The Temptation of Lila and Ethan (19 page)

I don’t bother trying to deny it. Sure, she knows stuff, like how my parents were and are, but she doesn’t know about my fear of being with someone because I’ll turn out like them or about what happened to London. “All right, fair enough.”

We sit in silence for a little bit and she’s either staring at my drumsticks, which are on my lap, or my dick.

Finally, she asks, “Is it really therapeutic?”

I wipe the sweat off my arm with my hand. “Is what therapeutic?”

She catches my gaze and she looks helplessly lost for the first time since I met her. “Banging on the drums. You said it was good for letting off steam.”

“It’s even better than punching a bag.” I collect the drumsticks from my lap. “Do you… do you want to try?”

She leans back, shaking her head, like she’s afraid of them—or me. “I don’t know how to play. You know that.”

“No, I don’t know that since I never got around to asking you.” I inch back in the stool. “But I can help you if you want. It might help with your”—I press my lips together, trying not to grin—“bitchiness.”

I wait for her to get all riled up, but instead she stands up with confidence and weaves around the drums toward me and I can’t help but think,
Now there’s my Lila.
But I quickly shake the thought away because she’s not my Lila. She’s my
friend
.

“And how are you going to show me?” she wonders, eyeing the sticks in my hand.

A thousand dirty comments run through my mind, but I bite them back and scoot away just a little bit more, making room for her, and then pat the spot on the stool that’s in front of me. “Sit down.”

Her eyes sweep the small space, and then biting her lip she tucks locks of her messy blonde hair behind her ears and tentatively squeezes between my knees and the drums. She drops down in the seat and I realize just how bad of an idea this is as her ass presses against my cock. I try to keep my dirty thoughts
to a bare minimum as I reach an arm around each of her sides and hand her the drumsticks.

“What song do I get to play?” she asks as I slant to the side to grab the iPod. “One of your crazy rock songs?” She sounds amused and it makes me smile.

“Not too crazy.” I select “1979” by Smashing Pumpkins, then quickly place the iPod into the dock, press my chest against Lila’s back, and wrap a hand around each of hers so that my fingers are folded around her wrists.

“You’re sweaty,” she remarks. “It’s gross.”

“Well, you haven’t taken a shower in, like, four days. Imagine how
you
smell,” I retort, but she actually smells good—fruity, like watermelon. I swiftly sweep her hair to the side and lean over her shoulder, resting my chin on it so I can see what I’m doing. The song starts playing and before I know it the drum section is starting.

“We missed the intro,” Lila says, stating the obvious. “And this song is really fast anyway. I can’t keep up with this.”

“Never say can’t.” I lift her arms in the air. She’s still holding the sticks and my fingertips are pressing against her hammering pulse. She’s nervous, which surprises me. I expected her to be more subdued, because that’s how she usually is. But then again, this is a whole different Lila, one without drugs in her system. “You ready?” I ask her and I have to momentarily shut my eyes when she shudders against the feel of my breath against her shoulder.

She nods and I open my eyes. “I’m ready,” she calls out over the music.

I take a deep breath, feeling uneasy. Thankfully I know it will clear as soon as I start playing. The song is reaching the chorus, the perfect time to jump in and start playing. We wait and we wait, breathing in and out until it feels like we’re going to combust, and then finally the song approaches the perfect moment. Gripping her wrists, I bring her hands down to the drums. I hear her laugh as the sticks hit and don’t quite match the beat. It’s a little harder to play like this, but I make it work, because playing well isn’t the point. Playing from the heart is and letting her tune out her thoughts with something else other than the overwhelming desire I know she’s still feeling.

She continues to laugh, a few times trying to take over on her own. It sounds terrible, nail-scratching, ear-clawing terrible, but it’s making her happy and relaxed, completely out of her own head, and honestly I feel the same way.

Lila

Once I take a seat, I know I’m in trouble. His sturdy, tattooed chest is crushed against my back, radiating heat through my thin shirt and making it hard to breathe. Something about the feel of him melts the starvation inside me and suddenly my thoughts are sidetracked. I’ve seen him without his shirt on before, once when we were playing strip poker. But I was
drunk and medicated, and truthfully I’m not sure I was seeing very clearly because he looks so much sexier now. All the guys who I can remember being with have been clean-cut, with perfectly tanned skin and chiseled abs. They looked like good guys who use manners in public, although behind closed doors it was usually a different story.

I’ve never been with anyone who played the drums, had scraggily, untrimmed hair, a five o’clock shadow, or lean, tattooed arms that rippled as they slammed drumsticks down on the drums. I mean, I knew Ethan had tattoos, but I’d never paid enough attention to how many. And God, they look good on him. There’s one in particular going across one of his pecs that’s always caught my attention. It looks like letters from maybe another language that go around in a circle, sketched in jet-black ink. The only other language I can speak is French, so I’m not sure what language it is. But by the unique shapes of each letter, I’m guessing it’s not a very common one. I wonder if I’m right. I wonder what it means. I wonder if he’d tell me if I asked him.

My palms are sweaty against the drumsticks and my heart thrashes up as he holds his fingers around each of my wrists. I know he can feel my pulse jolting against his fingertips, but he doesn’t say anything about it, either to be nice or because he’s getting too caught up in playing. I’ll admit it’s liberating, slamming the sticks to the rhythm of the music and I even manage to laugh.

As he continues to move my hands, I dare to steal a glance
over my shoulders at him. He looks so peaceful and in harmony with the song, like he’s thinking about nothing but the beat and lyrics. His eyes are shut and he has this euphoric look on his face. It’s fascinating, watching him match the beat of the song, moving my hands right along with his. He’s really getting into it and it’s sexy and hot and, oh my God, I have to bite down on my lip to restrain unwelcomed noises escaping from my lips as I remember how it felt when his tongue and teeth were on my skin.

It’s the most amazing feeling I’ve ever experienced, like all of my negative emotions are channeled into slamming the sticks and I wish I could keep doing it forever. But then the song comes to an end and the moment of freedom disappears.

I quickly look away from him before he opens his eyes and catches me watching him. I’m panting and so is he, the movement of his chest and my back harmonized.

“That was fun,” I say, breathless, my skin damp with sweat. Everything inside me is so scorching, but in a mouthwateringly good way, and unlike usual, I can feel it, taste it, breathe it, want it.
Want him. Good God, I want him.
I’m sober, completely coherent, and I want him, like I had him that night we took shots at the club and then I just laid in my bed, feeling my usually self-induced numbness, only this time he wouldn’t stop and leave and I wouldn’t shut down, instead letting myself feel everything.

His chin is on my shoulder and when he tips his head to the side, his breath caresses my neck. “I think you’re a natural,”
he says, amusement in his voice. “Maybe we should get you your own set.”

I chew on my lip, slanting my head to the side to look at him and almost end up kissing him. “A pink set, maybe?” I wet my lips with my tongue, noting the close proximity of his mouth, feeling this new, unfamiliar pull toward him as sensations of heat and tingles course through my body.

He laughs at me, his breath warm against my cheek as he shakes his head. “Pink? Why am I not surprised?” He leans in, pressing his chest harder against my back, but I’m unsure if he even realizes he’s doing it.

“What’s wrong with pink?” I ask, the feeling of desire and hunger leaving my body.

“Nothing’s wrong with pink.” Smiling, he climbs off the stool and holds out his hands, and the desire in my body fizzles. “I just think it’s funny that now you want a set when just a little while ago you came in here to complain about the whole house shaking.”

I swallow the lump in my throat as I place the drumsticks into this hands and climb off the stool. “Sorry,” I mutter, feeling bad, remembering how I was acting like a bitch. Usually I wouldn’t care, but right now I feel like I’m on the verge of tears, my emotions all over the place. I swing around him, banging my hip on one of the symbols. “I’m just going to go back to my room.”

“Lila, wait.” He snags my elbow as I reach the foot of the bed. “Look, I’m sorry. I was just teasing, but I really shouldn’t
be. Right now is not the time or place.” He takes a deep breath and his chest sinks as he releases it. “I know how you’re feeling, and teasing is the last thing you need.”

I close my eyes, taking a cleansing breath and mentally clearing my head of any sexual feelings I have for Ethan, before I turn around and look at him. “Don’t be sorry. All of this is my fault. I should have never called you that night and brought you into my secret train-wreck life.”

His fingers leave my arm and he deliberates something, chewing on his lip while he does. I wonder if he knows he’s doing it, or if he knows how crazy it drives me when he does it. “What do you want to do today?” he asks, throwing me off guard.

I stare perplexedly at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what do you want to do today?”

“What are my choices?”

“Anything.”

I hold on to the bedpost, feeling light-headed for no reason as I consider what I want to do. “I think maybe you better choose,” I say. “Because everything I’m thinking involves things you’re not going to let me have.”
Pills. Alcohol. You.

He presses his lips together, looking strangely happy. I’m about to ask him why when he says, “Go take a shower and get dressed in something comfortable.”

I put my hand on my hip. “Why? Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise.” He reaches for his shirt draped on the bedpost and I have to step back so his arm doesn’t brush my breast. “And no questioning. It’ll take all the fun out of it.”

I’m skeptical, but curious enough that I obey his instructions and start to head out of the room to take a shower. But I pause in the doorway, my mind going back to his tattoo as he goes to slip his shirt on.

“What does that mean?” I ask, pointing at his chest.

He glances down with his shirt half on around his neck. “This?” He touches the tattoo lightly with his finger, then glances up at me through hooded eyes. “It means solitude in Greek.”

“Solitude?”

He nods, slipping his arms through the sleeves. “It’s a dream of mine.”

“To be alone?” I question. “Like on your little road trip thing, because I thought you were going to take me with you.” I try to say it lightly, but I’m feeling too low and down.

He shrugs. “Dreams change, I guess.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t tattoo them permanently on your skin,” I joke.

His lips tug upward. “Whenever I put a tattoo on my skin it always means something to me at the time, and I’ve never regretted getting one.”

I bite on my already chomped-off fingernails as he makes his way over to the dresser. “Maybe I should get one.”

He glances over his shoulder at me through hooded eyes and slowly scans my body, making me feel naked. “Maybe you should.”

It gets really quiet between us as we stand there staring at each other, my body heating with each second his eyes are
locked on me. Finally he clears his throat and the tension crumbles.

“Now go take a shower so we can get going,” he says, picking up a bottle of cologne from off his dresser.

I nod and go take a shower, wishing the water would wash off the untamed emotions flustering inside me, along with cleaning me. But I pretty much feel the same way when I get out, all riled up inside. I try to shrug it off the best I can and put on my one and only pair of jeans and throw on a pink tank top. I braid my damp hair to the side since I’m not in the mood to curl it. Then I slip on my sandals and head out into the living room where he’s lying on the couch reading a book.

“You read more than any other guy I know,” I say, sitting down on the arm of the couch. “It’s weird.”

Without looking up at me, he turns the page. “Good. I like being originally weird.”

I cross my legs and fiddle with my braid. “Do you now?”

“Absolutely.” His eyes return to the book, like he can’t quite break himself away from the story. His hair is swept to the side and he’s wearing a gray T-shirt, accented with a black-and-white-pinstriped shirt and a pair of black cargo shorts. He has leather bands on his wrists and boots on his feet.

I sit there for a while, waiting for him to put the book down, but I’m starting to grow bored and restless. Finally he sets it down on the coffee table, marking the page by folding the corner over. “Sorry,” he apologizes, getting to his feet. “I had to get to the good part.”

I eye the worn, bent, torn cover as I rise to my feet. “It looks like you’ve read it, like, a hundred times.”

“I have.” He scoops up his keys and wallet and then opens the front door, holding it for me. “But that doesn’t mean that the good parts get any less good.”

I roll my eyes and walk out into the sunlight. “Whatever. I’ve never understood what the big deal is about reading.”

He shuts the door and locks it, turning for the stairs. “Going to another place. Getting lost in time. Pretending that you’re living a different life.” He heads down the stairs and I follow him. “What’s not to love?”

“Is that why you’re reading all the time? And writing?”

“Who said I read and write all the time?”

“I said so,” I say as we arrive at the bottom of the stairs. We head for the carport where his truck is parked. “I’ve seen you reading and writing in that journal a couple of times, but now that I’m living with you”—I grab the door handle of his lifted truck—“you do both a lot.”