Tate
I wish I knew what the fuck it is about her. I wish I knew for a single damn second what it is about Ella Dawson that fucks me up in the best kind of way. I wish I knew how the hell she can look into my eyes and make me different. How she makes me stronger, gentler, more understanding.
I wish I knew how the fuck she can touch me with her soft hands and crack into the hard exterior my life requires. She doesn’t only crack it—she slips her painted nails between the broken edges until her fingertips are gripping them, and then she rips them apart, exposing the guy inside. Exposing the guy that’s as fuckin’ real as it comes.
She exposes the protector, the lover, the dreamer.
She exposes the guy hidden from all the other girls.
I wish I knew how the hell she made a dream come to life when I didn’t even know it existed. How she took my notion of a dream and twisted it until I looked back and realized it was never entirely fulfilled.
“Why’d you do it?”
“Do what?” I glance up from the tablet and at Ella sitting cross-legged on the other sofa of the tour bus. “The sex tape? We already went over that, darlin’, I didn’t know about it.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m not talking about the sex tape, Tate. I’m talking about the . . . manwhoring.”
“Did you just willingly cuss?”
“ ‘Whoring’ isn’t really a cuss word,” she replies hesitantly.
“If Mila ain’t allowed to say it, it’s a cuss word.” Kye drops onto the seat next to her.
“And you screamed at me last night. Somethin’ about ‘fucking kisses’ and ‘bullshit games,’ ” I remind her.
“Ahh, words you’ve heard often, bro.” Aidan smacks my shoulder and grabs the back of the chair when the bus turns a corner.
“Which brings me back to my original question,” Ella mutters. “Why does every conversation have to go off on a tangent with you all?”
“Next we’re gonna get her to y’all.” Aidan grins, looking at me and Kye.
“Oh, yeah,” Kye agrees. “It’s so close I can taste it.”
I groan. “No. Ella ain’t allowed to y’all. She said ‘bless your heart, sugar’ and my dick was hard for a week. I don’t think I could cope with a y’all.”
Damn upper-class chick ain’t allowed to come here and talk with a sexy-ass Southern accent that only seems sexy on her.
Ella grins, her eyes shining with sass. “Poor baby. I’m sure there was someone there to soften it back up. Aaaand there we go again.” She smacks her hand to her forehead. “I give up trying to talk to you guys.”
“I’m sorry, darlin’, you’re just distracting.” I nudge her foot with mine under the table. “What was it you wanted to know?”
She twists her lips to the side. “I think I forgot.”
“Somethin’ about manwhoring,” Kye prompts cheerily.
“Oh! Of course.” She spins her water bottle between her hands. “Why are you guys such manwhores?”
Aidan chokes on his soda, and I laugh. “Well, come right on out with it why don’t cha?”
“I did.” She stares at me flatly. “Don’t laugh!” She throws the cap for her water at Aidan. “I’m being serious!”
“We ain’t good with serious,” I remind her. “Well, little brothers? Why are you such hound-doggin’ bastards?”
Ella presses her fingertips to her mouth to hide her smile.
“Us?” Aidan laughs. “Says Mr. Sold a Threesome Story, Mr. Nailed Molly Peters Before She Got Famous, and Mr. Secret Sex Tape.”
I hit him with a sharp gaze as Ella chews the inside of her lip. “All in the past, Ads. Way in the damn past. And two of those things weren’t even my fault.”
“You sold a threesome story?” Ella asks softly.
“I didn’t sell a fuckin’ thing!” I snap. “I took a couple chicks back to my room and one turned out to be a legitimate whore who got paid to fuck famous people and sell the story.”
“Oh.” Her voice is small. “Well, that’s . . . unfortunate.”
Unfortunate? Is she fuckin’ kidding? Oh, no, she ain’t—she’s looking at her fingers clasped around her water bottle and playing with the label because she’s just realized she’s fucked another total bastard.
She knew it already. Hell, she spelled out to me all the ways I’m a royal fucking cockhead without actually calling me one. Now that she’s getting it shoved in her face, though, it’s different.
Because the guy that did all that shit in the past isn’t the guy that touches her, kisses her. He ain’t the guy that fucks her soft and hard all in the same minute, and he sure ain’t the guy that wipes her tears and holds her through the night.
He ain’t the guy that keeps her midnight screams to himself just so she doesn’t have another thing to fear, because God only knows she’s got enough.
I give Aidan and Kye a stern look, and they get up. Aidan mouths an apology, but I don’t give a shit. They move to the back of the bus, their eyes flicking to me and away hesitantly.
I scoot along the seat. “Els.”
“What?”
My fingers reach out and tuck some of her hair behind her ear. “Talk to me, darlin’.”
“Why? I have nothing to say.” She swallows.
“Then look at me.”
A beat passes before she slowly turns her eyes from the label to my gaze. She doesn’t stop picking at the damn label, though, so I close my hand around hers. She takes a long, deep breath and fights to keep her eyes on me.
“Now I sure as shit don’t believe you. What’s wrong?”
“Your . . . past.” She blinks and looks away. “It’s . . . different from mine. Really different. Maybe I didn’t realize it until just now.”
“And it don’t matter,” I tell her quietly, running my fingers through her hair. “You wanna know why I acted that way?”
“Yes. No. I guess.”
My lips tug into a small smirk. “Because girls ain’t all like you, Els. The girls I took back to the hotel regularly, the ones who stood and screamed my name and made it clear I could have them with no strings attached, they’re lookin’ for a few things, and they ain’t good. Money. Hookup. Their picture in the paper. Fame. To be the one that bagged the reckless rock star.”
“So why didn’t they?”
“Because,” I slide my thumb across her cheek and turn her face toward me. “’Cause they didn’t know what they were askin’ for, and I wasn’t about to give ’em anythin’ but their desired hookup. If a girl’s gonna get her picture in the paper with me and my money, it’s because she wants me, not my status. Understand that?”
She nods slowly. “It makes sense. I just don’t understand why you had to be so . . . wild . . . about it.”
I grin crookedly. “I’m a wild kinda guy. If you’re gonna do something gently, don’t bother doin’ it all, because you ain’t doin’ it right.”
Ella tilts her head to the side and her lips tease up at the edges. “That’s some life motto.”
“You weren’t criticizing it last night,” I murmur so low only she can hear. She gasps, blood filling her cheeks, and I laugh, closing the distance between our mouths. With my fingers tangled in the back of her hair, I sweep my lips across hers, the sugary taste of candy lingering on the softness.
“You can’t kiss me here,” she protests against me.
“I’m the boss and I make the rules and I say I can kiss you wherever the fuck I like.” I grin into the kiss, and she fights it, but she can’t, because she smiles, too, and I pull her into me. She buries her face in the crook of my neck and I brush my nose against her silky hair. Mmm. Vanilla.
Her fingertip trails up my inner forearm. “Why the notes?”
I tilt my arm a little. “It’s the first chords I ever played on bass. I was six.” I smile at the memory of me sitting in the corner of the room on Christmas morning, everything forgotten, because I finally had my damn bass guitar.
“Ahh. So they’re not all just random scribbles Mila could have done?”
“Hey!” I tickle her side and she squeals. “They’re works of art.”
“Yeah.” She ghosts her touch up to my bicep and under my shirt. “Eat your heart out, Vincent van Gogh.”
“Now you’re gettin’ it, darlin’.” I grin and turn my arm so she can examine my tattoos.
“Oh, yes. One day, when you’ve died, they’re going to preserve your body and put it on display in the Louvre, because who could resist paying to see this?” Ella teases.
The laughter in her tone soon fades into a shriek when I flip her onto the sofa. I lean over her, clasping her wrists. She laughs breathlessly, her head thrown back slightly, and looks up with a wide smile.
“You sassin’ me again, Els?”
“I’m always sassing you, Mr. Burke.”
“That ain’t my name,” I growl, lowering my face to hers.
“I’m always sassing you, Tate,” she corrects, her grin widening, her eyes sparkling a little more, her cheeks burning a little brighter.
“Y’all need to get a fuckin’ room,” Aidan grumbles, pulling open the fridge.
“We’ve got a fuckin’ bus,” I start.
“You’re just in it,” Ella finishes, poking her tongue out at my brother.
Kye whoops from the back of the bus. “Aaaand she’s back.”
I swear Sofie gave Mila a shitload of candy before she dropped her at my hotel room with a “Thanks, see you later!” and fucked off on her date with Conner.
Mila runs around the sofa approximately seven times before she drops backward onto her butt. Seconds later, she gets up and spins on the spot until she falls again. The whole time she giggles, breathlessly toward the end. “Come on, Mimi, it’s bedtime.” I stand up and hold out my arms.
“No no no,” Mila sings, scrambling up and running away.
“Yeah yeah yeah!” I counter. In two long strides, I catch up with her and loop my hands around her tiny waist. I spin her and lift her over my shoulder smoothly, pulling even more giggles from her.
“Taaaaay,” she coos from between her peals of laughter. “Noooooo bed! Noooo bed!”
“Mimiiii!” I sway her side to side and sigh. “Mama will kick Uncle Tay’s butt. You got that? I promised her you’d be in bed at seven, and it’s . . .”
“Almost nine,” Ella offers helpfully.
I freeze and look at her. “Is it? Shit!”
“Dollar!” Mila screeches. “Bad word! Dollar for pig!”
Ella grins when I set Mila down and riffle in my pocket for my wallet. Shittin’ hell. I flip it open and pull out a dollar bill. Mila stares at me expectantly, her chubby hand held out in front of her.
“I give you this, you go sleep, okay?”
Mila narrows her dark eyes. “You bad.”
“Yes. But so are you. So take this, go to sleep, and we’re even. And . . .” I bend down, lean in, and whisper, “I’ll get you a blueberry muffin for breakfast tomorrow before Mama wakes up, all right?”
“Tate!” Ella scolds.
“Okay,” Mila sighs dramatically. “My dollar, tankoo.”
I smack the green bill into her hand then lift her. Ella throws Bunna and Dolly across the room to me. I catch them expertly with one hand, one after the other, and pass them to Mila, who snuggles into my chest with them.
“Muffin promise?” I hear Mila ask sleepily.
“I promise. You know I don’t break those crazy things.”
“Awite,” Mila mumbles.
“Night, Mimi.”
“Anight, Tay.”
I kiss her forehead and back out of the room, closing the door quietly. My eyes meet amused dark brown ones and I shake my head. “Kid’s fuckin’ nuts.”
Ella says something under her breath.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“What did you just say?”
“I said nothing!” She laughs and holds her hands out. “Don’t start or you’ll disturb her.”
“Right,” I grumble. “First night in fuckin’ New Orleans after hours on the road and I’m on goddamn babysittin’ duty.”
“Oh, poor thing. Did you want to go and experience the NOLA life?”
“Would you have come with me?” I glance at her over my shoulder and pick up the room phone. I reel off an order for some beer and a bottle of wine.
“Given that I’m your fifth limb for the foreseeable future, I don’t understand the question.” Her words are sharp, and bitter, and if they were physical things, they’d be made of ice-cold steel.
My shoulders drop a little. “Darlin’ . . .”
“Don’t ‘darlin’ ’ me like that, Tate.” She sighs and looks away. “I know, I get it, it’s for my own protection, but, sheesh. I’m okay in the hotel, aren’t I? I mean, isn’t that why we sat in the parking lot for almost an hour while Ajax went into the hotel and broke more than a few privacy laws?”
“Sssh, you don’t know who’s listenin’.”
“Oh, yeah.” She tips her head back so she’s staring at the ceiling. “Don’t worry, God, I’ll make sure Ajax goes to confession this week so you can redeem him from his sins.”
I laugh loudly and lean against the counter. “I’m sure God appreciates the effort, Els. You gonna send me, too, darlin’?”
She drops her head forward and stares at me through her eyelashes. “Tate, I’m not the goddamn pope.”
Another laugh leaves me at the knock on the door. I open it and collect the tray with the beer and a wineglass on it, plus the ice bucket with the wine bottle inside.
“Correct. But you are a fuckin’ saint for dealin’ with my crazy-ass family.”
“For dealing with you, you mean.”
“Hey, I’m a fuckin’ dream. Easy as hell to live with.”
Ella takes the glass I pass her with a snort. “Right. Now I suddenly am the pope. And quite possibly the queen of England.”
I uncap a beer bottle and drop onto the sofa next to her, resting my arm over her shoulders. “Who wants to be the queen of England? You’re like the queen of Dirty B., and that’s the most royal anyone can get.”
She rolls her dark eyes and attempts to hide her twitching lips behind her glass. Unfortunately for her, the glass is see-through. “I don’t see a crown.”
“Darlin’, we’re in New Orleans. You want a crown? I’ll find you a crown.”
“Condom crowns don’t count.”
My mouth teases into a smirk. “Fuck. Back to my drawin’ board.”
“If you can draw anything beyond a stick man and/or a penis, I’ll be very impressed.”
“Blow job kind of impressed?”
“Tate.” Ella rests a hand on my thigh softly. “Can you draw anything other than a stick man or a penis?”
I run my tongue over my lips slowly and deliberately and grin when her eyes flick down. “I can probably draw an all right pair of tits.”
“You want a blow job, then it looks like you’ve got to get yourself art lessons.”
“Fuck. Shoulda known.” I shake my head and clasp my bottle between my thighs so I can grab the remote. No sooner have I pressed the Power button than Ella’s stolen it, changed the channel to TV Land, and there’s three hours of Friends blinking at me on the guide.
“Fuckin’ Friends?”
“Yeah, you got a problem with that?” She looks at me challengingly.
“Damn. Can you stop talkin’? Your attitude is turnin’ me on.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Not helpin’.”
She knocks the remote onto my thigh gently. “Tate!”
“See, now I’ve got a boner and I’m thinkin’ about you under me, very fuckin’ naked, sayin’ my name that way.”
“Ta—shut up!” she squeaks, dropping the control and holding one hand and her wineglass up between us. “Wait. Crap.” She puts the glass down on the table.
“What are you doin’?”
“You’ve got that look in your eyes,” she explains, waggling a finger in case her words weren’t clear. “It’s that one that says ‘I’m Tate fucking Burke and you’re turning me on, and I’m gonna make sure you know it and leave you a hot fucking mess in two-point-five seconds.’ ”
I lean forward and lower my voice. “And don’t I follow through on that look, darlin’?”
Ella swallows, her twitching hands flattening against my chest. “Um. It maybe takes five seconds sometimes, but—”
I cut her off by sealing my mouth over hers. She squeaks a fruitless protest, because she grips the collar of my T-shirt and pushes against me. Winding one hand into her hair and flattening the other at her lower back, I tease her lips with my tongue. She opens her mouth and flicks hers out. Our tongues meet in something that’s half-dance, half-battle, and she hums into my mouth.
“You a hot mess yet, darlin’?”
“Um.” She blinks at me, her eyes glazed and her lips swollen.
“You’re a fuckin’ good-lookin’ mess.”
“Uh . . . Are you asking me or my vagina?”
“I’m askin’ you, Els. If I wanna ask your pussy, I’ll demand an answer with my fingers.”
“Mila’s in the next room.”
“She’s sleepin’,” I murmur. “And if you keep it down, no one will ever know.”
“You’re obsessed.”
“With you? Yes. I’m so fuckin’ obsessed it’s dangerous.”
Ella stops. Her eyes find mine and search them endlessly, asking questions I can’t answer in words. Hell, I just answered every fucking question her eyes are asking.
“Tate,” she whispers, brushing the backs of her fingers down my cheek.
I turn my face into her touch and kiss her knuckles, closing my eyes. It’s true. This girl—I’m obsessed. Completely and utterly fucking obsessed with everything about her. Her past, her present, her future. I wanna know every goddamn thing about it all. Why she allowed that bastard to treat her that way. How she feels right now with me. What she wants in a day, a week, a month, a year.
If she fucking wants me.
“You never told anyone, did you?” I pin her with my gaze. “Your parents, your friends, the police. You kept it totally secret.”
“You know that,” she replies in a small voice. Her gaze falls away, but I grip her chin.
“Eyes on me, darlin’.”
She pulls them back to me.
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
Ella laughs bitterly and grabs her wineglass. She finishes it in one long drink, but she doesn’t let go of the glass. She sets it in her lap and twirls the stem between her fingers and thumb. “My mom wouldn’t have believed me. All she cared about was that her imperfect baby girl was marrying the perfect man. The degree I insisted upon would become useless, because no man likes a woman who can support herself, and I’d be reduced to exactly what she is—a trophy wife, pretty on a rich man’s arm, there to charm investors and business contacts at fancy dinners and cocktail parties. As long as there were no bruises that could harm the perfect image the world would get, she wouldn’t have cared.”
“Your dad?”
“I’ve seen my father four times in nine months. He works constantly. So although I lived only a few blocks away with Matthew and was around every weekend, he wasn’t there. I doubt he would have cared.”
“His parents?”
“Think he’s a golden boy who can do no wrong.” She fiddles with the glass again, and I can see she’s fighting to keep her eyes up and on me. “Just like the rest of society. When I arrived here, I threw my phone in the river by the hotel. I had two kinds of messages from him. The voice ones were everything a girl wants to hear—declarations of love and all that bullshit. The texts, well, you can imagine from the email what they were.”
My grip tightens on her. Asking her about the past is a bastard of a catch-22. I wanna know it all, every damn second, but that pathetic little boy makes me so fucking mad it scares me.
I still don’t understand how he could hurt my sweet girl.
“Did you love him?”
“Once. Maybe.”
“Do you now?”
She looks at me and shakes her head. “Don’t be mad,” she whispers, sliding her hand up to her neck and touching my hand. “I don’t want you to be mad.”
I take a deep breath and rest my forehead against hers. “I’m not mad, darlin’. You’re confusing that with . . .”
“Annoyance? Frustration? Anger?”
“Mmph.”
“I know, Tate,” she says softly. “I know because I felt it toward myself for so long. I’m mad I can’t go and tell anyone now. But I’m really mad that I can’t be free, that he still thinks I belong to him, and that he’s still coming after me like I do.”
“He’s fuckin’ delusional, Els. He’s totally fuckin’ whacked. You never belonged to him. You don’t own people with fear.”
“But he did.”
I dip my face and brush my lips over hers. “No, darlin’. No. He doesn’t own you. I don’t even think I do. You’re mine, sure, but, Els? You own me, baby. You own every damn bit of me, so you’re mine because you decided that, and it ain’t because you fear me. Now don’t take that to mean I’d let you walk out of this room and decide you ain’t mine anymore, because that ain’t how it works, but you get me.” I pull her into me until my lips ghost her earlobe. “You’re mine and I’m yours because there’s no other fuckin’ possibility. So he can take a long walk off a short fuckin’ pier.”
She drops the wineglass to the floor and wraps her arms around me tightly. I circle her waist with my arm and hold her against me. She nuzzles the crook of my neck with her nose, and I bury mine in her hair.
She’s always so fucking tiny in my arms, and it just makes me want to protect her more.
No. It ain’t even a want. It’s a need. I need, desire, crave, to protect her. Every second.
My pen glides smoothly over the thick pad of paper. This ain’t my domain, this shit, but I’m gonna try it anyway. Just like Conner said to me once, if you’ve got the words inside you, somethin’ you gotta say without actually saying it, then this is how you do it. You live it, breathe it, feel it, play it, and then you sing it. You sing it to the whole goddamn world, while knowing the whole time the words you can’t really say are meant only for one person.