Refrain (Soul Series Book 3) (3 page)

“Barely.” Rhyson pushes his irritation out in a puff of air. “Why can’t people leave us the hell alone and stay out of our business?”

“You shouldn’t be so fascinating.” I laugh and pull up one knee, resting my heel on the counter so I can examine my foot, slightly puffy and pink from the long day dancing in six-inch heels.

“Me?” His husky laugh skitters across my skin, and I imagine his breath on my neck. “Everyone left me alone until you showed up.”

We both know he was walking around disguised in moustaches long before me.

A burst of noise in the background intrudes from his end.

“What’s that?” I ask. “Where are you?”

“Some club. Hold on a sec.”

Some club?
I assumed he was safely tucked in for the night in his New York apartment at . . . I flip my phone around to check the time . . . one o’clock in the morning on the East Coast.

“This is the guys’ first time in New York,” Rhyson says. “They wanted to go out after the show. I’m back behind the club. The only quiet spot I could find.”

“Behind the club?” Now I’m nervous for a completely different reason. “Are you alone in some alley, Rhyson? Is that safe? Be careful.”

“Damn, Kai. I’m a little insulted. I
can
take care of myself, you know.”

“I know.” I still have to ask. “Where’s Gep?”

“Just inside the club. Not even a hundred feet away. I thought you might want me all to yourself for some quick phone sex?” There’s hope in his voice.

“In your dreams, buddy. You’re out at some club at one o’clock in the morning, and I’m holed up here at your house on the other side of the country. No phone sex for you.”

“Believe me. I’d rather be there with you.” Rhyson pauses before saying softly. “And it’s our house, not just mine.”

I don’t even try to fight the smile that floats up from my feet over every inch of me until it reaches my face.

“How’d the shoot go today?” he asks.

“Exhausting, but good.” I roll my head, stretching to reach the knotted muscles in my neck.

“How, um . . . was the choreographer?”

Not as good as Dub.

Cypher, Grip’s director, offered to use Dub since he knew we’d worked so well together in the past. Of course, that wasn’t an option. Rhyson would’ve flipped, so I left the choreographer to the director’s discretion.

“The choreographer’s fine.” I keep my voice even and hope he won’t pick at this scab.

“But you prefer Dub.” He says it, not asking the question.

“I
prefer
not arguing with you.” I blow some of my weariness from the day out in a long sigh. “If you’re asking if the choreographer is as good as Dub, then no, she’s not.”

“Ask me to compromise on something else, Kai.” Rhyson’s words come out terse. “But not this.”

“I haven’t asked you to compromise on this, and I won’t.”

I don’t let myself think about how good Dub and I were together. It’s a rare chemistry we have as dancer and choreographer. We’d even already brainstormed my first video incorporating a series of tunnels downtown for the routine. It wouldn’t be right for me to use it with someone else. It’s just as much his creation as mine. Probably more.

“If he could keep it professional, we wouldn’t be dealing with this,” Rhyson says. “But I know he can’t do that.”

“I agree.”

“You do?” The question comes with caution.

“I do. Dub showed his hand pretty clearly right before the last show. His interest went beyond professional, and I don’t want that anywhere near our relationship.”

“What does that mean?” Rhyson’s words plow across the line. “Showed his hand how?”

“It doesn’t matter now.” I chew on my lip, wishing I hadn’t even mentioned it because Rhyson will—

“Pep, showed his hand how?”

Persist.

“He just made a few comments before the last show that confirmed you were right about what he . . . um, wanted.”

“Wanted? From you? What did he say?”

“Just that—”

“All of it, Pep,” he demands.

“I don’t remember word for word, Rhys.”

“Okay, gimme the words you
do
remember.”

“This is irrelevant. You know I’m not working with him.”

“Exactly. So tell me what the hell he said.” Rhyson pauses before adding in a more civilized tone, “Please.”

“He just said that if you weren’t in the picture, he’d already be in my bed.”

“Even if we weren’t together, he wouldn’t have a shot. Not with no dick because I’d cut it off before I’d let him anywhere near you.”

So much for civilized.

“Castration seems a bit extreme.” I know he hears my grin because he finally laughs, the air loosening between us just a little.

“I’m sorry,” Rhyson finally says, his voice freed of the growl. “I just know he’s wanted you from the beginning, and even talking about him irritates the hell out of me.”

“Rhys, they’re ready,” Gep’s deep voice and the muted noise from inside the club reach me. My heart goes leaden. I know what’s next, and I’m not ready for it.

“I gotta go, babe.” Rhyson huffs a frustrated breath. “I’m not doing a great job babysitting these guys. They wanna check out this, um . . . other club tonight. It’s all they’ve been talking about.”

“Another club?” I know him too well not to detect the discomfort in his voice. “Which club?”

The silence between us grows viscous with his discomfort and my suspicion.

“It’s a club called Pirouette.”

Even I’ve heard of the exclusive ballet-themed, members-only strip club.

“I see.” I lay a slab of stone to cover the hurt in my voice and fake a yawn. “Well, I’m really tired and have this early call time for the last day of shooting tomorrow. So I—”

“I’m not staying,” he says quickly. “It’s a by-invitation-only kind of place, and I know the owner. He’s actually a good friend of mine.”

I hop off the counter, turn off the overhead lights and start up the rear kitchen staircase, dragging that ball of lead where my heart should be, getting heavier by the second, with me.

“You don’t have to explain.” I press my fingers to my temple, the thought of
my
Rhyson in some strip club with naked women willing to do just about anything for a night with him drives a stake through my head.

“I want to explain.” His next words are lower and not directed at me as if he’s turned his head. “I’m coming. Just gimme a damn minute. Pep, you still there?”

“Yep.” I pop the “p,” keeping my response as short as the rein I have on my temper. “I don’t want to hold you, though. They’re obviously . . . eager.”

“I’m not going there for me.”

“Oh, you sacrificial lamb,” I bite out, drizzling the words with sarcasm. “Poor Rhyson, held hostage in the strip club.”

“Kai, I promise you I’m getting the guys in and then going back to the apartment and jerking off to a picture of you in that black bikini.”

“I don’t care if you . . .” I process what he said, his words settling like tiny snowflakes and cooling my anger as they gradually sink in. “You’re what?”

“I’ve already jerked off three times today,” Rhyson says abruptly, drawing a labored breath from the other side of the country. “This morning in the shower. After lunch in the bathroom stall, and right before tonight’s show in the dressing room. My balls haven’t been this blue since I was fourteen, and it’s not because of some random tits in a fucking strip club. It’s because I haven’t been inside of you in over a week.”

“Rhyson, I—”

“So you can be angry that I’m dropping the guys off at Pirouette,” he continues. “Be irritated over nothing if you want. As long as you know that when I get home, wherever I find you is where I’m fucking you.”

And just like that, the besotted grin I still haven’t figured out how to squelch spreads over my face again.

“Sarita washed our sheets yesterday,” I whisper, stopping in the hall leading to our bedroom and sliding down the wall to sit on the floor. “I almost cried because the new ones didn’t smell like you.”

“You think that’s bad,” Rhyson says, a grin embedded in his fatigue-roughened voice. “I brought a pair of your panties with me to New York.”

“The red ones I left on the bathroom floor?” I laugh and stretch my legs out in front of me. “I spent ten minutes looking for those because I just knew I didn’t put them in the hamper. I didn’t know I had a stalker.”

“You can’t stalk what’s yours.” His voice dips and darkens, towing the conversation into deeper waters. “You’re mine, right?”

His words shorten my breath and tighten my nipples and wet the panties I’m wearing right now.

“You know I am.” It slips past my lips, a constricted wisp of words.

“I swear to you I’m not staying at Pirouette, babe,” he says softly, reminding me of the tension that has melted in the warmth of the last few moments. “I’m just getting the guys in and then going home.”

“Guys go to strip clubs all the time. It’s no big deal.”

It’s amazing how I find the inner rational and understanding girlfriend now that I know he’s leaving the guys at the club.

“I used to go there a lot,” he admits. “I haven’t been back since we met. I don’t need to see anyone else. Just you. There isn’t room for anything else, Pep. I can barely focus in these meetings thinking about you. Missing you.”

I close my eyes, my hips shifting with the memory of him between my legs, slamming into me, eyes imprisoning mine above me.

“I miss you so bad, Rhyson.” I press my lips against my teeth, trapping a needy moan inside my mouth. “It feels like it’s been months instead of a week. I can’t wait for tomorrow.”

“Yeah, about that.” Something about his sigh on the other end splashes icy water all over my heated body. “I probably won’t be home tomorrow, but I promise I’ll be back in time for your birthday.”

I stifle a groan. That bed upstairs is so cold and lonely with him gone, but I’ve slept alone most of my life. I can last without him. I know that rationally, but it doesn’t mean I won’t wake up tomorrow clutching his pillow and sniffing our sheets for some trace of him like a lovesick hound.

“That’s okay,” I lie. “Another meeting?”

“Um, yeah. Unavoidable.”

I try not to whine, but every part of me aches for him. My body churns with need. My heart strains behind my breastbone like it’s seeking him.

“What is it?” I ask, even though it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I have to get through an extra day, sleep through another night alone.

“I have something to take care of.” His voice tucks something away. Is it guilt? Why is he being evasive? “I really have to go if these guys are gonna get in tonight.”

“Okay.” I try to ignore the niggling thought that he’s keeping something from me. “I guess I’ll see you in two days.”

“Yeah and don’t forget what I said. Wherever I find you—”

“You’re fucking me.” I laugh even as my eyelids start drooping under the weight of all today entailed.

“That’s my girl.”

HOME.

It’s a concept that has evolved over the years. Growing up, home was a sprawling New York estate that somehow managed to make me feel claustrophobic every moment I was there and not on the road performing. Later home became my uncle Grady’s modest Los Angeles cottage, where I was surrounded by music and students, and most of all, unconditional love for the first time. For the last few years, home’s been my Calabasas mansion, gated and exclusive, hiding me from the prying eyes of the world. But now and for the rest of my life, Kai is the living, breathing address that is my home. She’s my entire damn zip code.

In the back seat of Gep’s SUV, I check my impatience with the unreasonable traffic on the way home from the airport.

“It’s fucking midnight.” I find Gep’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “What’s the hold up?”

“It’s LA, Rhys,” Gep says through barely-moving lips. “We’re almost there.”

I bounce my knee and flick a disparaging glance at the wild flowers wrapped in tissue paper on the back seat beside me.

“These flowers are stupid, aren’t they?” I ask. “She probably won’t even like them. I should have found some mistletoe. Why’d you let me buy these lame flowers at the airport?”

“Since when do I ‘let’ you do anything?” Gep’s laugh rumbles in the subdued luxury of the car. “And Kai won’t hate them. She’s a girl. Girls like flowers.”