You Really Got Me (Rock Star Romance #1) (6 page)

“Is this too far from the stage?” he finally asked, mouth practically nuzzling her ear.

She shook her head, wishing he’d move away.
Baloney
. That wasn’t what she wished at all. She wanted to turn into him and feel the smooth skin of his freshly shaved cheek on hers.
God.
“No, this is fine.” Her heart pounded so fast it hurt. She felt uncomfortably warm and just wanted to go home, but without a car in this huge, sprawling city, she was out of luck. “I don’t think I’m interested, though.”

“Not at all?” he asked softly.

Wait, what were they talking about? The band she’d come to see? Or was it something else? Jittery nerves had her feet shifting restlessly under the table. She shook her head.

Finally, he stepped away, taking the seat across from her. While her pulse thudded in her ears, he looked calm and comfortable. Perfectly at ease.

Of course he did. She was so stupid. Getting worked up over a guy like Slater, who would never see her as anything but Derek’s sister. He was being
polite
.

Determined to shake it off, get her focus back, she reached for the clear glass candleholder in the middle of the table. The glass warmed her fingers. “So, thanks for that . . . back there. I can’t believe she wanted to take my chair.” Gazing into the yellow flame, she said, “Why, um, why
did
you do it?”

“Hey, nobody puts Emmie in a corner.” He gave her a devilish smile.

“The rock god knows a line from
Dirty Dancing
?”

“Emmie. I’m hurt. There’s so much more to me than you realize.”

“Yeah? Well, you might consider showing me more than the rock god if you don’t want to keep getting your feelings hurt.”

He sat back, regarding her with a blank expression.

She had no idea what he was thinking, but for the first time she saw his vulnerability.

And that was not good. Because that meant there
was
more to him than she’d suspected.

—

Slater didn’t normally get turned on by conversation. Nice tits, a firm touch, the flick of a tongue, sure. But something about Emmie’s honesty, her directness . . . it shouldn’t, but it turned him on. Placing his elbows on the table, he leaned forward. “So, you want to get to know me?”

“Well, yeah. We’re home alone together most days. Might as well have actual conversations. If, you know, you can handle it.”

He smiled. “Let’s just see if I can.” He picked up his chair and moved it a quarter of the way around the table, toward her. “So, tell me something. I hear you typing away in your room every day. What’re you working on?”

Her head dipped, her shiny hair spilling forward. “Oh, I’m writing an article for
Rolling Stone
.”

He leaned closer to hear her better over the shrieking guitars. He watched her fingers gently stroke the candleholder. An image of those fingers on his dick flashed in his mind, making his skin tighten.

What the fuck?
Emmie’s fingers weren’t going anywhere near his dick.

Focus.
Rolling Stone
.

But then she shifted, and a ripple of awareness rushed over him when he got a whiff of her fresh floral scent. She licked her lips, drawing all his senses to that juicy pink mouth.

He was
not
thinking about Derek’s sister that way, obviously. Just that . . . she had thick eyelashes framing gold-brown eyes that sparkled with intelligence and humor. And that was the thing about her. Living with five raunchy guys, her future up in the air, she still maintained her sense of humor.

He dragged his chair even closer. So he could hear her better. “You’re published?”

She nodded, setting the candle down. “Yeah, they’ve printed a few of my articles. I don’t have much time to write. But sometimes an idea comes to me, and I just knock it out.”

“Published in
Rolling Stone
? That’s fucking impressive.”

“Well, I’m Irwin’s assistant. It gives me certain advantages.”

“I didn’t know you were a writer. Derek never said anything.”

“Oh, no. No, no. I just write articles because . . . well, I have certain insights that
Rolling Stone
readers appreciate.” She looked away, cocking her head as though she was just realizing something. “Well, yeah, I kind of am a writer. I mean, I don’t write very often because I don’t have time. But I keep a journal, I write articles . . . so, you know what? I am a writer. It’s how I work out my thoughts, my issues. It’s how I express myself. So, yes. I’m a writer.” She looked so happy, so triumphant, he had to smile. Her features turned pink.

He shook his head, too aware of her. Every time her tongue came out to lick her lips, he felt a jolt of desire. Every time she used her hands to gesture, she unknowingly pressed her breasts together, causing them to plump at the V of her T-shirt.

“Of course, I’m not a
creative
writer like you. Your lyrics are unusual. Really emotional and powerful. How do they come to you?” She leaned closer, and now their shoulders touched.

She had the warmest, kindest eyes. And she always seemed so interested in what he had to say. “As a kid, they came as stories. Like the kind my mom read to me. Sometimes she’d be reading, but I wouldn’t hear her because I’d be changing the direction of the story line. And then, after she’d turn out the light and leave me alone, I’d continue imagining the story. But I learned to focus on one . . .” He was about to say
emotion
but stopped himself from getting too intense. “One aspect of the story. Concentrate on it and turn it into a song.”

“What were you going to say? You weren’t going to say ‘aspect of the story.’”

He smiled, a little uncomfortable. He didn’t usually get so real with people. They saw him one way, and he delivered. “I learned that a song is about one emotion, one feeling. So, I had to keep narrowing the story down, trying to figure out what I was trying to say.”

“Like finding one core moment and then writing a song about it.”

“Exactly. Because behind every story is that one core moment. That emotion that’s fueling it.”

“You’re absolutely right. I never thought of it like that.” She looked at him so attentively, like she was interested in what he had to say. “It’s hard work, huh?”

“It’s fucking hard.”

She laughed, leaning back in her chair. “Why is everything in life so hard?”

“Your life is pretty sweet.”

“Ha. You think because I work for Irwin Ledger my life is easy? I’m a personal assistant, Slater. Other than writing a few articles for
Rolling Stone
, which I never even considered a huge achievement until you just pointed it out, I’ve done nothing on my own. Ever. Before I left for college, I was basically my dad’s personal assistant. I work for people. I don’t have a talent of my own.”

“You’re great at figuring out what we’re doing wrong. That’s a talent.”

She looked at him, and slowly, surely, a smile bloomed across her features. “Maybe it is.” And then she sighed. “I don’t know why we picked such a mean, tough business.”

He looked away, his chest tightening. He wanted to say it had obviously picked them, but he’d exposed enough of himself. “I don’t know about you, but I want to get laid.”

She eyed him skeptically, sadly even.

“Sorry. Old habits.”

She leaned just a tiny bit toward him, so close now he could feel her cranberry-scented breath on his skin. “What do you really want? For real?”

His pulse kicked up, making him feel a little panicky. His impulse was to crack a joke, be crude, but the way she held his gaze . . . it skewered him to the spot. And then, without really thinking, he said, “I don’t want to be a failure. Like my dad was.” And where the hell had
that
come from? Christ, he didn’t even want to see her reaction. Then again, she probably knew all about his fuckup dad from Derek.

Why wasn’t she saying anything? Finally, curiosity got the better of him—he
wanted
to know her reaction—so he looked at her. The moment he did, she gave a gentle smile.

“I don’t think that’s possible. I’ve heard your songs. You’re really talented. Was your dad?”

He shook his head. “My dad was all over the place. He wanted to be a rock star, but he never stuck with anything long enough to actually be good at it.”

“Does he have any songs lying around that you could, I don’t know, finish for him? That’d be kind of sweet, right? Maybe he failed during his life, but his son, the one he devoted his entire life to helping, turns one of his songs into a hit. Kind of a tribute to all he did do right in raising you.”

Slater swallowed. He felt like he’d taken a blow to the chest. He couldn’t take a full breath. Could she see how he was struggling here? Did she know the impact her idea had on him? He chanced another look at her. Still with that gentle smile.

“Just an idea.” And then she turned back to the stage to watch the shitty band.

He didn’t move, he was still holding on to the idea she’d planted in him. All the things
his dad had done right
in raising him.

He’d always resented his dad—had lived with a tight knot of rancor in his chest. Like a tumor growing close to a joint, making him wince with every move he made. Yet, oddly, in spite of the anger, he’d held on to a bold and vibrant love for him. Yeah, his dad had embarrassed the shit out of him, but he was . . . well, he was Slater’s dad.

And, frankly, he owed it to him to become a rock star. Because, seriously, no matter what Slater thought of him, his dad had devoted his entire life to making his son successful. Even if he’d gone about it the wrong way. Even if Slater had hated every moment of it.

It would suck if his dad’s life’s efforts amounted to nothing.

But, man, what a fucking compliment. That Slater’s talent was
proof
of something—Jesus. It blew him away. Not just that someone like Emmie thought he was talented enough to write hits—although that idea alone made him feel a degree of success that had always seemed elusive to him.

But that his dad had done right by him.

Jesus, the power in those words. It just floored him.

What the hell did Emmie see in him?

He took in her profile, her attention now fixed on the band. Closing him out.

And,
fuck
, he wanted her back.

Slater heard the front door slam. He opened his bedroom door and heard Emmie sigh. Quickly setting his book aside, he headed down to the living room to find a pile of stuffed recyclable grocery bags by the front door. Lifting them, he brought them into the kitchen where he found her sweaty and flushed.

And then it struck him. “You
carry
the groceries?”

“Of course. How else would I get them home?”

“I don’t know.” He hadn’t even thought about it. “Why don’t you drive your brother to work so you can have the van on days like today?”

“He needs it. He does errands during his breaks. Like today, he’s picking up the new T-shirts.”

Slater couldn’t believe it. For two weeks, she’d done the grocery shopping by herself. He pulled a receipt out of the bag. “Safeway? What the hell, Emmie, I thought you were going to Desi’s.”

“Why would I go to Desi’s? It’s way more expensive.” She drew the back of her hand across her damp forehead. “Seriously, I don’t mind. In New York I walk all the time. I’m not used to being so sedentary.”

Could Derek be that much of a dick that he’d let his sister walk a mile and a half to buy groceries for the six of them? He opened the refrigerator, pulled out the pitcher Emmie used to make lemonade, and poured her a glass. “Here.”

“Oh, that’s okay. You don’t have to—”

He gave her a stern look.

“Okay, thank you.”

He got busy unloading the bags. “I’m here all day. I’ll take you to the store, for Christ’s sake. Why didn’t you ask me?”

She didn’t answer, so he turned around to find her smirking.

“What? You can ask me for a ride.”

“Seriously, Slater? I wouldn’t ask you to drive me around on my errands.”

“I’m telling you I don’t mind.” He shoved a gallon of milk into the refrigerator, filled with actual food for the first time in—ever. Yogurt, butter, cheeses, mustard, ketchup, lunch meat. Actual food.

He felt like an ass. All this time—two weeks—she’d been without a car in a sprawling city. They lived on the outskirts of Austin, practically in the country, in a crappy little development. Without a car she could only go to the strip malls along Pleasant Valley Boulevard.

He wished she’d been comfortable enough with him to ask for a ride . . . but . . . his thoughts went back to the skinny dipping incident. And all the cracks he made to get a rise out of her. He wished he hadn’t done that with her, and he didn’t know how to fix it.

He straightened, stalling, not sure where to begin.
I’m sorry
wasn’t going to come out of his mouth. “You stopped swimming.”

Her thumb rubbed the condensation on the glass. “Yeah. Not much of a swimmer.”

“I fucked it up for you.” He took a step closer to the table, hands resting on the back of a chair.

“Yeah. You did.”

He rubbed the wood with his thumbs. “You left me hanging, not saying why Irwin didn’t like our demo.”

“That’s not why you did it.”

No, it wasn’t. But what could he say?
You got under my skin?
Not likely.

“You’re so used to the game. I can’t tell whether it’s the only way you know of interacting with women or if you’re testing me to see if I secretly harbor fantasies about you.”

“Do you?” He tried to play with her, get his leer on, but since she’d just called him out on it, he couldn’t find the energy. He felt like a tool.

“Oh, I think you’re safe with me.”

Something was going on with her. Some kind of internal crisis that went beyond wanting a promotion. She didn’t give away much at all, but the occasional reference to her love—or sex?—life made him wonder.

See, this was why he didn’t like to be around her so much. Sitting here, talking to her, he wanted to know more about her. She
interested
him.

And, of course, he couldn’t help noticing her mouth, her delicate wrists, the tiny little constellation of freckles on her right shoulder. Seriously, how cute was that? No freckles anywhere else but the little constellation on her shoulder.

“I can hear you composing in your room.”

Well, that ripped him out of his dangerous thoughts. He turned back to the counter, reaching into a bag and pulling out boxes of cereal. She joined him. They worked quietly, side by side.

“You practice every day.” She looked at him, but he concentrated on shoving the boxes into the cabinet over the refrigerator.

“I guess I have my answer as to why your songs are so good.”

“No idea what you’re talking about.” He handed her some boxes of pasta, since she stood in front of the pantry.

She took them, lining them up on a shelf. “Oh, please. You like when I talk straight to you, but you don’t want to be straight with me? Stop hiding behind this clichéd bad-boy persona. There’s more to you than a singer in a rock band who likes to get laid.” She leaned in close and fake whispered. “I saw the book you’re reading.”

“You’ve been in my room?”

“Down, boy. You left your laundry in the dryer. I simply put your basket inside your room. Your copy of
The Jazz Theory Book
was lying on your bed. I won’t tell anybody that not only do you work on your songwriting every day, but you study across genres, which would explain the depth and breadth of your material. Self-taught man, huh?”

Reaching down to the bottom of a bag, he pulled out some boxes of butter. “I went to UT with your brother.”

“But you dropped out. You both did.”

“Halfway through junior year. The band took off. Gotta hit it while it’s hot.” He handed her jars of pasta sauce and watched her slide them onto a shelf.

She turned to him, hands reaching, but he had nothing more to give. Their gazes caught. Her expression changed. Her features softened. Her lips parted. Slater’s pulse quickened, and he felt panicky. He needed to get away, but he couldn’t move. His feet wouldn’t move.

And then she smiled. Soft, warm, sweet. A slow spread that filled him with heat and happiness because it said,
I like you
.

And that got him moving. She definitely shouldn’t be liking him. Not Derek’s sister. Not this nice girl who wouldn’t like anything about his life. He headed out of the kitchen, pausing only to say, “Let me know next time you need a ride.” He took the stairs three at a time, shutting himself in his room.

—

Emmie pressed her ear to Slater’s door. Not a sound. Too bad. She loved hearing him work on melodies. Everyone joked about his lifestyle, but she couldn’t figure out when he did all this “banging.” The bar where he worked closed at two AM, and for the last several weeks he’d come home well before three. He got up early—completely contrary to what Derek had promised—and spent most of the day reading, writing, or composing.

So, what gives?
Why did he let everyone think he was such a player? She knocked, hoping he wasn’t napping. Lord knew he needed his sleep. If he wasn’t performing, he was bartending. The guy worked all the time. How he thought he could turn out to be a loser like his dad she didn’t know. The missing ingredient in most artists was discipline. Slater had it in spades.

“Yeah?”

Oh, he
was
in there. “Are you busy?”

“Come in.” He sounded sleepy. She cringed.

She opened the door and peered in to find him sprawled on his bed. He was a big guy, but the way he took up the bed, his feet almost hanging off the mattress, made him look like a conquering warrior. A pillow bunched under his head, a book lying on his chest, he rubbed his eyes.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“Did I wake you?”

He lifted the jazz theory book. “Can’t imagine how I dozed off.”

She smiled, coming in a little further. A breeze from his open window ruffled a shirt slung over the back of a chair and brought in the lovely scent of honeysuckle. “I have a favor to ask. If you’re too tired, I totally understand. But I’d like to pick up some supplies, and I just found out the bus schedule I’ve been using is out of date as of yesterday.”

He swung his feet off the bed, jammed a bookmark in the open page, and got up. “Not a problem. I need to run an errand myself.” Scooping keys and coins off his dresser, he shoved them into his jeans’ pocket and motioned for her to lead the way. “Where we going?”

“The Staples on South Lamar.”

“You need office supplies? Can’t you get them at CVS?”

“You’re such a boy. Of course I can get them at CVS. I can even get them at Safeway. But I want the cute stuff.” She rolled her eyes. “Boys.”

He smiled, shaking his head.

She got into his big, ancient Land Cruiser. It smelled of coffee and . . . candy? She leaned down to scoop up the empty Bit-O-Honey wrappers. As he jammed the key into the ignition, she shook a fistful at him. “Didn’t your mamma ever tell you candy’ll rot your teeth?”

“My mama wrote the book on the subject.”

“What’s she like, your mom? I’ve only ever heard about your dad.”

“My mom’s great.”

“Is she a rocker like your dad was? Should I be picturing tattoos, nose rings, bright orange hair?”

He cracked up. “Dr. Vaughn? She teaches at UT. Not only doesn’t she dye her hair, she wears it in a sensible bob. She’s never worn makeup a day in her life and chooses her shoes based on arch support.” He gestured to the candy wrappers. “As for these . . .” He smiled, and for the first time ever, he wasn’t the jaded, womanizing rock star. He looked boyish. “I like the little bits of nuts in them.”

He leaned over her, opening the glove compartment, and wrapped candies spilled out. “Help yourself.”

Oooh, she liked the way he smelled, all clean and masculine, and loved the thick, corded muscles in his arm. Would it be so awful to touch them, run her hand along the smooth skin? “Thanks.” She unwrapped one and popped it in her mouth. It took a few moments for the honey-flavored candy to dissolve enough that the little pieces of peanuts stuck out. “Mm. Nice.”

“Tunes are in back.”

“Actually, do you think we could listen to this instead?” She pulled a Piper Lee CD out of her bag.

He glanced at it. “I don’t care.”

“She’s playing at Austin City Lights. That’s why I want you guys to play there. Just have a feeling you guys will fit well together.”

“Why do we need to fit well together?”

She shrugged. She’d found out Piper already had an opening act, but Devil’s Den had a reputation for being unreliable. Not to mention they had flaky management. She’d push to get Snatch in. If not to replace them, then to be an additional opener. But she wouldn’t mention it yet—just in case it didn’t work out. “Just thinking.”

“You do that a lot. Hey, speaking of my old neighborhood. My mom’s got a list of things she needs me to do. I’d like to stop by. Do you have somewhere to be this afternoon?”

She’d
love
to see where he grew up. “I was supposed to meet with the Pugs. Have you heard of them?”

He nodded. “They’re pretty cool. We play some of the same venues. Why, you interested in signing them?”

“Well, I don’t know.”

He cut her a quick look, obviously hearing the frustration in her voice.

She glanced at his profile, wondering if she could confide in him. A week ago, she wouldn’t have dared. He’d been so standoffish. But now? “How do I know? I mean, how can you tell if there’s potential? I just . . . sometimes I’m completely befuddled.”

He grinned. “Befuddled?”

“Yeah. I’ve watched Irwin. He gets this expression when he’s hearing something good. It’s how I know he’s into a band. And I try hard to listen, but, I swear, I don’t know what he hears.”

“Stop trying to hear what he hears and just listen for yourself. It’s about you responding to something in the music. Not Irwin. And that’s the good news.
Because
it’s so subjective, it means there’s a band for you to discover that Irwin never would.”

She smiled. “I like that. A lot.” And, wow, the more she thought about it, the more significant it became. She let the idea sit with her, letting it expand and push out the doubts. “You know something? You just did something huge for me. You took the focus off Irwin, off trying to please
him
, and onto the bands. Onto
me
.” She wanted to touch his arm, let him know how much she appreciated what he’d said, but she squeezed her hands together instead. “That’s really cool.”

“Good.” He muttered a curse as a pickup cut in front of him, forcing him to brake hard. Once he’d resumed his normal speed, he said, “So, you were supposed to meet the Pugs this afternoon?”

“Yeah, I was going to meet them for a band practice, but they cancelled. They don’t seem like the most together band.”

“Most aren’t.”

“You guys are.” Wait—

It hit her all at once. The realization so obvious, so clear, she felt it pulse under her skin.

Oh, my God
. So what if Irwin had passed on Snatch’s demo? He hadn’t seen them live, hadn’t seen them since they’d made some changes. She let out a huff of breath, overwhelmed with the joy of it, and he glanced at her.

“What?”

“Nothing.” She shook her head. “I’m such a knucklehead.”

“A knucklehead?”

Snatch
would be the band she discovered. But she wouldn’t say anything yet. Not until she’d made a little more progress—particularly with Piper. If Snatch scored this tour, Irwin would absolutely pay attention to them.

“You okay?”

“Better than okay.” She reached for his knee, but he grimaced before she even made contact, so she withdrew. She couldn’t help the sting of hurt from his reaction. God, did she have man hands or something?

“So, if you’re into fancy office supplies, there’s a place called Go to Work out in Riverdale, which just happens to be right by my mom’s house.”

Okay, she knew she didn’t have man hands. Maybe he just didn’t want to encourage her—what else did he know but women coming on to him? “Way better than Staples?”

“Beyond your wildest imagination.”

“Like you have the slightest idea what’s in my imagination.”

“True. And the mystery keeps me up at night.”

She turned away from him, hiding her smile, because to be perfectly honest? The only thing firing up her imagination these days was
him
.