Hung Out: A Needles and Pins Rock Romance (22 page)

“What will I say?” He rumbled, and what suspiciously felt like a brush of his fingers feathered across my hip.

I was in dangerous waters and I knew it. Saying what I thought he would say would cross in my mind enough to feel like I was saying it. Because God knew, that’s what I wanted to say.

“Kiss me.” Obviously, tired of waiting for me to find my tongue to speak, he whispered the invitation of my tongue for other things.

I’d heard the plea in that tone so many times; my body went on autopilot. My lips dipped toward the dark void of his voice, before I stopped myself. “I can’t.” I technically still had a boyfriend. Although, I knew now, Logan had never been a boyfriend. He’d been my safety net. He’d been a way to ensure no other man got close. And he’d been a way to ensure I wouldn’t jump Gage during this tour.

“Then go. Go, Scar. Before
I
kiss
you
.” The threat was clear. If he kissed me, he’d roll me over and never stop.

I skedaddled to my bunk. Lying prone, I threw an arm over my eyes and tried to still my hyperactive breathing. The steady flash of my phone light was making me crazy. During a phone call only a few days into the tour, I’d called a truce with my mom who now texted several times a day over nonsensical stuff. Assuming the annoying blink was due to Henni, ranting because takeout hadn’t put her dressing on the side or something silly, I picked up the device with the intention of clearing the notifications without looking, but one stood out.

A text with an attachment from my ex-stepfather.

Sliding open Gage’s text window, I tapped in, ‘I think your father sent the fax.’ Only after I’d hit send did I realize I’d automatically turned to Gage. Given the intensity of the last several minutes, I wouldn’t blame him if he ignored me. Or, he might have thrown headphones on to jam to sleep. I was already making excuses for his non-response when my phone vibrated with his answer.

I stared so intently at the screen, waiting for the phone to vibrate my fingers that I jumped when my curtain drew back.

Gage’s face was level with mine, and his tone was gentle, yet no nonsense. “Open it.”

Obediently, I tapped the paperclip icon and watched the document fill the tiny screen. Instead of swiping with my thumb and forefinger to enlarge the top section enough to read it, I looked over at him. That was a mistake, because he was right there. Close enough for that kiss I’d refused minutes ago. Even in my nervousness over something that could change my life, I was thinking about kissing him. Not good. Damn rock stars.

Shoving the phone between our faces, I begged. “Can you look at it first?”

“Look at it, or read it?” He seemed wary, but accepted the handoff.

“Read it silently. And then I’ll read it.”

His brows rose even more skeptically. “Okay. But I don’t get why you want me to know first.”

“Because I can watch your face and know if it’s good or bad. And I’ll be prepared.” Feeling vulnerable on my back, I scooted back enough to turn and prop on one elbow.

His eyes focused on the screen, and I scrutinized his expression as the light bounced off his features. Not one twitch. The lashes, too sinfully long for a guy, rose, and his look met mine. No tightening of his lips. No slight furrow of his brow. No hand lifting to his hair. My breath expelled in one long relieved huff, and I put out my hand. “Thanks.”

For a nanosecond, I read in his eyes the understanding that we knew one another well enough for me to glean what I’d wanted to know.

Dear Ms. Conterra,

Your father, Tyler Conterra, requested a paternity test prior to the drawing up of his will. The dates of that test and the results are in the photocopy below. The concluding column indicates a 99.999999% chance of paternity. The only thing that could be weighed against that outcome would be the possibility of an identical twin as paternity. Tyler Conterra has no sibling on record.

Letting my hand fall to the mattress, I turned my chin and met Gage’s eyes. Reaching in, he brushed my hair from my face and leaned in enough to touch his lips to my forehead. “Get some sleep. Maybe we can get in some breakfast and a couple hours of sightseeing after we get checked into the hotel in the morning.”

“What’s goin’ on here?” Landon bellowed. His eyes were bloodshot with fatigue—or had he been drinking? My gaze fixated on his face, noting the pink tint of a slight sunburn. Maybe the sun was the culprit for the red eyes as well. “Should I get my camera?” Startled by his bold and rude insinuation, I hit my head when I reflexively tried to sit. Quick as a cat, Gage swung around and just missed the other man. The bathroom door slammed, and from beyond it Landon goaded, “Don’t start anything until I’m filming!”

Gage’s fist hit the door—twice! But I watched impressed when he pushed away from the lavatory without a word. The grit of his teeth told me his temper was hanging by a thin thread.

I saw him flex his fingers and shook my head. “He’s an idiot. Leave him be.” Hopping down, I eased between him and the door and then onto the kitchen. The other two had appeared from the back and watched avidly as I opened the fridge, grabbed two of the ice tea drinks Gage and I had recently become addicted to and passed him one. “Let’s grab the couch and finish the movie.”

I fell asleep less than twenty minutes into the flick with my head on Gage’s shoulder—a picture which received five hundred and forty hearts on Instagram by the time Gage saw it the next day.

Landon’s phone disappeared not long afterward and later turned up during the pumping of the buses toilet.

Truthfully, things had been simmering between him and Gage a very long time. But the moment a smartphone stained blue was returned to Landon in a Ziploc bag could be considered the catalyst for everything down the line.

S
he was killing him. Straight up killing him. He should look away. But the slight peek of an ass cheek with each stair she climbed was too much to resist. Cut off jeaned shorts and black undies. A black bra strap and a lickable shoulder were left visible by the wide necked shirt that slipped to one side.

Only when his dick was past any comfortable hard stage and into a painful hard-on did he avert his gaze to the runway beyond the commercial airliner they were boarding.

For the last few days, he’d fallen back into big brother mode. He teased her. Pulled her hair. Enjoyed whatever part of herself she’d give him. But that didn’t mean at night he didn’t lay in his bunk staring up at hers, or in his motel room knowing her headboard was on the other side of the wall from his, wishing for things the way they had been for a couple of blissful months.

Maneuvering the narrow aisle, he watched the others who had all boarded ahead of him, curious to see the seating arrangement. Scarlette lingered, waiting on Landon to stow his bag in the overhead. When his carryon was tucked in, he turned to her, offering his hand. She handed hers over and then followed him into the seats beneath it. Landon folded into the window seat, and she sank to the middle one.

Flipping his printout over, Gage checked and wasn’t sure whether to be happy or frustrated to find himself seated on the aisle side of Scar. Reaching up, he smashed his bag in with the others, and returned her smile when he sat next to her. She looked tiny sandwiched between the two of them. Already Landon was commandeering her attention with some stupid story about a Rattler show in the rain.

“Scar? You look uncomfortable between us.” For emphasis, Gage deliberately moved his leg from where it had relaxed to almost touching hers, and put his armrest down. “You want the aisle seat?”

Landon, the ass, shot a knowing look across Scar, landing it on his face. A look that said he wasn’t fooled by the ploy to get her on the other side and out of his reach. Not one to be bested, the shit broke in just as her lips parted to answer, “You can have the window. You’d be doing me a favor. I end up closing the shade anyhow because I hate to fly.”

“Well, if you’re sure…” She seemed excited when she eyed the window, and the trade was quickly made.

Gage restrained the urge to punch the other man when a smug smile smirked its way out. Lucky for Landon, he was smart enough to keep his eyes averted when gloating.

Flipping his shades from the top of his head to balance on his nose, he closed his eyes and concentrated on ignoring his seatmates. Ignoring Scar’s sweet giggles and Landon’s outrageous boasts.

The time zone difference was almost six hours. So while they’d boarded the plane in the states at noon for an eight-hour flight, it was almost two a.m. the next day when they touched down.

“I’m sure this has been covered, but trust me. It’s one of those better to be safe than sorry things.” Gage put aside his animosity when he, Scar, and their tour manager were watching the city of Budapest whip by from the windows of their ride. “We got step-down transformers for our gear?”

“You’re right. Stupid question.” Landon scoffed, and had the nerve to roll his eyes in a conspiratorial fashion toward Scarlette.

“I didn’t say it was a stupid question. I said it’s probably been checked, but it’s one of those things you should ask the techs. Everyone’s freaking tired, they put in long hours and―”

“They don’t need to be told how to do their job. Jeezus. You’re like a nagging wife.”

“Gage has a lot of experience.” Scarlette had her phone torn open, and she looked up from her task long enough to argue in his defense.

“So he constantly reminds everyone who’ll listen. If he was so damn good at what he did, he’d still be in his band.”

“Says the one who needs a babysitter to stay in his band!” Scarlette went off again.

Finally, their tour manager, who exercised his peacemaking abilities on a daily basis, looked up from whatever was keeping him busy on his phone. “It’s a fair question, actually. You wouldn’t believe the acts that have had a performance malfunction due to the wrong voltage hookup when they go overseas. But…” Here he nodded toward Gage. “Not to worry. It’s been done.”

Scarlette was back to what she was doing, and she expelled a frustrated grunt. Gage reached, and she plunked the phone into his hand. In less than a minute, he had her SIM card changed out to the international one he’d bought them and he snapped the case closed.

“Why’re you doing that?” Landon frowned.

“If your carrier actually works here, you’ll have roaming charges from hell unless you change out your card.”

“That so?” Crossing his arms defiantly, Landon looked to their tour manager, and when he received confirmation, he went off on the other man, suggesting he was incompetent for not making sure the rest of them had SIM cards.

“Dude. It’s in your tour packet. Try reading it. I work for the label, not as your PA.”

The car crossed a bridge, and from this vantage point, the festival ground was a colorful city. Scattered dots of lights grew thicker, massing at a middle point, which was logically the main stage.

Rattler was on the lineup as one of the earlier afternoon shows a little more than twelve hours from now. Gage supposed in the interest of getting a solid several hours of sleep, their accommodations were on site. The festival in Hungary was one of the most popular and attended of its type. A week long, it boasted some of the most sought after acts on the bill each evening, and all through the day, up and coming bands warmed up the stage.

They were booked at five festivals on foreign soil as well as almost a dozen smaller shows. Jax had sat them down pre-tour and had given them examples of many American bands who had achieved fame first away from North America before becoming a household name on their own soil.

The other guys in Rattler were excited simply to be on tour. He was the one with issues when it came to certain festivals in particular. This one, he’d headlined two years ago with Fire Flight. To play with the sun as his spotlight instead of colored par-cans felt almost humiliating—especially since Fire Flight and their new vocalist were headlining later in the week.

Landon was still bitching about the cell phone matter, but now attacking him, ironically for withholding his experience overseas. The others were in the car behind them, thankfully. Else, they would be siding with their drummer as usual.

He held any retorts, knowing he was minutes away from a much needed break from the rest of them—including Scar. It was too hard not to watch her all the time. He was losing sleep, inventing ways to keep her by his side when they were awake, and wishing she were asleep in his arms when she retired.

Unfortunately, instead of a quiet popup room to himself, as he’d had at the few festivals before where Fire Flight had onsite accommodations, he found himself in a double room with the man who was getting on his last nerve. Landon wasn’t any more pleased about the arrangement, but he was quicker on the draw. “I call bottom bunk.” And the drummer tossed his bag and backpack onto the roomier double bed.