Rock Your Heart Out (Sinful Serenade #3) (10 page)

"Yeah, Drew's little sister." I shake his hand.

"You should introduce yourself as Hazel's assistant. Unless you're trying to scare off guys who aren't my brother." He nods at Tom.

He's really Tom's brother? Tom was effortless with that information with Hazel but the guys don't look alike beyond both of them being fit and handsome.

"We're foster brothers. Not blood relatives." He looks me in the eyes. "In case you were trying to figure out why I'm so much sexier than he is."

"That clears things up."

I give Pete a once over, willing my body to react to his the way it reacts to Tom's. He's dressed in all black, from the thick eyeliner to the dark converse. His clothes are tight.

He's sexy.

He's intense.

But... nothing.

I look back to Tom, surrounded by his gaggle of fangirls. Anger builds in my stomach. He just lets them touch him, flirt with him. Probably, he'll take one of them home, throw her on the bed, rip off the ridiculously short skirt she's wearing—

"He's awfully tacky, isn't he?" Pete nods to Tom.

"Isn't that the point of being a rock star?"

"It gets old pretty fast."

"Apparently not." Let's discuss anything besides Tom's flirting. "You're really good on the bass."

His lips curl into the world's tiniest smile. "That the best you can do? Come on. At least ask my favorite movie or something."

"What's your favorite movie?"

"I mostly watch docs. You ever see
Devil's Playground
?"

I shake my head.

"Nevermind. Do me a favor."

"Okay."

"Follow my lead."

Pete makes eye contact with Tom and nods goodbye. Then he slides his arm around my waist and pulls me close.

He leads me towards the door.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"You've got this look in your eyes, the same one your brother had whenever any guy talked to Kara. Like you're jealous enough to hit someone."

"I'm not jealous."

He offers his hand. "If you insist. But fifty bucks says this gets Tom to come running."

"Oh."

"Unless you'd rather watch him flirt."

"Okay. You're right. Let's... where are we going?"

"Doesn't matter."

He leads me through the now crowded backstage area. Mostly, it's the opening band and their entourage. Almost everyone stops Pete to say hello or ask for an autograph. It takes five minutes to go ten feet.

I'm about to slip through the crowd when an arm slides around my waist. It feels right, that arm. It's exactly where it belongs.

"Hey, kid. Where do you think you're going?" Tom asks.

Damn. That worked fast. So Pete isn't just handsome. He's smart too.

Unfortunately, my body insists on Tom. He's all that will do. God, does he feel good with his chest against my back, all that warmth of his torso sinking into my skin.

"It's almost midnight," I say. "I'm going to sleep."

"Don't think so. I've got an image to maintain."

Tom pulls me to a side door. He motions for his brother to follow.

We step outside. There's a perimeter set up around the club but there are a dozen fans waiting outside it. When they spot Tom, they scream with excitement.

Tom leans in close to whisper in my ear. "I can convince you."

"How?"

He slides his fingertips under my t-shirt and presses his palm against the small of my back. "Like this."

T
he world goes silent. No rushing wind. No screaming fans. Nothing but my lungs emptying as I fail to fight my sigh.

Tom is pressed against me. His fingertips graze the exposed skin on my lower back. His heartbeat pounds against my chest. He looks me in the eyes, his expression pure mayhem.

The boy is trouble with a capital T.

"Get your mind out of the gutter, kid. We're going dancing. It's 90s night." He steps back releasing me.

The door swings open and slams shut. Pete. He surveys the scene and frowns.

"This isn't going to make you feel better." Pete pulls his hood over his head and looks at the women waiting outside the barricade. "I'll do the honors."

Tom stops him. "You should come out with us."

Pete shakes his head. He walks away without offering an explanation. But there's no confusion on Tom's face. Whatever is going on, it's something they share.

Tom was upset earlier, thinking about his mom. It must be about her.

"He'll change his mind." There isn't a hint of doubt in Tom's voice.

Cockiness or familial instincts? Hard to say with Tom.

He takes my hand and leads me around the corner, away from the action. From here it's only a few blocks to our hotel. It's dark enough that we're not immediately recognizable.

Tom wraps his arm around my waist. "You make a nice shield."

"You're lucky you're as hot, rich, and famous as you are, because you can be a real asshole."

He stops at a red light, checks the traffic, and pulls me into the crosswalk. "You think I'm hot?"

"You know you're hot." I follow him along the sidewalk.

"Maybe I don't. Maybe you and Hazel wounded my fragile ego."

"There's nothing fragile about your ego."

He feigns offense, tugging at his t-shirt like he can't stand how hot he is. It rises above his belly button, revealing inches of defined abs. He played most of the show shirtless but that was different. He was in his own world, lost in the music.

Right now, he's here.

It's not like when he was talking to those women backstage. He's not performing. He's really here, in this moment.

Tom drops his shirt. "You keep looking at me like that and you'll give me ideas."

Okay. I'm gawking. But he's teasing me. He's trying to cause this reaction. I keep my gaze focused on what's in front of me. There's the hotel. A mere two blocks away. But there are people in front of it. Women. They're waiting for the band.

I nod at the crowd.

"Feeling shy?" he asks.

"You're free to soak in more adoration."

"Why does that sound like an insult?"

Because watching those women paw at him makes me want to throw up. I clear my throat. "It's not. You enjoy your fame. Good for you."

"Still sounding like an insult." He nods to the left and steps into a clear cross walk.

I follow him. "I'm tired and you're threatening to drag me to a 90s club to what—capture you grinding with a Victoria's Secret model? We're in Portland, not Hollywood. There are no celebrities here."

"I don't discriminate. Any beautiful woman will do."

"Well, there are half a dozen women right there." I point to the women waiting in front of the hotel. We're five blocks away now, too far to see if any of the women are up to Tom's standards. But, hey, he doesn't discriminate. It should be fine. "Bring one up to your room. I'll get the shot."

Tom stops dead in his tracks. "What the fuck is your problem?"

"I'm tired."

"Well, I'm going out, and I want you to go with me."

"Why?"

"Because you need to have some fun." His expression intensifies as he stares into my eyes.

No, I'm tired.
I practice the words in my head, but they refuse to make it all the way to my mouth. It's what I always say to invitations. I'm tired. Physically, mentally, and emotionally tired. I always say no. I always want to say no.

But not this time. I want to say yes. I want to scream yes and add
press your body against mine all night. Fuck the dancing, let's go back to your room.

"Willow. Hello?"

The words are still stuck in my throat.

"You don't want to go, fine. I don't need an entourage to have a good time. I've never had a problem finding a
dance
partner before."

Acid churns in my stomach. Okay. I'm jealous. And worse, I'm jealous of a hypothetical person. I've got it bad.

I shake my head. "I'll go with you."

"Knew you'd change your mind."

***

D
espite his arrogance, Tom does the gentlemanly thing and walks me to my room.

"Thanks." I slide the key into the door and nod goodbye.

"You know what you're wearing?"

"A dress and heels?" There's no confidence in my voice. Security was supposed to move my stuff to the room. As long as I have my suitcase, I should be able to figure it out. I push the door open. "I'll wear clothes. It will be fine."

"All right. I'm gonna shower. Be back in ten. Unless." He nods to the closed bathroom door. "You want to try and take a peek again?"

"You're not going to let me live that down, are you?"

"Absolutely not."

"Are you wearing that?" I point to his jeans and t-shirt. He looks fine. Sexy, actually. A little sweaty, but that's only enhancing his appeal.

"No, I am not wearing this. But I'm glad to know your feelings on the matter." He shakes his head in mock outrage. "So judgmental."

Do not engage. Do not engage!

I nod back to Tom. "See you in ten minutes."

He kisses me on the cheek. "Until then."

Okay. Friends kiss on the cheek. In Europe. And maybe in Los Angeles too. Certainly none of my friends do it. But it's plausible that it's Tom's thing.

Of course, I haven’t seen him kiss any of his other friends.

Hell, I haven’t seen him hug anyone.

Only nine minutes to go. I take a cool shower in the hopes of convincing my body it doesn't want Tom. No good. I'm still flushed and wanting. It's all right. We're staying the night in Portland. I'm alone in this room.

I can take care of this need on my own. It's not as if I'll be thinking about him the entire time. Imagining those strong hands on my hips, that cocky mouth on my—

Fuck. Only three minutes to go. I dig through my suitcase. Organization isn't one of my strengths. I toss two pairs of jeans, three tops, and every God damn pair of underwear I own aside before I find a single dress. It's black and short. That's what people wear dancing. More or less.

Only two minutes to decide. I slide into the dress. Matching heels are nowhere to be found. But bright sneakers are very 90s. I slip into my hot pink Keds and line my eyes in purple.

A knock on the door disrupts my already unsteady hand. Shit. That's a mess. "Just a minute." I wipe my eyeliner clean with a wet tissue and answer the door.

Tom looks me over. He copies the tone I used earlier. "That's what you're wearing?"

"Is there something wrong with it?"

"It's 90s night. You need color. Come on." He steps into the room and crouches over the suitcase, pawing through my stuff. He tosses a navy mini skirt and a pink crop top on the bed. "That will be better."

That will certainly be less. The top is minuscule and the skirt is barely long enough to cover my ass. "I don't think so."

"Try it."

I shake my head.

He reaches for the bottom of my dress. "Don't force me to remove your clothes."

My heartbeat picks up.

"You have five seconds. Four." He looks me in the eyes, daring me. "Three."

I step backwards. "Okay. I'll try it. Wait in the bathroom."

"As you wish." He does as he's asked.

The room feels different without his presence. Colder. Less inviting. I change into the skimpy outfit as quickly as possible.

"Okay. You can come back." I press my hands over my stomach as I check my reflection. I can't wear this. It's nothing.

Tom looks me up and down. All that smugness falls of his face. His eyes go wide. His lips part. "That's no good." He pulls my hands to my sides, his fingers brushing my exposed skin.

"Why?"

Tom traces the exposed skin on my side, from the top of my skirt to the bottom of my crop top. "Just change back."

"Why."

His cheeks flush. "It's too sexy."

He's nervous.

"Change. Now." He shifts towards the bathroom, his body brushing against mine.

He's still close. Still warm. I reach for him, get the back pocket of his jeans. I need to say something. That I can be sexy if I want. That it doesn't matter what Tom thinks.

Only it does. I want him to think I'm sexy.

"Tom." My hand brushes against his hip. "I... I want to look sexy. You do. You always look desirable. Why can't I do the same?"

I go to step back into some bold, confident pose, but my foot catches on the bedspread. Shit. I slip and fall backwards. My ass hits the bed. Then slides down to the floor. Bam. I'm on my back, my legs spread. I press my hands into the ground to push myself up.

Tom's gaze passes over me. It stops between my legs.

"Uh..." His eyes cloud with desire.

He watches me with rapt attention as I rise to my feet. At my thighs, my hips, my stomach. By the time he works his way to my eyes, I'm buzzing like a power line.

Touch me, please.

Throw me on that bed.

Kiss me.

Something.

I try to speak but my mouth is sticky. My hands are clammy. I wipe them on the skirt. Damn polyester thing fails to absorb the sweat.

Tom moves past me again, reaching for my suitcase. I'm too nervous to balance. I cling to his shirt and tug at it to stay upright. He smells good. I can feel his hard muscles through the soft fabric. God damn, I really hate his stupid shirt at the moment.

I press my lips together. I want to respect his wishes. Just friends. I can do that.

In theory.

But I need to touch him. At least his arm. Something. I try to pull him closer. He looks at me, this strange mix of lust and confusion in his eyes.

He shifts forward. It knocks me off balance, and I fall back on the bed.

He's on top of me a second later. An accident or on purpose?

His hands plant just outside my shoulders. His body lines up perfectly with mine. His chest, his crotch, his thighs—they're all pressed against mine.

His lips are three inches from mine.

He smells like mint.

The room is silent.

He stares into my eyes. I stare back.

His hand goes to the back of my thigh. He pushes me up, all the way onto the bed. But he doesn't move off me.

My lungs refuse to cooperate with me. Am I breathing? Is it even possible to breathe? There. I inhale. Exhale.