Have Mercy: A Loveswept Contemporary Erotic Romance (2 page)

That wink, combined with her low-voiced whisper, overpowered his nerves long enough to wake up something else inside him, something needy and more than a little feral. He winked back. “I look forward to it,” he said, before he took the front steps two at a time.

Emme knew before she opened her mouth that Dave was going to argue.

He always got that stubborn set to his eyebrows when he disagreed with her. It usually happened when she wanted to make changes to a song he’d written, or when she really dug in about cutting a guitar solo. And she nearly always won the argument anyway, but having it in the first place was beginning to get exhausting.

“So? What do y’all think?” She slid onto the piano bench and turned around to face Dave and Mo.

“He’s better than Alyssa,” Guillermo said. “She was pretty good. And I liked her. But she’s more of a rock girl, and you can hear it in her playing. Tom, you can tell he’s a blues and soul kind of guy, and it sounds better with our songs.”

“I agree. And he improvs well. He’d be a good songwriting partner.” Emme watched Dave’s face. His eyebrows were still doing that thing. She wanted to get up and push them back into their usual shape with her fingers, as if that would make him less obstinate.

He’d been digging in his heels more and more lately, questioning every decision that she made. After being so supportive for so long, his new opposition felt like betrayal.

“I don’t like him,” Dave said, finally. “It’s not that I don’t
like
him. He seems cool. I’ve heard him play with a couple of bands at McKinney’s. Andy says he’s reliable, and God knows that’s a plus. But I don’t think he’s a good fit for us.”

“Why not?” Emme tried to listen to him. She really did. She wasn’t just going to shut him down before he’d spoken his piece.

Even if she’d already made up her mind, practically the minute Tom walked in.

“You’re not going to like what I have to say.” Dave rubbed his hand over his forehead. He actually looked torn up about whatever it was. For a moment, Emme felt bad for him.

Then he spoke. “I don’t like the way he looks at you, or you look at him.”

“Not this again.” Guillermo stood up. “Really, man?”

“I just think it would be safer not to risk it. Remember what happened sophomore year, when we were in that jazz quartet? And then Indelible Lines …”

The words punched Emme right in the sternum. “You still haven’t forgiven me. For a mistake I made that didn’t even affect you at all.”

“It’s not that I haven’t forgiven you. Emily, come on. I think Jared was the one who really screwed up Indelible Lines. But you do this, like, a lot.” Dave stood up and started pacing. “You’re kind of a drama magnet. And on top of that, have you met his sister? That girl is seriously fucked up. Can he really promise not to let his personal life get in the way of the tour?”

Emme turned around on the bench and started playing scales, mostly so she wouldn’t have to look at Dave’s face while she tried to fight the sting of tears. No one believed her. No one had ever believed her. Even Dave had assumed the worst about her, and she’d never bothered to defend herself, because if she even had to, because of the assumptions that he’d made, then what was the point? She might as well have been guilty.

But she’d learned her lesson, hadn’t she?

Even if she looked at Tom and immediately started thinking about ways to get him alone.

She shook her head. No, that wasn’t fair. She’d changed
plenty
, and she could prove it. And there was something inherently awful about denying him a chance just because his sibling sucked.

“Man, give him a shot,” Guillermo was saying when she turned around again. “We all screw up. And how shitty is it to judge him based on his sister? Uncool, Dave.”

“I know it sounds bad.” Dave sounded tortured. “I don’t want to be that guy. I’m just trying to be practical. I swear I’m not trying to be an asshole.”

“How are either of us supposed to prove anything to you if you don’t give us a chance?” Emme breathed in like she did before a song, channeling her frustration out on the exhale, imagining it spinning off into the distance like a sustained note. “I promise I won’t seduce the new bass player. I’ll
make him promise his sister won’t cause problems for us. If we fuck it up …”

“I’ll leave the tour.” Dave looked her straight in the eyes. “I’m serious, Emily. I’m willing to give y’all the chance, but if you fuck it up, I’m done.”

Emme nodded. “That’s your choice. So we’re decided?”

Tom didn’t drive straight home. He detoured to the park nearest his house, parked his car, and walked for a while as the sky stained orange, then purple. He sat on a bench, watching two fat pigeons fight over a discarded coffee cup, and smoked nearly half a pack of cigarettes until his nervous energy had been replaced by a nicotine hum. Going home would mean facing Katie; it would mean
telling
Katie that he planned to leave, and then who would she call when she needed money, a ride, a trip to the emergency room? Going on tour would mean managing his business from the road, checking in with his managers and his staff regularly and letting go of the tight hold he’d kept on the bar since his father died.

But God, he wanted to make music again, and he wanted to make music with Emme. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so good; maybe when he was twelve years old and J.R. had asked him to sit in with him on a set.

Inside his pocket, his cell phone buzzed again. It could be Katie, needing rescue. Or it could be Emme, with good news. He told himself his hands were trembling from nicotine overload and not desperation as he pulled his phone from his pocket.

YOU’RE IN, the message read.

How fucking long had it been, since he’d been part of anything? Since his life had looked like something other than just a repeat of his father’s days, without the warm numbness of alcohol to ease it along? Since he’d had a chance to feel optimistic—hell, to feel
anything
other than a sense of perpetual duty?

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done anything just for himself. Maybe back before J.R. died. Certainly long before his father had died. Maybe not even then.

He slid his phone back into his jacket. Funny how those two words made everything feel just a little bit lighter.

The booking manager in Tupelo had to be the biggest asshole on the planet.

That, or his voice mail was broken, or maybe it translated all her messages into Elvish when he received them, so that he had no idea that she needed confirmation of their show more than just the night before they were supposed to play.

Because if he didn’t want to book them that night, she’d have to rearrange the stop in Tuscaloosa, or skip Tupelo altogether, and then rebook the hotels, while Dave bitched about extra miles put on his van when they had to backtrack.

Emme breathed out, and slowly inhaled. Leaned her neck forward, rolled her head side to side. Put her hands under the seat of her desk chair and did that crazy stretch-thing she’d seen a video of on YouTube once that looked ridiculous but actually did help relieve shoulder tension.

Emme’s dining room table, a giant wooden monstrosity that had been her grandmother’s and that she had never once actually eaten a meal at, was covered in papers. Maps, brochures, flyers for shows, packing lists, to-do lists, to-call lists. Her poor ancient laptop strained under the weight of twelve open tabs, one of them the spreadsheet she was trying to complete so that she could give her tour members and her housesitter an accurate schedule.

Her housesitter.
Shit
. She still hadn’t found a housesitter.

What she wouldn’t give for a backrub.

A backrub, preferably, from a particular leanly muscled, tattooed bass player, whose hands and forearms flexed while he played …

Emme closed her eyes and leaned back in the rolling desk chair. For a moment she shoved the spreadsheet, the laptop, the compulsive to-do lists in color-coded ink all into the back of her brain and slammed the door. She listened to the stretch of her limbs as she pulled back from the table, sighed into the imaginary touch of warm hands against the back of her neck. He’d start off slow and firm, because his hands would be strong and he’d be good at this. She could tell by the way he played. Okay, she couldn’t actually tell by the way he played, but she could pretend that bass-playing ability somehow translated into back-massaging talent.

Yes, she’d let him rub her shoulders, tell him to dig his thumbs into the spot right next to her
scapula, where a million tiny knots gathered every time she left another unanswered voice mail. He’d probably pull off her shirt, to do a better job, and then his hands would creep around to the front of her body to cup her breasts …

But she still wanted her backrub, goddamn it. Yes, she wanted his hands on her, but she didn’t want him to grab and paw. He’d be better than that, surely. Wait for her. Follow her lead.

Yes. Follow her lead. So, she’d take her own shirt off, so that he could feel her skin, see it on display for him. Maybe he’d turn her so that he could see her breasts.

Or maybe she’d tell him that he couldn’t look, to keep his hands where they were, or she’d put her shirt back on and walk away. That thought sent a bloom of warmth down low in her body.

He’d want to kiss her, the back of her neck, maybe the center of her back, as his hands worked at her shoulders, exactly at the pace and pressure she told him to keep. She’d love that, too, his breath against her skin, his lips on her body, but maybe … maybe she’d tell him “no.”

Not yet. Not until I say so.

And maybe she’d like that even more, because her clit pulsed once, hard, at the thought.

“Later, if you’re good enough,” she whispered into her empty dining room, and yes, that was it. He’d have to earn the taste of her skin. She’d make him work for it.

Would he run away from that? Or would he push her over, take his kisses, pull her hair and put his teeth against the side of her neck? Other men had, and she’d liked it well enough. Or maybe not really well enough.

Maybe he’d just swallow hard and obey her orders, fingers shaking now, because he’d be turned on, frustrated, but in control of himself because that was what she commanded.

Maybe she’d have lost interest in the backrub by this point. Or maybe his hands would still feel good, letting her relax for once, letting her trust her own instincts, and so she’d make him keep going. She’d sigh to let him know how good it felt, and he’d react to that, gripping more tightly to keep from touching her anywhere other than her back and shoulders.

Emme wasn’t sure how they’d both gotten naked in her imagination, but they were, and as much as she wanted to turn around and look at him, she’d let him reach over her shoulder instead, let him graze the back of his knuckles against her jaw. He wouldn’t be rough; he’d be tender, because he’d be so overwhelmed that she’d allowed him to touch her at all.

And then she’d put her hand over his, and pull it down, over her clavicle and into the hollow of her throat, lower still over the top swell of her breast. He’d be breathing heavy now, panting even.

Emme slid her own hand over her T-shirt, over her own breast, as she imagined. His hands would be bigger than hers, probably harder than hers. He wouldn’t already know her body the way she did. Would he be hesitant? Overeager? Or just overwhelmed and grateful?

The fabric of her shirt muffled the sensation of her hand; frustrated, she whipped the T-shirt off and tossed it onto the dining room table. Papers scattered all over the floor when it landed, but she closed her eyes again, determined to recapture the daydream.

Oh, right. She’d probably let him kiss her then, on the juncture between her neck and shoulder. Maybe she’d ask him to lick her there, as she pulled his hand down over her breast. Emme felt goose bumps rise under her fingertips as she trailed her nails lower, her bra tightening as her breasts swelled. She shoved the cup down out of the way, impatient for her own touch against her nipple. By the time she touched herself there, she could barely stand the sensation, thrusting into it and pulling away at the same time.