Fearless For Love (Lovelly #3) (28 page)

Jess.

I pull her close to me and kiss her forehead. It’s been a long time since I thought of that memory of Mom. It was one of very few that I hung on to after she passed away. The promise to never lose myself and to always protect those that needed to be protected. To become a fearless warrior.

But as time moved on, that promise was forgotten too, in between the pain and anger. I pulled away from everything that reminded me of her, including the nickname Harry, because it hurt too much to think of her, to feel the hole she left in my heart. I couldn’t protect her in the end, and that failure haunted me. Until now.

“
When the time comes
,
you
’
ll be found again
.
And when you are
,
don
’
t lose that reason
,
whatever it happens to be
.
. . .
Don
’
t ever let that go
.
Fight with everything you have until you
’
re not afraid anymore
.”

She was right, I had been lost. I’d been lost for a long time. And I know now, it’s Jess. Jess is the reason I’m ready to be that warrior. She’s the person who was sent to find me. Who did find me.

She helped me remember what it’s like to love, to
feel
love again. To know the fear of losing something you can’t live without. To hurt because the one you love is hurting. And there isn’t much I wouldn’t do to keep her safe. I wanted to take Stamos down before, but now, it’s personal. Because I can’t let anything happen to this wonderful creature in my arms.

I take a deep breath, overwhelmed by the depth of emotion swirling in my head, and she stirs. I look down at her peaceful features and smile. Her nose twitches from the strings of hair covering her face. I reach over with my index finger and slowly, gently push it aside, so as not to wake her.

Good god, she’s snoring lightly, and there’s no sound more angelic. I chuckle silently. So this is how it begins. Love, and everything else that comes with it. But I don’t care, even if my brothers do tease me relentlessly. Because fuck. I’m in love with this woman. Hell, I am head over ass in love with her. And there’s no one I wouldn’t fight to keep her safe and happy and in my arms.

She stirs again, slowly, but doesn’t move away from me. I know she’s awake, though, because her breathing has lost the rhythm it had and her hand over my chest feels lighter, like she’s trying not to crush me.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” I say, looking at her.

She tilts her head up. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are clear as day. Clearer than a cloudless sky.

“How did you sleep?” I ask, pulling on a smile.

She drags her arm off me, pushing up into a sitting position and pulling the covers up to cover her chest. God, I want to drag that sheet right off her and go for another round, watch her while we make love. Blood shoots down low and I grunt.
Think guns
,
Stamos
. . .
Tony
. . .
Gah
. . .
Fisher buck naked
.
Anything
,
man
. . .
she
’
s going to think you
’
re a sex addict if you can
’
t control yourself
. Although, that isn’t far from the truth. I am an addict. For her.

“Good. You?” she responds, her voice sultry and gruff.

I stand corrected. Her voice first in the morning is my favorite sound, her slight snoring a close second.

I adjust my position, tucking my hands under my head, and grin up at her. “Better than I have in a long time.”

“Really?” She sounds surprised. “You didn’t seem like you were sleeping much.”

“It’s not about the quantity, sweetheart. It’s the quality of sleep.” I wink at her, crossing my legs at my ankles under the covers, which pulls them lower onto my hips. Her gaze follows and her cheeks turn a slight shade of pink. I look down and realize that I’m standing tall and ready for duty. Morning wood. My earlier attempts to cool myself off didn’t work as well as I thought, then.

I sit up and place my hand over her cheek. I bring my lips to hers and kiss her softly. “However much I love seeing you blush, I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable for what you do to me, Jess.” I kiss her again, gently laying her down without breaking the contact between our lips. I hover over her and her legs fall apart, inviting me back in. I pull back enough to look her in the eye.

“I love you, Jessica Owens,” I whisper.

Her breath hitches, and her mouth parts slightly.

“I’ve been in love with part of you since the day we first met. And ever since, I’ve been falling more and more in love with every part of you, little by little. I never thought I’d see the day when I fell in love, but I have. I’m in love with you.”

This time, she kisses me, her arms wrapped around me, and my heart squeezes in a good way.

When she pulls back, she’s smiling, her lower lip clasped between her teeth. Her gaze drifts from my mouth to my eyes.

“I don’t understand your specific kind of crazy, and you annoy the crap out of me. But you know what? There isn’t anyone I’d rather spend every unbelievable, irritating moment with than you. I love you, Harry, for everything you are. Your crazy, your humor, your heart . . . every single thing.” Her voice gets softer as she speaks, like she’s being choked with her own emotion. She kisses me gently and then whispers the next words, though they echo as loud as ringing bells in my head. “I love you, Harrington Brad Lovelly.”

I kiss her then, deeply, losing myself in a joy more pure than anything I’ve ever felt.

“LAST PRACTICE BEFORE our big show on Friday, kids,” Tom reminds us.

I took the entire week off from Blue Tango so I could spend more time practicing with the guys. I owe it to them. Heck, I owe it to myself to give it my best. Especially if I want the chance to stay in the band permanently. Which I do. This is my dream, and if this show goes well, it could put The Torque on the map.

So, for the next few hours, we work on fine-tuning the songs and lineup, rehearsing our set forward and backward.

The boys eventually take a break to go out and grab something to eat, but I don’t. I grab my headphones instead, and play back the spot in my new solo that I keep having trouble with over and over, trying to figure out why I can’t get it right and ignoring my knotting stomach. I don’t know how many times I listen to those same thirty seconds. But I’m finally so frustrated by my inability to get it right that I scream in frustration, flinging my drumsticks across the room.

A moment later, they appear in front of my face, held by a hand wearing black nail polish and a spiked wristband. Jarod. Embarrassment licks my skin. I remove the headphones and look up at him, nervous. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you guys were back.”

He gives me a lazy grin. “We’re not. They’re taking extended break, so I thought I’d come back with some food.”

“Thank you,” I mumble, taking the foil-wrapped offering and setting it on top of the speaker behind me. “I’m really not hungry, though.”

He runs a finger along the rim of the snare drum with a reckless shrug. “No problem. Still having trouble?”

I sigh and nod, defeated. “I just can’t figure out why I can’t get it right.”

“Here, let me hear it,” he says, crossing his arms and standing off to the side. He closes his eyes and waits, the very picture of listening attentively.

“Okay.” I pick up the drumsticks and twirl them once. I close my eyes and tap the sticks together, counting myself in. And then I play. I concentrate on the music in my head and the way my wrists respond to it. I’m almost at the end, I realize and it sounds much better than it did even a few minutes ago, but then . . .

My eyes spring open as I fumble the last couple beats. “Damn it.”

“I see what you mean,” Jarod says. He studies the drums, like they’re a sculpture he needs to mold. I suppose he is kind of Torque’s Michelangelo, seeing as he’s the one behind ninety percent of our music. “How about we try something a little different?” He moves behind me, gesturing for me to scoot forward on the tiny stool.

Confused, I get up, but he places a hand on my shoulder and swings in behind me. He pulls me back down, and I perch rigidly on the edge of the stool. “Jarod—”

“Just watch.” He wraps his arms around my body and takes the sticks from my hands. He starts to play, but I can’t pay attention. He’s too close. His chest is plastered against my back, and his arms and legs cage me in.

“Okay,” he says when he’s done, offering me the drumsticks. “You try it now.”

I swallow, my hands shaking as I take the sticks. He places his hands over mine, like he’s about to teach me how to play, and his breath fans against my neck. I’ve had it.

“Jarod, stop.” I get abruptly to my feet, nearly knocking him on his ass. I step away from both him and the drums, putting at least five feet of space between us. “I don’t know what—”

“Let’s just cut to the chase, Jess,” he says, cocky. He gets to his feet and saunters toward me, his expression one of lust. “I like you. And I know you like me.”

“I—”

He puts up his finger, cutting me off, and takes another step. I take one back. “I know you do, Jess. Every time I’m near you, every time my hand brushes your skin, you flush and shiver. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. I have. Many times.”

“
Yeah
,
because you creep me out
,” is what I want to say, but don’t. He advances again, and I retreat.

“And I couldn’t help but notice that your boy-toy hasn’t been to our practices for a little while, so I figured you broke things off with him. We can be together, now.”

“Are you delusional?” I spit, as my back hits the wall.
Shit
.
Shit
.
Shit
.

“Delusional?” He scoffs, placing his hands on either side of my head. I try hard not to flinch, to stand tall though everything in me is wishing I could shrink into the wall behind me. “Hardly. Especially now that I’ve stopped taking my medication.” He runs the back of his hand over my cheek and I struggle to keep my composure as my stomach roils with revulsion.
Medication? What medication?

“I don’t like you, Jarod.” I wanted it to sound strong, sure, but instead it comes out just barely above a whisper.

“Then why are you still here?” he challenges, his face coming closer than ever before. The smell of alcohol fills the air between us.

“Because I love playing the drums.”

“Yes. Exactly. Can’t you see it, Jess? You and me, together. Making beautiful music on and off stage. We’re perfect for each other, baby.”

I’ve had enough. He might be the lead singer of The Torque, but I’m not willing to sell myself to be part of it. I shove at his chest, and instead of taking it as the rejection it is, he takes it as the exact opposite, pressing his mouth to mine.

My muffled protests fill the air and my hands beat at his chest. When he doesn’t budge, I bite down hard on his lip.

“Ouch!” He wipes his lower lip with his thumb and checks it for blood, anger and confusion mixing into something dangerous in his eyes. “What was that for?”

I swing my hand across his face in response. “Don’t
ever
touch me.” I shove past him, heading for the exit, just as the rest of the guys walk in, soda cups in hand.

“Hey, Jessica!” Joel lifts his hand up to give me a high-five.

I give him a weak smile and slap it as I walk past them, hoping they can’t see how badly I’m shaking.

“Where are you going?” Jackson asks, while Tom’s smile disappears. He looks to Jarod, then to me.

“Break.”

I make it outside, just past the barn door, before I let out a scream, my head cradled between my hands. I fight back the tears ready to pour out from deep inside my chest. Why? Why can’t I ever escape my past?

“Jessica?” Tom’s voice comes from behind me. I pivot and find him standing in the doorway, his face scrunched with concern. I don’t know what he sees in my face, but the next moment he’s running toward me. “What happened? Everything okay?”

I shake my head. “I’m fine. I just—I just need some time.”

“Jess—”

“It’s fine. I handled it.”

He sighs, rapping his hands on his thighs like he’s not quite sure whether to believe me, comfort me, or slap me. “Okay. Are you . . . you ready to come back in?”

“Yeah. Just a few more minutes,” I say.

He nods, his lips pursed in a grim line. He pulls the barn door open and then stops. “Whatever Jarod did, I’m sorry,” he says, his hand on the barn door as, he avoids making eye contact. “And I know this is a dick thing to ask, but, whatever he did, could you please not tell Killshot about it until Sunday? I have a feeling it won’t go all that well. For Jarod.”

I’m shell-shocked. I hadn’t even gotten that far yet. But he’s right. What am I going to tell Harrington?

He hangs his head and draws a long, painful breath. “I’ve known Jarod for as long as I can remember, so I know what he’s like. I know he fucked things up, and I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

I wrap my arms around my waist, not sure how to respond.

“Okay. Well”—he takes another deep breath—“I’m going to go back inside. Come in when you’re ready, Jessica.”

Then he leaves me to my thoughts.

Will this Friday be the last time I ever play in a band? That possibility troubles me more than the fact I got assaulted by the lead singer, and I don’t know what that says about me. Am I willing to risk everything for music? Or am I just so conditioned to being the mishandled plaything of men that it doesn’t even faze me anymore? God, how messed up does that make me?  

I scoff out loud and shake my head, trying to clear it of the dismal thoughts circling my mind like vultures.

I just need to take it one day at a time. Same as always. For now, the only thing I need to concentrate on is going back in there, getting back on that chair, and playing the drums.

Not Jarod. Not his hands on my skin. And definitely not that kiss.

I turn around and take a huge breath. I let it out slowly.
I
’
ve got it
.
I
’
ve got this
.
I wipe my hands on my pants and walk back into the barn.

My head held high. One foot in front of the other.