Memphis
Glancing at my watch, I head down the hall to Storm’s room. It’s almost six in the evening so the fucker should be up.
Or not, because despite me knocking several times he doesn’t answer.
I’m about to leave when it swings open. “Yo.”
There’s a towel around his waist, so he must have just gotten out of the shower.
Although his hair is dry, and he reeks of pot…and fruity perfume.
“Got a minute?”
Stretching, he yawns. “Sure.”
Behind him, a naked brunette slinks out of his bed. Her mouth twists with mischief when she spots me. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite guitar player.” Biting her lip, she drags a red fingernail down her flat stomach. “You two up for some fun?”
I’m not interested, but I am a guy, so I give her body a quick once-over. Then I look at Storm.
“I’ll come back.”
“Nah. It’s all good. What’s up?”
I gesture for him to follow because it’s easier than explaining. “Come with me.” I pump the brakes when he makes to leave. “Put some pants on first.”
I don’t need the dude drawing even more attention to us by waltzing through the lobby in a towel.
Glancing over his shoulder, he regards the brunette. “Yo, Kelly, be a sweetheart and—”
“That’s not my name,” she snaps.
My lips twitch and Storm mutters a curse under his breath. “I know that…Cassandra.”
Annoyed, she props her hands on her hips. “That’s not my name either.”
“Lyla?” he tries, sounding unsure.
Her mouth falls open. “Lyla is my sister’s name.”
Storm scratches his head like he’s trying to solve the world’s most complex math problem.
Fucking hell. We’re never getting out of here.
Pushing past him, I walk over to the pile of clothes on the floor next to the bed and toss him his jeans.
“Adaline?” he questions, doing up his zipper.
The television remote narrowly misses his head. “Darcy.”
“Are you sure?”
I shove Storm—who looks like he’s about to demand the girl show him her birth certificate—out of the room.
“I was close,” he insists as we head for the elevators.
“Not even a little.”
A short elevator ride later, we’re making our way inside the hotel restaurant’s kitchen.
Given it’s New Year’s Eve, I didn’t think I had a shot in hell at getting them to agree to let me borrow it for a few hours, but the guy at the front desk told me it was closed for the holiday, so I took my chances and asked.
Fortunately, they agreed.
All it took was a thousand bucks, a few autographs and pictures, and front row seats to our next concert.
“Why are we here?” Storm questions.
“They’re letting me use it.”
That only makes him more confused. “For what?”
Good question.
Because I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.
Or what the fuck I was thinking when I asked Valerie for her recipe before I left.
Or why the fuck I kissed her the other night.
Storm eyes the shopping bags on the counter. “What’s all that?”
“Groceries.”
“Stop answering my questions with shit I can see with my two eyeballs, dickhead.”
I start pulling items out of the bags. “Stop asking stupid questions then, prick.”
He throws his hands up. “Will you cut the shit and tell me what we’re doing?”
“Baking.”
His exasperation dissipates, and a grin spreads across his face. “Pot brownies?” He rubs his hands together. “Because Merry Christmas to Storm.”
Pot brownies would be a much better idea right about now.
“Christmas was last week,” I remind him.
“I know.” He slaps my back. “Thanks, man. I’m touched. You didn’t have to get me a gift.”
“Peach cobbler,” I grit through my teeth.
His confusion returns. “What?”
“We’re not making pot brownies. We’re making peach cobbler.”
He blinks. “Why?”
Will this motherfucker shut up and quit asking me questions I can’t answer.
I hand him an apron. “Because Grams is an awesome cook and I’m hoping it runs in the family.”
He drops the apron on the counter. “It doesn’t. And I meant why are you baking cobbler?”
“Because it’s Valerie’s recipe.”
And I’m a goddamn masochist.
Grinding my molars, I grab some peaches and begin peeling and slicing.
Storm’s scrutinizing stare nearly burns a hole through my skull. “Fuck, man. You got it bad.”
Damn it. I knew enlisting his help would backfire. Now his nosy ass is prying and making assumptions.
I glare at him. “I’m just craving some cobbler.”
“No, you’re craving some Skylar.”
“What the fuck are you—”
“It’s her favorite.” He rubs his chin. “It’s also winter…so peaches aren’t in season.” Reaching over, he swipes a slice off the cutting board. “Which means you made a few phone calls and paid a pretty penny to have these babies shipped from South America.”
I should have gone with frozen fruit like Valerie suggested.
But Skylar once commented that cobbler tastes even better when it’s made with fresh peaches.
Placing the knife down, I assess him…and our friendship.
Can I trust this motherfucker or not?
I can’t afford to confide in someone and get stabbed in the back again.
As if sensing my internal conundrum, he says, “I’m not Josh. When I say you’re my brother, I fucking mean it. We could beat the snot out of one another, and your secrets would still be safe with me.” He points a finger in my face. “But all bets are off if you hurt Grams.”
Not only would I never hurt that woman, I’d never let anyone hurt her.
Deciding to roll the dice, I lay it on him. “I kissed her the other night.”
Shock, then outrage, illuminate his face. “Grams?”
“No, you fucking sicko. Sky.”
“Oh…shit.” He sucks air through his teeth. “Talk about complicated.”
“Actually, it was really fucking easy.”
Because everything feels right when I’m with her.
He rubs his chin. “And now you’re baking her cobbler.”
I pick up the knife. “It’s New Year’s Eve.”
She not only bought me a plane ticket, she was there for me during the worst night of my life.
Making her cobbler is the least I could do.
“You kissed her,” he counters, leveling me with a look. “Hell, you would have been better off kissing Grams. At least she’s not your brother—and bandmate’s—girl.”
He’s right.
I stop cutting.
Christ. What the fuck am I doing?
Playing with fire. That’s what.
“Don’t beat yourself up too much. The heart wants what the heart wants. Plus, Josh is a royal douchebag.” His expression turns contemplative. “Did she kiss you back?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“With tongue?”
“Are we in junior high?”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” He waggles his brows. “Did you touch a tittie?”
Irritation billows in my gut. Titties he bought her.
Despite me not answering his last question, Storm carries on with his interrogation. “What happened after you two made out?”
“I came to my senses and walked away.”
But not before committing my biggest fuck-up of the night.
Admitting I want her.
He turns this over for a beat. “I see.”
“There’s nothing to see. It was a momentary lapse in judgment driven by grief.”
At least, that’s what I’ve been telling myself.
I was in a bad headspace and needed someone to lean on, and Sky was there.
That’s all it was.
All it will ever be.
“Right.” Storm helps himself to another peach slice. “Look, bro. You either need to get over her…or under her.”
“I am over her.”
Storm looks about as convinced as I feel. “If that were true, you’d be fucking groupies. Hell, any chick for that matter.”
“Just because I don’t fuck anything that walks like you and the rest of the guys doesn’t mean I’m still carrying a torch for her.” I chop with so much vigor tiny bits of peach go flying. “I’m just picky about who I stick my dick in.”
“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter.” He gestures between us. “I can’t help if you’re gonna feed me crap and call it chocolate.”
“Goddammit, motherfucker,” I growl, my frustration with him and this conversation coming to a crest. “I’ve tried, all right?”
The girl is an incurable virus invading my body.
But just when I’d finally gotten to the point where I stopped fighting the inevitable and accepted my fate…she mutated and infected me with a whole new strain.
“Now, we’re getting somewhere.” He leans against the fridge. “Like I said, you have two choices. Get over her…or under her. I vote option two. For several reasons.” He smiles to himself. “One being purely for my own selfish enjoyment.”
“Sorry to burst your little voyeuristic bubble, but option two is off the table.”
Kissing her the other night was playing with fire.
Fucking her would be the equivalent of being burned alive.
“Well, seeing as option one doesn’t seem to be working out for you either, I propose option three.”
“I thought you said there were only two options.”
He wags a finger. “Yes, but option three will initiate the first.”
I wipe my hands on a towel. “Would you quit speaking in riddles and spit it out?”
“Fuck someone else.”
It’s like he didn’t hear a goddamn word I said before. “I already told you, I tr—”
“Try harder.”
“I am.” Huffing, I rummage around for a mixing bowl. “I just…haven’t found anyone else who compares to her.”
Because no one else ever will.
“Sinéad O’Connor wrote a song about that, you know.”
I flip him the bird. “Actually, Prince was the one who wrote it.”
He gives me an incredulous look. “Bullshit.”
Storm’s smart and that brain of his is filled with a shit-ton of useless information—like where one can procure peaches when they’re out of season—but he can’t hold a candle to me when it comes to music.
Especially when the subject is not only a musician, but one of the best guitarists who ever lived.
“Wanna bet?”
“Fuck yeah. Name the stakes.”
Grams always warns him that his stubborn streak is going to cause him to write a check his hiney can’t cash one day.
And that day is today.
“If I’m right, then you have to get a rainbow unicorn tattooed on your ass before this leg of tour is over.”
This way he’ll have a permanent reminder that he doesn’t know everything.
“Fine. But when I’m proven right then you have to get laid.”
“Deal.” I hold out my hand and we shake on it. “Now take out your phone and Google it.”
Shooting me an arrogant look, he whips out his cell.
Three seconds later the pompous expression wipes clean off his face. “Shit.”
Snickering, I grab a peach from the strainer and take a bite. “Can’t wait to see your new tattoo.”
He sighs in defeat. “You know, there was a time I thought you might be gay, but this whole Skylar thing shut that down. However, wanting a rainbow unicorn on my ass…”
He makes a grab for another peach, but I smack his hand. “That’s interesting. Because I could have sworn you were gay.” Given trust is a two-way street, I add, “It’s cool if you are by the way.”
He shrugs. “I mean, I’m a very happy person.”
That makes one of us.
“So, what are you gonna do?”
Same thing I’ve been doing for the past three and a half years. “Nothing.”
He raises a brow. “Baking cobbler isn’t nothing.”
I skim the recipe. It seems simple enough on paper, but my culinary skills are limited to eggs and boxed mac and cheese.
“It’s just my way of telling her thank you.”
“It’d be more enjoyable to thank her with your dick. Just saying.”
That does it.
“What part of, ‘I’m not going to fuck her’ is hard for you to get through your big, fat head?”
He holds up his hands. “I hear you. I just think you’re ignoring the obvious.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”
He starts ticking things off with his fingers.
“One—she not only went against Josh and bought you a plane ticket, she lied about having food poisoning and flew to Tennessee to be with you. Two—she kissed you back. With tongue. Three—despite having a boyfriend, she wasn’t the one who stopped the kiss. You did.”
I turn this over in my head, but as soon as the faintest flicker of hope emerges, I shut it down.
“It doesn’t matter.”
He looks at me like I’m crazy. “What do you mean it doesn’t matter? Of course—”
“She chose him!” I bark and his mouth clamps shut.
My dick is still fond of her, but my psyche won’t ever forget the way she fucked me up.
I won’t give her the opportunity to bat those pretty eyes and lure me into her web…all so she can drive a fucking knife through my heart. Again.
Because this time? Music won’t be there to save me when I crash and burn.
I’ll lose everything.