Rock Your Heart Out (Sinful Serenade #3) (14 page)

I take Tom's hand and shake. "Deal."

***

B
rad Pitt fails me.

He's sexy as hell, all sweaty and ripped. Even battered and bruised, the man is one hot piece of ass.

But he has nothing on Tom.

Nothing on the way my body, as Tom so aptly put it, lights up when his fingers brush my wrist as we wrestle over the armrest. On the way my stomach flutters when I go for the soda and grab Tom's thigh instead. On the tension that builds in my core when Tom goes for the chocolate covered raisins and gets the edge of my skirt.

It's innocent.

An accident.

Nothing.

But there's no convincing my body. By the time the credits roll, I'm antsy and flushed. What possessed me to wear a skirt? This would be much less painful in a pair of jeans. Very thick jeans with leggings underneath them. And a pair of long johns for extra padding between his fingers and my skin.

The lights turn on. "Excuse me. Ladies room." I practically jump out of my seat.

The bathroom is the same clean, white place. I stare at the girl in the mirror and try to think up another pep talk. Tom's intentions are clear. He's trying. Platonic friends? I'm there. I'm capable. I'm not melting under the weight of my desire.

A few splashes of cool water do little to dampen the heat building inside me. At least I have a convenient excuse. I'm desperately turned on by shirtless Brad Pitt and his macho need to beat people to a pulp. Yes, there's nothing I adore more than a man who turns to violence to soothe the pain in his soul.

In the lobby, Tom talks to another pretty twenty-something. This one has dark hair and an intense expression in her eyes. She's more polite than a lot of his admirers. She doesn't paw at him or run her hands over his gorgeous exposed forearms. She doesn't trace the lines of his tattoo or stare at the hint of taut stomach between the bottom of his t-shirt and the top of his low-rise skinny jeans.

He spots me and says goodbye to the fan. That cues the grabbing. He smiles politely but there's irritation in his eyes. He hides it well. Better than I did working at the camera shop. The girl pulls out her cell to take a selfie with Tom.

He mugs it up for the camera. But still, she grabs at him.

Okay. I'll cut in. I cross to Tom, slide my arm around his waist and look at him with
fuck me
eyes. "Baby, I've been waiting for you." I extend my hand to the girl. "Willow Wayne. Tom's girlfriend."

Her jaw drops. "But you always say that there's no sense in limiting yourself to one woman..."

"He always said a lot of things." I run my hand through Tom's hair the way the redhead did.

He leans into my touch, his lips curling into an expression of pleasure. Real or is he faking for the sake of the annoying fan girl? Hard to tell, but I like his expression. I drag my fingertips through his hair, down his neck, over his ears.

His eyes flutter closed. He practically purrs. So his ears are the spot. I make a mental note. There's a perfect space for it next to
his cock is pierced
under
things you shouldn't know about your platonic friends
.

"Yeah." He slides his arm around my waist, playing it up for the girls' sake. "Willow's great. We're madly in love. And it's about time we go back to the hotel and fuck until she comes so many times she begs me to stop."

She's some mix of star struck and dumbstruck. She nods for a moment, then her eyes fill with envy.

Tom presses his lips against my neck. For me or for the girl? Hard to say. Either way, my body is desperate for him to continue.

The bouncer guarding the door gapes.

"Holy shit. Tom Steele?" He asks. "What the fuck are you doing at this dump?"

Tom shrugs. "Matthew's a friend of mine."

"Shit. David's gonna flip. Aren't you playing tomorrow? Tickets sold out in ten minutes."

Tom smiles. "Nice to hear from a male fan for once."

"I'm sure most guys are intimidated by how often your vocalist sounds like he's about to come," the bouncer says.

Tom laughs. "Miles? Yeah. You should hear him going at it with his girlfriend. A man has never enjoyed fucking a woman as much as he does. And he used to get as much tail as I do." Tom shakes his head. "Hate to see a good man go down. Though his girlfriend seems to enjoy that part too."

The bouncer chuckles nervously. It's completely disarming seeing the six-foot-three, two-hundred-fifty-pound man star struck. He unlocks the door and motions for us to step inside.

"What's your name?" Tom asks.

"Jason Benes."

"You working tomorrow?"

"Night off."

"I'll leave you a ticket at will call." Tom leans in to stage whisper. "If you do me a favor."

"Keep the guys away from your girl? Don't think anybody is gonna mess with Tom Steele, even to talk to a girl that fine."

Tom makes eye contact with me and raises a brow. He turns back to Jason. "Willow here isn't my girl. She's a friend. And she needs to get laid. If you see any hot guys—and I'm talking grade A, six pack abs, buns of steel, piercing eyes—send them her way."

"Don't think I'm going to be able to pick out piercing eyes." The man chuckles. "But I'll do what I can."

"Any ringers for Brad Pitt—that's her type."

"Are his eyes piercing?" Jason asks.

"They're not," I jump in. "But I don't need any help finding hot guys. I've got it handled."

"Listen to the little minx. Already talking about fondling strangers." Tom
tsk tsks
in mock disgust. "Such a filthy mind." He shakes the bouncer's hand. "Jason Benes. I won't forget."

Jason laughs, still totally star struck.

The door swings closed behind us.

It's an intimate place. Room for a hundred people on a busy night. This is not a busy night. There are a few dozen people here, most of them talking instead of paying attention to the guys on stage. It's not that the band is bad. They're just not particularly remarkable.

The singer tries. He's not great, and his lyrics are inane, but he's trying. Not so much the guys on strings. They look at the ground or at each other or, worse yet, at the drummer. Said drummer is committed to his playing, thrashing around with his long hair swaying left and right. He's loud. It's all very loud.

"Shit. Thought Matthew was better than this." Tom motions to the stage. "Look at that."

"Which one is Matthew?" I ask.

"Guitarist." Tom points to the man with purple hair. "He's got his fucking back to the audience."

"How do you know him?"

"Played in a band together way back when." Tom chuckles. "I was that kid in high school who started a new band every year. Only nobody ever took it as seriously as I did. Matthew was in the fourth or fifth band. Only he thought he could sing. As you can see from the man's stage presence, that was a nightmare."

As if on cue, Matthew turns back to the audience. Tom waves, and the man's jaw drops. He stops playing for a solid twenty seconds. The other guys in the band look around confused but they carry on.

"Fuck, that must have been eight, nine years ago." Tom runs a hand through his hair. "He's not trying very hard."

"Maybe he had other priorities."

"Yeah. Everyone does. Even back then. I lived in a nice part of Orange County."

"Really?" There's something about Tom that seems rawer than image conscious Southern California. Especially given the way he reacted when I said he seemed like he belonged in Los Angeles.

He nods. "Where do you think I learned the power of vanity?"

"You're not vain."

"Not as vain as some people." He brushes a pink-tipped bang from my face. "We can't all spend hundreds on our haircuts."

I stick my tongue out at him.

He laughs. "Back then, everyone had an eye on college. First band, the guitarist dropped out because he was failing Spanish. The second, we practiced all summer, but everybody quit as soon as school rolled around. Must have gone through five or six bands before I met Miles."

"I've never heard the Sinful Serenade origin story."

"Always figured you weren't interested. Since you never came to shows. Even when we were playing all over San Francisco." Tom's gaze goes back to the band. "Drew talks about you a lot."

"He does not."

"You have to judge it by Drew standards. Anything that isn't an argument about how I'm a sellout for trying to get our music into some TV show is a lot."

"You're the one who does licensing deals?"

He nods. "Our manager is a fucking asshole. Had an issue with him a while back. Couldn't get him fired so I took over."

"One of your songs is on a soda commercial."

"Fuck, yes it is. You have any clue how much that endorsement paid?"

I shake my head.

"Let's just say I've never seen anyone that miserable to make a million dollars."

"Each of you or the band?"

"Geez, Willow. So greedy. Two hundred fifty thousand isn't enough for you? I'll have you know that I'm worth seven figures."

I actually gasp. Seven figures? That's
fuck you
money. Why isn't Drew rubbing that in Mom's face 24/7?

"Miles and Drew—they don't know what it's like to go hungry, to wonder if you're gonna get evicted, to work six months saving every penny so you can buy a better drum kit. I don't have to tell you that Drew's family, your family is well off."

"Money doesn't buy happiness."

"Don't have to tell me that, kid. I'm the one worth seven figures."

"You like to brag, don't you?"

He nods. "I'm incorrigible."

"Very."

"Big word for a guy with a GED."

There's something about the way Tom says it. Like he wants me to ask about it. Like he's desperate for someone to ask about it, to show interest in Tom Steele, human being, and not Tom Steele, famous drummer.

I move closer. "You dropped out of high school?"

He nods. "Had to deal with some shit, missed some school. It was easier to study for the test than go back." His posture stiffens.

I consider asking what it was he had to deal with, but the mood is still light, and I want to keep it that way. I nudge Tom. "You still haven't told me how the band started."

"Started with Pete. He must have been twelve or thirteen when Mom fostered him. The kid had nothing but this beat up bass guitar. It was the only thing in the world he cared about. His dad, before he died, was a jazz musician. That's how he picked it up."

"How did you pick up drums?"

"One of my foster parents had a drum kit in the garage. Played on the weekends in some KISS cover band. I needed something to do. At first, I liked making enough noise to piss everybody off. But the drums are the soul of the song. They carry the rhythm. It's the one place where I'm in control of shit, where the world makes sense." Tom gets a far off look in his eyes. "A lot of people think bass is a less cool guitar, but it's really part of the rhythm. Me and Pete create that together. It was the first way we ever connected. I know it sounds hokey—"

"That's how I feel about photography. The world makes sense when I'm behind the camera. I see things I don't normally see."

"The stuff you shoot with Hazel or something else?"

"I love doing portraits, any kind. Even the sexy ones we were shooting in your hotel room."

Tom looks me in the eyes. "You're good. You should go after that when you're finished working with Hazel."

"Maybe. I don't know. I want to, but—"

"But what?"

"I'm not really good with people. Being a photographer is all about dealing with clients. It's intimidating." I clear my throat. "It seems easy for you."

"It's a skill. You can learn how to work with people. Just takes practice."

He's really listening, but I don't want to talk about myself. I want to hear about him. I want to know everything there is to know about Tom. "You had the rhythm figured out. Then..."

"So impatient." He smiles, teasing.

Again, I stick my tongue out at him.

"You keep doing that, I'll get ideas about better uses for your tongue."

"Do you ever get ideas that aren't about sex?"

"My secret." He nudges me with his shoulder. His gaze goes back to the stage. "Guess someone has to entertain you." He shifts back into his story. "Miles and I were in the same school for a year or two. I was sleeping with a girl he was dating. I guess she was two-timing both of us. Don't think either of us cared much about her, but honor demanded we let our fists settle things."

"Could just let the girl decide."

"Wasn't about the girl," Tom says. "It was about being the man."

"But what does fighting prove?"

"Still don't know. Seemed like the only solution at the time."

"You get into a lot of fights?" I ask.

"Not anymore. But back then? Got into a fight every other day. Miles too. We beat each other pretty bloody before the principal broke it up. The next day, Miles comes by to say he dumped the girl, but I fight pretty good. He'd heard I was in a band. He'd written some songs. Acoustic stuff. Mostly about how his dad was a piece of shit. Wanted to put a band together. For a while it was just me, him, and Pete. Then Miles move up to Malibu, and we fell out of touch. I had a lot of shit to deal with." His eyes cloud.

I swallow hard. The same shit he referred to before, no doubt. I consider asking about it but there's something about his expression that tells me he's not in the mood to retrace those memories. "How did you guys get back together?"

"It's quite the anti-climactic story. Miles poured all the pain in his heart into his guitar and his singing, only he couldn't play guitar that well."

"You really throw down the insults."

"Truth hurts sometimes." Tom laughs. "He broke his hands too many times. Lost a lot of dexterity. Guess you'll have to ask Meg if he's back up to full strength. From the sound of things, I'm guessing he's pretty damn nimble."

"You really listen to them fucking?"

"Don't want to. Especially the last few weeks. Think he's doing it to torture me. She acts all shy, but the second he starts touching her, she's DTF anytime, any place. You should have seen him when he was single. Girls go apeshit for those pretty blue eyes of his." Tom shakes his head. "The way he tells it, he was hanging out in some girl's dorm room and he heard this guy killing it on acoustic guitar a few doors down. Not playing fucking
Wonderwall
to get in a girl's pants, but playing this crazy Carlos Santana level shit."