You Really Got Me (Rock Star Romance #1) (8 page)

His mom rolled her eyes, smiling, then looked back to the photo. “They did everything together. Honestly, I don’t think there was another person on this earth Jonny enjoyed being with more than his dad.”

A tool clattered to the tile floor. “I thought you had a meeting?” Slater stood in the doorway of the powder room, looking like a gunslinger in a saloon.

“Oh, goodness, yes. Yes, I do. And I can’t be late.” She reached for Emmie’s hand again. “Really, it was so lovely to meet you. Please come by one evening with Jonny. We’ll have supper, and you can hear him play. Wouldn’t that be fun, Jonny? Playing for your friend?”

“Mom.” Emmie had never seen him so agitated, and she couldn’t imagine why. His mom was kind and so obviously admired her son’s talent. But instead of reveling in it, Slater just stood there, grinding his teeth. He drew in a breath, shook his head, and went back into the bathroom.

His mom gave Emmie an uncomfortable smile. “I’d hoped after his father passed that he’d come back to us, but . . .” Looking terribly sad, Elizabeth grabbed a large cloth bag from the dining-room table and headed to the door. “Let’s make plans soon, dear.”

Emmie stood there, awash in the strange sadness that had a grip on this family. Slater had a mom who clearly loved him, yet he held himself back from her. He’d had a dad who’d obviously adored him, and yet he was filled with such anger. Emmie found herself drawn to the powder room to check on him.

“You okay?” she asked softly.

“Yeah, just need to replace the flapper valve assembly.”

Not exactly what she’d meant. She watched him put the lid back on the tank, then wash his hands at the glass bowl-shaped sink. “Your mom’s so nice.”

“She is.”

He grabbed the tool box, and they headed out. Pulling the list out of his pocket, he scanned it.

With his mom gone, he seemed more relaxed. “She’s really proud of you.”

He nodded. “Hey, can you do me a favor? Can you grab that trumpet over there and stick it in the freezer?”

Nice subject change. “The freezer?” Was he messing with her?

“Yeah, she can’t get the mouthpiece off.” He went over to a side table, picking up the instrument. “I hope she didn’t use pliers. It’s soft metal.” He set the tool box down and examined the area around the mouthpiece. His fingers gently skimmed it, and a tingle shimmied along her spine at his careful touch.

His phone rang, and he checked the caller ID. Frowning, he handed the trumpet to her. “Hey, Mom.” He listened for a moment, then grimaced. “Yeah, thanks, but I think we’re all set. We’ve got plenty of food. Emmie takes good care of us.”

She smiled, liking that he’d put it that way—that she took care of them. She liked taking care of them. With her roommates in Manhattan she’d felt completely alone. They’d never shared a meal or borrowed each other’s clothes. Living with the guys, as crazy as it got, was fun. She liked it. It felt almost like family.

“Okay, later,” he said, disconnecting and shoving the phone in his back pocket. “My mom’s got something going in the Crock-Pot. She wants me to take some home, but . . .” He shuddered.

“What is it?”

“Something with lentils and kale.”

“Ah. A vegetarian?”

“That doesn’t begin to describe her food philosophy.”

“What does she teach?”

“Music theory.” He headed down a dark hall.

She followed, noting the walls lined with more framed photos. “Was she your teacher?”

“Nope.” He flipped a light on in a bathroom and set his tool box down in front of the vanity. “Not at UT anyway.”

“This trumpet’s beautiful.” A pretty pinkish gold, it looked old with beautiful, elaborate etchings on it.

“It’s from the twenties.” He pulled a wrench from the tool box and got down on his back, pushing himself underneath the counter until she could only see him from the neck down. His broad shoulders spanned the width of the cupboard, and she loved the way his thigh muscles pulled against the denim of his jeans. When her gaze landed on the slight bulge between his legs, a bolt of pure lust shot through her.

Oh, God, really?
Looking at Slater Vaughn’s junk? She smoothed a hand on the trumpet, forcing her mind off Slater’s incredibly hard, masculine body. “It’s pink.” Um, the trumpet. Not his skin. His skin was more like caramel.

“Yeah, pink gold was popular back then.” The muscles in his long legs clenched and flexed as he worked on the pipe inside the vanity.

The trumpet, Emmie. Focus.

“I love the engraving. It’s so intricate. Do you play?”

He slid out, the back of his shirt riding up, revealing the skin of his torso.

Seriously, she was only human. And he was the hottest man she’d ever seen in her life. It wasn’t her fault she wanted to crouch beside him, touch that warm skin, and slide her hands up his chest to feel each ridge and slope.

Watch him grow hard from her touch. Oh, she’d
love
to see that.

This is ridiculous
. She absolutely couldn’t allow herself to think about Slater this way. She had to live with the guy. Even if he had any interest in her, she’d never do anything about it. She’d never be more than a hookup to a guy like him.

Tossing the wrench back in the tool box, he got up. “The mouthpiece is stuck. She tried using
pliers
 . . .” He looked incredulous, and she loved his appreciation for the antique instrument. “Could you do me a favor and put it in the freezer?”

“You were serious?”

“Metal contracts when it’s frozen, and the mouthpiece isn’t made of brass, like the rest of the trumpet, so it’ll contract a little bit more. Once it’s as cold as it’s gonna get, the mouthpiece should come right off.”

She held his gaze for the longest time. Why did she find that so hot? That he knew something like that? She slowly broke into a smile.

His head tilted, as though he didn’t understand what she found amusing. “Would you mind sticking it in there for me? I’ll leave my mom a note to take it out when she gets home.”

“Sure.”

When she came back, the bathroom light was off. “Slater?”

“Last room on the right.”

She found him in what had to be his mom’s bedroom. Compared to Emmie’s mom’s, decorated to within an inch of its life by a pricey designer, this one was plain. It had little more than a neatly made bed with a plain navy duvet, an adorable fringed lamp on the nightstand, and a huge sliding glass door that led to a lush backyard.

“Can I open the door?”

“Sure.”

“Alarms won’t go off?”

“No alarms, New Yorker.”

As soon as she opened the door, the sound of wind chimes filled the air like a symphony. They hung from the gutter, tree branches, awnings, just about everywhere. A patio with moss growing between the stone panels gave way to a sloping green lawn. Trees bordered the property, their limbs spilling forward into the yard, making them look like graceful dancers.

“This is beautiful.” An idea struck her, and she went back inside. “Hey, your mom mentioned something about having me over for dinner. What if we had the guys over, too?”

His features tightened. “No.”

She could picture them all outside, playing Frisbee, maybe heading down to the lake to kayak. “We’d keep it simple, maybe grill some burgers. I’d do all the other cooking.”

“No.” He lifted a portrait off the wall and set it down in front of a dresser.

“I get the feeling your mom—”

Before she could finish her sentence, he whacked the wall with a hammer. The sound of wallboard breaking made her jump, and she gaped at the hole he’d just made. “What’re you doing?”

“She’s got a leak.” He pulled at the damp pieces, widening the hole.

“I just think your mom would really love it if you had your friends over here.”

“Yes, Emmie. She would.”

“Then why—”

“Fuck.” His brow furrowed as he peered inside.

As she stepped closer to him, she saw the copper pipe had turned green from a steady stream of water. He whipped out his old-style cell phone, punched a number.

“Jonny?” she heard his mom ask.

“Yeah, you’re going to have to call the plumber. Looks like you hammered a nail into the pipe.” He paused to listen. “I’ll stop it up temporarily, but you’ve got to get a plumber in here. Make sure you let the wallboard dry out. Yep, okay.” He hung up, stowed his phone in his pocket, and said, “I hope she’s got some electrical tape.” Watching the pipe, he ran his finger idly over the leak.

She could see the steady pulses of water through the small hole, indicating a good bit of water pressure. “Not sure tape will hold it.”

“You’re right. I’ll wrap a piece of rubber around it. Be right back.”

“Can I help?”

He stopped, turned to her. “Yeah, you can stop trying to fix me and my mom.”

“I’m not—” Well, she was. “But she loves you so much, and it’s obvious she doesn’t know how to reach you.”

“Reach me? My mom doesn’t want to
reach
me. She wants me to drink red wine, and play music with her students and colleagues, and talk modal jazz theory.”

“She wants you in her life.” How could he not see that? How could he not want it, too?

“That’s exactly right.”

“What does that mean?”

“She wants me in
her
life.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not seeing the problem.”

“That’s because there is no problem. It is what it is.” He dropped the hammer on the carpeted floor. “Now let me get this pipe fixed up so we can go, okay? I’ll be right back. Maybe I can find something in the garage.”

She watched him go, surprised at how well she understood his pain. This visit had shone a light through the screen surrounding the super-cool, über-confident ladies’ man to reveal the lonely boy within. Sad, really, that he had two parents who’d loved him so much yet had failed him somehow, leaving him feeling just as alienated in his family as Emmie had in hers.

Placing a finger over the water pulsing out of the hole, she thought of him all alone in that cool, dark garage, and just like that an idea came to her. She hurried to the sliding glass doors and stepped outside. “Slater?”

He poked his head out of the garage. “Yeah?”

“Do you have an old bike? You can use the inner tube from the wheel.”

He broke out in a devastating smile, sunbeams piercing through cloud cover. “Good one.”

She shrugged, looking away from the approval beaming in his eyes. “My dad wasn’t exactly Mr. Fix It. We had to be pretty resourceful.”

“First you’re all wide-eyed over Post-its, then you’re turning into sex on a stick in a lingerie dressing room, and now you’ve got a fix for a leaky pipe? Are you for real?” He laughed as he headed back into the garage. “Be right back with an inner tube.”

She watched him go, so caught up in the happiness of his approval that it took a few moments for the meaning of his words to register.

“Wait, you saw me in the dressing room?”

“What happened?” Emmie asked, stepping back so the guys could get a wounded Slater into the house. Glistening blood caked a gash over his eye, and his black T-shirt, torn at the neck, was soaked in dark patches. “Oh, my God. Is he all right?”

“Bar fight.” Derek edged past her, Slater’s arm slung over his shoulder.

“Let’s get him upstairs.” At the foot of the staircase the guys tried to make a seat for him with their joined hands, but Slater shrugged them off.

“Jesus Christ, I wasn’t shot in the spine.” Gripping the handrail, he climbed up himself. She could see the bulging muscles, the white knuckles, and she hated the painful effort it caused him to get upstairs.

“Slater got into a fight?” she asked Derek quietly. That hadn’t happened before.

He shook his head. “Some assholes had a bet over the Rangers game. Loser wouldn’t pay up. Fists were flying. Some chick got in the middle, so Slater jumped the bar to get her out of the way.”

“Where were the bouncers?”

“Too many guys involved. Someone called the cops.”

Emmie heard a grunt, and she raced up the stairs to check on Slater. She found him in the bathroom, bent over the sink. Everyone crammed in, trying to help.

“You should go to the ER, man,” Ben said.

“He probably doesn’t need the ER.” Derek looked under the sink and pulled out Band-Aids. “We’ve got these butterfly things.”

Cooper opened the medicine cabinet just at the moment Slater straightened and wound up clocking Slater in the head.

“Shit.” His hands went up to cover the wound. “What the fuck?”

“Okay, out, everybody.” Emmie pushed them, and they all filed out.

“You got this, Em?” Ben asked.

“She’s our house mom,” Cooper said, striding down the hall. “Of course she does.”

“Good, ’cause I haven’t gotten laid yet,” Pete said. “Anyone coming back to the bar with me?”

“I’m in,” Cooper said.

Derek paused at the top of the stairs. “You might want to watch him tonight. He got hit pretty hard.”

“Concussion?”

He shrugged. “Could be.”

“I don’t have a fucking concussion. Jesus.” Slater swiped a wet hand towel over his wound, sucking in a breath.

She didn’t say a word, just pried the towel out of his hand and nudged him over with her hip. Rinsing the towel out with warm water, she cleaned the blood off his face around the wound. “Let’s see how bad it is,” she murmured.

After a few moments of her ministrations, his breathing slowed, and his shoulders dropped. He sighed.

“Okay, this is going to sting a little,” she said as she gently dabbed the heart of the wound. “But I have to see how deep it is.”

She could feel his breath on top of her head, feel the waves of heat rolling off his body. “You know, it looks okay.” Reaching for the medicine cabinet door, she smiled and said, “Now’s a good time to duck.” She took out the antibacterial cream and smeared some onto the gash with one of her cotton swabs.

“I’m going to put the strips on now.” She said it quietly, softly, glancing up to see if he minded. Good God, their faces were so close she could see the stubble on his chin, the black flecks in his blue-gray eyes. His lids were hooded, his lips slightly parted, and if she didn’t know him better, she’d think he was totally turned-on.

But he was hurt, so the last thing on his mind was sex. “Can you sit on the toilet seat so I can reach it better?”

As soon as he sat down, she almost regretted her request. It put his mouth about two inches away from her breasts.
Oh, dear God
. Her nipples hardened, and in her thin tank no way did that go unnoticed. Involuntarily, her thighs squeezed together against the rush of arousal. God, she had to remember he didn’t see her that way. And not just because of Derek, but because she was so far from his type it was almost sad. Not that she wanted to be a groupie, but she wouldn’t mind being ridiculously sexy. The kind of girl that drove a guy like Slater wild.
Yes
. That’s what she would love.

“I think we’re good.” She smoothed the second strip in place. Leaning back, she smiled at him, only to find him staring at her breasts—mesmerized.
Oh
. Not what she expected at all. “Let’s get you to bed.”

If she were a different kind of girl, she’d thrust her chest out, lick her lips—act like a sexual woman. But, of course, she wasn’t like that, so she just turned and hurried out of the bathroom.

She got to his room first, straightened his sheets, and put his pillow back in place. He collapsed onto the bed, immediately curling up.

“Okay, hang on.” Emmie cradled his head with her hand as she eased him back onto his pillow. “Let’s take off your boots.”

“I can do it myself,” he said. “Let me just get some sleep.” But his eyes started to close, his body going limp.

Emmie untied his big black boots and pulled them off his feet. She started to lift his legs, to draw the blanket over him, but then wondered about his pants. Would it be okay to take them off? Who could sleep comfortably in jeans?

She reached for the top button, and he jerked.

“Enough, Em. Thanks, but seriously, get out.”

“Oh, cool your jets. I just want to make sure you’re comfortable.” She pushed him gently back so she could unbutton the rest. As she tugged them down, the boxers came down with them, exposing a birthmark. Or . . . wait a minute. She looked more closely. It wasn’t— Oh, it was a tattoo. A tribal star in bold black ink.

Her body thrilled at the sight of it. He had this rock-hard plane of ripped stomach, smooth, caramel skin with just a scattering of dark hair. And then, beneath the navel, a thin line of hair led to the thicker thatch below the waistband of his boxers. Just above that thatch sat this tantalizing tattoo. Something about the placement—God, it was just so naughty. It begged to be touched. To be licked. And thinking about licking it made her think of licking his erection, that smooth, hard, hot column of flesh, and oh, God, desire swept through her like a brush fire.

“Jesus, Em, I need to sleep.”

“You have a tattoo.”

He stiffened. His eyes opened, narrowing on her warily.

“It’s so unbelievably hot.” It was the most erotic thing she’d ever seen in her life. She ran her finger over it, leaning closer to make out the pattern.

“Em,” he said with clear warning.

“God, I’ll bet everyone just has to lick it.”

He growled, lifting his hips and kicking off his jeans. His face twisted in agony.

“Oh, shoot. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” She got to the end of the bed and pulled the jeans off.

He tugged up his boxers, one arm slung over his eyes.

“I’ll be right back.”

“No.” He didn’t sound so tired anymore. “You won’t.”

“Uh-huh.” She’d get him some more Ibuprofen, leave it on the nightstand. He might be hurting in a few hours. Turning off the light, she headed to the bathroom, shook out some pills, and filled a glass with water. The whole time, her body hummed and tingled. She couldn’t get the image of that tattoo out of her head—how close it was to his private parts.

Letting out a slow breath, she returned to his room, nudged him over, and got in beside him.

“You’re not sleeping in my bed.”

She stiffened. Oh, God, he thought she was going to put the moves on him. Again. She remembered how he’d responded to the
idea
of her hand on his knee in the car that day.

He wasn’t attracted to her.

Yeah, well, she wasn’t there to seduce him. “I’m not sleeping on the floor. And Derek said to keep an eye on you.” So what choice did she have? No, she had to be there. “Good night, Slater.”

She went quiet, her body on alert for any sound of discomfort from him. She hoped he’d fall asleep quickly, escape from the pain for a few hours. Closing her eyes, the tattoo popped into her mind, unleashing a whole new wave of arousal. She’d never gotten turned on thinking about an erection. Had never imagined licking one. Obviously, she’d given blow jobs before, but come on, of course her mind had wandered. She was giving the guy pleasure, not herself.

But just then? The thought of taking Slater into her mouth lit her up with rampant desire. Pressing her legs together, she pushed her face into the pillow to make a silent scream. What was happening to her?

“You’re not gettin’ any.”

She burst out laughing, amazed he still had a sense of humor. She patted his arm, aware of the thick knot of muscle. “Hey, I can do whatever I want to you tonight, and you won’t even remember it in the morning. This should be fun. Now go to sleep. I’ve dealt with concussions before. I’m supposed to check on you in two hours.”

Staring up at the ceiling, she listened for his breathing to even out. It didn’t.

“Is there anything I can do?” she whispered.

He didn’t answer. Maybe he’d fallen asleep? But then he let out a breath, sounding exasperated, and his arm belted around her waist, and he tugged her against him.

Happiness gushed through her. She wanted to relax into him, but all she could think about was that tattoo. And his erection. It was too much. She was on sensory overload.

Within seconds, his breathing slowed, and he was out.

At least one of them would sleep tonight.

*   *   *

Arousal streaked through her. Emmie’s breasts tingled, and she felt swollen between her legs. Mindlessly, her hips thrust back, and she heard a sharp intake of breath as she made contact with a very hard, big erection.

Slater.
She was in his bed, his chest plastered to her back, and she could feel his thick length nestled between her thighs. And, oh, holy mother of God, did it feel good. Not just good, but . . . God, wildly delicious.

Reflexively, her hips pitched back again, lodging his hard-on firmly up against her seam.

“Jesus, Emmie.” He withdrew.

She couldn’t move. Couldn’t even breathe. How did she get out of this situation? Someone had to say something. She couldn’t just throw off the covers and breezily head to the bathroom, could she? She’d felt his boner, for God’s sake. She’d
welcomed
it.

“Sorry. Morning wood.” He sounded all casual, no big deal.

Which made her flush with embarrassment, because it had been a huge deal to her. To feel these sensations . . . that was the
whole point
of her list.

This attraction she felt to Slater was becoming dangerous. She had to meet other guys. Had to.

She couldn’t put it off any longer.

*   *   *

She came downstairs to find the guys sitting around the table.

Ben’s girlfriend, Tiana, got off his lap, her scrubs pulling tightly around her generous hips. “How is he? Thought I’d come by before work and check on him.”

Emmie hadn’t even asked. “He’s coming down in a minute.” Was he? She’d been too embroiled in her spectacular embarrassment to even think about his condition.

“Hey,” he said, entering the kitchen. Tousled hair, bandaged forehead, puffy circles under his eyes—it only made him look hotter and rougher. “Any coffee left?”

Emmie jumped into action. “I’ll get it.” When everyone looked at her, she said, “I was going to pour myself a cup anyway.”

Derek stood up. “You okay?”

“I’m better,” Slater said gruffly. “I just needed sleep.”

After pouring his coffee, she handed the mug to him without making eye contact. Then, she poured herself a cup, dousing it with cream and sugar, and turned to lean against the counter.

“Let me have a look at you.” Tiana tipped his chin and examined his eyes.

He batted her hand away. “I’m fine.”

“Let me at least look at the cut.”

“Too late for stitches. Besides, no one touches this body but Emmie.”

The guys snorted, and Tiana rolled her eyes, perching on Ben’s thighs.

“Hey, thanks for bandaging me up.” He sidled up beside her.

“That was scary.”

“I hadn’t slept in two nights. I was more tired than concussed.”

Now was her chance to ask him where he’d been. He hadn’t missed a night at home in a while, so she’d been worried. She’d wanted to text him, find out if he was all right, but she didn’t want to get too pushy. It’s not like she had a right to know where he slept. And besides, she could imagine how he’d feel if some groupie was going down on him and he had to interrupt things to let his
house mom
know where he was.

She hoped she hadn’t jeopardized anything by staying with him last night. Her relationship with the guys mattered to her. She just felt confused because he’d brought out all these erotic feelings in her. “Tiana,” she blurted.

Tiana stopped playing with Ben’s earlobes to face her.

“Where can I meet nice guys?”

“Hey,” Ben said. “I’m a nice guy.”

“You’re
my
nice guy,” Tiana said, kissing him on the mouth.

How had
she
managed to tame a rocker? Wait, why did Emmie care? She didn’t want a rocker.

“I’m assuming you mean a guy you don’t meet through these man whores?” Tiana asked. “A guy you don’t meet in a bar or a club?”

“Exactly.” She wouldn’t look at Slater.

“You’re leaving soon,” Slater said. “Why bother meeting someone now?”

“I’m talking about a
date
.”

“With a
nice
guy,” Slater said. “A nice guy’s going to want a relationship. Which you can’t give him because you’re leaving.”

“Eager to get me out of your hair?” She watched him, wondering. Did she mean anything to him?

As always his features remained impassive, but his eyes told a different story. And it made her wonder. Could he possibly feel this attraction?

“Not at all. Just wondering why you’d waste your time dating.”

“You could stay.” Everyone turned to look at Derek. “Stay and be our manager. We can’t pay you anything yet, but hell. You’re the best thing that ever happened to us.”

“True story,” Ben said.

She’d love to stay. And it wasn’t like she’d discovered a band yet. Of course she’d keep looking, but she’d already gone through half the bands on her list and not one of them could compare to Snatch. She knew Irwin would sign them. But she wasn’t ready to approach him. She’d wait until she heard back from Piper’s people, after they’d had a chance to listen to the demo.