Manhandled: A Rockstar Romantic Comedy (Hammered Book 2) (8 page)

T
he drive home was silent
. Partly because my heart had been lodged in my throat for the first ten minutes of the drive. Defensive Driving 101 with your instructor, Quinn Alexander.

Holy crap.

He weaved in and out of traffic and on and off ramps on the highway until we ended up on a back road that I didn’t even know about and I’d lived in the Silver Lake area of LA for the last five years.

We pulled into my driveway, only this time instead of parking there, he opened the garage and pulled in. Evidently my time with the outside air was over.

My fingers were sore from clutching my cup the entire ride home. The contents were stone cold, and I was exhausted. I should be climbing the rafters with sugar and caffeine, but all I could think about was my couch.

I’d enjoyed the interaction with the fans, and having the sound of life around me for a few hours, but I’d also been on guard the entire time. I didn’t like that feeling.

Even when we’d had our first taste of fame, I hadn’t been so unnerved in public. I’d lived for it—off of it. I juiced myself on the dynamic of strangers and people who loved our music.

Now, all I could imagine was turning around to see
her
. The faceless woman who looked so much like me that I couldn’t differentiate us.

I jumped when Quinn opened the door.

“You all right?”

“Fine,” I said and pushed by him to go into the mudroom from the garage. I pulled my headphones out of my purse as we walked through the hallway to the dining room. I pushed the earbuds into my ears and found my sleep playlist.

It didn’t matter that it was barely two in the afternoon.

I wanted to check out.

I didn’t want to think about the woman who’d forced Quinn Alexander into my life. I didn’t want to think about anything.

I went straight for the stairs, ignoring Quinn calling for me. I didn’t have it in me to spar with him right now. I was afraid that I’d actually do something stupid like scream at him until I was crying.

And I didn’t want him to see me like that.

See the weakness that I hated.

I stripped out of my clothes and tugged on boxers and a sleep tank. Then I crawled into bed and zoned out.

I don’t know how long I slept, but the sun had set when I rolled over the first time.

“Faith.”

“Go away, Warden.”

“You haven’t eaten today.”

“I don’t care.” I flipped the pillow over my head. Maybe I could sleep the rest of the time before the tour started.

It was better than being bored.

So much better than fighting the weird pull I had when Quinn was in my space. It had to be annoyance.

I’d never really actively disliked anyone. Okay, that wasn’t completely right. I’d really hated Hunter’s first fiancée, but I didn’t have to live with her. I had to see Quinn all the time.

And I was tired. My phone had died long ago, but I went under the blissful wave of sleep again before the silence got to me.

The sun was shining into my room when I got the next dose of rudus interruptus.

He opened the door this time.

“Enough of this crap, Faith.”

I rolled over onto my belly. “What do you care? I’m quiet, right? No music, no games, no TV.” My voice was slightly slurred from the mattress conforming to my cheek.

“And it’s been glorious. Now it’s time for you to get up.”

“Are we going somewhere?”

“No.”

“Then, sleep. All of the sleeping.”

He snatched my sheet and blanket off the bed. I was pretty sure my boxers had twisted sometime in the night and I was probably flashing him half a cheek, but I couldn’t find it in me to care.

He yanked me by the ankle and I kicked out.

“Dammit, Warden. Can’t I enjoy some solitary?”

He flipped me over. His eyes were bloodshot and there were dark bruises at the corners of his eyes. “You’ve had enough solitary.”

“What’s the big deal? So I slept a day away.”

“Two.”

“What?” I licked my lips and cringed. God, I was thirsty.

“Two days, Faith. I tried to come in yesterday, but you wouldn’t move. You’re moving now. I’m not going to let you get sick because you’re throwing a temper tantrum.”

“Oh, you haven’t seen one of those.”

He dragged me to the edge of the bed and tucked his shoulder into my middle.

“What the hell are—” I yelped as he tossed me over his shoulder. “Quinn!” He didn’t stop, even when I kicked my feet and I fell a precarious two inches. He banded his arm across the backs of my thighs and opened the shower stall door.

He turned the water on cold and stepped in with me. I pounded on his back and shoulders, my ankle smacking into the tile before he finally let me down.

“What is wrong with you?”

“Time to snap out of it.” He looked down at me, his eyelashes starred with water, and his super short hair falling forward from the deluge from the rain hood in my shower.

I grit my teeth against the shock of the cold and shivered. “I hate you.”

“I know.” He slowly turned the taps until it was warm water flowing over us. “I know this sucks. I know you’re miserable and feeling out of control.”

I crossed my arms over my chest, finally awake and with it enough to realize just how thin my shirt was.

He pushed my hair out of my face and cupped my head. “Hiding isn’t going to work. But you know what will?”

My nipples tightened under my arms and I couldn’t stop the shivers. Not because of the cold. I just couldn’t have him this close to me. I couldn’t deal with this on top of everything else.

I looked down and that was so much worse.

He was wearing workout shorts and a T-shirt. Both of them molded to his body in ways that I really didn’t want to see. Because they were going to burn themselves on my retinas.

God.

I shut my eyes and fisted my hands, but it was too late. The outline of his abdominal muscles, the bulge under his shorts was still there behind my eyelids. I opened my eyes again because I was a masochist and the bulge was definitely different.

A ridge formed against his upper thigh.

Danger.

My internal jukebox went on alert and “End of Me” started playing at full volume. The curse of my world being music meant that songs embedded themselves into my DNA whether I wanted to deal with them or not.

Why did it have to be him?

I looked up at him. Anything not to notice that bulge that made my mouth water and my fingers itch. He seemed to be waiting for me to answer a question.

Had he asked one?

“What?” I asked and hoped it would cover me.

“I’m going to keep you safe. I promise.”

“That’s what you think this is about?”

He pressed his lips together and finally seemed to notice we were way too close. He tried to take a step back, but I gripped his shirt. “Faith,” he said on a voice that was so low that it was almost indiscernible with the beating water.

“I hate this. I hate having you control every move in my life, but I don’t have any doubt you can protect me, Quinn.”

He looked down, his hands slipping away from my hair.

I pushed him back into the tile and his eyes locked with mine again. “My problem is distrusting everyone. I don’t like that feeling. I don’t like that there are so many holes in my memory that I can’t trust my own judgment right now.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“It’s not something you can control and fix.” He clenched his jaw and that little muscle jumped again. The urge to climb up and flick my tongue over that distracting spot was new. I wasn’t sure I liked it. In fact, it was about as confusing as the rest of my life right now.

His heart was slamming under my hand and he kept looking at my mouth.

Oh God. The song was so damn loud again.

He was so wrong for me. The timing for this was absolute crap.

His hands were fisted against the tile, and every muscle was flexed. So intense. I wanted to taste him. To see what all that repression tasted like. Would it be as sinful as I imagined?

He lifted his chin and looked away from me.

I sighed and took a step back. “It’s a shitty situation that I have to deal with. I’m sorry I scared you.”

“You pissed me off.”

I felt the smile coming, and valiantly tried to beat it back. “Right. Pissed you off. Got it.”

He slicked back his hair and his blue eyes blazed. “Be downstairs in ten minutes. You’re eating, and drinking a fucking gallon of water.”

“Yes, Warden.”

He swung the door open and snapped a towel off the rack before his wet feet slapped their way out of my bathroom. I wiggled out of my wet clothes and tried like hell to ignore my aching breasts.

And I sure as hell didn’t have an ache way lower.

Nope.

Hell no.

I tipped my head up to the stream of water. Maybe that would drown out the “liar, liar, pants on fire” refrain lighting up my internal jukebox like it was a Vegas slot machine.

I
methodically chopped
tomatoes for the salad. My cock was still as hard as the handle of the chef’s knife, but at least my jaw had unlocked.

What the hell had I been thinking, dragging her into that shower?

I hadn’t been thinking, that was the problem.

All I could think about was budging her out of that comatose state. I never would have pegged her as the hide-under-the-covers type, but then again, I was wrong more than I was right when it came to this woman.

She laughed when I was sure she was going to cry, she screamed at me despite the fact that I outweighed her by at least a hundred pounds and had tactical training. She didn’t respect a damn thing about my job or the fact that I was working overtime to keep her safe.

And I wanted to lift her against the nearest flat surface and fuck her until I was blind. Until her screams ended in groans, and I could breathe around the ball of insanity living in my chest.

Not good.

For the first time since this hellish job started, I couldn’t wait for her tour to start. At least then we’d both be busy dealing with her schedule. Between practices, soundchecks, and promotional interviews, she’d be out of my hair.

So I couldn’t pull hers.

I slammed the side of my fist against the marble countertop.

Christ, pull it together, man.

I’d had this whole chemistry thing under control until I’d gotten her wet. Fuck. My life had become the second circle of hell. Lust sitting on my shoulders with no outlet.

Rule one—don’t fuck the client.

It was a fairly simple rule, and one that I’d never had trouble following. I may not like the Hollywood-esque jobs, but I’d been assigned to a few over the years. I’d even had to babysit a nymphomaniac actress when I was first out of the Rangers.

I hadn’t been even slightly interested.

This woman had to be the one to test all of my resolves. This woman who brought men to their knees without even trying. And not because she even meant to. I’d watched Noah around her that first night. He may have said their relationship was similar to brother and sister, but there was a fierce protectiveness that could have slipped into romance with the smallest provocation.

The other night with Owen…again, the friendship role, but I could see the glints of interest in the other man’s eyes. If she had given him the green light, he’d have been all over her.

Both men respected the fact that she wasn’t interested, but men didn’t look at the friend zone in the same way as women. It was generally a clear and simple line that could be walked over. If you liked a woman enough to be friends, there was very little needed to change it into a romance unless there was absolutely no chemistry involved.

Hell, two of my lovers in my twenties had started as friends.

Mutual careers and my status as a Ranger had killed the relationships, instead of real problems with the women. But then again, I hadn’t been so far gone about anyone that I’d tried to make it work either.

But none of that mattered.

Because the line in front of Faith was more like a tripwire. And I’d be the one getting a limb blown off—and not the fun way.

“Smells awesome. I could eat a cow.”

I looked up from my cutting board and had to swallow a groan. Had to be the white cutoffs. Second circle of hell making sure that I was going to be tortured with the never-ending hard-on today.

I pulled my Henley down over my zipper and prayed for divine intervention.

“How about a chicken?”

“I suppose a chicken would do.”

“Good. I made buffalo grilled chicken, cheese rolls and a salad.”

“Wow, you really were worried about me. Cheese? Doesn’t that increase cholesterol?”

“Just take the basket to the table.”

She peeked under the napkin and made this low groan that was the sole reason I would have my zipper imprint on the underside of my dick.

I followed her with the chicken, salad, and her preferred dressing tucked under my arm.

She took two of the largest pieces of chicken and attacked them with an appetite that would do an inmate proud. “I’d marry you for the cheese bread alone.”

“Good to know.”

“I’m a simple girl, with simple needs.” She finished off her large glass of water and took her glass to the kitchen. I expected her to come back with a glass of soda, but she surprised me with another glass of water.

I doubted that my healthier eating was actually rubbing off on her, but at least she was being smart and rehydrating. Instead of discussing the shower incident, she was scrolling through her phone and texting between bites.

I was happy with the silence. We ate, and during cleanup she piped one of her crazy playlists through the speakers. She wiggled her hips as she scrubbed the grill pan I’d used.

The song flipped over to another full of brass and a happy beat. Through the chorus, she bumped her hip against mine. Her throaty voice purred out the lyrics about modern love.

She swung around until we were back to back, her hips still moving. I couldn’t help but laugh down at her. She grabbed the bottle brush and used it as a microphone. She spun the pan in her other hand and set it into the drying rack.

After a low dip, she came up and kicked the dishwasher door closed. She threw the brush back into the sink. I reached in to put it on the drying hook, but she grabbed my soapy hand and dragged me into a box step.

Delighted when I could keep time with the music, she laughed and wrapped her arms around my neck. The lyrics spoke of modern love not being good enough, that you needed connection.

My hips followed hers regardless of the stern lecture I’d given myself earlier. The next song was equally jumpy. I recognized this singer’s voice. It was the same song that she’d played on the piano.

She had some questionable taste in music, but I found myself humming along to this guy more than once.

“You like Frank?”

“Who?”

She dropped her forehead against my arm. “You kill me. Do you never listen to music?”

I shrugged. “Not a lot of time for it in my line of work, remember?”

“Music is elemental. Frank Turner—this guy,” she pointed to the air, “is a genius. He writes sad songs, happy songs, drunk songs, recovery songs—all of the biggest emotions.”

“So, you like him?”

“Little bit.”

I twisted my fingers into the belt loops of her shorts as the next song slowed. We swayed slightly. I didn’t know exactly what we were doing, but I didn’t have it in me to push her away just yet.

Dancing was sex with your clothes on. And the closest I was going to get to touching this woman. So, I let myself dance to the sultry croon of the song. She rested her cheek against my arm.

I let the music in, I let the softness of her skin in, and the summer scent of her seeped inside my chest. The song was full of sad guitars and a slow beat that spoke about a man’s regrets.

I needed to pull away from her, but I couldn’t.

It wasn’t the whiskey that was killing me either. The singer of the song had it more than correct on so many levels. It was a woman.

It was Faith.

When she turned her face into my neck, I couldn’t swallow the groan this time. Her fingers slipped through the short hairs at the nape of my neck. “Faith.”

“Don’t put on your warden voice yet.” She brushed her nose along my breastbone, her breath warm on my skin. “I’m just borrowing you for a moment. I need to hold on to someone.”

And I was good enough for that.

The silky softness of her skin above her cutoffs burned my fingertips. Want strangled me like a noose, but I’d be her stand-in for now.

Because I couldn’t walk away yet.

We danced like that for another two songs before she slowly dropped her arms. She rested her hand on my chest, her eyes a little sad. “Thanks.”

I nodded.

“I think I’m going to go upstairs and write for a bit. I haven’t been able to since the…” She trailed off. “Well, you know. There’s a logjam in my head. I need to get it out.”

I understood that tenfold.

“Sure. I’ve got some reports to look over.”

“Okay. Night, Warden.”

“Goodnight, Faith.”

She scooped her phone off the kitchen island and went upstairs without looking back once.

I gripped the edge of the island and wished I was a different man for one moment. A man who would chase her upstairs and show her that I wasn’t just a stand-in. That I could hold her, touch her, and hopefully make those sad eyes happy for at least a moment in time.

I swore and headed into the office.

Work. I needed work to center me again.

Hours later, I surfaced from the pages of data I’d gotten back from Aidan. There were a number of questionable people in Patrick’s red file, but no one that fit the criteria of Faith’s attacker.

I didn’t have much to go on for a profile, but none of them felt right. I’d learned to trust my gut as much as the black-and-white files in this line of work. My gut had saved my ass, and my clients’ asses, more than once.

I closed my laptop, then checked the lights and locks as I always did before going to bed. She actually had a decent security set-up, but it would be stronger once the Carson glass was installed while we were on tour.

Faith’s room was quiet, though I did hear her humming as she moved around. It was an oddly comforting sound. I’d lived in silence for so long, it was an adjustment to be living with someone who couldn’t bear the idea of it.

I took another shower, hoping the hot water would blast out the kinks in my shoulders and neck. I rested my forehead against the tile as she played her piano. The tones were sad and haunting, her voice almost hesitant.

I couldn’t make out the lyrics, but I didn’t need them.

I braced my arm over my head and willed my dick to behave. I twisted the tap to cold. I was tired of being a slave to the misdirected blood flow, for fuck’s sake.

Through gritted teeth, I finished the shower and dragged on a pair of boxer briefs. Normally I wore workout shorts and a shirt to bed in case I needed to be ready to move, but all the fight was sucked out of me tonight.

Her voice chased me into dreams. My defenses were down, and memories of the wet heat of Georgia overlapped the night jasmine and lemon scent of her house.

Faith’s sad eyes morphed into Lissa’s.

And her voice became Lissa’s screams.

The pervasive acrid tang under the humidity. Sulfur burning my nostrils, soot clogging my lungs as I crawled to her. The searing pain of the rebar piercing my shoulder. Pinning me to the floor, Lissa just out of reach.

Her silence.

My forever screams.