Crash Into Me (13 page)

Whatever it was, it was hot. Dragging her eyes away from his way-too-talented hands,
Jamison unzipped her hoodie and tied it around her waist. Was it just her or was it
getting warm in here?

“Anything else?” she asked after clearing her throat for what felt like the millionth
time.

“Quinn will want Twinkies.”

She gagged. “That’s so not going to happen.”

He shrugged. “I’m just saying. The man likes his snack cakes.”

“Well, he’ll have to learn to like my snack cakes instead.”

Ryder arched a brow and she blushed all over again. Seriously? Who knew food shopping
could be so fraught with sexual connotation?

“That’s not going to happen,” he finally said after a minute.”

She nodded jerkily, refusing to go there with him. “We should probably hurry up. Portland’s
still a long way off and Steve only gave me half an hour to shop.”

Ryder shrugged. “He’ll wait.”

She wondered what that felt like—that bone deep assurance that you were important
enough to wait for. Not that Ryder was rude about it. He wasn’t, usually, and neither
were Jared or the others. But still, they’d changed through the years—not a lot at
any given time, but little bit by little bit. Their confidence, always something to
be reckoned with, was huge now, as was their sense of entitlement. She wouldn’t call
it ego, exactly, but the guys had all grown into their fame through the last couple
of years. Had come to take it—and their place in the world—for granted in a way they
hadn’t before. In a way it still surprised, and unsettled, her to see.

Then again, it took a special kind of person—and a special kind of talent—to stand
up in front of thousands of screaming fans every night and deliver the experience
of a lifetime. Over and over and over again. There was nothing wrong with the members
of Shaken Dirty being proud that they could do that. And that people wanted them to.
Just because it still felt strange to her didn’t mean it wasn’t as natural as breathing
to them.

“Hey, what are you thinking about?” Ryder paused the shopping cart by the bakery section,
studied her carefully.

She almost blew him off. But then thought, what the hell? He’d asked, after all. “How
much everything has changed in the last few years.”

“Has it?”

Was he messing with her? “Don’t you think so?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. Picked up a couple loaves of French bread and placed
them in the basket. “It feels like we’ve been on tour forever. Now we just play bigger
venues with more fans.”

“You’re the headliners now instead of just the opening band.”

“I get to sing. Get to play my music in front of people. Beyond that, the logistics
don’t really matter.”

Oh, but they did. She gestured to the cart. “There used to be a time you couldn’t
walk into a grocery store and afford whatever you wanted.”

“True.” He added an extra large pack of cinnamon rolls and a peach pie. “But I don’t
think fresh fruit and vegetables are really that big of a splurge, are they?”

“What is it with you and peaches today?” She put the peach pie back, then headed for
the juice and candy aisle. “If you want a pie, I’ll make one for you.”

He grinned. “I didn’t want to assume.”

“I’m the cook. It’s pretty much my job to make you whatever you want to eat.”

He scowled. “I wish you’d stop calling yourself that.”

“What?” she asked, mystified.

“You’re not the cook!”

He stepped closer, reached for her. And pulled her body into the shelter of his. “You’re
Jamison! Just…Jamison.”

At first she forced herself to stay rigid, to stop her muscles from their natural
inclination to curve themselves against him. But when he rested his chin on the top
of her head and squeezed her tight, Jamison couldn’t keep up the distance. Despite
her very best intentions, she found herself going soft against him.

“There you are,” he murmured, stroking an errant curl behind her ear. “I missed you.”

“I’ve been right here.”

“No. I was an ass and I chased you away. I promise, I won’t do that again.”

“You didn’t want me here. That’s your choice. I understand.” She started to pull back.

His arms tightened around her. “No, you don’t.” He reached over to the Jelly Belly
display, snagged a bag of the root beer jellybeans that had gotten her her nickname
so many years ago. Handed them to her with a grin that made her go all soft inside
at the realization that he remembered that day. She’d been fourteen, and completely
jealous that Ryder had planned a band trip out to the lake with a bunch of older girls
and flat out refused to take her along.

To get him back, she’d filled the van with the only Jelly Belly flavor he truly hated—root
beer. It had cost her close to fifty dollars but had been totally worth it to see
his face as the brown beans poured out in all directions. Jared told her it had taken
them months to get the smell out of the van—which had only made her victory sweeter.

“I always want you around, Jelly Bean.”

“Then why—” She cut herself off before she could ask the question that had haunted
her since she’d stormed out of his hotel room the morning before.

“Because I didn’t want anything to change. You’re one of my best friends. I don’t
want to lose that and I was afraid if you came on tour with us I’d fuck everything
up like I always do.”

At his words, she felt the last of her anger melt away. Even though Ryder wasn’t offering
her what she wanted—what she’d always wanted when it came to him—he was giving her
the biggest part of himself he could. Rejecting it because it wasn’t enough would
mean rejecting him.

And that she couldn’t do, not when she knew how much it took for him to open up even
this much.

Not when she knew just how afraid he was of messing up the few things in his life
that he couldn’t help caring about.

That she was one of those things… It might not be enough, but in a lot of ways, it
was more than she ever could have hoped for.

Squeezing him just as tightly as he had squeezed her, she dropped a kiss on Ryder’s
heavily stubbled jaw. And forced herself to let go—once and for all—of all the silly
schoolgirl fantasies she’d harbored for him through the years.

“Come on,” she told him, pulling gently away when the pain of touching him became
too much for her to handle. “First one to find the pancake mix wins.”

“Wins what?” he demanded, eyes narrowed in sudden interest.

“You’ll have to win to find out!” And then she took off running toward the center
of the store, the sound of his laughter ringing out behind her.

Chapter Thirteen

Five days later, Jamison dished up yet another batch of blueberry pancakes while the
band, along with Steve and their equipment manager, Vince, jockeyed for third, or
in some cases, fourth servings. Even Wyatt was eating with enthusiasm, something she
didn’t see very often if dessert wasn’t involved. Then again, he had enough syrup
and whipped cream on his pancakes to send himself into serious sugar shock.

“Do you have more?” Quinn asked, a hopeful look on his face as he once again handed
the platter back to her.

She looked at the empty bowl beside the stove and let out a little sigh. “I guess
I can whip up some more batter if you’d like.”

“That’d be great.” He gave her his sweet smile, the one that had been getting him
pretty much everything he wanted for as long as she’d known him. “With extra blueberries?”

“Of course with extra blueberries.”

She turned back to the stove, feeling more like a preschool teacher with an unruly
class than the cook for a bunch of grown men. Then again, rock musicians weren’t exactly
known for their emotional maturity. Even Jared, who was by far the best of the bunch,
could revert to childhood without too much effort.

“I don’t mind making extra pancakes,” she said as she mixed up another batch of batter,
“but don’t you guys have to be on stage soon?”

“Twenty-five minutes,” Ryder grunted as he shoveled in the last of his breakfast.
“We go on at ten.”

Jamison shook her head as she flipped the first pancakes. She’d been on the road with
Shaken Dirty for six days now and she still had a hard time dealing with the schedule
they kept. The hardest part was that they had their days and nights all turned around—hence
the reason they were eating pancakes at nine thirty at night.

Most days, they’d roll out of bed around six in the evening, hang out, eat, perform
and then spend the night and morning doing whatever it is they did before falling
into bed around eleven a.m. before doing the same thing all over again the following
evening.

The only days that varied were ones where they played at strange times—like mid-afternoon
at that music fest in Portland—or when they weren’t performing at all. But so far,
they’d only had one day off since she’d hit the road with them. The organizers had
jam-packed this tour with stops, and at each one they played to a capacity crowd.

Tonight, they were performing in Denver, Colorado. Last night, it had been Salt Lake
City, Utah. Tomorrow would kick off a three-night run in Las Vegas and after that
she didn’t know where they were going to be. Maybe New Orleans, followed by Orlando?
But she thought there might be a few Texas dates mixed somewhere in there as well.
Which was a good thing, as Jared was dying to see his girl. Though the whole band
called Austin home, very rarely did they get to spend much time there.

Not that it really mattered to Jamison where they went. After all, her job was the
same. Cook breakfast, then either hang out or watch the band perform. Cook lunch and
try to ignore the groupies and over-the-top fans. And the guys wondered why she was
okay with her bunk, why she didn’t want to take her turn in the back bedroom? God
only knew what she’d catch if she actually spent a night in those sheets. Despite
all the action they saw, she was fairly certain they hadn’t been changed once in the
time she’d been traveling with the guys. She would do it, but again, she’d have to
touch them and she’d left her gloves and industrial strength cleaner at home…

The only two who didn’t seem to be getting any action back there were Jared and Ryder.
Jared because he had a fiancée in Houston and Ryder because…well, to be honest, she
wasn’t sure why Ryder hadn’t hooked up with any groupies in the last few days. Based
on what she’d overheard back in San Diego, and what she knew of him, she had trouble
imagining he spent much time abstaining.

Which meant he was either taking care of things on the other bus—the one the roadies
and equipment manager rode on—or she was cramping his style. And while she knew it
was masochistic and wrong on so very many levels, especially when she’d sworn to herself
that she’d stopped waiting around on Ryder to want her, still Jamison couldn’t help
hoping it was the latter. That Ryder, for whatever reason, had given up on groupies
for the duration. It was probably a vain hope, but it was one she clung to anyway.

Ten minutes later, the guys pushed back from the table as one. “Thanks, sis,” Jared
said, dropping his plate in the sink and a kiss on her cheek.

“Break a leg, tonight!”

“We’ll try.” Wyatt gave her a hug, which she returned with interest. She tried not
to dwell on how skinny he’d become, but it was hard. Especially when she was pretty
sure he was using regularly again. Oh, he hadn’t gotten high in front of her or the
guys since her first night on the bus—at least not that she could tell, and she was
watching—but still, there was something off about him. Something that told her his
past was riding him a lot harder than usual.

Ryder was the last to drop his plate in the sink. She went to move out of his space—the
only way being on the bus with him worked for her was if she made sure not to touch
him—but this time he was having none of her usual evasive maneuvers. Instead, he caged
her against the counter, an arm on either side of her and his big, sexy body in front
of her. He wasn’t breaking the unvoiced rules, wasn’t touching her, but the point
was moot. She was surrounded by the wild ocean scent of him, by the crazy intense
warmth he gave off without trying.

“You coming to watch us tonight?” he asked.

“I—uh—I don’t know. The dishes—”

“Forget the dishes.” He reached for her face, gently squeezed her chin between his
thumb and forefinger until she moved her head in an effort to get away from his grip.
It didn’t work, but it did help him get what he wanted. With her neck tilted the way
it was, it was impossible to look anywhere but in his eyes. “You haven’t listened
to us once since your first day on tour.”

That wasn’t true. She’d been to most of their concerts. She just didn’t stay very
long—and made sure to keep out of sight when she was there. Because watching Ryder
onstage turned her on like few things ever had. He was so raw, so primal, so sexual
when he sang that all she could think about was going down on him. Or having him inside
her. Or— She cut herself off before she could go any further down that path. Dwelling
on what she couldn’t have only made things worse for her, not to mention ruined the
whole just-friends vibe they were both striving for. “I’ve been busy. Trying out recipes,
writing…”

“Writing, huh? How’s the cookbook going?”

“I think it’s going well. At least none of you have complained about the recipes I’ve
come up with.”

“What’s to complain about? Your food is amazing.” He smiled. “And since it’s going
so well, you can take the night off and not feel guilty.”

Feeling vulnerable, exposed, she searched for another excuse. But there was none,
not when he leaned down and whispered, “I need you there, Jamison. I like knowing
you’re watching.”

“Hey, Ryder! You coming, man?” Before she could respond, Quinn’s voice drifted through
the bus’s still open door.

“Go ahead,” he shouted back without ever taking his eyes from hers. “I’ll catch up
with you.”

“You should go.” She tried to duck under his arm, but he refused to let her.

“Not ‘til you say you’ll come.”

“Why does this matter so much to you?”

“Because I miss you.” The words seemed yanked from him against his will.

“I’m right here,” she said, shoving harder at him.

“No. You’re not. That’s the problem.” But he finally got the hint and moved away from
her. He smiled, but it was one of his stage smiles. The kind he gave the fans no matter
how shitty he was feeling, but that never quite reached his eyes.

“Hey, Ryder.” This time she was the one trying to make eye contact and he was the
one avoiding it. Only she wasn’t big or strong or
tough
enough to make him look at her—not physically and certainly not emotionally. Which
was why when he stepped toward the door, she didn’t try to stop him. Didn’t do anything
but watch him go.

“Don’t worry about it,” he tossed over his shoulder. “I guess I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah, later.”

He gave her a casual little half wave as he took the stairs in one giant step and
then headed into the night, the door slapping closed behind him.

If only she could slap her own emotions closed half as easily.

Part of her was angry, really angry, that he’d used all that brooding sex appeal against
her. Especially since he was the one who’d backed away from that aspect of their relationship,
the one who didn’t want her despite the crazy sparks they struck off each other.

But another part of her was worried. He’d looked so lost when he’d walked into the
night, so much like the boy she used to know instead of the tough, don’t-give-a-shit
rocker he’d forged himself into through the years. It was stupid—she knew it was stupid—but
she felt herself falling for it all over again.

Not for him. She’d learned her lesson on that front. But just because she’d made up
her mind not to think about Ryder anymore—or, more accurately, had her mind made up
for her—didn’t mean she’d stopped caring for him. She couldn’t, no matter how much
she sometimes wished it might be otherwise. There was too much history between them.
Too many feelings, especially on her side.

Which meant, she realized with a sigh of disgust, that she was going to break her
own rules. She was going to try to figure out what was up with Ryder, what was hurting
him. And the best way to do that was to do what he asked—to go see Shaken Dirty play
and let him see her there. Maybe then he’d open up to her again, let her see inside
of him.

And if he didn’t? a little voice inside of her asked. Well, if he didn’t, at least
she’d tried. Maybe knowing that would be enough … for both of them.

…

He could feel her watching him.

There were twenty-three thousand people crammed into the amphitheater in front of
him, all of them staring at him—focused on him—and still he could feel Jamison’s eyes
on him. He hadn’t expected her to come, not after the way she’d shot him down earlier,
but he was grateful that she’d changed her mind.

He’d thought that early morning trip to the grocery store would clear the air between
them, would get them back on an even-keel. And maybe it had, since she was no longer
looking at him with that undisguised longing in her eyes. No longer staring at him
like she was imagining him naked and inside her.

He’d thought that was what he wanted. For things to go back to normal between them—Jared’s
best friend and Jared’s little sister, just hanging out, having fun. But it turned
out he was a sick son of a bitch, because now that things were the way he’d been sure
he wanted them, he couldn’t stand it.

All he could think about was the way Jamison smelled and tasted and felt. The way
she’d melted when he touched her, and run like warm, sweet honey on his fingers. He
wanted to taste that honey, to feel it on his lips, his tongue, running down his throat.

He wanted
her
, was one step away from saying to hell with Jared, their pasts and their futures,
and just taking what he wanted. What he needed.

“Careless” drew to an end to loud screams and catcalls. Bras and panties—and even
a few T-shirts—pelted the stage. He dodged a bright red lacey number only to get beaned
right in the face with a hot pink and white polka dotted bra.

The crowd roared. Knowing they expected it, he hammed it up. Peeled the bra off his
face and sniffed it with a totally lascivious look on his face. It smelled good—like
vanilla and sugar—but it did nothing for him anymore. He much preferred Jamison’s
honeyed peach scent. He couldn’t help wondering what kind of bra she was wearing tonight,
even as he called out, “Mmmm, delicious. The owner of this can definitely pick it
up in my dressing room after the show.”

Choruses of “I love you, Ryder!” rose up from the audience. He grinned at them, got
them to make some noise. Even played along when Micah slipped the bra out of his hand
and hung it around the neck of his bass.

“Actually,” he told the already hyped-up audience, “I think this bra—and its owner—is
all mine tonight. I’ve got a thing for hot pink.”

More laughter and catcalls. Ryder went with it, giving Micah shit and the crowd a
show they wouldn’t soon forget. Bantering back and forth with Jared, Quinn, even Wyatt
until the crowd was at a fever pitch.

All the while he was conscious of Jamison’s gaze on him. He didn’t know where she
was—only that she wasn’t backstage—but he knew she was watching. The hardness in his
dick told him that, as did the fact that he felt seconds away from jumping out of
his own skin. Every second of feeling her eyes was an agony, every moment of not touching
excruciating. If he didn’t calm down he was going to come right here in the middle
of the stage—and that was an experience he would really rather do without.

But six days of no sex—pretty much the longest he’d gone since he was a teenager—following
those very sexy moments with Jamison in his hotel room, had him riding the razor-sharp
edge of sexual need and frustration. And when he crouched down near the front of the
stage, reaching out a hand so some of his fans could grab or high five or just touch
him, that need tipped over into insanity.

Because Jamison was there, pressed up against the stage. She was watching him with
those crazy purple eyes of hers, her skin flushed a lickable pink and her full lips
slicked with raspberry gloss the same color as the gorgeous little nipples he’d gotten
a glimpse of in that San Diego hotel room. Guys were all around her, touching her,
bumping into her as they tried to get to him, looking at her because he was. And because
she was so damn, heartbreakingly beautiful.