After swallowing the last mouthful of fruit, I drum up the courage to give Zeke the side eye. “Do you mind stopping past my place? I need to pick up a few things.”
He white-knuckles the steering wheel.
“It won’t take long, I promise. Ten minutes, max.”
Silence.
Silence.
Then, “Address?”
Thank God. I give him directions before turning to stare out the window. He’s going to ask questions, people always do when they first see my house. Sighing, I brace myself for the inevitable.
When we pull into the paved driveway, I sense his confusion. Though we’re not in the most affluent area of Bayside, the quiet street is picturesque. On each side of us are well-maintained homes with blooming flower beds and low brick fences. However, my house, the one with tan rendered walls, terracotta roof tiles, and green accents, is boarded up. Sadly, the For Sale sign just shy of Mom’s African lilies is still without a Sold sticker.
Regardless, I love this place now as much as I did when we first moved in all those years ago. Mom’s fruit trees are thriving, and even without stepping foot in the backyard, I know her vegetables and herbs are doing equally as well.
Zeke parks the car. “Thanks,” I call over my shoulder, hopping out.
It doesn’t take long to water the plants, pull out a few weeds, and harvest the ripe produce. Placing them in the container I leave by the back door for this very purpose, I then carry it one house over to Mrs. Mauldin. Since it’s likely she’s at the hospital caring for her husband who is in the final stages of bowel cancer, I place it on her porch. She’ll know who it’s from.
Returning to my own porch, I consciously ignore the black vehicle waiting nearby and unlock the deadbolt.
My hand flies to my chest.
Air gushes from my lungs.
I want to cry out but stifle it, refusing to make a sound.
Surely, I should be used to it by now; the place has been like this for months. But for some reason, standing in the empty shell of my childhood home never gets easier. After weeks of slowly shifting all our personal belongings from here to wherever I can store them, the pain refuses to dissipate.
Ghosts and memories. They’re all that are left. It’s beyond depressing. My eyes dart to the wooden benchtop in the kitchen. Mom first taught me how to cook shortbread there. I remember the way the dough used to stick to my fingers. I’d sneak a taste whenever her back was turned. Staring past the workspace, I look to the orange tree in the backyard. I spent hours under that tree, trying to perfect the chords Mom showed me on her acoustic guitar. Blinking, I spin in a slow circle, my eyes resting on the darker patch of carpet in the lounge room, the one where the couch used to be. Every Sunday afternoon Mom and I would curl up and watch film noir marathons in that exact spot.
Choking back a sob, I scold myself for the momentary weakness. “Pull yourself together, Wil. You don’t have time for a pity party. When there’s no other option, you have to make tough choices. Now, put one foot in front of the other and get this done.”
Moving further inside, I collect the smaller cardboard boxes I know will fit in the back of my Honda. It’s difficult balancing them on top of each other, but I give it a red-hot go. By the time I stumble along the drive, the muscles in my arms are questioning their purpose in life, and I’m grateful Zeke is waiting by the open trunk.
“Here.” Strong forearms cloud my vision as he takes the boxes and places them in his car.
“Thanks.” I refuse to make eye contact when he straightens.
“That all of it?”
“For now.”
Silence.
“Go lock up,” he rumbles. “We need to get back.”
Nodding, I jog to the front door, lock it, and return to the car.
“Thank you,” I murmur. “For bringing me here, and for….” I gesture toward the trunk of his car.
Silence.
Fed up with his attitude, I roll my eyes. “You know, it wouldn’t kill you to say you’re welcome.” I poke him in the chest.
There is a spark, an actual spark of energy from the contact. Zeke’s expression darkens. “Quit touching me.”
The coiled tension rolling off his hard body should scare me. It should be a warning sign, a booming caution to move the heck away. Does it? Nope. Not even close. Instead it lures, beckons me closer. It demands I retaliate in the worst possible way.
My hand flattens against his pec. His heartbeat thunders beneath my palm, and I smile. Tipping my head back, I murmur, “Or what?”
Hungry eyes ravage my mouth. “You’re playing with fire, little girl.”
Everything changes. The air between us grows thicker, heavier, a palpable force. A need so powerful, so resolute takes hold, demanding I move nearer. It’s as though a scarlet silk ribbon snakes first around my waist before slinking over Zeke’s shoulders, binding us together. I picture the soft fabric drawing tighter, tugging us closer, urging us to bridge the final sliver of space. To take one step too far.
My lips part.
His pupils dilate.
Inhale.
Exhale.
“You need to get in the car,” he growls.
“I do. I really, really do.”
Remaining this close to Zeke is a minefield I have no hope of navigating. In fact, my head is screaming insanity all the while checking off a list of reasons why I need to back the heck off. He’s my boss. He’s mean. He’s domineering.
He’s my boss.
Drawing on a strength I never knew I had, I shift out of his hold. It’s colder standing alone. I never realized it before, but without the warmth radiating from Zeke’s body, the difference is startling.
Once safely inside the confines of the car, I groan. “Willow, what the hell were you thinking?” Wavy hair tumbles over my shoulders as I shake my head. “Stupid, stupid woman.”
Zeke remains outside for a few minutes, his eyes fixed straight ahead. I try not to notice. After all, the whole idea of disentangling myself is to generate physical and emotional distance. Somehow, I don’t think perving on him through a tinted window is helpful. Sighing, I stare down at my hands instead.
When he finally gets in the car, Zeke doesn’t ask a single question. Even while we’re speeding through the winding streets, driving further and further away from my childhood home, he remains quiet. It’s weird. By now people are usually bombarding me with what’s going on? Where’s your mom? and why now? Even Drake didn’t let me get halfway down the street before demanding, what in the actual fuck, Wil?
It’s a nice change.
But if the tic in his jaw is anything to go by, he’s not happy.
“Zeke?”
“What?” he barks.
“You’re driving faster uphill than you did going down. And I’m pretty sure the speed limit on a winding road isn’t seventy miles per hour.”
His gaze flicks to the speedometer before shifting to the road again, but he doesn’t pump the brakes.
“Zeke.”
“What?”
“Slow down. Now.”
He sees me bracing against the seat. “Fucking fuck.” Blessedly, he shifts into a lower gear, but not before grinding his teeth so hard I’m worried he’ll have none left.
“What’s going on with you?”
He grips the steering wheel. “Nothing.”
“Then why are you—”
“I said nothing’s going on. Quit with the fucking questions.”
Nibbling my bottom lip, I wonder what the heck is his problem. What happened in the last fifteen minutes to make him so angry? I draw a blank.
“Clearly you’re upset by something. Since you won’t tell me what it is, I have no idea how to help.”
“Didn’t ask for your fucking help.”
“Of course, you didn’t.” Sighing, I shift my attention to the window. The Pacific sparkles below, the waves rolling and pitching in time with the current. I shake my head. There’s a whole world out there. A world where people talk openly and honestly about what’s going on inside their heads. A world without Zeke.
The sooner this album is finished the better.
Beside me, a deep voice grumbles, “Meant to say, please. Quit with the fucking questions, please.”
And my heart cracks for him.
When we pull up at Zeke’s studio, he mutters something about taking care of the boxes. To be frank, I don’t care. Later, when I have a chance to process the day, I’ll wonder what he did with them, but not now. Now, I just want space.
After closing the car door behind me, I stride to the elevator, pushing the call button at least ten times. The metal doors take their sweet-ass time but eventually slide open. When I step inside I’m not alone. Zeke’s Herculean body dwarfs the space, making it seem as though we’re crushed inside a broom cupboard rather than an elevator large enough to fit twelve people.
He’s silent.
I’m silent.
It’s awkward as hell.
The doors open and I race through the hallway. When I round the corner, Drake is first to look up. His grin is mischievous. “There you are. It’s 8:59. Reid and I were getting worried. Thought we were going to have to send out a search party.” He pauses, his eyes sweeping my face. “Hey, what’s going on? Are you all right?” Concern mars his handsome features.
Zeke shoulders past me, taking a seat behind the console desk.
“It’s not your mom, is it?”
My gaze darts from Drake to the man whose fingers pause over the myriad of buttons before him. Turning my back so he’s no longer in my line of sight, I clear my throat. “No, it’s not Mom. She’s fine.”
Both Drake and Reid rise to their feet, stepping in close. Drake places a large hand on my shoulder, his normally playful eyes filled with worry. He drops his voice so we can’t be overheard. “What is it?”
I rub my forehead. “It’s nothing. I’m just tired.”
Reid, ever the pragmatist, calls bullshit. He jerks his head in the direction of Zeke. “Was it him? He’s got it in for you, has from the moment we started preproduction. I don’t fucking like it. Producer or not, if he’s messing with you, it needs to stop.”
“Want me to sort him out?” Drake offers, drawing up to his full height.
“No, I—”
“Willow. Studio. Now,” Zeke barks.
Reid’s gaze narrows on Zeke while Drake’s grip intensifies. I smile, trying to lighten the mood. “Boys, it’s fine. Like I said, I’m just tired, and”—pointing over my shoulder, I smirk—“he’s nothing I can’t handle.”
Neither seem comforted by my words, and I don’t blame them. Despite feeling raw from the morning’s events, I’m determined to prove I’m okay. With a wink, I saunter into the studio. Even though it’s owned and managed by one of the most tempestuous people I’ve met, there’s no denying it’s world class. I navigate the numerous cords, mic stands, and instruments to reach my guitar. I retrieve a hair tie from the back pocket of my shorts. Pulling my auburn waves into a messy bun, I disregard the tendrils that fall about my face, refusing to be tamed, and begin a warm-up.
However, rather than warm up the strings of my instrument, I first focus on my body. Ensuring my back is to the others so I maintain concentration—not that my bandmates would care, they’ve seen this a million times before—I begin. In a yoga pose I learned after suffering neck pain from playing for prolonged periods of time, I stand with my feet hip-width apart and my hands on my ass. On an exhale, I bend forward, sliding my hands down the smooth contours of my legs until they wrap around my ankles. With my chin tucked in, I inhale, then lead with my chest as I lift it away from my belly and raise my chin until my torso is at a ninety-degree angle from the rest of my body. Squeezing my shoulder blades together, I exhale and rise to standing position once more. After repeating the Uttanasana pose four more times, I’m ready to play.
Feeling loose and centered, I murmur to myself, “You’ve got this, Wil,” before grabbing my guitar. After placing the strap over one shoulder, I turn to face Zeke.
Yikes.
His eyes are aflame, ablaze, they’re a firestorm. My fickle body hums in response to the scorching heat. Whether his intensity is from anger or arousal, I have no idea. Though if I consider my warm-up from his point of view, I essentially shoved my ass in his face while tracing my legs with my fingers. In retrospect, it wasn’t the smartest idea. Maybe next time I’ll do it in the hallway.
Focus.
I break his stare and press trembling fingers against the steel strings on the neck of my guitar, warming them with my touch.
When I’m certain the tension is on point, I retrieve my pick and play some practice chords, tweaking the sound until I’m happy. Only then do I brace myself, meet Zeke’s gaze, and nod.
Jaw tense, he returns it.
I close my eyes and distract myself from his smoldering gaze by imagining something else entirely—a rock concert. I picture a packed venue, the crowd calling, chanting, screaming my band’s name. Their positive energy surrounds me, fills me with upbeat vibes until there is nothing left to do except expel it through complex riffs.
So, I do.
For the remainder of the morning and some of the afternoon, I play like a boss. I throw everything I have into recording, never questioning Zeke’s methodology, not even when he demands I repeat the opening chord thirty-five times. And hours later, when the last note fades, when the calluses on my fingers are raw and bleeding, I finally allow myself to smile.
“Holy fucking shit,” Drake yells over Reid’s raucous applause. “Wil, that was insane. You’re a goddamn machine.”
Shrugging off my guitar, I place the instrument back on its stand and make my way to the guys. They’re still clapping and hollering in the production room. Knowing I’ve made them proud is worth every one of Drake’s high-pitched whistles intent on deafening me.
“How did it sound?” I ask, collapsing on the leather couch.
“Like a wet dream,” Drake groans. “You’re a sister to me, Wil, I’d never dip my wick in you, but even I can admit watching you in action is hot as fuck.”
Pause.
“Wow. I have no idea what to say to that.”
Zeke’s voice is steel. “Drake, get the fuck in the studio.”
My friend winks at me before saluting the producer. “You got it, boss.”
“You did good, Wil.” Reid settles in beside me. Out of my two bandmates, Reid is more reserved. Strange, considering he is a beast on the drum kit.
“Really?”
“Yeah, a true professional.” He gives me a knowing look.
Sighing, I stare at the ceiling. “Don’t read anything into it. Nothing’s going on with Zeke and me. He’s complex. I’m not. He’s a jerk. I’m not.” I swallow. “He’s resentful. I’m not. It’s never going to happen.”
“Ain’t reading into shit. I’m watching out for you, that’s all.”
Rolling my head to the side, I quirk an eyebrow. “Do I look like the kind of girl who needs watching out for?”
“Absolutely.”
His conviction is enough to cause a lump in the back of my throat. I swallow. It’s not easy. Reid wraps an arm around my shoulders, drawing me close to his side.
“Do you think Shiloh would lose her ever-loving mind if she saw us right now?” I ask, referring to his girlfriend and our close proximity.
“Nope.”
I grin. “Me neither.”
“Ain’t like I’m tryin’ to fuck you, Wil. We’re chillin’.”
Scrunching my nose, I mutter, “There goes my appetite.”
He smirks. “See? That’s why I never have to worry about you reading too much into shit.”
“Because I’ve known you so long it would feel incestuous?”
“Not that we’re blood related, but yeah.”
“Good, because you’re really comfortable and I’m too exhausted to move.”
Reid squeezes my shoulder. “Then rest. You’ve earned it.”
“M’kay.” I yawn. “But only for a couple of minutes. Don’t want to shirk on my duties.”
“After the way you owned it today, you can shirk whatever the fuck you want.”
I swear, I only close my eyes for a minute. But when a heavy drum beat rouses me from sleep, it’s with the dawning comprehension I’ve been out cold for hours. Rubbing my eyes, I sit up and take in the production room. Zeke and I are the sole occupants. After glancing at the time on my phone, I’m guessing Drake finished his guitar track and went out to get laid again.
Since Zeke is engrossed in his console desk and Reid is drumming like a man possessed, I slip from the room. As the haze of sleep lifts, a decision forms. I need to buy engine coolant. The less I rely on Zeke, the better.
When I get to the lower level, I pause, considering my Honda. “Right, how am I going to do this?” Since there is no easy way out of the situation, I throw up a prayer to Adiona, goddess of the return journey, and get started.
After releasing the emergency brake and placing the gearshift in neutral, I leave the car door open. Standing with one hand on the wheel and the other on the frame, I push.
And push.
And push.
“Holy Hades,” I pant, sweat dripping from my forehead despite the cool evening. “Where’s Drake’s muscles when I need them?”
It takes a solid ten minutes to push my Honda from the garage to the street. Brute strength isn’t my forte, so when I round the last bend, it’s to savor the sight of a downhill slope all the way to the gas station.
“Thank you, baby Jesus.”
Giving one final push, I scramble into the front seat, close the driver door, and hover my foot over the brake pedal as the car slowly picks up speed. When I pull up outside the gas station, I fist pump the hell out of my efforts before strutting inside. A short while later, I’ve purchased coolant and refilled the radiator. My Honda is back in action.
The drive back to the studio is sweet. I’m riding an awesome high courtesy of killer initiative, so I decide to celebrate with a hot shower, vegetarian nachos, and a Hitchcock film. After pulling into Zeke’s garage, I head upstairs, take the promised shower, and throw on some pajamas. Just as I’m about to open the fridge, there’s a loud bang at the door.
I jump.
Bang.
I jump again.
“Hang on,” I call, padding to the source of the commotion. I take a steadying breath, bracing myself for whatever is on the other side, and turn the handle.
Nothing prepares me for his piercing stare.
Nothing prepares me for his fury.
And nothing prepares me for him growling my name.