Hung Out: A Needles and Pins Rock Romance (33 page)

“Are you?” One of her hands rose, swiping at the hair in her face. “You get off on that?”

“Used to.” The answer came natural. No lies between them like this.

“But not anymore?”

“No promises.” With that light tease, he sifted silky tousled tresses of her hair.

“Hmm…” Her lips quirked in a very interested grin, so intriguing he thought about rolling her over and giving it another try.

Instead, he tugged at a thick strand of hair. “Now, get up. We have reservations.”

“No.” Her expression was now less than enthused. “Really?” He nodded and couldn’t resist brushing his lips to hers. “Can we cancel?” Her fingers splayed the hotness that was her stomach. “I’m still full from gorging all day.”

Thankfully!
The meal he’d just served up wasn’t fit for eating. “Can’t cancel. You gotta get up.” Bounding off the bed, he tossed her the shirt he’d been wearing earlier. “Put this on.”

Her brows, knitted together in a pouty frown, shot up when she took in the shirt. “That?” Those beautiful blues roved his face.

“Sure.” He enjoyed teasing her. “It’s not a fancy joint. You don’t even have to wear panties. Just that.”

He pulled her up and ran his fingers down one of her legs, stopping at the knee. Her head turned toward the main apartment area, and she sniffed. “What’d you burn?” Understanding dawned, and she quit fussing, slipping her arms into the shirt.

“Nothing.” He denied. Okay. Maybe little fibs.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed. The gaping shirt had his eyes glued to her tits and the rest of her barely covered body until she clutched it closed when she stood. With a flourish, he indicated the table just outside the French doors.

She seemed impressed, her eyes widening, but she stepped away, instead of to the threshold. “I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”

He eyed the streaks of orange in the sky and the beginnings of the setting sun. “Hurry,” he called after her as the bathroom door swung closed. A minute or so passed and she didn’t emerge. Lurking outside the door, he listened to the running tap and rapped his knuckles against the wood. “Scar, you done?”

The water stopped, and a second later, the door swung open. She’d buttoned the shirt, and she spoke while patting her face dry with a hand towel. “What’s the rush?”

“Told you. Reservations.”

Pointedly, she glanced beyond him at the setup on the balcony and curved a silly grin. “Will they go to someone else if we’re late?” And then she screeched when he closed in and picked her up.

“We’re not going to be late.” He deposited her onto the padded iron loveseat and sank down next to her. “Wine?” Holding the bottle aloft, he poured without waiting for her affirmation.

“Please.” She toyed with the corner of the napkin over the plate in front of her. “May I?”

“You may.”

With absurd formality, especially given she was wearing only a shirt and he was wearing only jeans, they bounced their dialogue back and forth with goofy grins.

The smile fell from her face, and her lips formed an awestruck ‘O’ when in the distance, the lights of the Eiffel Tower blinked on, glowing against the dusky skyline.

Abandoning the sandwich triangle she’d been politely nibbling, she brushed her fingers off, and turned enough to lie against him.

“Best reservations ever.”

With the tickle of her hair against his chest, and the worries of the outside world feeling as far away as the city spread below and beyond them, he couldn’t agree more.

They remained, watching the city lights wink, blink, and glow against a black velvet backdrop that was the night sky. His thoughts were all over the place. “Hey,” he continued sifting through her hair as he spoke, letting the tresses spill through his fingers. “I've been thinking of you naked and wet in that tub.” To demonstrate the effect images of her in the antique claw foot tub had in him, he clamped onto her wrist and dragged her hand from the little swirly patterns she was making on his chest, to the achy, blue jean covered bulge between his legs. “Oui, ma Cherie?”

“Oui ma Skunk Rocker.”

“Mon Skunk Rocker,” he corrected.

“Hmm?” She was busy with the button and zipper of his jeans.

“Nothin’…” The word was a blissful sigh through his lips as her fingers slipped inside the open fly.

He felt like a king overlooking the twinkling lights of Paris while her hand and mouth brought him to the edge. He was dragged from this fantastical fugue when she jumped to her bare feet.

Singsonging over her shoulder, she disappeared through the door. “I'll start the bath.”

It took him a moment before he followed, leaving the dishes and locking the balcony door behind him. Standing in the square of light spilling into the shadowy bedroom, he shucked off his jeans and watched her shrug off his shirt.

In perfect synchronicity, their phones announced an incoming text. This phenomena was likely their tour manager hip to their absence from the hotel and checking in. He wanted to ignore it. Nothing was more important than her naked body against his. Even as he considered it, the phones beeped again.

It would only take a second to confirm they were fine, and it would possibly avoid the brouhaha tracking them down would create, not to mention a possible end to their romantic getaway.

Grabbing up his phone, he verified the sender was indeed exactly who he’d suspected. Standing in the doorway to the bathroom, he locked eyes with Scar who was settling in the tub as he poised his thumb for a return text.

But the info in their manager’s second text had him momentarily forgetting even Scarlette’s fine naked ass.

“I can't do it.”
Scarlette held and beheld her phone if it were a snake. “I can't…” She arched her neck, resting the back of her head on his shoulder to send him a pleading look.

He wanted more than anything to agree with her. To tell her it was fine to do anything she wanted or didn't. But he had a feeling she wanted this and didn't know it yet. “You
can
. You can't
not
do it.”’

Initially, Gage had forgotten Scarlette’s phone had likely received an identical text. He’d thought the message Rattler’s tour manager had passed on from Beau Jax at Jewelweed was all his.

Call ASAP. B. Jax wants to add you into the Rottaifest setlist.

The speedball hit. A quick high and a crash down. Because once it was all sorted out, the truth was more logical. Scarlette’s single was hot on the charts worldwide. Jax had negotiated a slot within Rattler’s slot for Scarlette to debut the song live. Instead of her playing the song herself, Gage would back her.

Letting the phone drop to the cushion of folded towels near the tub, she fretted. “He can’t make me, right? Whatever I signed was just for Jewelweed to record and release the song.”

The bath bubbles scooted along the water surface when she nervously jostled her legs. The group phone call had taken less than ten minutes, and still in shock, they’d carried on with the evening, jumping into the waiting bath. Now, instead of riding him and shuddering, spent, against him, she was trembling in his arms out of fear.

“I don’t know what you signed. You might not have a choice.”

“Oh, damn. Really?” Her voice sounded choked on the one-word, desperate question.

“Jesus, Scar.” His arms had her wrapped from back to front, and his hands had been absently playing with those two weighty curves and their enticing peaks that he couldn’t get enough of. But now, he let his grip drop and wiped his face down with the warmth of the water. “This is an opportunity every musician dreams of. Why the fuck are you acting like this?”

His words just rolled out, as too often happened in her presence. His mouth had no filter when they were close like this. Somehow, his guard naturally dropped. The moment the ugly words echoed in the tiled room, he hated himself. First, because he knew he’d hurt her. Second, because he’d just shown his jealousy.

He was jealous
.
He’d known it since the night on the bus when he’d discovered her single and had learned Jewelstone had signed her. But he loved her, and ecstatic and proud feelings far outweighed any envious.

Jealous
. She called him on it as ruthlessly as he’d just revealed himself. “You’re fuckin’ jealous. Dammit, Gage. I’m trying to figure myself the fuck out, and everything you’re saying, everything you’re advising comes out of envy!”

The water sloshed as she sat up, and the loss of her weight against his chest left a hole in his heart. Automatically, his arms locked around her, preventing her from leaving the tub if that was her intention.

His admission squeezed through a hoarse throat. “Okay, yes. I’m fuckin’ jealous. You were born with more talent than I could ever learn in more than a decade. It’s all coming to fruition with you, and you’re acting like it’s the
worst
thing to happen to you instead of the
best!
”

She balked again in his arms, but he held tight and brought his voice down, almost whispering the next words. “Yes. I’m jealous. But it’s not coming from a bad place. I swear to you that. I’m happy for you. More than happy. And I really hate not seeing you jump up and down with the same happiness.”

“I’m happy.” She slumped and then sagged against him. “I’m just scared. I’m fucking terrified. Don’t be mad. But I mean it. I can’t do this.”

Gently, he settled her back to his front once more, and stroked a hand down her hair, down a shoulder, down her arm. “You can, Scar. And you have to. Like it or not, you’re at one of those forks of destiny. Two roads. You have to do it once to know for yourself which one to take.” He closed her hands in his and whispered against her ear, “Sing some of it for me now. Sing the chorus…”

He didn’t think she was going to do it. It was at least a silent minute later when her chest heaved and the acoustics of the bath caressed and carried her voice in a sweet serenade he’d never forget.

Liberated, she took it from the top a few minutes later. They freshened up the cooling bath with warm water and she went over the hook and chorus again.

The tiles rang with her clear tones when she turned, straddled him, and soon sang a different song—the intimate words belonging to them alone.

W
ho was the chick in the mirror?

I sat, backbone straight, combat boots crossed at the ankles, hands in my lap, long hair hanging straight with violet and blue metallic streaks. The ragged hat on my head was black with the wide rims pinned up; a faded red leather rose was stitched on the front.

Really? A cowboy hat? A rocker cowboy hat, albeit a cowboy hat.

A black long-sleeved tee with horizontal rips down the outside of the sleeves and the sides of the shirt from arm to hem hung, barely touching the waistband of extremely stressed and faded straight legged jeans. Unlike the hat, and my hair, at least I’d had a few different choices when it came to my stage outfit. It was comfy and sexy.

Itchy
.

I blinked and winked, trying to adapt to the stiff feeling of my eyelids. The thick feathery lashes glued over my real lashes felt so odd, I wanted to peel them off. I was, however, digging the dramatic pattern of the press-on eye shadow.

“Oh. I almost forgot.” The stylist pulled out a drawer in the tall case where she’d just finished storing all of her goodies. A pump mister was in her hand when she turned. “Hold out your arms.” I squinted, attempting to read the label as the woman lightly sprayed me down, including a couple of pumps on my hair. “Rub it on your neck.”

“What is it?”

“Insect repellant.”

Like I wasn’t nervous enough. The image of lights being a draw for swarms of six-legged, flying night creatures caused me to shudder.

“Thank you, Ms. Rose.” The woman zipped up the drop-cover on the rack of clothing, popped the handle on the makeup kit, and rolled everything out of the dressing room.

Rattler didn’t have stylists, so it had been surprising when one had arrived, armed with spray on shampoo, hair styling products, and a straightening iron in addition to clothing and makeup.

The metallic black and chrome polish decorating my nails glinted as I fiddled nervously with the silver cross around my neck.