Only for the Night (If Only Book 2) (8 page)

And that’s the way it needed to stay—roommate, business partner, not anything else. She opened her mouth to thank him, but Knight gave a sudden deep bark from the bottom of the stairs.

Hank dropped his hand, his fingertips sliding with seeming reluctance from her skin—or maybe that was just wishful thinking. “You go ahead,” he told her. “I have a dog to take care of.”

“A hellhound, you mean.”

Hank shouted a laugh at that. Sage took one look at his handsome face shining in the moonlight and scurried through the door. Before completely disappearing into the apartment, she forced herself to turn back. “Thank you, Hank. For everything.”

“No problem.” Knight chose that moment to reappear on the landing, summoning Hank with another bark. “That was fast, buddy. Whaddaya need?”

She listened to Hank’s good-natured grousing as she closed the door behind her. Thank goodness for Knight and his comic relief. If it weren’t for the dog, she might go quietly insane locked up in this apartment with Hank and the attraction for him that she had to fight every day, sometimes every minute. She might already be crazy, though, because she was anticipating another night spent with Hank only a few feet away. Within walking distance, really. Close enough to invade her dreams.

“Right, let’s get to bed. No sense putting off the torture.”

He was going insane. Two weeks and he was going completely crazy.

Sage was a constant in the back of his mind, even when she wasn’t in the apartment, and when she was home? He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Couldn’t stop wanting her. He’d never felt anything like this, not even during the years he’d carried a torch for Harley Fisher, the bassist of Aftershock. Harley had been a flame he couldn’t resist drawing closer to; Sage was a bonfire that scorched his skin and his thoughts and God, even his dreams. She awakened things best left alone, slowly driving him toward the edge of any control he thought he had, and her only weapon was herself.

For eight years he’d try to bury the part of himself that demanded surrender, demanded he use his strength to command his partners in bed and out. Demanded he be in charge. He’d seen where that road led, all too clearly, and he’d be damned if he’d ever allow himself to come close to that. Never again. He couldn’t let go, and yet Sage… Every time he looked at her, he wanted to break through the walls between them until they were tiny little pieces and she had no choice but to trust him. To let him control her.

Just the thought nauseated him. That’s why he hadn’t kissed her the other night—because he couldn’t risk it. He just couldn’t. This afternoon he’d found himself standing outside the bathroom door listening to the hot water run over Sage’s body, his angry hard-on throbbing in rhythm to the sound, fists balled against the wall on either side of the door as he fought the urge to demand entry. Demand, not ask. Not coax.

He was losing it.

Flirting he could do; laid-back, lighthearted Hank, that was him. No one else. He wouldn’t allow it.

He stared down the cliffside steps. What had he come down here for, anyway?

Right, workout. He’d brought Knight to the beach for a workout.

He slid his backpack from his shoulder as he stepped out of the flip-flops he favored for the walk down to the beach. There was nothing like the sand between his toes to make him feel at home, but the rough surface would bloody his feet if he ran on it bare. Shoving thoughts of Sage to one side wasn’t as easy as shoving his big feet into his socks and Nikes, but he told himself it was and ignored his psyche’s lack of enthusiasm. Both he and Knight needed fresh air and to expend some energy. If he couldn’t get hot and sweaty any other way, Hank would take the workout.

At the sight of Hank’s running shoes, Knight’s ears went up.

“Ready for a run, buddy?”

With a happy
woof
, Knight danced ahead of him on the sand, glancing back as if to see whether Hank would follow. When Hank retrieved a tennis ball from his backpack, Knight darted back toward him, tail in the air, eyes bright with pleasure.

“Thought you might like that.” Hank grinned, waiting until the shepherd came close before sending the ball sailing down the beach. While Knight retrieved his toy, Hank began calisthenics, pushing his muscles to warm up for the long run ahead.

The salty breeze swept away the cooped-up feeling as he and Knight played on the rocky stretch of coast. Waves rushed toward them, playing their own game of tag before retreating into the ocean, now a deep blue in the afternoon sunshine. Hank let the peace sink into him, wipe away the past few days’ frustrations, and focused on the buzz of strength in his muscles and the joy in the lines of Knight’s body.

The second Hank pulled Knight’s leash from the pack, the shepherd came to attention. The shepherd had plenty of power and aggression, but Hank had learned to control him. He’d adopted Knight as a puppy and trained him using tactics similar to those his friends in the LA K9 unit had used. The training kept Knight in good physical condition and kept Hank on his toes, as well as assuring them both that the shepherd wouldn’t snap in crowds when Knight traveled with Weekend. He guarded Hank better than an armed escort, able to take down an attacker without hesitation, but he was also highly intuitive about people and their intentions. It was why Hank hadn’t been too apprehensive when he’d heard Sage yell that first morning.

Hank clipped the lead to Knight’s collar. As he moved forward, Knight paused, glancing back toward the path as if looking for something. Or someone.

“You like her too, don’t you?”

Knight lifted his eyebrows and tilted his head to the side, a look that said
of course I do; why would you ask me a stupid question like that?
better than actual words.

“Right.” Hank sped up. “Well, she’s not here, so let’s go.”

He and Knight both had plenty of energy pent up, and as their legs moved in sync, Hank found himself picking their rhythm, twisting it, playing with it. At least his creativity hadn’t been as reluctant to play as his new roomie. That throbbing rhythm made his fingers itch for his guitar, for paper and pencil, for more of the melody that sang through his mind. The new song wasn’t anything like what he wrote for Weekend, which was probably what had him excited about it. Worry over the band was taking almost as much of a toll as Hank’s sexual frustration. V. hadn’t heard a word from Chad, who’d been silent on social media as well. Probably hadn’t stopped fucking long enough to surface. Hank wished Ron’s little blue pills or whatever it was would run out so they could yank Chad’s chain back into reality. Wasn’t like it would happen, but they could hope.

The endurance run got Hank good and dirty, sweat and sand caking his legs and even his bare chest by the time they returned to the cliffside path an hour later. Knight’s black fur was an equal mess. About two hundred yards out Hank slowed the shepherd to a walk, allowing them both to cool down. That was when he noticed the man just stepping onto the sand—suit and tie, fancy shoes, definitely not a tourist or local. Hank glanced at Knight, taking in the laid-flat posture of the dog’s ears and suddenly tense muscles. When a deep growl rumbled in the shepherd’s chest, Hank swore—only one man in a tie got that reaction from Knight right off the bat. He adjusted his grip on Knight’s leash and slowed them even more.

The man lifted a hand in greeting. “Mr. Nash!”

Yep.
Hank felt a growl rumble through him too. “What are you doing here, Reynolds?”

The man was sweating and gasping for breath like he’d run a marathon instead of coming down a few steps. He bent, fists on his knees, struggling to get in air. One hand waved at Hank to hang on a minute. Hank stopped several yards away and rolled his eyes.

Reynolds finally straightened, his face no longer the color of a tomato, and hurried forward. “Hank, hello! Long time, no see.”

Knight lunged to the end of his leash, or at least as far as Hank’s grip would allow. His teeth snapped the air mere inches from the reporter’s extended hand.

A yelp escaped as Reynolds jerked backward away from Knight, landing on his suited ass. Satisfaction at seeing the man humbled mixed with a wince of apology at what the sand was going to do to that fine cloth. Too bad the cloth was on Reynolds’s skinny body.

Hank commanded Knight to sit. “Not long enough in my opinion.”

Reynolds scrambled to his feet, hands moving automatically to his backside to try and remove the sand ground into his suit from his hard landing. “He almost bit me!”

“Nah. He was just playing.” Which was true; if Knight had wanted to snap off the reporter’s fingers, even Hank’s hold on the leash wouldn’t have stopped him. Knight had just been sending a warning shot over the reporter’s bow. He sat now as Hank had commanded him to, though he still strained toward their visitor as if ready to eat the man alive, even baring his teeth, just for good measure. Hank hid a smile. When Knight took a dislike to someone, it stuck and stuck hard. He’d always disliked Reynolds, and he was making sure the man knew it.

Hank had never liked the reporter either. When Chad had come out two years ago as one of the few gay rock-and-roll lead singers, Reynolds had done his best to make all their lives miserable. The uproar had soon died down when Weekend refused to withdraw their latest single or their support of Chad. Still, Reynolds had been particularly persistent. “What do you want?”

Reynolds straightened his tie with a sharp tug. “Just to ask you some questions.”

“Like?”

“I heard your manager has put studio time on hold for Washout’s next album. Care to comment?”

You little fucker.
Someone at the studio must be on the guy’s payroll. No way had he gotten that information from V. Hank narrowed his eyes at the reporter and fought the need to let Knight’s leash slip from his fingers.

“No comment.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the album? The band?”

Knight barked. Reynolds threw the dog an alarmed look but persisted. “Chad isn’t leaving the band, is he? I heard he went on a trip last week.”

“You hear a lot, Reynolds.”

Pride puffed up the man’s nonexistent chest muscles. “Yes, I do.”

“Well go hear it somewhere else.” Hank started past the reporter to retrieve his backpack, Knight firmly in hand.

Reynolds smiled a bit smarmily, ignoring Hank’s dig. “So…if there won’t be a new album, what will happen to the band? Your bandmates? Are you planning on going solo, Mr. Nash?”

Knight shifted to stand between Hank and Reynolds once more, probably sensing Hank’s anger, wanting to protect his master. Hank gave Reynolds his best stone-faced glare, the one he’d perfected on the force. “What gave you that idea? Your source isn’t at the top of their game, Reynolds. Who is it?”

“I can’t reveal my sources, Hank. I’m sorry.” The smile got even smarmier.

Hank fought the urge to snort. It wasn’t like the entertainment page was full of national secrets. “You might want to check them a bit more thoroughly,” he said, returning the man’s fake smile. “They can lead you astray.”

Reynolds had one thing going for him: he knew when there was blood in the water. “Are they in this case? I assure you”—he placed a hand on his heart as if planning to swear an oath—“I only want the truth. What will you be working on next? When will you be announcing your decision? Can I—”

“No, you cannot.”

Hank sent a subtle flick down Knight’s leash. On cue the shepherd gave a low, menacing growl. Reynolds finally seemed to get the dog’s message, taking a few more steps back.

“I have no idea how you got your information,” Hank said with a grim smile, “but the method by which you obtained it—and the totally wrong conclusions you have drawn—do not make me want to give you an exclusive. When I’m ready to talk, about anything, and I do mean anything, I will be contacting someone with integrity. Run with anything else in your paper and be prepared for a lawsuit.”

Reynolds spread his hands wide. “Hey, I don’t make the news—”

“You just report it. Yeah, yeah. Heard that before. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

Reynolds shrugged. “It’s a public beach, man.”

An answer that didn’t satisfy Hank—or Knight. The dog crouched as if to lunge again and let out a series of sharp barks. Reynolds almost ended up back on his ass. “Right, right. Okay.” The reporter retreated. “Sure, sure, maybe another time? I can drive over whenever. Just let me know.”

Hank walked away, throwing over his shoulder, “When hell freezes over, maybe.” Mentally he made a note to call V. when he got home. Weekend’s manager needed to deal with the band’s new problem, and not just among themselves. Good thing V. had a lot more diplomacy than Hank did.

Maybe V. had also figured out what to do to pull their asses out of the fire.

“You look tired.”

Probably because her head was on the desk. Sage hadn’t realized it till a few minutes ago, and still hadn’t been able to lift it. She patted the files and papers cushioning her head. “Think I’ll sleep right here.”

Hank’s chuckle filtered over from his spot in the doorway of the market’s office, light, teasing. Almost…reluctant. “Really?”

“Mmmm.” She settled back into silence.