You Really Got Me (Rock Star Romance #1) (4 page)

Oh.

Heat exploded in her core, radiating out in shimmery waves, making her legs go weak. And then he looked away, leaving her feeling limp and ragged.

Okay, what had just happened? Shaken, she wove through the sea of bodies toward the table with the Reserved sign on it and slumped in a chair to watch the rest of the show.

Body Electric? Who needed a checklist when she could just watch Slater perform and feel all the things she’d never felt before.

The man was
good
.

—

Slater stumbled out of bed and made his way to the bathroom. His head hurt, his throat burned, and his dick was hard enough to break through wallboard.

Standing in front of the toilet, he heard a splashing sound through the open window. They didn’t have someone to clean their pool, so . . . ? He stepped around the toilet and gazed outside. Vision still blurry from not nearly enough sleep, it took him a moment to make sense of what he saw.

Luscious pink nipples poked out of the water. Sudden awareness wiped out the haze of exhaustion, and he leaned against the window, full-on staring. Derek’s sister did the backstroke, dark hair fanning out, breasts arching out of the water with each lift of an arm. The curve of her waist, the flare of her hips, the splash of water with each stroke of her feet . . . Christ, he hadn’t imagined he could get harder than he already was, but he fucking hurt.

But, wait,
Emmie
? The prairie girl?

Skinny dipping?

—

With her eyes closed, the sun burning her back, Emmie sliced her arms through the cool water. Turned out she loved skinny dipping so much, she’d swum every day this week. She loved the water rushing over her bare skin, loved the feeling of wantonness. She couldn’t say it aroused her—not, like, on fire,
I have to go have sex right now
—but it did make her feel aware of her body in a way she hadn’t been before. The day before she’d tried to touch herself, hoping the awareness would spark into arousal with the stroke of a finger, but she found the water washed away the slickness, so . . . nothing had really ignited.

Today, she thought she might try touching herself on the chaise—if she could get past the uneasy feeling someone might be watching. She’d checked from every angle, and it seemed they had total privacy back here, but did she really want to take the chance? She kind of did.

Flipping over, she pushed off the wall at the far end of the pool and drifted under the water, reveling in the muffled stillness. Maybe she’d wrap a towel around her, cover up a little, do it that way. But, no, that wouldn’t be as bold. And wasn’t that the whole point? To get wild, she had to be fearless, daring. How could she find her rapture if she held back?

Popping her head out of the water to take a breath, she realized she’d reached the steps in the shallow end. She got out of the pool, pushing the hair off her face and swiping the droplets away from her mouth and nose.

A figure at the edge of her peripheral vision sent fear spiking through her. Slater. He just stood there, like it was totally normal to see her naked. “Oh, my God.” In the split second that followed, her brain registered the distance to the towel on the chaise—too far—and without thinking she jumped back into the shallow end, holding her hands over her breasts. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here.”

“God, Slater. Go away.”

But he just stood there. It was so odd to think of him as a rock star here at home, out of context, because he looked like such a frat boy. No, not just a frat boy. More like the Grand Poobah. He wasn’t just good looking. He was big—at least six-three—all sculpted muscles, and stunningly gorgeous. No tats, no piercings, no messy hair, no leather wristbands. He didn’t look anything like a rocker.

“You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

He cocked his head. “I am? Why’s that?”

“Stop it. God. Why would you
do
something like this?”

He crouched at the side of the pool, giving her the full force of those penetrating blue-gray eyes. “Why didn’t he like the demo?”

“Excuse me?”

He didn’t answer, but his gaze bore into hers, insistent.

“Could you please go back in the house?”

“Just answer me. What reason did he give?” His dark hair, cropped close to his head, stuck up, making him look like he’d come from the salon and not from bed.

“Back up, for God’s sake. What is your problem?” She held on to the rim of the pool, her body pressed to the wall so he couldn’t see anything—well, of course he’d already seen everything. Crap, had she shaved her bikini line? She’d thought she’d be alone. Her eyes squeezed shut. She didn’t think she’d shaved there.

Just kill me now.

He leaned slightly forward until his face was too close. Her heart pounded, and her muscles tightened. But then, she had to admit, she didn’t see a guy who was leering at her. Didn’t see a guy interested in seeing her naked at all.

She just saw a guy who genuinely wanted to know why he’d been rejected. “He said you don’t know who you are yet.”

Frowning, he gazed out at the elephant ears. Then, he reached for her towel, shook it out, and held it open for her.

“I’m not getting out of the pool with you standing there.”

“What does that mean? We ‘don’t know who we are yet’?” He looked so contemplative, like the comment ate away at him. “What does that mean?” He turned away from her, still holding out the towel, so she hoisted herself out of the pool, water streaming down her naked body, and quickly snatched it out of his hand.

The moment she’d finished wrapping it around her, he turned back and said, “We know exactly who we are. People
like
us. You see them. You see the response we get.”

She didn’t want to tell him her thoughts yet, so she just lifted the bottom of the towel and wiped her face.

“What did he mean?”

“I can’t speak for him. He didn’t say anything else, so it wouldn’t be fair for me to guess what he meant. He doesn’t explain. He’s intuitive. He just knows.” She shrugged, feeling the water from her hair saturate the back of the towel.

“Do you agree with him?”

She almost smiled. Slater didn’t seem like the kind of guy to value her opinion. Or to care what someone thought of his demo. “I have some thoughts, but I’d rather not talk about it until I’ve seen the show a few more times. Besides, you know how subjective it is. Everyone has his own taste. Just because—”

“Don’t bullshit me. I know who Irwin Ledger is. And I know you know what you’re doing. Is it my songs? Because I know I have a lot of variation. I thought that was a strength.”

“No, it’s not the songs. Your songs are great.” In fact, she couldn’t quite understand how his songs could be so good. That level of songwriting came from years of studying music theory. They didn’t just have catchy tunes and hooks, which in themselves made careers. They had polish. Only a very serious musician could arrange songs of that caliber. “Let me see you guys a few more times before I say anything else, okay?”

He nodded curtly, turned, and walked back into the house. The sliding door rolled, and she felt the thud of its closure like an insult.

She stood alone in the backyard, naked under a towel, and she’d never felt so utterly sexless in her life.

It wasn’t like she thought he’d ever be attracted to her—obviously—but he hadn’t even taken a peek. It was like she wasn’t even a woman to him.

How
humiliating.

Emmie set the tamale pie on the table. She hoped the guys liked chili. She didn’t know how to feed six people as cheaply as possible. So, other than chicken, pasta, and chili, she didn’t have a lot of interesting ideas. But she’d look up recipes online and come up with some good meals.

The guys tore into the corn bread she’d put in the center of the table and then took turns spooning the pie onto their plates. Slater piled salad on his—he was the only one besides her who ate it, so she’d learned to make a small one.

“Okay, so we only made ninety bucks at the merch table last night,” Derek said. “And we can’t afford to get new T-shirts made until we make another grand. So—”

“Just take some money out of the studio fund.” Slater poured dressing on his salad. “We’ll pay it back when we sell some shirts.”

“Not touching the studio fund.”

Slater looked at Derek like he was slow. “Well, you’re not going to sell T-shirts if you don’t have any to sell.”

Emmie couldn’t help noticing the way Slater distanced himself by talking about
Derek
selling shirts. She hadn’t lived with them all that long, but Slater was unquestionably an essential—if not
the
essential—element of the band. Why did he distance himself like that?

“Nothing’s more important than making a new demo,” Derek said.

“What about the press kit?” Ben said. “Where do we get the money for that?”

Derek looked at her. “How much will that cost?”

She set her fork down. “Other than the demo itself, the kit’s not that expensive. We’ll need a great picture of the band, but the rest is stuff I have to write up. I’ll need to get your bios—no more than, say, a paragraph or two for each of you. I’ll need your fact sheet, you know, where you’ve performed, who you’ve toured with. Do you have press clippings?”

Derek nodded. “So when can we have it?”

“The press kit?”
Here we go
. The problem with sharing her opinions with Derek was that—thanks to their dad—he heard any suggestion as criticism. She had to tell him, of course, but she had to do it the right way.

“Em?” her brother said.

“I’m not sure we’re ready for that.”

Slater set down his fork. She knew he’d been waiting to hear from her.

“What?” Derek said. “We’re more than ready. We’re beyond ready. That’s the whole point of having you here.”

“I know that,” she began. “But I’d like to throw out some ideas before we go ahead with the press kit. Of course, I’m not here to tell you what to do, so you don’t have to listen to any of it. But maybe you could hear me out?”

“Talk.” Slater leaned forward, a napkin balled in his fist.

She studied Derek’s face. He sat rigidly, chewing the inside of his mouth. “If you don’t like any of my ideas, we’ll go ahead with the press kit, okay?”

Slater held her brother’s gaze. It was weird the way they looked at each other, some big, silent communication going on born out of nine years of working together. After several tense moments, Derek’s shoulders slumped, and he exhaled. “What’re your ideas.”

Not even a question. Just resigned. “Thanks for hearing me out. Okay. Well, let’s start with the merchandise table. You guys are great up there. You really are. But as soon as you leave the stage, it’s over. You go to your private table and close yourselves off from everyone. Well, except Slater, who goes to the bar and starts hitting on women.”

“I don’t
hit
on anyone.”

Was he really going to argue about who initiated the moves? “That wasn’t a judgment. Just a statement of fact. Am I wrong about what happens when you leave the stage?”

Slater’s expression gave away nothing. If he let pride keep him from facing the truth, he didn’t have a hope in hell of making it in this ridiculously competitive business.

“No.” His deadpan response made her smile. He kept surprising her.

“Now, hang on a second,” her brother said. “We’re the biggest college band in Texas. People love us.”

“Okay.”
So?
“Mostly, the girls love Slater.” She expected a self-satisfied expression, but his jaw tensed. She could practically hear him urging her on,
Talk
.

“That’s not true,” Ben said. “We’ve got thousands of fans.”

“Fans aren’t enough. Especially when the bulk of your fans are girls who want to play Seven Minutes in Heaven with the lead singer. If you want to get signed, if you want to be the next U2, you have to have more than fans. You have to have fanatics.”

Cooper barked out a laugh. “I like that.” He clapped his hands once. “That’s good.”

“Have you seen the crowds at our shows?” Derek sounded like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “They know every lyric. They wear our T-shirts. They’re all over our website.”

“Posting naked pictures of themselves for Slater.”

“Hey,” Derek said. “He’s not the only reason they like us. We’re a good band. We’ve got a great sound.”

“You do. You absolutely do.” She held his gaze long and hard, projecting only one thought,
Let’s get you to the next level.

“Hear her out.” Slater gave her a chin nod, her cue to continue.

“Let’s go back to the merchandise. So, the show ends, and you guys go to your private table.” She motioned to the four guys. “And you go to the bar.” Slater didn’t move a muscle, just listened. “Who’s working the merchandise table?”

“I always get some chicks to help out,” Derek said. “It’s always covered.”

“But you want to
sell
the merchandise, right? You need the cash for the recording studio. And not only that, but you want fanatics. So wouldn’t you sell more if you guys took turns working it?”

“Valid point,” Cooper said.

“We can do that, no problem,” Ben said.

“We’d sell a shitload more stuff, for sure.” Pete reached for the casserole dish, scraping the bottom for the last of the tamale pie.

“What else?” Slater said.

She cleared her throat and wiped her mouth with a napkin, though she hadn’t eaten anything. “So, my boss only said one thing. He said you don’t know who you are yet.” She watched Slater, how he focused on her every word. “I didn’t know what he meant because the songs were fantastic. And you gave a really nice selection of them. I mean, I knew your name and logo wouldn’t work, but—”

She felt the guys reel back. The energy in the room grew charged.

“Now you don’t like our name,” Derek said. “That’s just fucking great. We’ve had that name and logo for eight years.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Slater said, never raising his voice. Pete’s chair legs hit the floor. The room went silent.

She wouldn’t budge on this one. “No record label’s going to sign a band called Snatch whose logo is a beaver. That’s not only low class, it’s just plain unacceptable.”

“Jesus Christ, you’re trying to change us,” Derek said. “Just like all the managers. Which is
why we don’t have them anymore
. I told you we didn’t need somebody to come in and change us. You’re only here to promote us, Em. That’s it.”

“Yes, promote you so you get to the next level.” Her brother was so stubborn. She wanted to say,
I’m not Dad
, but that would embarrass him. “It’s unlikely there
is
a next level for a band called Snatch whose logo is a beaver.” She looked to Slater to see if he wanted her to go on. “Talk?”

He cracked a smile, nodded.

“Let’s stay focused. So, back to Irwin’s comment. You’ve got Pete and Cooper with tats and piercings, Derek and Ben with shaved heads and chains dangling off their tuxedo pants, and then you’ve got Slater, your
GQ
cover boy, as your lead singer. I mean, who are you? And you know what’s even harder to understand? You write amazing music. Better quality than anything I’ve come across in all my time at Amoeba Records. And I started there as an intern in high school.”

“Really?” When Slater talked to her, it felt like they were the only two people in the room. How did he do that? No wonder the girls loved him. Who didn’t want that kind of attention from a freaking gorgeous man?

“Really. You write great songs.” She turned to the rest of the guys. “So, who are you? A grunge band?” She motioned to Pete and Cooper. “Ska? Punk? Emo?” She looked at her brother. “Or what? What are you?”

“We’re whoever we want to be,” Derek said tersely. “It’s all about the music.”

“It is if you want to stay right where you are. Unfortunately, if you want to sign with a national label, your band is going to need an identity, an image that fits the quality of the music.”

“We’re not changing the name,” Derek said. “We’ve got thirty thousand followers.”

“Yeah, it’s too late to change the name,” Ben said.

“Then don’t. Guy Ritchie made a movie named
Snatch
. The word has multiple meanings.” She shrugged. “Just change the logo.”

“To what?” Derek shoved his plate away, tipping his chair back on two legs. “I think we all know what snatch means.”

“That’s right. We do.” She paused. “It’s an Olympic weight-lifting event. That’s what you meant, right?” She smiled at Slater. “I can just see a Barbie-waisted, big-breasted, stiletto-boot-wearing chick squatting in the weight-lifter pose with a huge barbell over her head. Snatch.”

Derek smiled. “Ha.”

“I can see her as just a sketch in bold black marker, you know?” she said. “Give her a slash of red for her mouth.”

“I’m getting wood,” Ben said.

“Hey, you want pretty boy here to get tatted up?” Pete said, elbowing Slater. “Grow out his hair so he looks like a baller.” He ruffled Slater’s all-American haircut.

“Not at all.” How to say the next bit without hurting feelings? “Nobody has to change his physical appearance . . . much. I mean, Pete could trim his hair.” She hoped she didn’t hurt him, but his big bush of frizzy strawberry-blond hair should probably go. “And you and Ben could probably lose the chains. It wouldn’t be that big a deal. The thing is, you don’t have to dress the same. You just have to all fit one image. So, if you choose to be, like, alt/indie rockers, which in my opinion is your sound, then you each decide how to dress within that concept. Whatever feels comfortable to you . . . within the image.”

“So we all have to look like Slater?” Ben asked, not looking happy about it.

“Well, at least we’ll get laid more,” Pete said.

“You don’t have to look like Slater.” They couldn’t look like him if they tried. They didn’t have his soulful eyes, his insanely sexy mouth . . . No, no, that wasn’t it at all. They didn’t have his sexuality. Oh, God. It just struck her—he was her polar opposite. She had zero sex appeal, and he was pure sex.

Derek leaned back, opened a drawer, and pulled out a pad of paper and a pencil. “So. Take turns working the merch table. New logo.” He pointed the pencil at Slater. “You on that?”

Slater nodded, like he couldn’t care less.

“Unified look. What else you got?”

She smiled, so freaking relieved he’d opened up to her ideas. Although she doubted her next comment would be well received. “Maybe that’s enough for tonight. I’m starved.”

“Emmie,” Slater warned.

“Right. Okay, well, the thing is, and again, this is just a recommendation, but you guys might want to consider not drinking on performance nights.”

“Okay, time to get laid.” Pete got up and brought his dish to the sink.

Well, she hadn’t expected that one to go over well.

Ben and Cooper got up, too, but left their plates on the table.

“We’re not drunks,” Slater said.

“We’re totally professional,” Derek said.

“I didn’t say you weren’t.”

“You said we have to stop drinking,” Slater said.

“Is that what you heard? ’Cause it’s not what I said.”

“Explain.” Slater urged her on, but when she kept looking at the three who’d gotten up, who’d had enough of her ideas, he said, “No one’s going anywhere.”

They stayed right where they were. Pete leaned against the counter, crossing his arms over his skinny chest.

She really wished she’d kept her mouth shut on this one, even if she knew she was right. “Your live show is great, tons of energy, well-rehearsed.”

“Damn straight,” Derek said. “We rehearse four or five times a week. Most bands can’t do that.”

“So what’s the problem?” Slater asked.

“I could be wrong—”

“You’re not wrong,” Slater said. “What?”

“It’s just . . . there’re times when you falter. Ben loses the beat, or you guys start one song but quit and start another. Most people won’t notice it because you’re so charming. You make everything fun. So, I think what you’re doing is fine for where you are right now, but if you want to jump to the next level, you’ve got to be just that much sharper, more professional.” She looked to Slater. “You have to know nothing dries out the vocal chords like alcohol.”

His mouth flattened into a grim line. “I don’t get drunk before a performance.”

“Not until after.” Oh, she really shouldn’t have said that. She actually didn’t know what he did after a show. She’d seen the others come home drunk lots of times. But she was always asleep by the time Slater got home.

“What I do after hours is nobody’s business.”

“Actually, everything you do is the band’s business,” she said, unwilling to let him intimidate her. They didn’t have to take her advice, but they’d asked for it. She believed in it, and she wouldn’t back down. “Everything you do reflects back on the band. I’m going to be inviting reviewers to your shows. You think they won’t notice when you falter up there? When your voice gets hoarse? They’re
looking
for ways to criticize you. Why give them anything that’s within your power to control?”

She got up, figuring they ought to have some time alone. “Like I said, these are just my suggestions. Do what you like. I’ll stick to my end whether you use them or reject them. Think about it, and get back to me. I’m ready to move on the press kit when you are.”

—

Slater opened the door to the sound of laughter at nine in the morning.
What the hell?
After another mostly sleepless night, he needed to fall into bed, but curiosity got the better of him, so he followed the sounds into the kitchen.