Delaney
Yes. “No.” I wiped at my cheek. What is wrong with me? I wanted this. Wanted him.
That fucking contract—what did words matter when the man above me was so real, our attraction to each other so undeniable? What would it be like to give myself over to his kisses, let his touch take me to a place I’d never known? A place that was ours alone, at least for a little while. Heaven, surely.
Maybe our relationship wouldn’t be marked by volatility and the six months would pass smoothly.
Yeah, right. Because my life had been smooth sailing so far.
Shane lifted a hand to my face, his thumb tracing the wet smear. “Why are you crying?”
I sniffed. “I’m not. Really,” I said, denying the obvious.
This wasn’t some drunken hookup, I chided myself. This was a scene out of a romance novel. Midnight in Malibu, two nearly naked bodies in the sand, pounded by a restless surf. With Shane Hawthorne. It didn’t get better than this.
I wrapped my fingers around Shane’s shoulders, intensity thrumming beneath his warm skin, pulling him toward me.
And yet…wasn’t this what I’d done once before—slip beneath a man I barely knew? Who barely knew me?
No love, just lust.
I’d run away from him the very next morning.
If I ran from Shane, I stood to lose everything that was finally within reach.
The circumstances might be different tonight, but the basic truth of it was still the same. I regretted my casual decision back then, and some instinct was telling me not to do it again. That I wouldn’t be able to handle the consequences.
Not that Shane was cooperating. His muscles were corded tightly beneath my hands, rigid and unmoving. Embarrassed, I let go, turning my face to the side to evade his searching gaze. The dark dome above us was littered with stars, my eyes bouncing from one to the other as I wondered how to extricate myself from the mess I’d created.
To my surprise, escape came easily. Shane rolled off me, scrubbing a palm over his face, his gruff curse carried away on the breeze as he reached for my discarded negligee and slipped it over my head. His hands came up to my face, palms resting gently on my cheeks. “I’m sorry, Delaney,” he whispered, the moonlight lending his eyes an almost magical gleam. But then they shuttered closed, and he dropped a kiss on my forehead, so lightly it was barely a breath, before getting to his feet and extending his hand to me.
Quickly smoothing down the silk, I let Shane pull me up and we turned back toward the house, our footsteps flinging loose sand behind us. It took everything I had not to drop to my knees and howl at the moon. I wanted the magic back. Even though I’d been the one to destroy it.
A moment later I really was on my knees, howling not at the moon but at the lancing pain in my left foot.
Shane was beside me in an instant, inspecting my throbbing sole. “It hurts,” I gritted out.
Gentle fingers wrapped around my ankle, lifting my foot toward the light and turning narrowed eyes to inspect the wound. “Glass,” he pronounced, sweeping me into his arms as if I weighed next to nothing and carrying me toward the house. I dropped my head into the nook between his neck and shoulder, my foot suddenly much more bearable.
“Assholes,” Shane muttered, his voice abrading my skin like gravel, the vehemence in his tone rumbling through his chest.
“Hmmm?” I picked my head up, studying the interplay of shadow and light on his face. Chiseled and yet still rugged. Darkly handsome but with a little pretty boy thrown in. A pang of desire shivered through me.
Shane jerked the sliding glass door open, stepping inside and shoving it closed so hard it bounced off the doorjamb and receded to the other side. “The jerkoffs who drink out of glass bottles on the beach—and then leave their brokens or empties for anyone to step on.”
Depositing me on the kitchen counter, Shane disappeared into the mudroom, returning with a first aid box in his hand. Brandishing a set of tweezers, he extracted the innocuous-looking shard of brown glass, not much bigger than a fingertip. After cleaning the wound, he smeared a dab of antiseptic ointment on a Band-Aid and gently smoothed the sticky tabs across my sole.
“Good as new,” he said, a tight smile barely stretching his lips.
“Thanks.” I leaned into Shane’s extended arms, sliding against his torso until my good foot hit the ground, managing to hobble a few yards before Shane’s groan had the hair at the back of my neck standing on end.
In the next instant, I was swept back into his arms, nervous hope threading through my veins with each step as Shane ascended the stairs. He kicked open the door to my bedroom and deposited me softly in the center of the mattress.
Did he hesitate as he was pulling away from me, or was I just imagining it?
“Good night, Delaney.” There was a flicker in Shane’s eyes, a brief flash of an emotion I knew all too well. Regret.
A dozen different “sorry’s” clogged my throat as Shane backed out of the room, a stiff mask settling onto his features.
The soft click of the door rebounded inside my chest like a sonic boom.
I glared longingly at the white rectangular plane, willing it to open. But it remained stubbornly closed, the modern chrome handle perfectly still.
Because Shane had closed it. And even though it was my fault, I ached for the feel of his arms around me, the heat of his shoulder warming my cheek.
I should be grateful. After all, I was the one who froze up. Shane was just reacting to my tears. A rueful laugh gurgled from my throat. Barely a few hours ago I had accused him of treating me like a whore. Meanwhile, I was the one who had begged him to fuck me, out in the open, where anyone could see us. But when he realized I wasn’t ready, he’d apologized to me.
I’d been running hot and cold since we met, sending mixed signals at every turn. The only one of us due an apology was Shane.
I was worse than a groupie. I was an idiot. A tease. A prude. After tonight, he’d be crazy to still want me.
A salty breeze blew in from the open window, and my nipples puckered beneath the thin negligee. Remembering the feel of Shane’s mouth on my breast, a stab of longing twisted in my stomach.
My head knew I wasn’t ready to sleep with Shane yet, that it was a terrible idea, but unfortunately my body hadn’t gotten the memo. With a mortified groan, I fell back on the mattress, wondering if Shane was already on the phone with Travis, telling him to fire me.
Shane
I’m such an asshole.
Of course Delaney had been crying. All she’d done was come out to check on me, and I’d mistaken her consideration for consent. She probably felt like she was being assaulted.
Had I listened to her at all? Delaney had been perfectly clear: she intended to abide by the terms of the contract, but nothing more. And hell, I’d been pushing for more.
Even though those terms in no way required her to do much beyond smile pretty for the cameras, act like an adoring girlfriend if anyone was watching, and keep me from slipping back into bad habits, Delaney obviously believed they were just an excuse to lure her into a relationship where I held all the cards and she held none.
After the way I’d acted on the beach, who could blame her?
I shook my head, disgusted with myself. If tonight’s goal had been to prove our contract was just a trick to get her naked…I’d done one hell of a job.
I leaned back against her door, so shaken by the last few hours I was practically vibrating. It had been a decade since I’d felt this raw. Down on the beach, when I thought we’d been diving into something real, Delaney had felt baited. Maybe even blackmailed. By me. Her tears were because of me.
Because I was an inconsiderate, self-centered asshole.
And she was right. I was every one of those things, and a hell of a lot more. But I knew, deep down, it was a good thing, too, because a weaker man would have stayed down in the gutter I came up from. If I’d been better at considering other people’s feelings, I might even be in jail. But I had put myself first and escaped from the hellhole I was raised in, came to California, and threw myself into music. Into the crazy, chaotic, completely superficial lifestyle that went along with it. So yeah—I was an asshole.
And I’d never felt ashamed of it. Until now. Until Delaney.
Fuck.
Pushing off her door, I headed into my room to shower off the salt and sand. And the shame.
Not long ago I’d have brought a bottle into the glass enclosure. Hell, I had carried a bottle, or if I was trying to be discreet, a flask, everywhere I went. The accident had sent me tumbling so far down a vortex of anger and depression it was a miracle I’d managed to climb out alive. But with Travis’s help, and support from the guys in my band, I did. These days I had to face everything—good, bad, hideous—head-on. And it sucked.
On the beach, kissing Delaney, breathing in her soft sighs, tasting her salt-slick skin…I’d felt whole. Happy, even. I’d held her as if she was worth living for, and in my life, there was precious little that was. Fame? Money? If I died, would anyone miss me?
Travis?
Maybe.
The guys of Nothing but Trouble?
Okay, yeah. They would, for a little while. But not one of us had had an easy start in life. We were fighters. It was what made us such a strong band. We were just as willing to fight for each other as against any outside threat. My absence would be noticed, but Landon, Jett, and Dax—they would move on. I would be replaced.
I barely knew Delaney. She barely knew me. It was crazy. But crazy good. For a little while, it had been just me and her. Just us, and a deserted, dark beach. And the thready, seductive connection linking us together. Both of our lives had been shattered by a fatal accident. Both of us forced to pick up the pieces and move on, even though we were still reeling.
That was why I had ripped the spark plug out of that jerkoff’s car. Because if I’d let him kill someone that night, it would have left another black mark on a soul—my soul—that was already so dark, it might not matter. And that freaked me the fuck out.
Delaney didn’t realize how much we had in common. It was a secret I couldn’t tell her, couldn’t tell anyone. A secret I’d woven into the lyrics of a song I couldn’t bear to sing anymore. The song Delaney belted out as if it were her own. But there was a huge difference between Delaney and me.
She hadn’t been responsible for her accident.
She hadn’t sent anyone to an early, undeserved grave.
She wasn’t a killer.
Until tonight, I hadn’t known what it was like to feel caught up in someone else’s eyes, to be more buzzed from a smile than from a drink. I wasn’t a fool. I didn’t love Delaney. But with her, I could see a flickering thread of possibility.
I just didn’t know whether to cut it with the nearest knife, or unravel it slowly, following wherever it led.
It had been the single best hour of my life. Even though it didn’t end the way I had wanted it to, buried in Delaney’s sweet center, her legs wrapped around me, the taste of her on my tongue, as we galloped toward nirvana together.
If I thought Delaney was just playing hard to get, I’d call Travis and have her removed from my house, my tour, my life.
But I knew better. Delaney’s trembling chin, that single tear she thought I wouldn’t notice, the way she’d asked me to fuck her, like she was offering herself up as some kind of sacrificial lamb…I shuddered, pressing my palms against my face. What was I thinking?
I wasn’t. At least, not with the right head. While Delaney’s luscious body had been beneath mine, I didn’t give a shit about contracts or concerts, promises or prisons.
That innocence that flavored her lips, I was bleeding it dry with every kiss.
An angry shout wrenched free of my throat as I scrubbed at my hair, lathering the shampoo into a frenzy. Delaney’s words drilled holes through my eardrums, piercing skin and skull to bounce around my brain. She wasn’t playing hard to get. She wasn’t playing at all.
Maybe that was the problem. I was a player. In life, onstage, everywhere. And Delaney wasn’t. Delaney was a sweet little thing who’d gotten a bad deal.
We were going to be inseparable for the next hundred and eighty days, give or take, and I’d already stolen all her cards. Would she like me any better by the end?
Probably not.
Some copy editor looking to boost magazine sales had proclaimed me the King of Rock.
Hardly.
I was a criminal. A clown. A pretender to the throne.
And maybe the reason for Delaney’s tears was that she’d seen right through me, instinctively known the chaos and ruin I’d caused. Wanted no part of it. No part of me.
The words to a song I hadn’t written yet coiled themselves around my chest, the rhythm of my pulse a low, ominous beat I could already see expressed as notes on a chord chart. I slammed the chrome knob back into the tiled wall, shutting off the water with more violence than was necessary. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I held my breath as I passed Delaney’s door like it was a cemetery, padding lightly downstairs and heading for the small sound room I’d built into the lower level of my house. Music was the one thing that kept me steady, the one place I could unload every crazy, shitty, wonderful, awful thought cluttering my mind. Thoughts became words, words became lyrics. And in the right combination, lyrics became entire songs.
I needed a notebook and a guitar. Fast, before the melody in my head faded and the words slid just beyond reach. It wasn’t often that a song ripped through my mind anymore, needing to be written down, to be heard. Years ago they had come easily, usually with the first few drinks of the night. Or morning. Gritty reflections of my reality echoed from every syllable, and the rawness of those early songs is what had propelled Nothing but Trouble to stardom.
Whatever had passed between me and Delaney would still be there in the morning. Or maybe it wouldn’t. Tonight I would write about it and tomorrow I would face it.
I wish I knew what I should do about it.
But I didn’t. I didn’t have a fucking clue.