Fearless For Love (Lovelly #3) (6 page)

I’M NERVOUS AS hell. Today is my final audition with The Torque, and I couldn’t sleep all night. I think I slept for maybe an hour, two tops, before I gave up and decided to down a whole lot of shots instead. Espresso shots, that is. My brain is wired so tight, I wouldn’t be surprised if I looked like an axe murderer.

Hell
,
I
’
ll fit right in
, I think as I stare up at the location Tom texted me a few days ago—a barn, of all places. Scene of countless horror movies, ghost stories, and all things creepy.
Oh well
.
Here goes nothing
. I rub the goosebumps on my arms as I walk up the steps and around the corner of the huge-ass barn.

I knock on the big red door and wait, patting my thigh in nervous rhythm. Loud talking and sporadic laughter seeps through to the outside, along with the light strumming of an acoustic guitar.

I recognize it as one of their songs, a tune I’ve taken a liking to, and the pattern of my hand changes to match. I jump slightly when the door suddenly opens, having gotten temporarily lost in the music.

“Jessica!” Jarod, the band’s lead singer, grins at me and opens his arms wide. “Welcome home.” His eyes look a bit glassy, and I can’t tell if he’s drunk or high. Or both.

“Thank you,” I reply, eyeing him warily.

“Come here, come here. You’re as good as family now.” He pulls me into a tight hug and I stiffen. I have one huge rule about hugging: I don’t do it. There’s never a need to let my privates get that close to someone if I have no intention of sleeping with them. And I have no plans to sleep with Jarod.

“Ah, yeah,” I say and give him an awkward pat on the back.

“What’s taking so long?” I recognize Tom’s grating tone.

Jarod lets go of the full-body hug, but keeps his arm wrapped around my shoulders, pulling me into him as he turns. “Look who I found?” he says, squeezing my shoulder.

Tom’s face is the picture of displeased indifference. “About time. Are you always this late?”

“
I was here on time
,” I want to tell him. But I bite my tongue and smile sweetly instead. If I want to nail this final audition, I probably shouldn’t start it by arguing with the band’s manager.

“What’s your fucking prob, man? She’s right on time.” Jarod laughs, loud and obnoxious. He squeezes my shoulder harder. I wince. Tom narrows his eyes as his gaze flicks to Jarod’s hand.

“All right. All right,” Jarod says, finally letting go of me and clapping his hands together as he walks toward Tom. “Let’s get started, bro.”

He gives Tom a high-five—which Tom grudgingly returns— and then disappears back into the barn.

A muscle in Tom’s jaw clenches. “You heard him. Let’s get this over with.”

If I have any chance of making it, I need to find out why he hates me so much. “Look, Tom—”

He crosses his arms. “Let’s get one thing straight. You’re not in the clear, and if it were up to me, you’d never be. Unfortunately, the guys have the final say, so I’ll just have to live with it. Now, if you can leave your lady hormones and drama at the door, the guys are ready to get started. Got it?”

Then, without another word, he turns around and walks away.

I fight the urge to stomp my foot.
Why is he being so mean?
It’s like he’s deliberately going the extra mile to show me I’m not welcome. I look back at the exit. I could leave, just put all of this behind me and go back to a life of bartending. There will be other opportunities to drum. Right? I clutch my wrist, running my thumb over the words inscribed there.

Born to drum
.

I lived through hell back home, and the only thing that let me feel alive was music. So if I have to endure some band manager’s personal vendetta against me for no apparent reason in order to feel that way again, so be it. Straightening my spine, I shove my insecurities out the door and step toward the future I want.

Joel and Jackson are standing around talking, their electric guitars around their necks as they wait for me to take my place. Jarod is off to the side, locked in some sort of heated conversation with Tom. They fall silent when they spot me, and I can’t help but think they were talking about me. Tom turns away abruptly, walking toward the sofa to the left as Jarod makes his way to the center of the barn, where the equipment is set up.

He claps his hands and everyone’s attention goes to him. “All right, boys, let’s see if we have our last bandmate.”

“Hey!” Joel says, the same time Jackson says, “Glad you made it.”

And suddenly, I take a liking to them. I grin, feeling my nerves fade a little at their warm welcome. As I make my way over to the drum set, I notice Tom is sitting on the arm of the couch, and realize there’s someone else in the room. I pause, taking in the sight.

A large guy is passed out on the cushions, taking up the whole of the couch, a bunch of empty chip bags, candy wrappers, and beer bottles littering the floor under his loosely hanging arm. A half-used homemade cigarette rests precariously between his index and middle finger.

Jarod notices my hesitation and turns to follow my gaze. “Oh, that’s just Tony,” he says, waving his hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about him. He swings by now and then to hook us up with stuff, if you know what I mean.” He winks and walks over to take his place behind the mic.

I grew up with a mother who used drugs and alcohol as easily as air and water, so I definitely know a thing or two about what he’s referring to. I look again at the big lump on the couch. He looks so familiar, like I’ve seen him somewhere but can’t clearly put my finger on it.

I swallow the uneasiness forming a rock-sized lump in my throat and tear my gaze away. I glance quickly at Tom, who now has his laptop drawn over him as he clicks and types away, and then continue over to the drum set.

I feel a sort of thrill come alive in my blood as I look at the most gorgeous set of drums I’ve ever laid eyes on. Black, swirled with a blood red color on the sides. I run my hand over the crash cymbal, feeling the cool metal against my skin, before going to the snare drum. Not even Heaven can compare to the kind of emotions that rage inside me as I take a seat.

“Here you go.” Jarod’s voice is too close behind me. I spin to the side in my seat and stare up at him, startled. He looks at me, grinning. In his hands are two red drumsticks.

I don’t realize that I’m reaching for them until they’re in my hands. I twirl the sticks between my fingers and grip them like they’re my lifeline. Excitement courses through me, shooting up my spine and raising goosebumps over my exposed skin.

“Let’s see what you can do with them, yeah?” Jarod asks, smiling warmly.

I nod, surprised at his not-so-creepy smile.

“See if you can follow this,” Jarod says to me, then turns to the band and counts us in. “Take it from the top. One, two, three, four . . .”

I take a deep breath and forget about everything but the music that vibrates over my skin. Finally, for these next few minutes or hours, I’m home.

AFTER THE MEETING with Wilson, I was shuffled through office after office, debriefed and prepped and otherwise given the crash course on how to do everything I’d already done on my own. But since this was my first “official” undercover assignment, they had to make sure I was “trained” enough. By the time I stumble through the door of my apartment, hours later, my mind is spinning and I’m exhausted.

When my cell phone buzzes, I don’t even look at the caller id before answering it. “Hello.” I sound tired even to myself.

“Well, it’s about time, Harrington Brad Lovelly.” Shit. It’s Blake. And she’s pissed. The last time she called me by my full name was when she caught me smoking in the backyard my sophomore year of high school.

I look at the ceiling and groan, setting my keys on the table. “Hey, Blake.”

“Don’t you ‘
hey
,
Blake
’
me,” she snaps. “I’ve been worried sick about you!” She starts going off, reprimanding for my behavior and I flop onto my couch, too mentally spent to stop her. I have been missing for almost eight weeks without calling . . . I should’ve expected she’d be pissed.

I let her take her frustration out on me for the next ten minutes, making sure that I answer with the appropriate “I’m sorry” and “I promise” when called for.

“I—I know. . . . Just—” I run my hand down my face and sink further into the couch.

I know it’s useless to try and explain things to Blake. I mean, it’s not like I can come right out and tell her the truth. I can’t. Not only is it dangerous and classified, but she’d freak out if she knew what I was about to do, let alone what I’ve already done.

“Harrington . . . ?” Blake finally pauses.

“I’m here,” I respond, taking a deep breath.

“Please tell me you’re okay.”

“I’m
okay
, Blake.”

She sighs. “Then why don’t I believe you?”

Because your intuition is so goddamn perfect
. “I don’t know what to tell you. But I’m fine. Promise.”

“If you ever need to talk—”

“You’ll be the first person I come to,” I finish for her. There’s a long pause, and I stare at the blank TV screen across from me, waiting, hating the fact that I have to lie to her.

“You should come home, Harrington,” she finally says. “Your brothers miss you. I miss you.
Hope
misses you.”

“I know, Blake. I’ll come visit soon, okay?”

“Promise?” she asks. I hear a wail in the background. “God dammit! Hold on a minute.” I sigh and wait for her as she shuffles around in the background. I hear a few more choice words and what sounds like the slamming of a dresser drawer. After another couple seconds, she comes back on the phone. “Hello? You there still?”

I fight the urge to laugh. “What happened? Is Hope okay?”

“She’s fine. Just a little grabby for the boob.”

“Ah. Too much information.”

“Oh, really. Since when do you
not
want to talk boobs? You do know that women have them so they can feed babies, right? Not for guys like you to ogle and—”

“Blake, stop!” I groan. I can feel my ears burning with embarrassment and am inordinately glad that she can’t see me.

“You know, you were breastfed too, and from what I hear, you had the hardest time unlatching. I think Claire had to—”

“Oh god.”

She snickers. “You were almost two and half before you were forced to drink non-boob milk.”

“Stop. Please. I’m sorry. I won’t ever tell you not to share information about your breasts again. I’ll do anything. Just make it stop, before you ruin boobs for me.”

“Good. That’s better.” There’s a sort of satisfaction in her response, but I can feel her sobering. She’s not quite done with the lecturing yet, it seems. “Are you sure you’re okay, Harrington?”

“We’ve already covered this, Blake. I’m okay.”

“Just . . . promise me that everything will be fine, that we aren’t losing you,” she says. And I hear the word “
again
”
echoing in the silence that passes between us.

I can understand why she’s so worried, given my past. I spent my teen years trying to get back at my mom for leaving us—drinking, girls, partying, dabbling with drugs, the whole nine yards. It wasn’t until I found the mixed martial arts that I found an outlet for all my anger, a place to unleash the frustration and hurt, to escape my father’s suffocating expectations.

I sigh. “You’re not losing me. Promise.”

I know I can’t hold my family back for too much longer. They’re all too damn clingy. So I give her the only thing I can: reassurance. “Everything will be fine, Blake. Please don’t worry about me. I can handle myself.”

There’s a long pause. “All right. But try to come by one of these days, okay? I’ll bake your favorite cookies.”

I laugh. “You run a tough bargain, Blake.”

“You know me.” Small cooing noises come through line; she must be holding Hope again. “Oh, one more thing . . .”

I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, hoping this call is almost over so I can get on with my night. “Yeah?”

“Please tell me you’re hiding from us because you’ve found a girl and are too damn selfish to share her with us.”

I laugh. “No. There’s no girl,” I assure her, shaking my head in amusement.

“Well, damn. That would have made things a whole lot easier. Okay, well, I gotta run. Stay safe, Harrington. We love you. ”

“Me too.” The call ends, and I set the phone on the arm of the couch. Between Blake and the FBI, I feel drained, emotions and thoughts swirling through my mind in an exhausting mess. I need to clear my head, so I head to my room, change into some workout clothes, and head out for a jog.