Take Me Home Tonight (13 page)

He held her gaze for a long moment and then turned away. Dammit, why did he always shut down? But when he got to the edge of the tent, he lifted it and waited for her to pass under.

She hurried over and bent low to slip outside. Fresh ocean air filled her senses, and cloud cover obscured the moon. She followed him to one of the tiki lamps she'd set out to illuminate the path.

Once under the flickering light, she lifted his arm to reveal the watery, colorful designs. “Oh, my God, these are so beautiful.” Her fingers skimmed over the ink until the image took form. “It's a guitar.”

“It's Hopper's rendition of my Fender.”

She traced another image. “This is you?” It was the mess of thick, dark hair, the set of broad shoulders, and curve of a generous mouth that gave it away.

He nodded. And then he lifted his T-shirt to expose his hard, muscular abdomen. “This is my mom.”

It took a moment to figure out the spill of hair. The woman had her face turned to the side, head tilting, so her hair flowed down Calix's stomach.

“When she sings, she loses herself. That's what she looks like.”

“She tilts her head like that?”

“Exactly like that.”

Her fingertips skimmed higher to the frenzy of color and movement. His skin pebbled under her touch.

“That's my dad's garden. Hopper liked to be out there with him. He'd talk my dad's ear off, about nothing really, but my dad liked to say it was a different kind of music.”

“Oh, Calix.” She let the fabric drop, smoothing it down. “This is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.” She wanted to press against him and hug the pain right out of his body.

“He had some emotional issues. Depression, anger. And my mom tried to help him with it through art. She turned the barn into a studio just for him. She'd sit in there for hours, let him throw paint, smash clay, whatever he wanted. And as he got older, she'd take him to museums and galleries. She tried to channel the feelings he couldn't understand into art.”

“She's such a good mom.”

“She is.”

Her arms slid through his, and she leaned into him. When he remained stiff and unyielding—very unlike the man who'd ravished her outside her apartment the night before—it hit her that he didn't need her to comfort him over a boy she'd never known. That he'd had three years to live with the loss, and more than enough family and friends to share his grief.

He didn't want companionship or friendship outside his small world in Marsapeague. And he certainly didn't want a relationship with her. She pulled back.

But the moment she did, his arms shot up, banding around her. Candlelight flickered on the coarse sand, and she curled her toes in it, all too aware of how much she liked the way his big body felt and the lovely, clean scent of his clothes.

When she turned her head to press more fully against him, her ear to his chest, she heard the rapid beating of his heart. She chanced a look up at him, needing to see his expression. Hoping it reflected the same aching desire she felt for him.

Just the two of them under a tiki lamp, the night awash in sounds—the hum of conversation punctuated with shouts of laughter from inside the tent, the steady crash and drag of the ocean—Mimi felt herself melting against him. Into him.

For one hot, heavy moment, their gazes collided, and her
body tightened at the hunger and need in his eyes. But then his features shuttered, and he took a step back, letting her go.

She shook off the sticky web of desire clinging to her. He made her head spin, and not in a good way. She knew he was attracted to her, but if he wasn't going to act on it, then he needed to stay the hell away. “Hey, so, thanks for helping me today.” She spoke too quickly, a current of bitterness in her tone. “Couldn't have done this without you.” She stalked up the path, away from the tent.

“Where you going?” he called.

Where
was
she going? She didn't know. She just wanted to get away from him because, frankly, it sucked being attracted to someone who flashed hot and cold. They worked together. It couldn't get complicated.

Then again, maybe she had it all wrong. She'd fantasized about him for nearly a year. It could just all be in her head. And if that were the case, she could imagine how uncomfortable she made him when she looked at him like she wanted to throw him down and mount him.
Awkward.
“I have to get more ice.”

Ice?
Really,
ice?
She'd hired an event planner to set up the tent and work the bar. So, the ice situation was not on her. Still, she kept going. Where exactly? It wasn't like she was at her house. She was at Emmie and Slater's, so she couldn't lock herself in her bedroom and curl up on her bed and . . . fantasize about running her hands all over that hot, smooth skin.

Grr
. That image of her bent over the table, Calix's hand in her hair, hips thrusting into her . . . Jeez, stop already.
Hasn't this gotten you into enough trouble with this guy?

“You're getting ice?” He caught up with her.

“No, okay? I'm not getting ice. I'm going to . . . do some food prep for tomorrow morning.” Yes, that was exactly what she'd do. What was she in the mood to make? Dough. Something she could knead, that yeasty smell in the air. Cinnamon rolls. She could picture the butter oozing out of them as they browned in the oven.

The path narrowed, and beach grass swished and
whispered around her. His heavy footsteps strode right past her. “Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“You're leaving?” She watched him stride across the scrubby land like a Viking.

“That's right.”

“The band's in crisis, and you're leaving.”

“Not my band,” he said over his shoulder, leaving her behind.

“Eight months, and it's not your band? What is the matter with you?”

“Not a damn thing. I showed up, did my face time.”

She hurried to keep up with him. “That's all these guys are to you? A paycheck?”

“Yeah, Mimi, it's a
job
.”

“And you need the money, right? That's why you're doing it. For the cash.”

“You got a problem with a man making a living?”

“You know I don't. But you could make a living as a bartender. Or hey, you could own a surf shop. Sell surfboards and sex wax. I'd bet you'd be a pro at selling sex wax.”

“How did we go from talking about earning a living to my sex life?”

“We didn't. But I guess that's the extent of what you've got to give. Your rented keyboard skills and your dick. What a wildly fulfilling life you lead.”

“Whatever.”

Why did he have to be such a jerk?

Worse, why did he have to be such a jerk
and
such a great guy?

Worst of all, why did she care?

As she climbed the steps to the back door, she had to force herself not to chase after him and slap the attitude right off his face. “Have fun skimming over your life.” Asshole.

She threw the door open, aware of his boots clattering up the stairs behind her. Awareness burst on her skin.

“What the fuck's that supposed to mean?”

She'd never seen him so angry. “You live at home, you hang out with the same people you've known all your life, you go from one gig to another.” She shrugged. “Skimming.”

“Okay.” His tone said she was crazy. He spun back around. Waving over his shoulder, he said, “See you tomorrow.”

Oh, no, he didn't. “You didn't even go to the
listening
part of the listening party.”

“I told you. It's not my business.”

“That's a stupid thing to say. Of course it's your business. You've been working with these guys for eight months. You're an integral part of their sound. Didn't you even write some of their songs?”

“What's your point?” He stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

“Seems a shame.”

He turned to her, looking exasperated. “
What's
a shame?” But the challenge in his eyes told her he wasn't exasperated at all. He was fired up.

“That you're doing something you love, but you don't own it. Sounds pretty lame to me.”

“Lame? Are you . . .” He tipped his head back, jamming his hands through his long hair. “I lost my
brother
. I'm trying to rebuild our lives.”

“You're not rebuilding anything. You're in a holding pattern.” She threw open the door, wanting nothing more than to get busy making the dough for tomorrow's cinnamon buns.

He pounded up the stairs. “You don't know what you're talking about. You've never lost someone, so what gives you the right to get involved in shit that's none of your business?”

“This isn't about rights. It's about caring. It's what people do when they don't skim the surface of their lives. They get involved because they can't just stand there while the people they care about are hurting or screwing up. I don't know, maybe your world is so insular that you get away with skimming and no one calls you out on it. Maybe it takes someone from the outside to throw open the curtains and let some light in.”

“Uh-huh. And you're just a beacon of light.”

“You go ahead and make me out to be a pushy broad if that makes you feel better, but deep down you know I'm right.”

“Right about
what
? You don't know anything about me or my family.”

“You know that's not true. You just haven't let anyone else in before. And let's face it, your friends obviously let you get away with skimming.” She jerked open a cabinet and pulled out the flour and sugar bins. “And don't lie to yourself about rebuilding your life because that's not what you're doing. You don't want to go back to the world that once made you happy because deep down you think it cost you your brother.”

His big hand smacked the counter, rattling the pans in the drying rack. “Are you out of your fucking mind with the shit you say?”

She washed her hands at the sink, looking at his reflection in the window. His nostrils flared, his lips pulled back. She'd never seen him so angry. She should shut her mouth—it truly was none of her business.

But at the same time, he could've continued straight to his motorcycle and gone home. Instead he was here. Of his own volition. She'd hit on something.

Something he needed to hear. And she couldn't help it, but she did care.

Reaching for a towel, she turned to face him. “You loved him with all your heart, and you lost him in the most nonsensical way possible. Come on, Calix. On some level you have to think it's your fault.”

“I lost my brother, the heart and soul of my family. We're recovering. That's it. Nothing more, Mrs. Freud.”

“And you don't blame yourself? Not one little bit?”

He nodded, jaw muscle popping. “No, I don't. It was no one's fault.”

“I don't believe you. I see the look in your eyes right now.” He was utterly tormented. “I think you do blame yourself. And instead of dealing with it, feeling anything, you throw yourself into taking care of your family.” She watched him carefully. “Have you guys ever talked about it? Have you talked to your friends? Anyone?”

“There's
nothing to say
. We lost him, and now we're trying to keep my mom . . .” He looked away, swallowed. “Trying to get her back.”

“You keep talking about your mom. But what about you? Are you grieving? God, Calix, is anyone looking out for you?”

His body practically vibrated with anger. “Am I
grieving
? Are you fucking kidding me? I miss my brother every day. But I can't bring him back. The only thing I can do is keep my family together.”

“Okay.” She knew it was time to back off. “But you matter, too. And if you can't talk to your family about it, you should at least talk to a friend.” She tossed the towel on the counter and came right up to him. “Maybe you should stop pushing it all away and just remember him. Go to the cemetery and sit
with him. Remember everything. Let it crash over you, because I just don't think you're ever going to get on with your life until you make peace with that day.”

Mouth set tight to the point of quivering, he stood rigidly before her.

She'd upset him enough, so she turned to the counter and reached for her measuring cups.

Bracing himself against the counter with an arm, he looked down at the hardwood floor. “He was
right there
.” His words hung heavy and raw in the kitchen. “I don't blame myself. It wasn't my fault, but Jesus Christ, he was right there. If I'd just paid attention . . . fuck.”

Oh, God. He totally blamed himself. “I know. If you could just go back for one second, to that one moment when he walked away . . .”

He held her gaze with stark desolation.

His pain sliced her to the bone. “I know.”

“You don't know.” He lowered his head. “You don't fucking know.”

“Calix, everyone has those kinds of regrets. But you can't live your life thinking about the if onlys. You can't go back and fix it. You just can't.”

“Fuck.”

“And what was there to fix? You have to know it wouldn't have been possible to keep your eyes on Hopper every minute of every day.” She stepped closer to him. “It was a crazy night. Your parents were onstage for the first time in years. The record company wanted to sign you.” She gave him an imploring look, hoping he could see that, of course, he'd taken his eyes off Hopper.

But he shook his head harshly. “I ate it up. Voltage Records—they were kissing my ass, and I loved it.”

Not only did he blame himself, but somehow his ambition had become the reason for his loss.

“They were working me over, making me out to be the shit. And I just fell for it, man. Just totally ate it up.”

“Hopper didn't wander off because you let some A&R guy's spiel go to your head. It was a crowded venue. People coming and going. Kids get lost in department stores and
malls, at beaches and festivals. Kids wander off. It happens all the time. Hopper wandered off.” She stepped closer to him, making him understand through her eyes, her voice, and her heart. “It's not your fault.”

He held her gaze, as if weighing her words. “You can say those words as many times as you want, but the fact is that I stopped paying attention to him. I got caught up in the bullshit from Voltage.” Despair twisted his features. “It eats me up. It fucking kills me. If I'd just turned around, done something to include him, Hopper would never have left.”

“No good will come out of reliving that moment. It's eating you alive. Nothing will change, because it's
out of your control
. It happened, and reliving it, wishing you'd made a different choice in that moment, won't change it. You have to let it go.” She gripped his forearms. “Calix, look at me. You can't go back and change that moment. It's over, it's done. Now you have to move forward. There's no other choice.”

He straightened, looking at her like she held the answer he'd been desperate for.

She cupped his cheeks. “You're stuck in that moment.” God, she needed to get through. “And to get unstuck, you have to forgive yourself. You were a grown man, building a career for yourself. That's normal. You were doing exactly what you should've been doing.”

“I can't . . . I . . .” A shock of alertness had him straightening. “I can't get past it. I can't.”

“You can. Every time you go to that moment—the one you can't change—replace it with a good memory. Bask in the good. I saw those photos—you have a lot of good memories with your brother.”

“I do.” His voice sounded shredded.

“So, then let it go.”

“I'll never let him go.”

“Let
it
go. That moment in time you can't take back. Let it go. There is no do-over. You can't fix it. But you're alive, and you're an amazing musician and the most loyal and devoted son and brother I've ever seen. So let it go. And
live
, dammit.”

She didn't know what happened, but suddenly his hands were on her hips, and she was in the air. Her ass landed on the
counter, his body shoved between her legs, and he was right in her face. Those eyes—God, those dark, soulful eyes—so filled with emotion. Pain, yearning, confusion. A hand clamped on each of her thighs, and his fingers pressed hard into her flesh.

Her heart pounded. The blood rushed so loudly in her ears, it sounded like a waterfall. His fingers tightened on her thighs. He breathed roughly through his nostrils.

She could see his fight, feel the strain in his muscles, so she softened, letting her hands reach for his face, her fingers stroke the silky scruff of his beard.

And then he leaned in, his breath a sigh against her lips. He kissed her. Tentatively, at first. A sample, a taste. His lips brushed over hers, as if savoring a precious gift.

But she didn't go half-assed at anything, so she parted her lips, let her tongue touch his, and he moaned deep in his throat. And then he was kissing her.

As if the floodgates had burst open, his need crashed over her.

No one
had ever kissed her with such wild passion in her life.

His hands slid up her legs, rested right at the juncture, and God, the span of those fingers. His thumb brushed restless strokes on her inner thigh. He pressed forward, his hips flat against the counter, as he devoured her with his mouth and tongue.

He cupped her face, tasting her more deeply. Those big hands on her cheeks, holding her so firmly, gently, like she was precious, only made her heart ache from the tenderness of his touch.

His kisses turned hungrier, dirtier, and she clutched at his shoulders, hands sliding down his back to hold him to her more tightly. And then he caressed her neck down to her collarbone, the heel of his palm pressing into her breasts.

God, she craved him. Wanted to rip off her clothes and climb him, rub her bare skin all over his. Every cell in her body opened to him, letting all his heat, his intensity, sink deep into her. Her legs wrapped around his waist, her heels digging into the hard globes of his ass.

He cupped her breast, kneading it gently, reverently, his
body feverishly hot and his kiss turning ravenous.
Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God
. She pushed harder against him, arching into his touch.

When his thumb flicked over her nipple, electric heat shot straight to her core and she gasped, pulling her mouth off his. “God. We have to . . .” She could barely catch her breath. “What are we
doing
?”

His forehead pressed to hers, his breathing erratic and labored. Slowly, his body twisted away, foreheads still touching, until he pushed back from the counter.

“I think it's pretty obvious.” As hard as he tried to hide behind his Mr. Stoic mask, the fine tremble beneath his skin told her he'd been deeply affected.

“God.” She pushed him aside and jumped off the counter. “I wasn't going to sleep with you.” She went back to the sink to wash her hands again.

“Kind of the natural progression of things, babe.”

She slammed the faucet. “Excuse me?”

“You wrap your legs around a man's waist . . . what message did you think you were giving?”

“It was a
kiss
. I wasn't going to have sex with you.”

“You make way too big a deal out of sex, sweet pants.” He started for the door.

Way too big a
—
“
I'm
a big deal.” Her tone must've startled him, because he stopped abruptly. “And I'm not having sex with someone I haven't even gone on a date with.”

She might as well have tossed fresh offal at him for the way his body recoiled. “I don't
date
.”

“Yes, I know that. Because you skim. So you just keep right on skimming. But you won't be getting any of
this
.” She ran a hand up and down her body like a game show host revealing the contestant's prize.

“Okay, Mimi.” His tone let her know that, once again, he thought she was being ridiculous.

“Haven't you ever taken a girl out on a date?”

“No.”

“In twenty-six years, not a single date?”

“Nobody dates.”

“So your only interaction with women has been hookups.”

“Shay and I were together awhile in high school. But we didn't date.”

“You took her out, though, right? Before screwing her, you bought her a clam roll? Took her to a movie?”

“Not gonna talk about my relationship with Shay, but I'll repeat. Never taken anyone out on a date.”

Drying her hands on a towel, she turned to face him. “You've obviously never wanted anyone enough.”