Chapter 3
THE SIREN
ZANE
“Whatever you want, I’ll triple it.”
The words are out before I can stop them.
I grew up poor in the shittiest trailer park known to man, but with a God-given talent I was lucky enough to make real before the worst happened.
I recognized early in life that words fucking matter. So, on a normal day to day? I don’t say stupid shit I don’t mean. Not on stage and not in life.
As one of the very few artists who writes every single lyric I sing, words are fucking priceless to me.
So this?
This is insane.
I’ve thrown money at a thousand things—lawyers to scrub my record clean, rehab centers I never intended to finish, doctors to keep my voice intact when I should’ve burned it out years ago. I’ve bought cars I never drove, mansions I never lived in, people I never loved.
I’ve felt rage and euphoria and oblivion at the bottom of a bottle.
But I’ve never felt this.
One look at this curvy barista with eyes that say she sees right through me, and I’m burning in places I thought were long dead.
Ruby Lane.
Forget that she’s fucking stunning. Her name tastes like smoke and jazz and a thousand platinum albums.
And she’s standing there, skeptical as hell, glaring at me like I’m a circus act she never bought tickets for but is being forced to watch.
I would laugh, if my chest wasn’t thumping like a fucking djembe drum summoning a raging occult.
“Triple it?” she says slowly, dry as desert bone. “For what? You want me to follow you around and pour you coffee?”
I rise and step closer.
She smells insanely delicious. I want to grab her, kiss her, taste her on my tongue. I want to throw her over my shoulder again and walk around with her for the next decade. But I hold back. Barely.
And the effort it’s taking is driving me insane. But what I can’t do with my hands, I can say with my mouth.
“For starters?” My voice is a rasp. “I want to kiss you. “Then I want a whole lot more. But I’ll give you five hundred thousand dollars for three months on the road with the band.”
Her brows lift, sharp and disbelieving. “Five hundred grand?”
“Cash. Up front.” If I remember, Freddie was planning on paying one hundred. So I just quintupled it.
She snorts. And fuck, I would too in her shoes. “Cute. But I’m not exactly groupie material.”
My lips curl. “Good. I don’t want a groupie. And those three months?” I lean in, dropping my voice. “They’re for shooting the music video. And I think you’ll be perfect for it. Let’s prove it if you don’t believe me.”
Her eyes narrow. “That’s very convenient. I wasn’t born in a cave last night, Mr. Draven.”
“It’s Zane.”
Her feature pinch sharper, making her plump lips stand out even more, and Jesus Fucking Christ, I want that mouth sucking my cock more than I want peace on earth. And not wanting peace on earth first and foremost will make my mother disown me.
Which I do not want. But I would do it. For. One. Taste. Of. That. Mouth.
“Mr. Draven.” She notches her chin up as she says that.
And God help me, the skepticism, the sass, the mouth, the glaring.
Everything makes me harder. Makes me want to break her doubts apart, one by one, until she returns to looking at me like she did earlier, when she entered the warehouse as I was belting out the chorus of our latest song.
A song I realize could’ve been made with this woman in mind.
My bat-shit crazy mom would call it the forces of auric collision unfolding. Or the forces of cosmic entanglement or tantric star-bonding. Hell, probably a combination of all three.
“You think I’m lying about our chemistry?” I dare, stepping into her space.
Her chin tips up. Defiant. “I think you’re full of yourself.” But her eyes drop to my mouth for the tiniest second.
I grin, feral. “Then prove me wrong. Kiss me.”
Her beautiful eyes go wide. “Excuse me? Are you high?”
I shrug. “No excuses.” I tilt my head, silver gaze locked on hers. “Kiss me. Show me there’s nothing here and I’ll let you walk out.”
Bullshit. I’m not letting her leave even if SWAT is summoned.
Her lips twitch like she’s about to roll her eyes again…but then she licks them, just the tip of her tongue tracing the seam of her mouth.
Heat spikes through my groin like gasoline on fire, swelling my cock so fast, I swear I see stars. I want that tongue-tip flick, flick, flicking over my cock head as I strum the guitar and write odes in her name.
And now I can see it, that pulse at her throat, the way her breath shortens, there’s no turning back.
Ruby Lane wants me too.
The thought is like kryptonite to my blood.
I move in, backing her against the door, caging her in with my body. I barely allow myself time to cup her jaw before my mouth crashes to hers, rough, demanding, the taste of her as addictive as I knew it would be.
For several frantic moments, she resists.
Then with a half-enraged whimper, as if she’s berating herself for weakening, she softens, lips parting. Her fingers spike into my hair, scratching and yanking with the kind of roughness I crave.
And I’m drowning.
She rolls her hips into mine as her tongue hunts for mine and fuck fuck fuck!
Who is this woman and where has she been all this fucking time?
I’m feral. Ravenous. Ready to eat her alive.
A sharp knock rattles the door.
“Fuck. Off!”
I delve back in, catching her lower lip between my lips and suckling, my hands reaching around to mould her plump, oh fuck oh fuck, deliciously round ass.
It’s the perfect handful and I almost come imagining how I’d oil them up, slide my dick between the cheeks and—
“Yo, Saint!” one of the band shouts, unfazed by my rage at being interrupted. “We’re waiting. You coming?”
I would if you just fuck the fuck off!
Ruby jerks, breaking the kiss, breath ragged. Her cheeks flushed, lips swollen.
“Baby. Please. Let me—”
Her hand slams on my chest. Twice in quick succession. “No.”
I snarl. At her. At the door, every muscle screaming to rip it off its hinges. I swing around, spike my fingers into my hair and pull at the roots.
It’s that or go against her no, and I’ve never done that, don’t intend to start.
Not with any woman but especially not with her.
But, true fact? I’m not good.
I’ll never be good again.
Not until Ruby Lane is mine.
Ruby
The knock shatters the moment like a cymbal crash.
I shove at his chest, desperate for air, for space, for sanity.
For a moment I think he won’t budge. That he’ll just keep up with that growl low in his throat, silver eyes blazing like he’s seconds from ripping the door off its hinges before ripping his bandmate to shreds.
“Yo, Saint, you good?” a voice calls again.
Saint. Of course. Because of course he has a nickname like that.
I watch him pace with his fingers in his hair for half a minute before he tips his head toward the door, jaw tight. “Stay here.”
It’s not a request.
He grabs me by the waist, picks me up, which is a hot little feat because I am not light or waif-thin by any means.
Then he yanks the door open, stalks out into the hall, and disappears with his bandmate, leaving me pressed against the wall, mouth still tingling from the kiss, brain fried like the world’s worst electrical circuit.
I blink. Once. Twice.
And then I bolt.
Thanking my lucky stars as I book it that my crossbody pouch didn’t go flying when he lugged me around like a piece of wood.
I slip past the distracted guards, my sneakers squeaking on the concrete as I make a break for daylight. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I don’t recognize the ringtones so I know they’re unknown numbers.
They keep coming as I ran all the way to the street. Back-to-back calls. I ignore them.
All I hear is his voice on repeat: Whatever you want, I’ll triple it.
It’s ridiculous. Delusional. Dangerous.
But the thing that haunts me most isn’t the offer of the insane payday.
It’s the furnace-hot kiss. The look in his eyes. The insane timbre of his voice saying ‘Baby. Please. Let me…’
I wanted him. Sweet Virgin Mary did I want to.
When I reach the bus stop, I look around, not sure how I feel that he’s not sending his security to drag me back. Or…chasing me himself.
When the bus arrives I stumble onto it like a zombie, my fingers drifting over my mouth as I try to catch my breath.
Because I kissed a rockstar.
And I liked it.
And that, more than anything, terrifies me.
By the time I stumble into my apartment, I’m exhausted.
I collapse into bed and tell myself tomorrow I’ll wake up and laugh about this whole fever dream.
Tomorrow comes.
And with it, my coffee apron, the hiss of the espresso machine and the familiar, sticky weight of mediocrity.
Ten minutes into my shift, I almost believe I imagined everything that happened to me in that warehouse yesterday.
Almost.
The bell above the door jingles.
I look up, and my stomach falls straight through the floor.
Because he’s here.
Zane Draven.
Black shirt clinging to him like glue, silver eyes wild, feral, locked on me as if no one else in the shop exists.
Before I can move, speak or breathe, he’s vaulting over the counter, knocking machines, condiments and overpriced sandwiches to the floor.
And then I’m airborne again, slung over his shoulder like I’m made of feathers and cotton buds.
Again.
Hot, manic electricity zips through me like a snapped high-tension power line in a tornado. But…because this is insane, I find my voice. Fast.
“What the hell—Zane—put me down!”
The shop erupts. Customers gasp. “Is…is that Saint Sin? Holy shit!”
Greg drops a tray.
Toby sputters like a dying engine. “Sir, you can’t do that here! Sir!”
But Zane doesn’t stop. His grip is iron, his stride brutal.
This isn’t the smooth arrogance of a rock star anymore.
This is something raw. Possessive. A man who’s decided the world won’t keep me from him.
I pound on his back, furious, humiliated, and… God help me… something else.
Because even as I curse his Neanderthal caveman ass, a weak, needy, super horny part of me is melting at the sound of his voice, low and dark and feral, as he growls, “Sure as fuck can. Because she’s mine.”
And walks me right out of my job.