. They murmured the words he wouldn’t say. The same words I didn’t want to hear because I didn’t believe the truth behind them. After all, girls like me don’t get a happily ever after. We get what we deserve.
Drake shuts his eyes, a deep groove forcing shadows to hide between his brows as he sways in time with the music. The sound builds, the instruments layering one on top of the other in an intricate web of complex notes. When it peaks, Drake throws his head back, and I brace myself as a guttural cry ruptures from deep within his chest. There’s pain, anguish, and agony in that scream. It claws at me until my own hurt ruptures and bleeds alongside his.
