20: DENIAL
The silence echoes through my foyer when they leave. Phantom screams about finality and regret. I’m not wired for this shit. When you rule your universe there’s no standard for reactive beginnings. No, life is a map and you fucking plot your course and own it.
Now my life’s map is just a stack of lawyer jargon.
“Wes?”
I’d almost forgotten about Hannah. She studies me from the vacuum of her sister’s absence by the door, strands of dark hair wisping around her face as they slip from the pile on her head. Only Hannah could wear imperfection so perfectly. Her eyes are heavy with sadness, for me, for her, for all of humanity because that’s what she does—takes on the burden of universal existence. Depression, man. I’ve never wanted to kick anything’s ass so hard in my life.
“Come here,” I say, arm extended. She slides into my embrace, and I lock it around her. Fresh, clean, floral vapors wind through my head as I bury my lips in her hair. “We got this, Han.”
She burrows into me, fists clenched on the back of my shirt. Damn, if that doesn’t make you want to stand in front of a freight train for a person.
My fingers slide over her neck, trace the outline of the skin beneath her collar. So soft, so delicate, so the opposite of everything I love about this woman. Love?
Shit.
I breathe in more of her, closing my eyes to absorb her scent, the power it has over me. I don’t just want to protect her. I want… what? Forgiveness? Redemption? Or maybe pain because that’s what it is to love a Drake. Sweet, cleansing pain that inflames vipers and saturates leeches.
“I can’t believe you just did that,” she murmurs against my heart. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. I don’t remember other women ever triggering this click track that reverberates through my body.
My hand travels farther down her back. Thud-two-three-four. Blood pools in a punch between my legs. I need her to recoil, but she dissolves into heat instead.
Her grip tightens on my shirt, lifting the hem to invite cool air on my back. It does nothing to tame the raging inferno. She tugs the shirt over my head, hair falling into my eyes. It’s her job to smooth it back as she grasps my face with a jerk toward her. I take her mouth, let that internal metronome beat my tongue to hers. My prey writhes with each shove of my hips. I want her to gasp, beg for more of my venom.
I lower her jeans and strike, loving how her thighs tense with each bite toward my goal—thud—thud—thud—thud. Her entire body flexes into my pursuit and…
I need you to be my viper.
Blood thunders through every artery, but it’s not lust that it fuels now. It’s fear, terror, for this soul I want to protect beyond all reason. Hannah is not my prey; she’s my responsibility because fuck if I don’t love this woman. Fuck if her pain doesn’t make mine irrelevant. No, I’m getting my shit together because this ends now.
Hannah Drake will shine.
“What’s wrong?” she asks when I lean back and pull her jeans up her legs.
I grin. “Absolutely nothing.”
Her eyebrows crease in skepticism. “Really.”
I soften the pressure of my hold and clasp my hands loosely behind her back. “You want to practice our song?” Instead of sex? She doesn’t have to say it. I read the confusion just fine.
My veins pulsate. I ache for her when she loops her fingers in my pockets to pull me back—thud—thu-ud. Smooth palms surge up my chest, across my pecs. Fingertips sink into the ridges of my biceps.
And I step back.
Reach for her hand.
Interlace our fingers in the gap between us.
Yep, it’s damn well possible I love Hannah Drake enough to suffer the thud when it’s not what she needs.
“Do you still play keys?”
∞∞∞
Beauty is skin deep; to watch a woman find herself is fucking hypnotic. A radiance leaches through the cloud surrounding Hannah as she loses herself in the music. Her words, her art—I’m just a voyeur now, stalking her private journey. Maybe that’s why I’ve fallen silent from my stretched-out position against the armrest. Stalker Wes with his body reacting to each sigh and twitch of hers.
It’s a funny thing, self-denial. I’ll admit it’s a game I’ve rarely played. Always seemed selfish to me, because that’s what it is, an exclusive event: me versus me. What could be more selfish than that?
But there’s something freeing about each thud. It’s a reminder of what this woman is to me. It’s torture the way she gathers her hair in a lazy clump with one hand and runs the tip of a pen along her bottom lip with the other. Torture, yes, and rewarding because she’s lost in something other than masking her pain.
“You need a new keyboard,” she says, finally joining me on Earth. “You know they make them with the knobs and faders actually built in now?”
“Whatever. There’s nothing wrong with Bessy. She likes her little nanoKONTROL companion.”
“Bessy? Also, her companion is a parasite.”
Parasite? Okay, that was funny. “Hey, how about you figure out what you’re playing on the chorus while I go make coffee.”
“Gonna be a long night, eh?”
“At the rate you’re not working? Probably.”
There’s the playful glare I’ve come to crave. She lets her hair drop from the makeshift bun, and I have to look away. Self-denial is hard when the person you’re denying tears through your clothing with a gaze that rages over hot flesh. Thud-thud-thud.
“Cream?” I ask.
“Black today.”
“You hungry?”
“No.”
“You sure? I can order something.”
“Not hungry.”
I don’t believe her.
My hand shakes from restrained need now. I grip the bag of beans to settle the tremor. Knuckles white, the last thing I can tolerate is her approach, so of course I turn to find that searing gaze inches away. She tugs the hem of my shirt. Warm fingers that play with hair and piano keys now work their way over my abs.
They slide down, and I hiss in a breath.
“That was amazing,” she whispers. “Know what else would be amazing right now?”
I close my eyes.
“What’s that?” I manage. She has to know what she’s doing to me.
Her hands trail back up my chest, massage the taut muscle beneath my shirt.
“I would. Absolutely love. Ice cream.”
My eyelids snap open to find a volcanic grin that burns straight through my lust. My lips spread into an equally wide smile because, my god, she’s serious.
“Is that so. What flavor?”
The corner of her mouth quirks up as she squints in thought. “Chocolate, I think. Wait, double chocolate.”
Those lips are begging for a kiss. Sure it’s dangerous, but she’s left me no choice. I lean in to brush my response against her mouth.
“Fine. But you’re going with me.”
“Like a date?” she asks, eyes hooded with expectation.
“Exactly like a date.” I skim another touch on those addictive lips.
“I want sprinkles.”
“Fine.”
“And whipped cream.”
“Done.”
“Chocolate chips.”
“Of course.”
“And banana. Oh, and a soft pretzel.”
“You know I’m unemployed now, right?”
∞∞∞
I don’t want to look away from the spoon sliding between her lips, along her tongue. Who needs booze when you’re two feet away from Hannah Drake eating ice cream?
Too bad my phone has to erupt and ruin it all.
“Give me a sec?”
Hannah’s eyes follow me with her nod.
“Jacob,” I say, shifting in the booth to face the window.
“Holland told me about your meeting.”
“Yeah.”
“Did you sign the papers?”
“Not yet. I will.”
“Well, don’t bother.”
Fuck. “Why not?”
“The Label is contesting the terms.”
“What do you mean?”
“They think Holland is being too generous and they want more of a cut for damages. The contract is dead.”
“Damages? Are you kidding me?”
“And… Mila posted again.”
“No way.”
“Says you’re in a relationship with Holland’s sister? Please tell me that’s not true.”
“What if it is? Hannah has nothing to do with this.”
I cast a look across the table, and the seductive spoon has stalled mid-air.
“She’s Holland’s sister! She has everything to do with this.” He quiets as I work on my breathing. “Look, I’m doing my best with the Label, but this thing with Hannah is not gonna fly. You’ve put her in Mila’s crosshairs. Holland too.”
“I didn’t even—”
“You know what? It doesn’t matter. I’m not interested in your drama anymore. I represent Holland and Tracing Holland. I’m calling because your shit is blowing back on my client and it’s got to stop.”
Did he steal that line from my father?
“Fuck you, Jacob. I took myself out of play. Gave my blessing to the guitar tech. What else do they want?”
“A public apology.”
“Not happening.”
“At a formal news conference.”
“I said—”
“They’d accept a high-profile interview too. As long as it comes across sincere enough to repair the damage you’ve inflicted on the band, they won’t sue.”
“Sue? What—”
“Find yourself a lawyer, Wes. We’ll be in touch with more details.”
∞∞∞
“What’s going on?” Hannah asks when I hang up.
I stare at the device I now hate with a passion. It’s a fucking grenade.
“Just a second.” I pull the pin on my phone-bomb and search for Mila’s latest attack.
Well, well, well. Have you heard the latest on everyone's fave disgraced rocker, Wes Alton?! I've had a whisper that he's copping off with Holland Drake’s little sister, Hannah. If you want to get your own back, diddling your exes sis is one way to slap her in the chops. Mate, can you sink any lower? Or is it Hannah running after big sis’ sloppy seconds? If his performance on stage is anything to go by, I wouldn’t be queuing up to test out his skills in the sack…
I close my eyes, fingertips pressing into the planes of my face.
“Wes? What’s wrong?”
I can’t look at her, this girl who’s about to see her world destroyed because of me. I don’t have an explanation, no magic to soften the blow, so I just hand her the phone and let it burn.
Her face drains of color as she reads. Eyes glossy, her head remains bent over the phone for longer than necessary. In silence, I watch as she absorbs what I am: the snake she should have run away from.
My lungs struggle against the weight.
Run, Hannah.
She will. I see it in the way she shrinks against the backrest of the chair. The cloud we’ve been shoving away has settled over her again with its full force.
“I’m so sorry, Han.” My voice is raspy.
She nods, teeth pressing on her lower lip. The tear that slides down her cheek fucking slays me as she places the phone beside her bowl and rises. With each pause in her escape, I straighten with hope. But she never lapses. Never even glances back.
I stay with her half-eaten double chocolate ice cream until it’s nothing but a sick puddle.