by Lee Piper
I hate him for it. I resent every second of the forced purging. As I rip my gaze from Drake exonerating his demons, I compel it to land on the crowd. They’re oblivious to what’s going on. I swear, the lyrics aren’t hitting them the same way as they’re hitting me. People are smiling for fuck’s sake. And moshing. No one’s hemorrhaging from the inside out or trying not to dissolve into tears.
It makes me hate the power Drake wields even more. He lulls people into this false sense of security with his megawatt smile, confident swagger, and charismatic demeanor. But it’s all a façade. Beneath the showmanship is a broken man desperate to be heard. And I hear him. I don’t want to, but I do.
The song reaches its final crescendo, then fades. Drake drops his head. Sweat-slicked hair falls over his forehead and hangs in his eyes. He doesn’t move it out of the way. Instead, he clasps his nape with the hand not holding the mic and squeezes. From where I remain hidden in the wings, I can see the tips of his fingers turning white.
The crowd officially loses their shit. Their deafening roars and applause make me thankful for the earplugs I’m wearing. I’d be hearing impaired otherwise.
As though sensing my stare, tortured blue eyes meet mine.
Whoa.
I freeze. Brutal anguish is carved into exhausted features. My damaged angel has never looked more beautiful as he metaphorically throws himself at my feet, begging for salvation. The sudden urge to run on stage and wrap my arms around him is real. I want to draw him close, pressing my body against his as we line up our broken pieces and lock them into place. We’ll be whole again. All that emptiness we carry around inside us like a dirty secret will disappear.
I stay where I am.
Instead, I stand transfixed, marveling at the phenomenon of Drake baring his soul to me. And he’s doing it in the same way he did to the crowd moments ago. Only, they didn’t realize what was going on.
I do.
And Drake does too, because if I held a mirror to my face, the same anguish he’s feeling would be reflected right back. We’re two pieces of the same beat-up whole. Perfect in our imperfection.
I don’t know what compels me to speak. Maybe it’s the way his eyes plead for me to cut through the white noise with a truth we both understand. Maybe he needs a respite from being the one who’s always speaking. I don’t know. All I know is, before I can stop myself, I whisper, “You feel it too.”
I’m under no illusion that he can hear me. However, Drake must be able to lip read because his attention is fixed solely on my mouth, and he nods once in reply.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur.
Drake’s smile is sad, tortured almost. “I’m not,” he mouths back.
His words make me pause. After all, who wouldn’t want to escape the darkness that’s within them? I know I would. And I’ve seen glimpses of Drake’s. He hides it well, but there have been times when, outside of music, he’s slipped and shown me more than he intended. Once, the pressure of his fingers on my throat tightened that bit too much while he was inside me. There was a time when the shadows in his eyes overtook the brightness of the sun reflected in them. And I remember when our lighthearted conversation suddenly seemed loaded with meaning so out of place, it was difficult to wrap my head around what we were supposed to be talking about.
“Own it,” he mouths.
Shaking my head, I take a hesitant step back, wishing the black velvet curtains behind me would somehow cloak my fear. They don’t. And Drake keeps staring. He’s seen my darkness too. It’s hard trying to keep it hidden when I see it in his gaze. We’re experts at concealing it from the world, though. We package our dark parts into palatable bundles so we don’t scare others. Him, through his lyrics, and me, through my work.
It’s only when the tapping of Reid’s drumsticks signal the start of the next song that Drake gives me a final loaded look. I swear, it says there is no escape before he faces the audience again.
He retrieves his bottle of water, swallowing a third of it. Replacing it by his feet, he stands to his full height and wipes his lips with the back of his hand. “This song is for all the princesses in the building tonight.” Blue eyes pierce mine. There’s a determined glint in them that is matched by the cut of his strong jawline. “It’s time to storm the castle and claim the motherfucking throne.”
The women in the crowd screech their lust-fueled appreciation. They stomp their feet, wave their arms, and throw around devil horn impersonations with manicured fingernails. It’s clear each set of ovaries thinks he’s speaking directly to them. They’re probably releasing an egg right the hell now, thinking he’ll impregnate them in a marathon sex session after the show.
I almost wish it was the case. That way I wouldn’t be standing motionless in the shadows. I wouldn’t be confused as I overthink his cryptic comments and come up blank every time. What castle am I meant to storm? What thrones am I destined to claim? What the heck is he on about?
Biting my bottom lip, my gaze swoops his body. From the beat-up Chucks on his feet to the fitted, dark jeans and black, studded belt, I take in every glorious inch. Of course, he’s not wearing a freaking shirt, so my brain short-circuits after that. Seems the dark hair beneath his navel, ripped abs, and glistening chest causes it to malfunction. Which is for the best, really. I mean, if I stare at him long enough, I’ll forget what he’s daring me to do. And best of all, I’ll forget why he wants to relive his pain night after night in front of hundreds of people.
Shaking my head, I give up. It’s been a long day, and the night ahead is bound to be even longer if the challenge in Drake’s eyes is anything to go by. So, for the moment, I’m content to live in ignorance. It’s comfortable here.
Chapter Five
“Zeke.”
….
“Come on, man. Wake up. This shit’s important. Catch up on your beauty sleep later.”
There’s the rustling of sheets on the other end of the phone line. Leaning over Drake’s shoulder, I ignore the scent of his freshly washed skin and the droplets of moisture still beading his dark hair, and stare at the cell screen. I catch my first glimpse of Zeke Danton in the flesh. A hand even bigger than the lead singer’s scrubs down one side of a formidable face.
Drake chuckles. “Sorry to break it to you, brother, but no amount of sleep is ever gonna make you pretty. You’re staying butt ugly forever.”
“Fuck you.”
I’ve seen pictures of Zeke Danton before. He’s been featured in music magazines and blogs for years. The music producer is hot, despite Drake’s ribbing. He’s massive, with more muscles than a girl knows what to do with. The guy has this whole rugged jaw thing going on, which is an occupational hazard for mammary glands worldwide. And his eyes—whoa. They’re the most arresting caramel color I’ve ever seen. But it’s the way he holds himself, the I’m-gonna-fuck-you-up-if-you-look-at-me-sideways vibe that makes him downright dangerous. It’s gonna take a brave woman to tame that surly beast.
“Wil okay?” a sleep-roughened voice rumbles. “That why you’re calling?”
“Nah. She’s good, man.” Drake smiles. “Played like a beast as per usual and nailed every chord.”
Zeke grunts.
I raise a pointed eyebrow in Drake’s direction. He ignores me.
“Only had one creeper at the meet and greet tonight. Security got on to it fast, so Mr. McHandsy was thrown out before he could cop a decent feel.”
“Name?”
“Huh?”
“What’s his name? I’ll make sure the asshole never steps foot inside a music venue again.”
Drake rolls his eyes. “Dude, chill. Your woman is fine.”
“His woman?” I mouth to Drake.
Drake winks. I want to poke him in the eye with a microphone.
“She needs to be better than fine. It’s your balls I’ll be barbequing if anything goes wrong.”
Drake’s eyebrows scrunch in distaste. “Dude. Unnecessary. I’ll take care of Wil. You know I’m good for it. I’
ve told you this a million and eight times already.”
Zeke grunts. I guess, that’s as close to an assent as the affronted lead singer is going to get.
I elbow Drake in the ribs, hissing, “Why didn’t you tell me? Wil’s good people. If Zeke’s her man, then he must be….” I swallow. “A decent person.”
Oh God.
Realization is a bitch pill to swallow.
Drake clutches his side, feigning injury from where I elbowed him. I swear, he missed his calling as an actor. The guy could have been one of those ridiculously over-the-top performers from a comedy sketch. He could have appeared on a late-night TV show. One of those programs no one in their right mind actually finds funny. “Tried to tell you, but you were too busy accusing me of shit that didn’t happen.”
“It did happen! Well, half of it did. You were telling someone about my idea without my permission.”
He snorts. “You’re the most pigheaded woman I’ve ever met. Even when you’re wrong, you wanna be half right.”
I give him a good, hard shove, which does absolutely nothing. The guy doesn’t shift an inch. It’s like he’s built from granite or something. “You’re such a dick.”
“A dick that’s right. Or, the right dick, if you prefer.” He smirks, wiggling his eyebrows. “Play your cards right and I might even let you suck my dick.”
“Ass.”
“Bitch.”
“Bite me.”
“With pleasure.”
“You don’t know when to stop, do you?”
Drake grins.
“You keep pushing and pushing, hoping I’ll lose my cool.” Crossing my arms, I jut my chin. “Why?”
Drake narrows the space between us, a smug look fixed firmly in place. “Your skin turns pink when you’re angry.” Tracing a callused finger slowly, oh so slowly, along my cleavage, he murmurs, “Right here.”
I swallow. Heat floods my chest; it prickles sensitive skin, sending sparks of need shooting through my body.
Drake’s eyes drop to my breasts. With an upward tilt of his lips, he rumbles, “Seeing the affect I have on you makes me hard.”
I try to say something but can’t. Unlike the string of grumbled curses on the other end of the line. They’ve got no issue telling Drake what to do with his smutty mouth.
Drake ignores Zeke. Instead, he continues, “Seeing you battle with yourself, watching you try to pretend I don’t make your nipples ache or pussy wet, makes me even harder.”
It’s difficult to swallow.
His smirk widens. “Want me to go on? Because I can.” He invades my space until soft lips skim the shell of my ear. I tremble. “All night long.”
I mumble an incoherent, “Fuck,” before shifting back and shaking my head. I need space. Lots and lots of space. And an ice bath.
Drake chuckles. “Keep lying to yourself, princess. I’m a patient man. I can wait.”
Even though I want to be angry with him, with his jerk-faced arrogance and manipulative mind games, I’m not. After all, I’m the one who’s responding. For some reason I can’t help but react when Drake looks at me with a heated gaze, touches me with deliberate slowness, and teases me with double meanings. It’s like he has a secret manual to my body I don’t know about. He can read my reactions before I understand them, so he’s always one step ahead.
“Look.” Drake cups my nape and I’m brought back to the present. His thumb traces small semicircles along the column of my throat. “It’s as obvious as a hardened nipple that you misread the situation between Zeke and me earlier.”
I glare.
He grins. “I’m not judging. We’re in a safe space. You’re free to admit you were wrong.”
The temptation to slap his gorgeous face until my hand leaves a scarlet imprint is real. So freaking real.
Mischief is carved in every groove and ridge of his features. It’s in his plump lips, pale skin, and dark eyelashes. I can’t escape it. And the worst part is, I don’t want to. Not really. So help me, I want to keep fighting with Drake. Our verbal foreplay gets me just as hot as ogling his sweaty, half-naked body on stage.
As though sensing my inner turmoil and wanting to capitalize on it, Drake turns to me fully. His broad shoulders take up most of my vision, and the creases bracketing either side of his mouth take up the remainder. “Admit you were wrong.”
“No,” I retort, thankful to get some words out. “I wasn’t entirely wrong.”
“But you weren’t entirely right, either.”
“So, you’re admitting I was right?”
He grins. “No.”
“You two done?” Zeke interrupts. “It’s two in the fuckin’ morning. I’ve got better shit to do than listen to you argue.”
It’s only then it sinks in that Zeke Danton, one of the world’s most prodigious music producers, was forced to listen to Drake and me go at each other’s throats all in the name of perverted fun.
Shoot me.
Or, at the very least, rip out my tongue so I can never speak again. That way, I’ll never have to verbalize the embarrassment of this moment.
But Drake’s gaze remains fixed on my face. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say there’s an honesty pulsing from his eyes. It’s bright yet somehow dark at the same time. I’m transfixed on the interchanging shades. Couldn’t look away if I tried.
“Never,” he murmurs.
All embarrassment is forgotten. Hell, Zeke is forgotten. Everything except the man seated next to me—the one who stole my soul without asking—is banished from my mind.
It’s hard to get air into my lungs. It’s even more difficult getting it out again. There’s a slight wheeze as I exhale and a definite whimper chasing it. Drake’s nostrils flare at the sound, his pupils dilating until they become a bottomless black.
This version of Drake is dangerous. It’s the one that sees the missing pieces of himself inside me. It’s the one I recognized on stage and tried to escape through feeble distractions about music clarity and pitch.
The one I couldn’t, no matter how hard I tried, avoid.
I need to tread carefully. I need to protect myself against his words. They’re a trap for my heart, and the poor thing is so busted and bruised, I don’t think it can handle another disappointment.
A thumb tips my chin up. Drake’s mouth hovers mere inches from my lips, his warm breath fanning my already flushed skin. “I’ll never be done with you.”
No. Please no.
“Don’t say that,” I rasp.
“Too late. It’s too fucking late.” His lips brush mine, sending shivers live-wiring across my skin. “I’ve laid down my cards. I’m making it obvious what my end game is. You.” He nips my bottom lip, holding it between his teeth a touch too tight and for a moment too long before releasing it again. “Question is, what are you gonna do about it?”
He changed the rules.
He changed the game.
There’s no going back now.
I can’t pretend I didn’t hear what he said. That I didn’t understand the implication six little words can have. They’re echoing in my mind, each resonation louder than the one before it. Soon enough, a deafening chorus of I’ll never be done with you takes over all rationality until I stupidly want the same thing.
I never want to be done with Drake either.
“Is there a reason you called?” Zeke barks. “Because if there’s not, I’m hanging the hell up.”
Drake blinks. Thick, dark lashes brush the tops of his cheeks before arching upward. With a shake of his head, he exhales a short, barking laugh. It’s as though he’s shocked by not only finding himself in this situation, but by starting it in the first place.
You and me both.
“Um, yeah. There’s a reason for my call.” Long fingers tousle dark hair. Inky-black strands stick every which way as though strategically placed by a Hollywood hairdresser. “I want you to meet someone.”
“At two in the goddamn morning? You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
> “Nope, not even close.”
“Fuck’s sake,” Zeke grumbles. “Tell me about them tomorrow. Or better yet, never.”
“No can do, boss. We’re on the road again tomorrow and reception might get dicey. Besides, this is a time-sensitive situation. It can’t wait.”
“Wanna know what can’t wait?” Zeke demands, his gaze narrowing as he glares at Drake. “The Swedish metal thrash band I’ll be working with in five fucking hours.”
“Yeah?” Drake leans forward, eager for more information. “What’s their name? Have I heard of them?”
“Doubt it. But by the time I’m done producing their album, you will.”
“Confident as always.”
Zeke scowls before scrubbing one side of his face again. “Just say what you want to say before I hang the hell up. I’m tired.”
“And grouchy. Don’t forget that you’re grouchy too.”
Zeke’s string of muttered curses is the most creative I’ve ever heard.
Ignoring him, Drake scoots to the edge of the seat, excitement lighting his face. “Remember the chick I was telling you about? The one who designed a kickass speaker?”
“The one I don’t know a fucking thing about?”
“Yeah.”
“The one you want me to stick my neck out for?”
“Well—”
“Even though she’s in debt up to her eyeballs?”
“All right, all right. You’ve proven your point. You get annoyed when you don’t have all the facts. You want to make sound investment choices. You need eight hours sleep. Blah, blah, blah.” He rolls his eyes. “Don’t know how Wil puts up with your grumpy ass. You must have a cock the size of—”
“Get to the motherfucking point.”
Drake exhales a frustrated breath. “I’m trying, but you keep interrupting me.”
