Chapter 18 Heat in the Hills of Colorado
HEAT IN THE HILLS OF COLORADO
RUBY
Four days after the Backdoor Incident That Shall Not Be Named, I’m pretty sure I’ve found a rhythm to this madness.
Sure, the rhythm is chaotic, exhausting, occasionally terrifying, and punctuated by stray guitar riffs and fans screaming for Saint Sin like he’s the second coming of Lucifer, but a rhythm is a rhythm.
The Riot Saints finished their last Colorado gig last night to the manic sounds of crowds roaring, lights burning hot and Zane singing to me so blatantly the director muttered “Christ, can someone get him a leash?”
Today is supposed to be quiet.
One last morning in the lush and beautiful mountains before heading back to LA for downtime.
Two weeks until Europe and the second half of the music video.
For someone whose only overseas trip was an enormously clichéd weekend in Capo for spring break, I’m excited about exploring Europe.
But I’ve kept the excitement on the down low because…Zane.
I’m pretty sure just a flicker of excitement will have him kidnapping the entire band, chartering a private jet, buying Europe, and banning every male citizen from looking at me.
I woke up hoping for a peaceful breakfast.
Which is exactly why I should’ve known something catastrophic was coming.
Because peace? In this house? With this man? With his mother?
Please.
The only peaceful thing here is the coffee machine.
And even that occasionally makes a noise that sounds like a distressed animal.
I mean, last night before the gig, Mama Draven dragged a giant bowl of crystals onto the balcony at sunset, arranged them in a perfect spiral, and insisted the band “stand in the vortex” so she could cleanse their auras.
Jude tripped into the quartz pile.
King swore he’d seen enlightenment in the form of his hot high school English teacher and cried.
Zane stood there like a pissed-off demigod while she chanted in Sanskrit-adjacent syllables she absolutely made up.
So it’s with much trepidation that I approach the kitchen this morning.
I hear them before I see them.
Zane’s deep voice and Mama Draven’s theatrical hums drift down the hallway, along with the scent of pancakes thick enough to choke a small horse.
“Ruby!” Zane calls. “Get in here so I can feed you!”
Feed me.
Because apparently I’m livestock now.
I mutter under my breath the whole way to the kitchen, but the second I step through the door, everything stops.
Like…everything.
Mama Draven halts mid-pour with a jug of batter in her hand.
Zane freezes with a whisk lifted in the air.
A single drip of pancake goop falls in slow motion.
And then, Mama Draven points a floury finger at me and blurts, loud and triumphant. “She’s fertile!”
Silence.
Then…Zane inhales. And it’s not a normal inhale. A savage inhale. A deep, chest-expanding, pupils-blown, oh-god-he’s-going-to-do-something-deranged inhale.
I stumble back a step. “No. No no no, whatever you’re thinking, the answer is no.”
He stares at me. Unblinking. Motionless. Predatory.
The longer he stares, the more my stomach tries to crawl up my throat. “Zane?” I whisper. “Zane, please.”
His voice is deceptively calm. “Please, what? I haven’t done anything.”
“But you’re going to,” I snap. “I can see it in your eyes.”
“Yes, he is,” Mama Draven murmurs. Proud as sin.
I whirl toward her. “Please don’t encourage him, Mrs.—”
“I told you to call me Mama. We’re a family.”
I blink rapidly. “We’re not…” I hesitate because I genuinely like her, but also? We are absolutely not a family. I’ve fallen into a fever dream. A sexy, deranged, rockstar-flavored fever dream.
I’m in a nut house with two insane people, one who happens to be hot as the fires of fucking Hades, and the other is his mother, egging him on with each manic thought that enters his dark and filthy head.
Mama Draven beams wider and wilder. Zane continues staring like a wolf picking its cutlery.
His gaze drags over me, slow, methodical, absolutely inappropriate, cataloging things I do not want to know.
When it stops at my hips, I panic.
Actual panic.
I rise onto my tiptoes like that would somehow deflect the trajectory of the unhinged thoughts firing through his skull.
It does not.
Because I know him. I’ve learned him. And I know beyond any doubt that anything resembling panic or flight on my face will trigger The Beast.
Of course my body doesn’t listen. I take another tiny, stupid step backward.
A dark rumble vibrates from his chest.
It’s not metaphorical or sexual or whatever.
It’s a real animal growl. Primal and visceral and possessive enough to yank air from my lungs.
Mama Draven eyes him and claps her hands like she’s watching him win gold at the Olympics. With pride. Then she flashes me a gleeful smile. “If I were you, sweetheart, I’d stay exactly where you are. Or maybe you should run.” She nods sagely. “It kicks up the blood and makes for fierce mating.”
“What the hellish Lululemon is happening right now?” I whisper. My voice sounds dazed, thin, nearly hypnotized by the intensity radiating off this man.
My fight or flight ramps up to a million and I take another step back.
His entire chest expands.
And he erupts.