Nikki

“Tulsa Crow is the most arrogant, cocksure, man-whore musician I’ve ever met. And I’ve met a few, Lauralee . . . Lauralee? Are you still here?” I hold my phone in front of my face to see if the call dropped. Nope, the time is still being tracked.

“Here as in listening? Yes, I’m here, Nik. I was just waiting for you to take a breath after ranting about a drummer for the past thirty minutes.”

“I’m not ranting. I’m venting. There’s a difference.”

“I’m not so sure in this case.” She laughs, and it sounds a lot like she’s laughing at me, not with me. “Anyway, you hate all drummers except for Shane, and that’s only because he’s your cousin.”

Lying back on the bed, I start twisting my hair around my finger again. “I don’t hate drummers. I hate cocky musicians who think they’re God’s gift to women.”

“Good use of cocksure, but I’m thinking it’s similar to arrogant.”

“Probably, but I’m flustered and needed to fit his cock in somewhere.” I catch the slip too late, just like he caught my slip about his name in the shower. Damn it.

“I bet you do. Anyhoo, you leave in the morning. Are you going out tonight?”

“I’m supposed to meet the guys in a bit and go to dinner.”

“How’d the apartment stuff work out?”

I get off the bed and walk to the window. Staring outside, I look in the distance to see how far I can see. “The deposit is paid on a six-month lease. My dad will move my stuff in next month. They’re storing it until then.”

“I can’t believe you went off and moved to LA without me.”

Leaning against the wall, I look down at the pool area. That’s when I spot him. The sexy bastard with his tan body, eight perfectly built abs, and tattoos he probably only got to impress women.

What are those on his chest anyway? I squint and lean forward to see if I can make out the black design across Tulsa’s upper left pec when I slam my head into the window. “Ouch.” Grabbing my head, I rub, furious at him for making me hit my head.

“Nikki?”

“What?”

“Have you been listening or not?”

Yikes. I rub the pad of my palm over the sore spot on my head while scrunching my eyes closed. “I’m here. I’m listening.”

“Girl, you didn’t hear a thing I said. You’re already in deep. Have you slept with him?”

“Who?”

“Really? It’s me. I know when you’re lying and dodging a question. Now answer.”

“No way. I’ve been focusing on my performance and improving each show. I took a yoga class before I left LA last week to help loosen me up.”

“Your body or your mind? You can get a good workout with sex too, but you might have forgotten about that.”

“I have forgotten,” I say, joking. “But I’m not going to give it up just because he’s cute.”

“There could be worse reasons to sleep with him other than he’s cute.”

Laughing, I watch him. Two eager beavers are chatting him up as he lounges on a chair with his too perfect arms behind his arrogant head, that smug smile still on his conceited face. He sits up and has one of the bikini-clad girls rub lotion on his shoulders. What a player. Resting my back against the glass, I say, “We haven’t talked since LA, a week ago.”

She laughs gently. “Why?”

“I might have snapped at him.”

“Might have?”

Sighing, I reply, “Fine. I did. It was early, and he was just sooooo . . . Tulsa.” When she doesn’t say anything, I know what she’s doing—judging me. He’s another girl-chaser. It’s nothing I’m not used to because it’s the same with Shane and Laird. But when he flirts with me, it’s like he’s taunting me. And that’s ticking me off. And confusing me. “You know what? I wasn’t totally cold-hearted. I watched them play in Sacramento. That’s support.”

“It is. And?”

“And he was good. Really good. He has really great arms, and he makes this sexy face sometimes when he’s hitting hard up there. I’ve dreamed about it.”

“It or him?”

“Same thing. What’s wrong with me? How can a man who annoys me so much consume so many of my thoughts?”

I turn and lean forward again to catch another glimpse, but this time, I’m more careful with my head. As for other parts of my body—sexy bastard.

Lauralee’s voice cuts into my annoyance at the man who’s taking up way too much space in my head today when she says, “Cocky. Arrogant. Smug. Conceited. Now bastard.”

“What?”

“That’s what you just called Tulsa Crow. By the way, I’m looking at him online now. Wow.”

“No to the wow.”

“Yes to the wow. I see the problem. He’s hot.”

My ponytail swings side to side when I march to the bathroom to start getting ready for the night. “He definitely does not need more attention than he already gets.”

She adds, “You’ve got it bad, girl, and I clearly see why. I’ve seen photos of his band, but damn, these paparazzi pics from LA are private time worthy.”

“Do not even go there.”

“I won’t, but will you?”

* * *

The female bartender is over here a lot faster when Laird and Shane arrive than when it was just me sitting here. I’m neither stupid nor blind. My brother and cousin are good-looking guys, taking after my father and uncle. If you held their high school photos up side by side, it would be hard to tell them apart.

California surfers with tall, lean bodies and blue eyes that match the sky. They were both catches. Back in the day, Laird took the Prom King title, and Shane won Homecoming King, despite their shared distaste for such mundane rituals.

Laird has a type, and it’s not fake boobs and a smile injected with silicone. The waitress reminds me more of LA than Seattle. I’m sure she has an interesting story, but I just want to spend time with my family tonight.

He sits back when she leaves and says, “Did you talk to Mom?”

“No. Did you?”

“She said she misses us.”

“I miss her too.” She’s been a good mom, but she’s also been a friend. I don’t tell her everything because I don’t want to break her heart, but she knows a lot of what’s gone on in my adult life.

I’m the spitting image of my mother—a former model who quit her day job when she said “I do” to my dad. Guys used to talk to me so they’d eventually get a chance to talk to my mom. That was until I turned fifteen and grew into my lanky legs and big eyes. By sixteen, I was modeling swimsuits for local surf shops and had already won my fair share of pageants. My mother was convinced I’d either become less of a tomboy and gain poise or meet my future husband. She didn’t say I had to trade my Miss San Diego County title for an M-R-S to a CEO, but she didn’t discourage using my looks for gain.

Neither happened.

Like my brother, I preferred the guitar to the pretenses of our wealthy upbringing. We may have grown up on the beaches of La Jolla surfing, but we spent evenings around a fire pit playing our guitars.

The bartender sets a beer down in front of Laird, his smile and laughter keeping her here a little longer than most customers do. He makes her laugh and then turns to us, making it clear we’re a package deal.

We can see everything we ever wanted taking form; a dream we’ve worked toward for the past four years—full time for the past two. I’m not naïve enough to think luck hasn’t played a part. An early following to our beach rock sound set us apart, but it’s like what Tommy once told us before we got offered a contract—schticks come and go. Find your sound and believe in it. We wrote a new song, played it for him and Johnny, and got signed on the spot. Luck didn’t play any part in that. We get the credit, and now we’re reaping the rewards.

“Cheers.”