Read Rock Your Heart Out (Sinful Serenade #3) Online

Authors: Crystal Kaswell

Tags: #my brother's best friend romance, #friends to lovers romance, #bad boy rock star, #rock star romance, #bad boy girl girl

Rock Your Heart Out (Sinful Serenade #3) (8 page)

BOOK: Rock Your Heart Out (Sinful Serenade #3)
12.92Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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His eyes meet mine. He motions to my bunk
go to sleep
.

I nod
of course
, climb into my bunk, and pull the curtain closed.

But sleep isn't happening. My mind is racing. And my body—it's way too keyed up to sleep.

What was it he said?
There are gonna be a lot of vibrators running out of battery tonight.
That's the only way I'm going to relax enough for decent sleep.

I can't masturbate on the bus. Maybe in the private room. But not here.

I press my lids together and take deep breaths. They don't help. I'm flushed, needy.

But I'm not bold enough to do anything to ease the situation.

CHAPTER TEN

L
ight hits my face. It's bright enough that it's well past morning. I roll out of bed, expecting my feet to hit the hardwood floors of my bedroom. But that's not happening. I'm never going back there.

It's quiet on the bus. I must be alone. I brush my teeth, get dressed, find my phone.

I've got half a dozen texts from Drew—updates on where he is, the hotel's address, that kind of thing. Then a few from Tom.

Tom: Your fantasy is waiting for you
.

There's a picture message attached. An iced coffee.

Tom: Bet you were expecting something else.

Tom: You gotta clean up that dirty mind, kid.

Tom: Get here soon or I'll have to find some other way to occupy my time.

There's an address. A coffee shop. I get dressed and get off the bus. Xander, the security guy, is the only person around.

He nods
hello
. "Good afternoon, Ms. Denton. Your brother went to someplace called Voodoo Donuts. It's a few blocks away."

"Thanks, but I'm not looking for Drew."

He smiles. "Tom is at a coffee shop around the corner. You need help finding it?"

My cheeks flush. "Yes, please."

Xander gives me directions and mimes zipping his lips in an
our secret
motion. I thank him and make my way through downtown Portland.

The coffee shop is hipsterville. It's white and clean with uncomfortable looking silver chairs. Industrial metal blares through the speakers. It's on vinyl, of course.

A barista stares at me with judgment in his eyes. That
you know nothing about coffee, you fool
thing. Ah, the same as San Francisco proper. That's one thing I won't miss about home.

Tom is sitting in the back corner, gaze glued to his phone.

What the hell does he do on that thing all day?

I ignore the too-cool-for-school employees and make my way to Tom. He greets me with a nod.

"Hey, sleeping beauty." He points to an empty glass. "Drank your coffee."

"What happened to my fantasy?"

He looks up at me with mock outrage. "Are you trying to tell me that I'm not your fantasy?"

I nod.

"Ah, I see. Too many clothes for your fantasy." He pulls his zipper to mid-stomach. "This better?"

"It's a start."

Tom laughs. "It's all you're getting. Do you have any cash left over from shopping?"

"It's in my suitcase on the bus."

He fishes his wallet from his skinny jeans and pulls out a ten. "Treat yourself to a pastry." He winks.

Tom runs his hand through my hair, mussing it. And there it is. Coffee is no longer necessary. I'm awake. Wide awake.

Something about it tickles. I laugh. "Stop it."

"Looks better now."

I reach for his hair and mess what I can grab. "That looks better."

"Oh, you're after a war, huh?" He reaches for my hair.

I duck and reach back for him. He's at least five or six inches taller than I am, and he's fast. I jump at him, reaching high, laughing as my fingers dig through his bangs. He reaches back effortlessly sliding his hand through my hair and flipping it in every direction.

"That tickles," I gasp. Then laugh.

He doesn't stop. So I don't stop. Okay. Here goes nothing. I rise to my tiptoes and jump.

Shit. I throw my arms in front of me to catch my fall. But I don't hit the ground. Tom catches me, holding me against his chest.

His arms slide around my waist, holding me up, holding me against him.

God, he smells good.

The room is dead quiet. Everyone is staring at us. We're making a commotion in the cool, peaceful coffee shop. How uncouth. I press my face into Tom's chest in an attempt to hide.

Only my body doesn't get the hiding message. My body gets an entirely different message. Hard muscles under soft cotton. His hand presses into the small of my back. His mouth hovers over my ear.

"You're knocking this whole 'land on a gossip blog' thing outta the park." His voice is light, joking.

"Do what I can."

He shifts, sliding his hand into my back pocket in a
we're a couple
gesture. He nods to someone. A knowing,
yeah I am that guy
kind of nod.

I motion to the exit.

Tom stays put. "You need your coffee, kid."

"I'll get one somewhere else."

"Promise is a promise." He releases his grip around my waist and moves into the line.

It's even more awkward feeling the stares without him to deflect the attention. That's one good thing about a gorgeous rock star friend. Everyone looks at him.

I slide next to Tom, hanging as close as I can. To deflect the attention. Not because the warmth of his body is totally intoxicating.

He orders two more iced coffees, his black, mine with almond milk. I sweeten my drink with simple syrup and move to the grey street. It's drizzling but I prefer a little mist to a lot of stares.

Tom is a few paces behind. He takes in my expression with an amused smile. "Not big on attention, are you?"

"Not really. I'd rather be behind the camera than in front of it."

His voice drops to a whisper. "Let's go somewhere quiet. Just you and me."

***

W
e pick up lunch at a sandwich shop, find Tom's car around the corner, and drive through clean, tree-lined downtown Portland. Tom navigates the one-way streets expertly. We cross a freeway, and all of a sudden we're done with big buildings and wide streets. We're in a neighborhood on the hill. Rows of perfectly imperfect houses pass by. I snap half a dozen photos, but they come out blurry. We're moving too fast.

It's beautiful here. Even better as we make our way into Washington Park. It's a massive thing, twice the size of Golden Gate Park, and surrounded in tall pine trees. Everywhere I look is a deep shade of green.

We park at the rose garden. Tom slides his arm around my waist. Totally inappropriate for platonic friends, but pointing that out will only lead to him not touching me.

I follow his lead as we make our way down a set of concrete steps. It's still raining but it's light, more of a mist, and the sun is peeking out from behind the grey clouds.

Wow. It's beautiful here. There must be a hundred different kinds of roses. The air is crisp and clean. It even smells of flowers.

I shift away from Tom's grasp so my eyes can lead me. There's a perfect red rose. Deep crimson and flush with petals. A white rose, as pure as snow. They're all beautiful and alive.

Tom presses his purple converse clad foot against the grass, testing for mud. "No fresh air on the damn bus."

"You must be used to that, living in Los Angeles." I follow Tom along a stone-lined path. "You seem like you'd fit in there."

"Fuck you very much, too."

That's an insult? "I didn't mean—"

"It's okay. I do seem like that. I'm vain, I go to clubs, I sleep with models and actresses. I'm your typical Los Angeles B-list celebrity douchebag." He presses his palms against a concrete railing. "It's what everybody thinks of me."

I'm sure it's not the most opportune time, but I have to capture his expression. I pull out my camera and take a few photos of Tom.

He looks away, at the ground.

The pictures are beautiful. The soft lighting, the tranquil scene, the hint of pain in his eyes—but they don't tell me why he's upset.

I put the camera down and move closer.

The concrete is cold against my skin. I stare out at the next level of the garden. It's flush with roses, but it's the deep green petals and thorns that dominate the picture.

"What's inaccurate about that image?" I ask.

"Nothing." He looks up at the sky. "I'm shallow. Don't know when to mind my own business. Only care about money. Only in it for the pussy."

"I've seen you turn down three or four women."

"Only cause I can't come."

"I don't believe you."

He shrugs. "Guess we'll see in—"

"Nineteen days?"

"Don't count. It will give me ideas."

"Oh."

"Fuck this serious shit." His fingers curl around the railing. "There's nothing I can do now."

"Are you okay?"

"Will be."

I move a little closer. "What happened?"

"Nothing." He's quiet for a while, his gaze on the flowers below us.

I break the silence. "You're not a typical B-list celebrity douche-bag."

He says nothing.

"More like C-list."

That elicits a smile. "Would you prefer someone more famous?"

"No." I move closer. Until we're touching. My heartbeat picks up. A flutter builds below my stomach. Moves lower. Lower. "And I don't think that the fame matters to you, whatever you want to claim."

"Of course it does. I'm an attention whore."

"If you insist."

He turns, leans against the concrete banister. His posture screams
leave me alone
but there's this sadness in his eyes. I can't go anywhere. It feels wrong.

I stare at the flowers from afar. They're beautiful but infinitely less interesting than Tom is.

I line up another picture. The composition is perfect. It's moody, raw, authentic.

Yet, I don't want to click. I don't want to be behind the camera. I want to be here, with him. Whatever that means.

I set my camera on the soft ground and turn back to Tom. After a few more minutes of staring out at the sky, he speaks.

"My mom, adopted mom, Ophelia. She loves roses."

"Yeah?"

"First day I got to her place, she had this big bouquet of roses on her dining table. But no ring. No sign of a boyfriend. Nothing. I lived to piss people off, so I looked at her and asked 'who the fuck bought you the roses, lady?' Pretty sure I added a few things about her being ugly."

I move closer. Until I can feel all the heat from his body.

"She looked me in the eyes, and she told me she bought them for herself. Of course, being a little asshole, I stared back at her and called her a loser."

"You didn't."

"I did." His gaze shifts to me. "She didn't blink. She stared at me with all this love and patience, and she said, ‘you can't wait for people to give you things you want. You have to ask for them.’"

"Smart."

"Took me a while to figure out what she meant." He kicks the grass, muddying his shoe.

"Did something happen to her?"

Tom doesn't answer. He pushes himself away from the railing and makes his way down the next set of concrete steps.

He stops in front of a peach rose bush and stares intently at the flowers. "She always had roses. Every week or two, she got a new bouquet."

"That's really sweet."

He holds up our takeout bag and points to an amphitheater to our left. "Food's getting cold."

He shakes his head, shaking off his bad mood. I follow him to the empty stage and sit cross-legged on the still-damp grass. The butt of my jeans is going to be wet. At the moment, it's hard to care.

Tom plops next to me. He eats quickly, then lies on his back and stares up at the sky. It's not raining anymore. It's mostly blue and bright and beautiful.

But none of that really matters to me. The only thing I can see is the pain in Tom's gorgeous green eyes.

I have to get him out of his mood. I line up a picture of him lying on the grass.

He looks up at me, raises a brow. "You have to do that now?"

"You can have these for free. Something soulful and pensive to get all your fans thinking you're sensitive."

"Don't need them thinking I'm sensitive." He looks back at the sky.

Okay. Here goes nothing. I move closer. Until I'm kneeling next to him. But the angle isn't quite right. I sling my knee over his legs, straddling him.

"What the hell, kid?" He swats the camera away.

I snap another picture. He still looks sad.

Tom pushes the camera aside. He brings his hands to my shoulders, pushing my arms towards the ground. I let the camera fall into the soft grass.

He pulls my body onto his, but not to hold me. He wrestles me onto my back, keeps me pinned with his knees planted outside my thighs, his hands planted outside my shoulders.

We're lined up perfectly for some tighter version of missionary position. If only we weren't wearing all these clothes. And in a public place.

I sink into the damp grass. His body is hard, warm. Heavy in this delicious way.

"Not now." He shifts off me and plops back on his back. "If you pick up that camera again, I'm breaking it."

"You wouldn't do that."

"I'll buy you a better one. Guess I'm encouraging you to keep shooting pics by admitting that."

"Not if it's upsetting you." I stare at the sky. There are big, white clouds. One is rabbit-shaped. "If you ever want to talk or anything. I don't know a lot about relationships, don't have a lot of friends, but I can always listen."

"It's nothing."

"That's not true."

His voice drops. "Neither was what you said yesterday."

I swallow hard.

"I didn't call you on that bullshit about your ex. If you can't tell me the truth, why should I tell you shit?"

He's right. It's not personal. I don't tell anyone anything.

But that is personal, isn't it? I put Tom in that same
I can't trust you
category as everyone else.

It's exhausting, never trusting anyone. I wiggle my fingers reaching for Tom's hand. But I can't find it.

He lets out a heavy sigh but says nothing. For minutes. When I can't take the silence or the wet grass on my back any longer, I get up and finish my grilled vegetable sandwich. I scrunch the wrapper into a tiny ball and toss it into our takeout bag.

BOOK: Rock Your Heart Out (Sinful Serenade #3)
12.92Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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