Only for the Night (If Only Book 2) (3 page)

“Stay,” Hank told him. He stepped out into the cool predawn air, closed the door, and rounded the truck. Knight waited on the passenger’s side, his amber eyes fixed on Hank through the window. While Hank had stayed awake for the past five hours, Knight had slept, and now danced in the seat with impatience.

Hank had been driving too long to do any dancing.

He grinned through the door at Knight. “Did you need something, boy?”

Knight threw his head up as if rolling his eyes, ending with a haughty sneeze.

“Got it.” He opened the door. “Out you go.”

Knight jumped from the Jeep, his long legs shooting him clear of the door in one easy leap. The next second he was nothing but a black streak heading toward the field out back. Hank lost sight of him as he blended in with the darkness beyond the staircase leading up to Hank’s apartment.

Stretching his own legs sounded great, but bed sounded better. He grabbed his suitcase and his performance bass from the backseat, locked the Jeep, then headed up the stairs. Every creak of the wood beneath his feet declared a chorus of welcome homes in his tired ears.

Four steps up, his phone rang—Vincent’s ringtone. Cursing his best friend under his breath, he stopped long enough to retrieve the cell from his back pocket. “Didn’t I just see you a few hours ago?”

“Is that a rhetorical question? Because if it isn’t, you’re way too tired to still be driving,” V. said.

He was too damn tired for twisted logic too, but instead of arguing the point, he shot back, “You’re supposed to be headed to Las Vegas.” V.’s sister, Kennedy, had invited him for the weekend. Since the band’s tour ended in Phoenix, a short flight from Vegas, V. had decided to take her up on it. Hank envied his friend being able to avoid the five-hour drive back home. Hell, he envied V. the close relationship he had with his sister. Hank had the band and a dog for family—not that he’d trade Knight for family. Family had never shown the kind of loyalty the shepherd had.

“Yeah, well…” V. sighed into the phone. “I was up early to pack and get to the airport. Unfortunately I wasn’t the only one up early. Chad was too.”

Dread rose to the back of Hank’s throat. “What’s he done now?”

The strain developing between the members of Weekend Washout had been on the upswing for the past few months, alongside Chad’s increasingly diva attitude. Yes, they were finally enjoying solid success as a rock band despite being indie, but they couldn’t afford to rest on their laurels if they wanted to keep their place in the public eye.

Their lead singer, Chad, seemed to have decided that work was something other people did for him.

“Gone to Europe.”

The toe of Hank’s boot caught on the edge of the next step. He staggered, his brain stuck on V.’s words. “What, for a vacation?” They’d agreed to three weeks off before they started studio time for the next album. Surely that was what—

“Try indefinitely.”

Hank cursed long and hard, the words slapping the air in rhythm with his boots as he stomped up the stairs. Knight darted by him, glancing up as a particularly loud “fuck” escaped. “What happened?”

Rustling came through the phone, then the sound of wheels turning. V. dragging his suitcase behind him; Hank had heard that sound often enough on tour for it to be familiar. “There was a text on my phone this morning. Seems Ron convinced him we were big ol’ meanies for not giving him the break he
deserved
”—V.’s sarcasm twisted the word almost beyond recognition—“so Chad decided to take one anyway. A long one. Says he’ll let us know when he feels rested enough to work again. Until then he won’t be ‘taking calls.’”

The anger in Hank’s chest built just as it did in V.’s voice, but it was the impotent position Chad had put them all in that brought him to a halt on the stair landing. They had no way of forcing Chad back to the US, though when the prick did show up, Hank planned to strangle him. Slowly. Right after he did the same to Chad’s boyfriend. Just thinking about it had him gripping the rail so hard it threatened to splinter apart.

Chad had only been dating the troublemaker for six months, but the contributions Ron had made to the tension among the members of Weekend Washout had started immediately. Without the prick, they’d have smoothed things over with Chad far before this. Now there was nothing to smooth over except letting Chad go.

The righteous anger inflating Hank’s lungs dissipated. They’d worked so hard to get here; was this the end?

V. was apparently stuck back in the anger stage. The sound of something hitting an obstacle, then gradually receding knocks came through the phone. V. throwing his suitcase?

“Don’t damage your stuff, V. Not over him. It’s not worth it.”

A strangled groan of frustration answered him, then, “Damn it!”

Hank echoed the statement on a sigh. Three weeks. In the music industry it didn’t take much to be forgotten. If they put off studio time, there was no telling when they could get it rescheduled—a month, four, six. That put off the production timeline, release, promo… All the hard work they’d put into writing and development, all of V.’s new management efforts, all meaningless if they lost their window of opportunity. This could derail the next release for a long time.

Which was the reason they’d explained to Chad—more than once—why a vacation was impossible right now. A few days off, yes. A months-long trip to Europe? Hell no.

“Did you contact Drew?” Hank asked. Their guitarist needed to know what was going on.

“Not yet. He’ll be in Alaska in a few hours; I’ll call him this evening with the news. Hate to ruin his family time, but…”

Yeah,
but
.

“I can’t believe he’d do this.” Yes, Chad was fickle, but he was also a great front man. He knew how much the next few months mattered to the band. Didn’t he?

“That’s the power of the dick, apparently,” V. muttered. “Christ, Hank, he essentially laid us off, put the band on hiatus, via
text
.”

Knight reappeared at the bend of the stairs, his bright amber eyes questioning Hank’s delay. The look got Hank’s feet moving up the second flight of steps even as his mind raced to find alternatives to V.’s statement.

Knight danced before the apartment door, whining, anxious to get in. Hank dropped his bags on the deck and retrieved his keys from the pocket of his jeans.

“We’re fucked,” V. said, voice dragging with fatigue. He’d been working hard to get the band bigger and better venues, to get and keep their name out there. The latest single from their album had hit the top ten its first week of radio play. And now their horny lead singer threatened to bring it all tumbling down.

Opening the screen door, he said, “Maybe not.”

“And how are we supposed to avoid it?” V. shot back.

Hank turned the lock and opened the apartment door. Knight shot through the gap as soon as it was wide enough to admit his big body, his barks picking up as he disappeared inside. Hank shook his head at the dog’s antics and turned back to retrieve his bags. “What about an acoustic tour?”

The idea had merit. It might get them interim exposure until they could decide what to do about Chad.

“Without Chad?” V. asked. “People will expect the whole band.”

“Well, we could—”

From deep inside the apartment, a distinctly feminine scream split the air, cutting Hank off. Before he could do more than think
what the hell?
he heard fabric tearing, and then a bark from Knight. His hand went automatically to his hip, searching for his weapon, before he remembered he didn’t carry anymore.

“What was that?” V. asked.

With a hasty “Don’t know; I’ll call you back,” Hank hung up on the run. “Knight?” he called.

“Stop!”

Definitely female. The open space of the combination living room and kitchen was dark, the only light muffled behind curtained windows and, at the far end where a hall led to the bedrooms, a bright glow. But no Knight.
Hallway it is, then.

The rush across the room seemed to take forever, each step punctuated by yips and growls and a woman’s arguing voice. “Knight?” Hank yelled a little louder as he reached the corner by the fridge. A deep breath, then he shot a quick searching glance into the hall.

What he saw had him gaping in shock. “What—”

There was a woman in his apartment. He’d guessed that much from the voice, though he still didn’t understand it. What he couldn’t have guessed was that the woman was mostly naked, standing in the hall wrapped in a flimsy towel that Knight seemed to think was a play toy. A torn piece of white material lay on the ground, and the dog had one corner gripped between his jaws. A game of tug-of-war had commenced that threatened to unveil what the woman had, for the moment, covered. Taking in the picture, the tension in Hank’s gut released. He stepped into the hall to lean against the doorjamb, unsure how to react.

Or who would win, for that matter. Hank had his money on Knight, and considering the woman in question, whoever she was, he felt pretty sure he’d be happy about the outcome.

She was slender. Wet streaks highlighted her bare legs, the muscles sleek and strong as she fought Knight’s pull. The towel covered her from midthigh to armpits, unfortunately, but he could tell the middle of her body matched her legs and the top third of her. Damp brown hair tangled itself around her shoulders and down her back, falling forward to hide her face. The line of her collarbone cut across slim shoulders, bringing attention to the creamy expanse of her skin, dusted here and there with a sprinkling of cinnamon-colored freckles. Hands clutched the towel closed over generous breasts, but just barely. Much more pulling and he wouldn’t have to imagine what she was hiding. His mouth watered at the thought.

“Let go, dog!”

A latent sense of chivalry kicked in. Much as he might like the view, he couldn’t let his dog harass…who was she, anyway, and why was she in his apartment?

He crossed his feet at the ankles, content to let Knight do the job of policing their home while he followed up with the interrogation. Pushing a gruff note into his voice, he barked, “Who the hell are you?”

The woman’s head snapped up. Hank’s breath got stuck somewhere behind his sternum as he met brilliant blue eyes. Angry blue eyes that almost eclipsed the pixie face staring back at him.

“Who are
you
?” Her voice was low, as angry as her eyes despite the uncertainty that rasped through her words. She wasn’t backing down, that was for sure. Her bravado sent a tingle through his belly—and lower. That old urge, to hunt, to conquer, rose with other parts of his anatomy.

Dangerous.
Wrong.

Hank fought it down, breathed through it, but before he found the control to answer, Knight decided he wanted to play some more. He jerked at the towel. The material slipped lower, forcing the woman to tighten her grip or lose the covering altogether. The adjustment pushed the rounded globe of her breast higher. How much farther before he could see her nipple?

He shook his head. Why was he thinking about breasts when there was a strange woman in his home? He dug his fists into his pockets, hoping to obscure the unexpected effect she was having on him. “Since this is my apartment, I think my question comes first.”

Confusion filtered across those lovely features. The woman stepped back, only to be brought up short by Knight’s unyielding grip. “You’re Hank?”

Knight wanted to continue the game. He growled, giving the towel a hard shake like he’d nabbed a rabbit by the neck instead of a length of terry cloth. The move yanked the woman forward. She stumbled, panic sparking in her eyes. “Aren’t you going to call him off?”

“Why?” he asked, barely managing to hold back his laughter. After a long, boring night driving and the news he’d just been hit with, he had to admit he was enjoying this little surprise. Knight was playing; Hank knew it even if the woman hadn’t figured it out yet, and he couldn’t resist playing with her a bit himself. “We have an intruder. He’s just doing his job.”

She shook her head wildly. “I’m not an intruder. I live here.” She pulled on the towel. Knight dug in his paws, not giving an inch. “I—”

Knight faked her out with a sudden lunge forward. The woman stumbled back, trying to avoid what looked like an attack. Knight took advantage and snatched the fabric out of her hands. Away from her body.

Hank’s dick went tighter than his bass strings.

He had no more than a half count to imprint the sight in his mind. It was all he needed. Full, round, high breasts with tender pink nipples drawn up tight. A smooth expanse of stomach begging to be explored, with just the right amount of inward curve at her waist to give him a place to grip. Hips wide enough to cradle him perfectly against the sparse patch of dark hair between her legs. Christ, she looked sweet, sweet enough to eat.

And mortified.

A bright red blush flared across her cheeks. The woman slapped a hand across her breasts, obscuring his view, and then, quick as the rabbit Knight had pretended to play with, she whirled away. He got an all too brief glimpse of her ass as she fled down the hall, the bounce of the perfect globes sending a second slam of blood to his already full erection. The crash of the guest bedroom door echoed around him as he hunched against the pain with a rough—very rough—laugh.