Bash wanders into Noodles’s quarters and takes a deep breath. A naturalist, Noodles embraces the Zen lifestyle with enthusiasm. Every element of feng shui is meticulously adhered to in his quarters. Noodles says it promotes a harmonious flow of vibrant, sensual energy. Although why Noodles needs sensual energy in his rooms is beyond Bash. The man refuses to allow any woman in his private space.
Bash’s heart rate slows and his breaths come easier. A nourishing flow of energy eases the tension vibrating in his body and quiets the jangled buzzing of his nerves. Maybe Noodles is on to something?
“Gimme a sec to grab some stuff.” Noodles disappears into his bedroom, no doubt to pack a bag.
Bash is bringing nothing. Whatever he needs, he’ll buy on the way.
“We coming back tonight or staying for a few days?” Noodles calls out from the other room. He knows exactly how Bash’s mind works. This isn’t their first spur of the moment trip.
“Forest wants a meeting tomorrow,” Bash says, “but I’m all for staying the night, grabbing some girls…” He needs to work off this restless energy.
With Bent and Ash tied up with their women, Bash misses the wild and uninhibited fuck-fests Angel Fire is known for and he’s itching for a long night of debauchery.
“Sounds like a plan,” Noodles says. “Is Spike coming?”
“I don’t think he’s back.” Spike left a few days ago, some business he needed to take care of. The bastard is being really shifty about what that might be.
“Okay, cool. I can surf while the sun goes down and again when it rises; a cosmic slice of perfection. What are you going to do?”
“Not get up at the ass crack of dawn, that’s for damn sure.”
Noodles can be intense with his surfing addiction. At least he no longer bothers trying to rope Bash into his favorite pastime.
“You’re missing out, dude. It’s fucking amazing.”
“Yeah, well, I need drumsticks. I tossed the last of my stash into the crowd last night.”
“Dude, you know we have people to get that kind of stuff for you.”
“I know, but it’s not the same.” He enjoys the ritual behind buying his own sticks and passing them out to the fans. It means more knowing he handles the sticks from purchase, to playing, to putting into the hands of some waiting fan. Having someone else buy them cheapens the gift. In this, he shares a little bit of Noodles’s mysticism.
“Let’s blow this joint!” Noodles comes out of his bedroom with a tattered backpack slung over his shoulder.
They head to the garage and bypass all the supercars. This is a road trip back home and there’s no need for flashy cars. Besides, Noodles’s surfboard won’t fit in any of the Porsches, Vettes, or Lambos. Bash heads to Ash’s Jeep.
Ash and Skye are visiting Ash’s parents in Santa Barbara, but with Skye six months pregnant, they took the helicopter instead of driving the three and a half hours along the coast. With the perpetually sunny skies and amazing temperature, Bash looks forward to the drive.
“Top up or down?” He asks Noodles.
“Dude, top down.”
Noodles heads to the far wall where several surfboards hang. The waters on the beach below Insanity are treacherous, full of dangerous riptides and longshore currents, but Noodles braves the waters without fear. He stares at the wall while Bash takes down the soft top of the Jeep. Ash bought the Jeep in high school and keeps the decades old car in pristine working condition.
As Bash finishes strapping down the soft top, Noodles joins him with a board under his arm and a wetsuit flopping over his shoulder.
“I’m looking forward to this, thanks for grabbing me.” Noodles straps in the surfboard and tucks the wetsuit behind the passenger seat with his backpack. He jumps in, beaming an infectious grin, and ties back his long hair. He thumps the dash. “Let’s do this!”
Bash jumps into the driver’s seat and opens the garage door.
He doesn’t understand the restlessness inside of him, but knows he doesn’t want to spend the day alone. He and Noodles will enjoy the drive, grab a bite to eat, and he’ll drop Noodles off at the beach by late afternoon. While Noodles surfs, he’ll find a local music shop and drop in.
Angel Fire hit it big in his senior year of high school. By the time his classmates walked across the stage to receive their diplomas, he and the rest of the band played to crowds of thousands. A year later, those thousands turned to tens of thousands, and soon they played to sold out stadium crowds.
Fame brings many perks, but sometimes he wishes for simpler times. Inevitably, someone recognizes him and these trips turn into mini-events. Other times, he’s just another guy. Those are the best and he hopes this turns into one of those low-key days.
Four hours later, he’s alone after dropping Noodles off at the beach. Santa Barbara is home turf and he’s a little hesitant to travel too far down memory lane. He heads to Grady’s Music. It’s a new store on the other side of town from where Bash grew up, which makes it free from unwanted memories.
From the outside, Grady’s is exactly the kind of store he loves. Guitars perch on stands in the right display window and a drum kit and keyboard fill out the left side of the storefront. Posters from iconic bands hang from the walls and sheet music plasters the windows. A few flyers complete the display, advertising local bands and the venues they’re playing around town.
A corkboard outside the door displays more flyers, more local talent, and an advertisement for a local community shelter with an open call for free music lessons. Several of the tabs with the contact information at the bottom are missing. When he walks inside, the doorbell rings and announces him to the few customers and staff. The place smells like music and creative energy seeps from the walls.
He loves the shop on sight. To the left, scores of guitars hang from the walls in staggered rows. Ash, Bent, and Spike would have a field day checking out those guitars. They can afford anything they desire, but there’s nothing like the discovery that goes along with finding the perfect guitar. The row in front of the guitars would have Noodles salivating. Keyboards of every shape, size, and style stretch down the long expanse of the shop. The owner polished the industrial grade concrete floors to a glossy shine. They reflect the bright lights from above, making everything glitter and shine. A row of drums dominates the middle of the shop with a mid-level drum kit prominently displayed at the head.
Drums speak to him on a primal level. He can create sound quiet as a tiptoe, or as loud as rolling thunder, with the tiniest change of pressure from his wrist. He can keep the beat steady as a clock, then change it into furious reverberation echoing the passion of his soul. Or, he can turn everything on its edge and change things on the fly. The versatility of drums allows him countless creative combinations.
He beat the crap out of a guy in high school who claimed drummers weren’t musically talented. Sam Braum was a classically trained elitist jerk. His exact words were Drummers are an excuse for a musician. Fists flew. Bash earned a month of detention and Sam enjoyed a trip to the emergency room. In the end, Bash made his point.
Drums are the soul of a song which form the backbone of music. He didn’t bother explaining to Sam how he also played guitar, piano, and was classically trained on the violin. It didn’t matter then, and doesn’t matter now.
He tugs the brim of his ball cap low over his eyes. He’s not wearing a disguise, but would prefer not to turn this into a scene. While he loves his fans, today is a day for reflection and he’s deep in thought about the changes happening within the band. Running his hands over the cymbals and snares, he meanders down the aisle with the drums and breathes in the ambience.
A few customers are in the shop. A dad is with his son looking over the wall of guitars. A little girl, not more than seven, yanks her father to an electric keyboard and plucks at the keys. The girl surprises him with the promise of her latent talent. Given a proper education, she will become something incredible. A group of guys gather in the accessory aisle.
They’re young, junior high or freshmen. Snippets of their conversation keep a smile on Bash’s face. There’s some event they’re excited to play at later that week.
Keeping a low profile, Bash takes his time and soaks in the atmosphere. His exploration takes him to the back of the shop where he spies two sound booths. This quickens his step. Large smoky panes of glass allow those outside to observe without disturbing whomever is playing inside. The booth to his left is dark and empty, but a deep throbbing beat comes from the one to his right. His feet move of their own volition, pulling him toward the sound, and then his heart roars to a stop when he spies the drummer inside.
A girl is not only playing the drums, but killing it. A vision of wild, unrestrained beauty, she’s a perfect ten. He lets his gaze slide over her body, admiring her toned arms and the bouncing of her tits. Back in high school, he and the guys played a game, one which only intensified with Angel Fire’s rising notoriety. Like a mathematical equation, they added up the pluses and minuses of a girl, adding only the best of the best to their growing list of conquests. The hotter the girl the better, but this? This vision breaks all the charts and smashes right through any scale.
His jaw gapes and he can’t help but stare, entranced by the magic occurring within that booth, because she isn’t just a vision. She’s perfection, a masterpiece of fiery corkscrew curls raging down her back and floating in a cloud around her head. Her skin glistens with exertion as she takes possession and owns the drums. Long and loose, her hair is a raging torrent; liquid fire set free. The wild curls flow across her shoulders, cascade down her back, and bounce below the waistband of her shorts. Her hair moves, free and unfettered, and hides her face until she straightens and flicks it back over her shoulders. Around her jawline, her hair is cut a little shorter, framing a heart-shaped face and blazing neon green eyes.
Their gazes collide and she holds him captivated in the spell of her beauty. Her features are small and perfect, with a deliciously upturned nose, and brows only slightly darker in hue than her hair. She’s the real deal, a true redhead, his Achilles heel, and he decides right then that she will be in his bed.
Fuck the bed.
He glances down the hall leading to the back of the store and what he hopes is a bathroom or supply closet. His dick is rigid and standing at attention. When he glances back, she’s back at the drums. Her slender form is in perfect form. She shows no sign of tiring, although from the sweat on her brows, and the curls sticking to the perfection of her cheeks, she’s been playing for some time.
He stares and doesn’t care who sees. He’s not leaving until he’s buried deep inside her wet heat. This is the kind of woman a man exorcises from his mind and dreams about late into the night. She will be his.
Considered the height of rudeness, Bash doesn’t think twice as he heads to the door and steps inside the sound booth. The moment he does, the frenzied beat crashes to a stop. The red-headed beauty spins and angles her angry gaze at him.
“Get the fuck out, asshole!”
But there’s nothing that will make him leave.
3
Holly
The air shifts as the door opens and closes with a thud. The intrusion is felt more than heard, a pressure rolling along Holly’s skin, chasing the clashing of cymbals, and punching her gut with the deep bass of the drums.
Soundproofed, the room insulates customers from the noise within and traps her in a private world, one this stranger dares to disrupt. Common curtesy dictates a certain degree of respect for another’s privacy. Top on that list is not barging in on someone in a booth.
This is her space.
Her refuge from an otherwise crappy day.
Spinning around, she braces to give a good dressing down to the asshole who dares to ruin her solitude, but finds herself struck speechless instead.
Holy Hellfire, the guy is hot!
The look in his eyes steals her breath. Not a word is exchanged between them, but he speaks volumes with those eyes and his intent is clear. She knows how his lips might move in a kiss and how his hands would caress the curves of her body, all while leaving pleasure in their wake. His single-minded thoughts leap across the space between them and make her forget what she wants to say.
With the kind of face chiseled out of granite, his strong arched brows rise above eyelashes so thick they’re practically illegal, but that’s nothing compared to the hunger brewing in his eyes. The potency of his presence is catastrophic and sends her entire body into a quivering ball of need. A ball cap covers his head, and from what she can see he either shaves or is bald. Many women don’t find that appealing, but that rugged look is her Achilles heel.
His lips draw into a hard line across his face and promise decadent torture. The prominence of his jaw curves down to the strength of his neck, highlighting twining cords of muscle which ripple across his entire body, defining strong arms, a firm chest, a tighter than tight abdomen, bold thighs, and the outline of his prowess between his legs.
Wait? Is he… hard?
Her gaze snaps to his eyes and the truth reflects in their depths. He owns it too, unashamed of his aroused state. That confidence makes him incredibly sexy. His strong hands rest in the front pockets of his jeans and force her gaze to travel the expanse of his body and back to the growing bulge behind his zipper.
He allows this, giving her time to admire him as he does the same to her. He’s unaffected by her examination, as if he’s used to being ogled, but then it’s well deserved. The air crackles between them, an electric current connecting them in a wild spin of sexual heat. A grin splits his face and a twinkle gathers in his eyes. He approaches the window, lowers the shade, and plunges them into complete privacy.
“You and me. Now.” His voice is deep, riveting, laced with inevitability and full of command. It’s like he knows all her buttons and hits each one in a carefully coordinated attack with only one objective in mind. He’s a man ready to fuck.
It’s a struggle to not fall under his spell. She gives her head a little shake, but it’s not enough to throw off the effect he’s having on her. She desperately tries to regain her footing.
“Look, the booths are rented by the hour at the sales counter,” she says. “If you want time in here, you’re going to have to schedule it with Bill.”
“I’m here now. What do you say we have our own private jam session? I’m sure I can teach you a few things.” He’s not interested in playing on the drums and as for teaching her a few things…
“Look, I don’t know who you are, but barging in here is rude. Suggesting you can teach me a thing or two, that takes balls.”
“Trust me, I know my way around the drums.” His gaze meanders suggestively over her body. “Among other things…” His expression smolders and makes her knees buckle. “You’ve got amazing tits.”
What? But she doesn’t react to that comment. No. He can say whatever he wants about her tits, but insinuating she needs help with the drums? That goes too far.
“You think I need lessons?”
“You look like you know a thing or two…for a girl. If you want, we can start with a little drum lesson before moving on to the fun stuff.”
“The fun stuff?” The guy might be hot as sin. He may have set her body on fire from across the room, but to imply her drumming is subpar because she’s a girl is a step in the wrong direction.
“Let me get this straight…” She plants her fists on her hips and cocks her left hip forward. “Because I’m a girl, I need lessons?”
“I’m really good on the drums.”
“So am I.”
He arches a brow, leans against the wall, and kicks a heel over his opposite foot. Every movement, from the smirk on his face to the powerful flexion of his thighs, is designed to devastate and make women stupid.
“I liked what you were playing,” he says, “but you’re only playing part of it. Most people can’t handle the complexities of the full piece. I can show you how to—”
“Don�
�t bother.”
She can play Angel Fire’s drum solos backward and forward without missing a beat. He’s right that she is only playing part of it, but that’s on purpose. Her entire goal is to break down the frenetic energy of what one man can do into several different parts twenty kids can play. He thinks she can’t handle the whole thing because she’s a girl? That’s wrong and ends this conversation.
She places her sticks in her stick bag and stands before she realizes he’s closed the distance. He fiddles with the button of his jeans and flicks it free, revealing the brass teeth of a zipper. The molten heat of his gaze lands on her lips and his brow arches suggestively. There’s no question as to what he intends. Even now, his fingers hover over the tab of his zipper.
The heat in the room skyrockets and she licks her lips. Her entire mouth goes dry while other parts of her anatomy throb. Sex on a stick comes to mind, and he fits the expression to a T.
She needs to forget the needy pulsations his promise stirs, because she wants what he offers with a desperate hunger. But she fell for that once and vowed to never put herself in a position where she might get hurt, or ridiculed, again. He’s obviously used to hasty fucks, but she’s not. She focuses on that, feeding an anger which quickly fades beneath her desire to live out a fantasy.
Focus!
She’s not the kind of girl ruled by hormones who would fuck a no-name stranger. No matter how he stirs up her desire to do exactly that.
Anger.
She needs to focus on why she can’t take advantage of what he’s offering. Regaining control, she spits out vitriol she doesn’t feel.
“I have no idea who the hell you think you are, but you can turn around and get your sexy ass out of here right now.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” His arrogance feeds the needy parts of her soul. “Not until we work this out between us.”
“What?”
He gives a sexy grin. “Trust me. We’re going to have fun.”
Hearts Divided Page 2
