Darkness.
Zeke takes my hand. It’s difficult ignoring the frisson of energy when we touch, but I do my best as we blindly make our way down a narrow staircase. At the bottom, he turns on the lights.
I shield my eyes until they adjust to the brightness, but when they do, I lower my arm. And gape. “Whoa. This place is huge.”
Spellbound, I break from his grasp. The room is almost half the size of the entire apartment. There are intermittent pillars scattered throughout, a high ceiling with modern pot lights… and boxes. Lots and lots of boxes.
“What the…?”
Everywhere I look are piles of storage containers meticulously placed on top of each other. Some almost touch the roof, while others reach my waist. They’re even divided into narrow aisles, similar to a grocery store. Each lane is wide enough to walk through and stretches the length of the space.
Zeke gestures to the room. “You wanted to see where my stuff is. It’s all here. Everything I own is in these boxes.”
Inspecting the closest tower of cardboard, I read the messy scrawl on the side of the box. “Bedroom.” Facing Zeke, I raise an eyebrow.
“Clocks, artwork, and some ornaments I brought back from overseas a few years ago.”
Nodding, I move to the next tower. “Lounge room.” Once again, I give Zeke a questioning look.
He sighs. “More artwork, some photographs, and three fucking plant pots minus the plants.”
“Huh.” After another step, I pause, my eyes widening. “Man Cave.” Spinning to Zeke, I place my hand flat on the box. “You have a man cave?”
“We’re standing in it.”
My gaze takes in the cluttered room and then flits back to Zeke. “I might not know much about interior design, but I’m pretty sure a man cave involves a comfy sofa, foosball table, bar, and maybe a flat-screen TV with gaming console.” My free hand flails about me. “Don’t get me wrong, I love what you’ve done with the place, but I’m not feeling the man cave vibes.”
Zeke’s jaw is tight. “I needed the storage.”
Walking toward him, I pause less than a foot away. “But why? Why isn’t your artwork on the walls, and photographs on display? Why don’t you have ostentatious plants to go in your plant pots? This makes no sense.”
“No point.”
My bangs fall into my eyes as I shake my head. After swiping them away, I place my hands on my hips. “Why on earth not? You’ve got an almost empty apartment upstairs and a ton of stuff down here to fill it. This isn’t an astrophysics exam. Join the freaking dots already.”
But instead of answering my question, Zeke walks to the east wall. He raps his knuckles against the plasterboard. “Do you know what’s on the other side of this?”
I shrug, confused at the abrupt change in topic.
“The studio.”
Curious, I move to where he’s standing. “Where are you going with this? What does the studio have to do with your life being packed away in these boxes?”
“It’s got everything to do with it. But first, let me ask you something. Do you know how many bands I work with a year?”
“No, how many?”
“Twenty, give or take. And do you know how many of those records go platinum on average?” I open my mouth to speak, but he continues, growing angrier and angrier with each word. “At least five. So in the past two years I’ve got over ten personally autographed albums that have been specially framed wasting away in a fucking cardboard container labeled Hallway.” Turning, he goes to punch the wall but stops at the last minute and presses his open palm against it instead. His other hand follows suit, and he lowers his head between them.
“Hey.” Mystified, yet hating seeing him upset, I shift closer and tentatively rub slow circles on his back. He shudders, but doesn’t pull away. Emboldened, my touch becomes firmer, more confident—a soothing balm. Needing more contact, I align my body with his, press my front to his back, and wrap my arms around his waist.
We fit.
Of course, we do. It’s the gods’ idea of a sick joke. Comus is laughing his ass off right now, the Greek god of revelry and night-time dalliances waggling his eyebrows in the hope I act on his not-so-subtle hint. While Momus, god of mockery, is snickering behind his hand, finding the concept of a free spirit falling for a man who doesn’t believe in love insanely funny.
Yeah. Hilarious.
Zeke’s voice is low. “Selena wants everything: my career ruined, my studio blacklisted, my life’s work gone—everything.”
I freeze.
“She’s been fighting me on this for the past six months. Bitch wants to take everything from me.”
“But why?” I exclaim.
“Because she’s a vindictive slut.” Zeke straightens, forcing me to step back. The air between us is no longer warmed by our joined body heat, and I miss the sensation of his muscular back against my cheek.
I shake my head. “You’re going to have to start at the beginning.”
He begins to pace. The sight of his ass in those jeans is beyond distracting, so I resort to pinching myself to focus on what’s important—Zeke opening up to me.
He rubs the back of his neck. “When I married Selena, I thought she was everything I wanted in a woman. She walked into a room and lit up the place. She was intelligent, driven, and so fucking passionate about music.” He shakes his head. “Fuck, I was an idiot.”
Stepping forward, I touch his forearm. “You’re not an idiot for falling in love.”
He glares at me, his eyes cold. “I was a fool.”
Sighing, I drop my hand.
Zeke maintains pacing. “But soon the façade disappeared. Selena wasn’t intelligent; she was conniving. She wasn’t driven; she was ruthless. And she sure as fuck wasn’t passionate about music. It was the fame she wanted.” He kicks a nearby box, the contents rattling.
“She wanted me to produce her second album.” I crinkle my eyebrows in confusion, and Zeke gives a harsh laugh. “Trust me, you wouldn’t have heard her first one. It bombed, and she lays the blame squarely on her then boyfriend-slash-music producer.”
“Oh,” I whisper, a picture slowly forming in my head.
“Oh, is right,” he grits out.
I hold up one hand. “Let me see if I’ve got this right. Selena’s a vocalist whose previous boyfriend didn’t make her dreams of becoming a world-famous singer a reality, so she oh so conveniently met you—one of the best music producers in the world—and decided you’d be the one to turn her into a household name.”
He gives a sharp nod.
“But why get married? Why didn’t she just organize a meeting?”
“Because I’m booked out a year in advance, and she’s a gold-digging whore. I’ve got money, connections, a shit-ton of assets. You think she was satisfied with just a record?” He shakes his head. “Fuck no. Woman wanted the whole damn pie.”
I rub my face, feeling old beyond my years. “So, you got married, started recording… and then what? Didn’t follow through with it?”
“Not didn’t, couldn’t.” He faces me, his gaze intense. “Selena has no fucking talent. None. There’s only so much autotuning you can do to a record before it sounds like a goddamn machine. If I produced it, listeners would realize she can’t sing for shit and my reputation would be shot.” Zeke glances away, mumbling, “I canned the project, refused to put my name to it.”
“I’m guessing she didn’t take the news well?”
His expression is wry. “You could say that. She filed for divorce soon after, but not before dropping hints about sleeping with other men while we were married and threatening to sabotage my career.”
“Did you sign a prenup?”
His face is impassive.
I whistle. “Wow. When you fall, you fall hard, huh?”
“Never again.” My stomach knots. “She won’t get her hands on the studio. It’s owned under a corporate trust, separate to my personal affairs. But the thought of that spiteful bitch ruining a business I’ve worked years to build,” he taps the wall, “makes me want to tear the fucking place apart. She’ll wreck every project that comes my way and won’t rest until I’m bankrupt.”
I let his words sink in.
Zeke returns to pacing, his movements erratic. “Aren’t you going to say anything? I just told you my entire life story and you’re goddamn silent.”
In all honesty, I have no idea what to do or say to make the situation better. Divorce isn’t something I’m familiar with, not even with my own parents. Well, parent, since I don’t know or care about the identity of my sperm donor father. Mom, Shiloh, and the band have been my family. They’ve showered me in so much love I’ve never needed to search for it elsewhere. So I’m in no way an expert on bitter ex-wives who set out to ruin their former husbands.
“Well?” He shoots me a frustrated look.
But the more I think about it, the more I hurt for Zeke. He leaped heart-first into this marriage thinking Selena would catch him, and she did nothing but laugh as he fell. No wonder he doesn’t want a relationship. No wonder he’s angry. It’s defense mechanism 101—a way to ensure he never gets played again.
Facing Zeke, I murmur, “I’m sorry.”
And I am. I’m sorry Selena entered his life, I’m sorry she took advantage of his trust, and I’m really sorry she tarnished his faith in other people.
But it’s the wrong thing to say because the moment the words leave my mouth, his eyes flash fire. “I don’t want your pity.”
“It’s not pity. It’s compassion.”
“Compassion, pity, it’s the same fucking thing.”
Hands on hips, I jut my chin. “They’re two completely different emotions. One is sympathetic concern for someone else, you know, like caring for them. While the other is to feel sorrow.”
His expression hardens as he grits out, “I don’t want your sympathy, and I don’t want your motherfucking sorrow.”
Throwing my hands up in the air, I exclaim. “Oh, for Hera’s sake! Quit being such a douche.” I step closer, poking him in the pec. “I’m trying to be nice here. I’m doing what anyone with a working conscience would do. Enough with the attitude already. I don’t have the energy to fight with you on this.”
And just like that, he stops. Gone is the insolence, gone is the defiance. Instead, his hand cups my cheek and his voice is gruff. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I nuzzle into his touch. “Just tired.”
“Want me to take you upstairs?”
Since I’m enjoying his skin on mine, I shake my head. “No.” Then I think back to our previous conversation and pause.
“What? What is it?”
After pulling his hand away, I stare at it, the creases and wrinkles a roadmap of his life. I wish I took up Mom’s offer and learnt how to read palms, I really want to know what Zeke’s future holds.
After internally shaking my head, I nibble my bottom lip. “You’ve done so well in your career. Producers twice your age have only done half of what you’ve achieved.” I glance at him, my tone soft. “It’s inspiring.”
He stills.
“I’d love to see the platinum records. Only if you want; I don’t want to force you or anything.” With a shrug, I give a half smile. “I’ve never seen one up close before.”
His body is tense, his eyes darting between mine.
I sigh. “I know talking about Serena was a big deal for you, and I know showing me your most prized possessions is equally as terrifying. But I’m not like her, Zeke. I promise. I’d never take your trust and use it against you.” I’m pretty sure my expression is pleading. “I’m not wired that way.”
Swallow. Blink. Pause.
After what feels like an eternity, Zeke nods toward a box on the floor in the corner. “They’re over there.”
In a few strides I’m crouched beside it, and Zeke is close behind. As predicted, it’s labelled Hallway, and something about Zeke’s angry scribble on the side tugs at my insides.
After clearing away some old newspapers, he lifts a large rectangular frame from inside the container and rests it flat on the lid.
“Holy Midas,” I breathe. It’s a signed photograph of Heathen. They’re in Zeke’s studio, made obvious by the specially crafted sound-diffusing wall in the background and the pendant lights overhead. Kai is front and center, his signature panty-melting grin locked in place as he drapes long arms over each of his bandmates. Beside him is drummer extraordinaire, Eli, and on the other side is bass legend, Steele. Below the image is a platinum record of their latest album, Hiding from Ghosts. It’s shiny, pristine, and everything I’ve ever wanted from the moment I first learned to play guitar.
“Whoa,” I breathe.
Without warning, Zeke yanks it from my grasp.
“Hey! I wasn’t finished looking at it!”
“The fuck you weren’t.” He forces it back into the box and slams the lid shut.
Standing, I glare at him. “What the heck? Have you got a split personality I don’t know about? I swear, your mood swings are worse than a hurricane changing trajectory every five minutes.”
Slowly, deliberately, he rises to his full height. “You were drooling over Kai. It’s lucky you didn’t get knocked up from the goddamn picture.”
What. The. Hell.
I grit my teeth. “I was admiring the record.”
“Bullshit.”
“It’s not bullshit. It’s the truth.” I tilt my head, determined to remain calm. “What are you really worried about, Zeke?”
He scoffs, crossing his arms. The vein running the length of his forearm pulses with each measured breath. “I’m not worried.”
I snort. “Really?”
He gives a quick nod.
As pissed as I am, there’s no denying a territorial Zeke is sinfully hot. And watching him come alive—albeit with jealousy—awakens a dark part of me. Which is probably why I start talking out of my ass. “You know what? Now I think about it, Kai did look edible in that photo.” I grin. “Did you see his smile? Gives me shivers just thinking about it.”
Zeke’s jaw ticks.
“And those dimples…. Don’t know about you, but I had a hard time keeping my clothes on when he flashed those babies my way after the show the other night.”
His eyes narrow.
“And then there’s his—”
Fingers delve into my hair, clench into a fist, and tug. “Shut. Up,” he growls. “Don’t forget, not for one fucking second, who owns your body.”
“No one owns my body,” I fire back.
Zeke’s eyes are ablaze, his muscles are tense, and he’s on the verge of losing control.
Beautiful.
“I own it.” And by the hard glint in his eyes, it’s a pledge, a vow, a promise. “Say it.”
“No.”
Zeke’s grip on my hair tightens; the delicious sting sends sparks zapping across my skin.
I moan, my nails digging into his biceps, no doubt leaving half-moon imprints on his muscles.
His voice is a low rumble. “You’re playing a dangerous game. One you’ve got no chance of winning.”
“One woman’s danger is another woman’s thrill,” I counter, my eyebrow raised in challenge. “Why do you think I chase storms?”
“Because you’re a masochist.”
“Not even close.”
Zeke’s free hand cups my cheek, his fingers digging into my flesh. His eyes search mine, and when he next speaks, there’s an urgency I haven’t heard before. “Tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
“Why you chase storms.”
“You really want to know?”
“Yes.”
I nibble my bottom lip, trying to gather my thoughts. No mean feat, considering our bodies are aligned and his touch is short-circuiting my brain. But after a minute, a truth I’ve never verbalized tumbles from my lips one droplet at a time.
“Because there’s beauty in chaos,” I murmur, staring into whiskey-colored eyes. “I know this sounds weird, but when the wind howls, the thunder roars, and lightning illuminates the sky, there’s a stillness in the pandemonium. There’s this overwhelming sense of calm because of the noise, because of the danger, because that very second could be my last. Time stops. It’s inconsequential. There’s no today, no tomorrow, nothing but that very moment. Everything is heightened, clearer, and more real. I never feel so alive.
“I’ve tried chasing the feeling,” I continue, “but the only thing that comes close is when I’m playing guitar or….” I glance away, for the first time questioning this whole honesty thing.
Zeke forces my head back, his mouth hovering above mine. “Or?”
Heart thudding, I whisper, “Or when I’m with you.”
With an anguished groan, Zeke kisses me. He devours my mouth like it’s his, like it’s always been, and I let him, gladly giving up all possession. Spinning me around, he stalks forward until I’m slammed against the wall, his tongue shoved deep in my mouth.
More.
I moan. Grasp. Yank him closer.
Both of Zeke’s hands palm my breasts, then pinch my nipples through the thin material of my T-shirt. I gasp. Pressing himself closer, he takes. And takes. And takes from me.
Climbing his body, I wrap my legs around his waist, grinding my pussy against his hard cock. He bites my bottom lip, the metallic taste of blood flooding my mouth. I love it.
Tearing at his clothes, I try to wrench them from his body. “Zeke.”
But he stops and pulls away, his lips swollen and bruised. “No.”
“But I need—”
He clasps my greedy hands and pins them against the wall on either side of my head. “I said no, little siren.”
I blink. Zeke must be equally shocked at the endearment because he glances away, his breathing hard.
“You….” I swallow. “You think I’m a siren?”
He drops his head. After a beat, he looks at me from beneath dark lashes. “Yeah.” He sighs. “One look at you and I’m a man possessed. It’s sending me out of my motherfucking mind.”
Warmth spreads through me. The thought of having this much power over a man like Zeke is headier than any aphrodisiac I’ve ever known. It’s not something I’d ever take lightly though, and I promise myself never to take advantage of his weakness.
Okay, maybe a little. But only because I’m horny.
My fingers skim the side of his face. “Then why did you stop?”
“Because you’re sick. I’m not going to fuck the living hell out of you when you’ve got a virus.” Shaking his head, he mutters, “Thank fuck the doctor said it’s not contagious.”
“But I’m feeling better.”
Zeke levels me with a flat stare.
“I am,” I insist. “I’m rested, fed, and so freaking turned on it’s borderline painful.”
He smirks. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not fucking you until you’re 100 percent recovered.”
“I am recovered.” Grinding against his still hard cock, I moan, “And I’m so close.”
“Already?” His pupils dilate. “Jesus.”
“Yes, and you’re”—I wiggle, he groans—“right there.”
“No.” He untangles me from his waist and props me back on my feet. “Not until I say so.”
I huff. “You’re such a tease.”
He snorts.
My arms wave in agitation. “Now what am I going to do, huh? I’m all revved up with nowhere to go.” Narrowing my eyes, I poke him in the bicep. “This is all your fault.”
He grabs my finger, raises it to his mouth, and bites it. Watching his teeth nip my skin is enough to make me light-headed.
“Let’s go to the studio,” he suggests, kissing away the sting I didn’t even notice was there. “There’s some mixing I need to finish on the last track, and you can play guitar while I do it. Two birds, one stone.”
“Fine.” Though secretly I’m ecstatic at being able to play music again. “But you owe me an orgasm.”
His expression turns carnal. “Not one, little siren. As many as you can handle.”