You Really Got Me (Rock Star Romance #1) (5 page)

“Oh, come on, just give me a chance,” he heard Emmie say, voice bubbling with humor. And then everyone started talking over each other.

“He’s gonna look like a girl.”

“Shut up.”

“Would you let her work?”

Slater found his bandmates sitting around the kitchen table. The plates with leftover scrambled eggs and toast crusts, the glasses of orange juice, and mugs of coffee let him know they’d just finished eating together.

Emmie stood behind Pete, who had a towel draped around his shoulders, his hair wet and long.

“Dude, you’re home late,” Cooper said.

“Did you go home with that redhead?” Ben asked. “She was smoking hot.” Tiana, his girlfriend, cuffed the back of his head. “What? I went home with you
.
”

He caught Emmie’s gaze, wondering if she’d made the same assumption about what he’d done last night and if she judged him for it. But she seemed completely unfazed. Squirting some gel into her hands, she rubbed them together and then dragged them slowly through Pete’s hair, starting at the top and sliding down to the ends. The gentle slide down the long, wet strands set Slater’s body humming.

Interesting. Not long ago some chick had done that same move on his body with cinnamon-flavored lotion, but it hadn’t evoked anything like his response just then. Yeah, he’d gotten hard. But he hadn’t felt . . . seduced. Gooseflesh hadn’t popped out on his skin.

Maybe because that woman had been frantic to please him, where Emmie seemed so quiet inside. Peaceful. And she moved like she had all the time in the world, like she loved the feel of the hair in her hands.

An electrical current traveled down his spine, igniting a flame in his dick.

“What’re you doing?” he said.

Everyone shot him a look, but what the hell? Why was Emmie making love to Pete’s hair? Her eyebrows lifted in surprise, but she didn’t stop working her hands through it.

“She’s fixing my hair.”

“He’s always wanted it straight.” Derek tried not to smile, but then when the other guys burst out laughing, he joined in. “He wants to be a pretty boy like you.”

“No, I don’t. I just hate having pubic hair on my head. Emmie’s gonna fix it.”

“I’ll show you what it looks like straight, but honestly, your hair is so kinky, I don’t think you’re going to like it. It’s never going to look sleek and polished like you imagine.” She picked up the blow dryer and a round brush, and started blowing out a section.

The room went quiet as they watched, waited. She concentrated on the job. Her pink tongue flicked out to wet her lips, and then her teeth bit down into the soft flesh of her lower one. When her head tilted to one side, her long hair spilled over her shoulder, gleaming in the morning light streaming in through the kitchen windows.

She shut the dryer off, held up a mirror to Pete. “So this is what it’ll look like straightened.”

“You’re going to blow your hair dry every day?” Slater couldn’t believe it.

“No,” Emmie said with a scowl. Like she had to protect Pete. “He’d get a treatment done. It would keep his hair straight for months.”

“You’ll look like a girl,” Cooper said.

“So?” Ben turned to Slater. “The redhead? She must’ve been really good for you to have an actual sleepover.”

Tiana let out a huff of breath and rolled her eyes. She had her thick wavy hair piled on top of her head, like she’d just woken up. Her extremely curvy body was bursting out of her tank top and tiny gym shorts.

“What?” Ben said.

“You make me look like a bad girlfriend,” Tiana said.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Cooper said. “We know better. We can hear everything.”

“Why don’t you just break up with me—again—if you want a shot at the redhead?” Tiana said. Everyone knew this game they played, so no one thought they were actually fighting. “I mean, if I don’t rock your world . . .”

Ben pulled her close, and she fell onto his lap. He immediately started tonguing her neck. “But you do. And I don’t want anyone else. I want you.”

“Jesus Christ,” Slater said. “I got shit to do.”

“Rehearsal at one,” Derek said.

“What?” Rehearsal never started before four, thanks to his bartending schedule.

“New schedule,” Derek said. “I emailed it to you.”

Slater cut his gaze to Emmie. “I’ve been kind of busy.” He gave a half smile, still looking to provoke her, but she just smiled pleasantly back, as if he hadn’t just suggested he’d been busy fucking. But it wasn’t like he’d tell them why he’d avoided being home.

She turned her attention to Pete. “You know what I think is best?”

“Shave it off?”

“Dreads. Really neat, clean, polished dreads.” She pulled her laptop off the little built-in kitchen desk, set it on the table, and leaned over, tapping the keys. “Hang on a second.”

She had curves, too, nice ones, but she didn’t display them the way Tiana did. Everything about Emmie was . . . suppressed. Made him want to tug that tank top down and expose those plump mounds she kept hidden. Underneath that prairie-girl persona rumbled something else . . . something just waiting to burst out of her. He’d like to see that. The bursting.

“What happened to our
image
?” Derek asked. “We’re not a reggae band.”

“Here. Look. Not reggae at all.”

All the guys gathered around her, looking at the screen.

“Fucking A,” Ben said.

“Oh, I like that a lot,” Tiana said. “But how do you keep them from getting all nasty and smelly?”

“Wax. And keeping them dry.” She motioned to the screen. “This guy’s one of our artists, and he’s had these dreads for years. Don’t they look great?”

Slater watched them together, talking and laughing. The warm kitchen smelled like cinnamon and butter. The coffee cake on the counter looked good, browned with sticky nuts on top, and he realized what she’d done for them. Just by cooking, she’d brought them together in a wholly different way. Like a family.

He thought about joining them, having a look at the picture, maybe grabbing a piece of cake.

Instead, he turned and headed for bed.

The next morning when Slater looked out the bathroom window, he was disappointed to find the pool empty. A few leaves floated on the surface. It looked like she hadn’t been swimming at all. Had he put an end to that?

Guess he hadn’t needed to stay away after all. He wouldn’t be perving on Derek’s sister today.

Well, hell. He shouldn’t have gone out there when she was naked. She’d been enjoying herself. He headed out of the bathroom, listened outside her door—right across the hall from his bedroom—and heard the sound of clacking on a keyboard.

Should he knock? He wanted to give her the sketch of the new logo, but he knew he didn’t like to be interrupted when he worked, so he dropped it outside her door and went downstairs to make a pot of coffee. According to Derek, nothing drew her out like a fresh pot.

Just as expected, she came downstairs a few minutes later holding his drawing.

“Hey, what are you doing up at this hour?” she asked. She stood there in her white tank top and cotton pajama shorts, no makeup—she hadn’t even brushed her hair. Her breasts bounced with her every movement, and he got all stirred up just looking at her.

And there he went. Perving.

He’d said no yet again to the bevy of little lovelies last night just to spend this morning with her. His curiosity had gotten the better of him. Who was she, exactly? “Hoped I’d catch you skinny dipping again.”

She ignored his comment, instead waving the sketch. “I love this. It’s just what I pictured. Only better.”

He lifted the pot to her.

“Sure, thanks. Now that we’ve got milk and sugar, I’d love some coffee.” She pulled out a chair and sat down. “Show this logo to the guys at rehearsal tonight. It’d be great to get new merchandise made in time for the new gigs.”

“You’ve booked us already?”

“Not yet. But, I mean, once I send out the press kit, it’ll happen fast. I’m trying to get you into the Austin City Lights Festival at the end of October.”

His heart slammed into his ribcage. “What?” She could do that?

“Yeah, I know the promoter. We’ve booked a bunch of bands with them over the years.”

He couldn’t form a single coherent thought.

She smiled. “It’s not that big a deal. Bands cancel all the time. We can always score a spot.”

He poured the coffee into his Steve Earle mug and set it in front of her. When she made to get up, he stilled her with a press of his palm on her shoulder and got the milk out of the refrigerator. “You think we’re ready for that?”

Her expression changed, and he liked that he could read her emotions. She didn’t try to impress or manipulate. She was true.

He sat down. “Tell me.”

Pouring some milk into the mug, she stirred it slowly, thoughtfully. “Again, this is just my opinion—”

“Emmie.”

“Yeah, okay. I know. It’s just most artists don’t take feedback well.”

His skin prickled, warmth saturating deep into his bones. She’d called him an artist. He was used to being called a man whore, a slacker. But who considered him an
artist
? Other than his mom, and she just thought he was wasting his talents with rock music, so it didn’t count.

Emmie drew in a breath. “You’ve got some great material. I told you that. It’s just . . .” She stirred her coffee, looking lost in thought. She inhaled, straightening. “To play a gig like this, you have to have the right set list, obviously. And you’ve got to know how to play to a huge crowd.”

“We’ve played big crowds before.”

“Sure, but you mostly play in clubs. On stage, you act like you’re playing for the groupies in the front row.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’ve been listening to your songs. You’ve got some rock anthem material. Some of your songs—like “Fiona”? If you just changed the chord progression leading up to the bridge, make it build to this huge breaking climax, you’d have a rock anthem good enough to rival anything by U2. But you just have to sing it like a rock god. Not like a guy who wants to get laid.”

“I don’t sing to get laid.”

“It seems like you do. That’s what it looks like.”

“Maybe it only looks that way for people who want to get laid?”

Again, she didn’t bite. No reaction whatsoever. “I just think it might be time to stop thinking about seducing your groupies and start thinking about wooing an entire stadium full of fanatics.”

He got up, finding it difficult to process her words.

“Are you angry?” she asked.

“I don’t have an ego here. It’s a waste of my time if I’m just going to play local venues the rest of my life.”

“Go big or go home?”

“Yeah.”

“I heard you sold out at the merch table last night.”

He nodded, still thinking about the way he sang.
Did
he do that? And more importantly, was he undermining himself? Man, that would piss him off. All the time and effort devoted to making a go of this career . . . believing his dad’s crap that he had some special talent . . . only to languish on the bottom rung. God, he owed his dad better than that.

“You should work it all the time. You’ll have your money for the studio session in no time.”

He gazed out the window. The early-morning sunlight sparkled on the surface of the pool. He felt her come up beside him, felt her heat. She smelled of coffee and something sweetly fragrant.

“What’re you thinking?” Her voice washed over him, cool and soft as a clean sheet.

“I don’t want to fuck this up.” He wished he’d met her sooner. He wished he—and the band—had made these changes long ago.

“You won’t. Slater, you’re incredibly talented. I screen all of Irwin’s demos. I know what’s out there. You’ve got a gift. And it’s not just your look, though, believe me, being the gorgeous, swoon-worthy lead singer matters a lot in this business. But it’s your songwriting. That’s the real ticket for you.”

She paused, giving him a mischievous smile. “You do know you could make way more publishing your songs than fronting a band, right?”

“But then how would the chicks find me?”

“True. Just a thought. Anyhow, the tiniest shift will turn your hard-driving songs into rock anthems, and your lyrical melodies into ballads that’ll make girls cry.” She frowned. “Well, they cry now, actually. But I can’t tell if they’re frenzied because you lifted your shirt and showed them the most amazing abs in God’s kingdom or if they’re really listening to the lyrics.”

“How come I don’t make you swoon?”

The skin between her eyes puckered in disappointment—but only fleetingly. “It’s so tired, isn’t it? The whole rock star/player thing? I don’t know. It just doesn’t do anything for me.”

He knew he should be insulted, but oddly, he wasn’t. Because what she said rang true. So true, it was like gears locking together. He
was
trite. And it
had
gotten old. He’d known that for a long time. It’s just . . . the girls were there . . . it was easy. What guy didn’t want to get laid?

“What does do something for you?” he asked.

“I wish I knew.” She leaned across him—her smooth, warm skin brushing across his arm—turned on the faucet, and rinsed out her mug.

And then she lowered the dishwasher door and her plump, soft breast bumped into the back of his hand, and it sent a shock wave rippling through him straight to his dick.

“I’d sure like to find out.” She let out the sweetest little sigh.

He couldn’t even begin to make himself calm down because, yeah, he’d just felt the fullness of her breast, but he’d already had a look at them, so he had the double whammy of a visual along with the actual touch, giving him a semi right there in the kitchen.

Jesus, he had to get a hold of himself. What were they talking about? Oh, what turned her on. Christ. Great conversation for a guy with a semi. “Any more coffee cake left?”

“No, but I got bagels. You know that deli right up on Pleasant Valley? They’re not bad.”

Bagels. Excellent. He could think about bagels. “If you don’t like musicians, who do you like?”

She leaned back against the counter and crossed her arms, lifting those lovely breasts. They bounced when she pulled her hair up into a ponytail, using an elastic from her wrist. “I guess I’d really like a guy I can trust.” She glanced at him. “But that’s not a type is it?” Her soft laugh breezed around his heart.

He watched her pull a bagel out of a paper bag on the counter, watched her hips sway as she headed for the stairs, and he felt something he’d never felt before.

He wanted more.

—

Across the table Emmie watched a gorgeous brunette drag her hands across Derek’s scalp, her breasts undulating against his chest. When one of those hands lowered to his lap, her brother’s lazy smile froze, and he hitched up in his seat. Beside them, a girl straddled Pete as they made out, and he cupped and squeezed her breast. Glimpses of pink tongue had Emmie looking away.

She felt strangely hurt. Usually, she felt pretty close to the guys. But just then, in the club, they made her feel invisible. She forced her attention back to the stage, back to the band she’d come to see.

She checked her notes. Clever Jimmy was the seventh band she’d seen so far. Those slash marks through the previous six made her nervous, especially since she had a feeling she’d be making another tonight. Seven bands rejected. None she could pass along to Irwin.

God. She knew from listening to demo tapes how hard it was to find talent. Why had she thought she could discover the next Guns N’ Roses in six weeks in Austin?

Maybe she should reconsider some of them. She should probably see them a second or third time before striking them from her list.

Except that Irwin never gave a band a second chance. He knew right away if they had talent or not. But she wasn’t hearing any potential. Which brought back her brother’s comment about recognizing talent from primitive sounds. She only now understood what he meant. And how it was possible that maybe she
couldn’t
do it.

Four and a half weeks left.

A bump had her turning to find yet another fangirl jamming herself between her and Slater, lowering her ass to his lap. His large hands came up, cupped her sculpted globes, and pushed her away. Emmie couldn’t hear the conversation, but she did catch the look in his eyes—he wasn’t playing.

She couldn’t help wondering why Slater was the only one not indulging in a little groupie action. From the moment the band had arrived, he’d blocked the women’s advances. Why?

Yikes.
Listen to me, trying to analyze his behavior
. She really had to stop noticing him so much. It was just . . . she didn’t react to him the way she reacted to the other guys. Her pulse kicked up when she saw him, and her stomach flipped when they brushed against each other or when he looked at her a certain way.

Okay. God.
She was attracted to him.

But she wasn’t going to act on it. She wasn’t stupid. Emmie focused on the stage, on her reason for being there. She would find something good to say about Clever Jimmy. The singer had a growly voice—not unappealing—and the lead guitarist’s jangly, arpeggiated licks reminded her of Johnny Marr of the Smiths. Other than that . . . oh, the drummer wore a kilt. With nothing under it. So, there was that.

What would Irwin think?

“Hey, can I have this chair?” she heard someone ask.

Emmie glanced up to find a very beautiful woman with long dark hair and artfully applied makeup eyeing her eagerly. She looked around, not understanding the question. There were clearly no extra chairs at the table. “I’m sorry, what chair?”

“Yours.” The woman motioned to Emmie’s chair.

“Mine?”

“You’re not using it.” The woman tipped her head toward Slater and gave Emmie a look that said,
You’re not going after him, let me get in there
. And then she mouthed,
Please?

Emmie could not believe this. “Are you serious?”

Slater gripped the woman’s hips, shifting her aside. “You want her chair?” he asked the woman. He seemed
delighted
.

And just like that the woman’s posture relaxed. Her eyes softened, and her back arched, thrusting her bodacious bosom into Slater’s face. “Yeah. Is that all right?”

“Absolutely.” Slater got up, grabbed Emmie’s arm and started to lift her. “Come on, babe. Up.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Come on. Give the pretty lady your chair.”

Heat spiked, racing up Emmie’s spine and burning to the tips of her ears. “I am not giving her my chair.” She planted her ass more firmly in the seat. So much for Slater being a good guy who wouldn’t throw her over for some groupie action. She jerked out of his hold.

But he held firm. “Let’s go. Give . . . ?”

“Hilary,” the woman said breathlessly.

“
Hilary
the chair.” He gave the woman a devastating smile. Wrapping an arm firmly under Emmie’s breasts, he pulled her from the table. With his other hand, he motioned to the chair she’d just vacated. “All yours,” he said to Hilary, then grabbed Emmie’s hand, leading her through the packed club.

Emmie glanced over her shoulder to see Hilary stunned, jaw hanging open, as she watched them walk away. She burst out laughing. What a ridiculous woman, trying to kick Emmie out of her chair so she could hook up with Slater. And, yeah, Emmie was kind of digging him a whole lot just then.

They stopped at the hostess’s podium. His arm went around Emmie’s shoulder, pulling her close, as he whispered in the young woman’s ear. He smelled so good, and his body was so freaking hard. Emmie wanted to touch his chest, feel those muscles, curl her fingers into his hair.

Stop it
.

The hostess smiled brightly and then led them to a table for two in the far back corner. Slater discreetly handed her some cash as she whisked the Reserved sign off and disappeared into the crowd.

He held Emmie’s chair out for her, leaning down to her ear. She could feel his heat, smell his masculine scent. Her body lit up with excitement. She waited, but he didn’t say anything. He just stood there, his cheek touching her hair, and she tensed, not sure what he was doing or what he expected from her. Excitement exploded across her skin in chill bumps.