Lyrics that Burn, page 7
She inches away from me, and I frown, not liking it one bit. Her attention fixates on the asshole, glaring at him as he crosses his legs on the cushion and folds his arms under his head.
“What kind of heathen are you? Get your damn shoes off my white couch,” she yells at him. There’s so much passion behind it, I’m instantly glad it’s not directed at me. Tristan smirks like he baited her into it and slowly lowers his feet to the floor, facing forward. He fists a pillow that’s propping her up and yanks it from behind her to put under his head.
The growl reverberating from Raina makes my lips quiver as I fight off the smile wanting to appear. It would only fuel the fire between them, and the longer they’re around each other, the more volatile they become. He’s hell bent on watching her ruin by any means possible, and she seems to only want to protect herself from experiencing more pain. If Tristan knows her as well as he claims, why can’t he see that?
“What are you two whispering about over here?” he asks, narrowing his gaze on me like I’ve broken his trust. And truth be told, I kind of have. Five minutes of watching Raina and taking in the body language she hides so poorly from him, I’ve taken up as her unspoken knight. There’s four of us and one of her. She deserves someone in her corner, and it’ll make for some good entertainment.
Stupid. So fucking stupid. I can’t believe I set myself up for this. Years of blind trust took over my instincts, and I never once thought there could be hidden clauses to the contract. My first clue should’ve been the blind auditions, but I never would’ve thought... I should’ve though.
The realization has me in a daze. So much so, I allowed Tristan’s trojan horse to get close to me. Let him wrap his arm around me, and my stupidity continued as I soaked up the warmth he offered. Dumb. I trust too easily. Something that has been taken advantage of more times than I can count. But do I ever learn?
I’m not sure what would’ve happened if Tristan didn’t come up when he did, but I’m thankful he snapped me out of the unguarded haze I sunk into. He toes his shoes off, but the smirk on his face still makes me want to slap him. I want him gone, but the next best thing is to make him miserable right back.
“We were negotiating which room I get,” Nash answers. His hand is on the couch where it fell when I shrugged him off, but his fingertips subtly reach out to graze against the back of my neck. It sends a shiver down my spine and makes my toes curl. Glancing at him, I find he’s looking at Tristan, not even giving a hint if he’s purposely touching me or not.
“Speaking of rooms, I’d like to know which one is mine. I’m beat.” Tristan runs a hand through his hair, and it’s such a normal thing for him to do, it makes me mad all over again. He doesn’t get to act like a total asshole outside, then pretend everything is all hunky dory now.
“You can all share the room at the end of the hall when you take a right at the top of the stairs,” I tell them. Nowhere in the contract did it say they had to have their own rooms. They can fucking share.
Tristan scoffs. “Try again, princess.”
This time, I know I’m the one with the upper hand, and when I smirk at him, his cocky smile falters. “The contract says you get to live here, not that you get separate rooms. You can all share, or leave. Up to you.”
Tristan’s relaxed pose jolts up. “That’s not what it says,” he objects. I’m sure that’s not how they meant it, but wording is everything, and this time I have a slight upper hand.
“Read it and weep,” I gloat, tossing my phone into his lap. He picks it up and reads the lines at the top of the page.
“Oh, that’s cruel, roomie. Can’t I stay with you instead? Give the nickname a real bang for the buck?” Nash pleads. He turns puppy dog eyes on me, making my heart skip a beat. I can’t help but picture him in bed next to me. The thought of cuddling with him doesn’t seem half bad, but that’s only the loneliness talking.
“What’s going on?” Blake asks, taking a seat on the other side of Nash, leaning against the edge of the couch like he doesn’t want to be too close.
“Raina here is being a bitch and trying to force us all to share a single bedroom,” Tristan growls, anger dancing in his eyes.
So he can dish it out and not take it, huh? Some things never change.
As if he’s mimicking my thoughts, Nash says, “So you get to be a total dick, but she can’t? Seems she’s reflecting what you’ve given her.”
“I’m getting what’s rightfully due. Don’t stick up for her, you know what she did.” I ignore what Tristan says, he’s only trying to rile me up anyway, and instead focus on his scowl. I can’t help but enjoy it. It’s like I’ve won a prize. It’s certainly better than his stupid gorgeous smirk that makes me think of stolen midnight kisses. He stands and tosses my phone in my lap before walking away and bumping into the drummer as he comes to join us.
Our newest addition doesn’t speak as he takes the armchair. He only grunts and lifts his pierced eyebrow. He doesn’t need to use his words to make it abundantly clear what he wants to know. Nash waves a hand toward where Tristan stormed off. “He got a dose of his own medicine. We were discussing bedrooms. Raina is of a mind to make us share a room, and I’m trying to convince her to let me stay in her bed.”
He gives me a wink that makes me roll my eyes, even if my heart pitter patters in my chest like it has a crush. Something about him makes me instantly comfortable around him. And to make it even better, he was true to his word and didn’t share with Tristan what we were talking about, making up something entirely different. It still doesn’t mean I can trust him, though.
“Hmm,” I hum out. “You’re the ones crashing into my home, disrupting my life, and making a nuisance of yourselves, and I don’t even know your names.”
Nash gasps and holds a hand to his chest like I’ve wounded him. “You do know my name.” He nuzzles closer to me, like he wants to keep what he says next between the two of us. But he says it loud enough for them to hear. He isn’t fooling anyone. “Don’t lie and say you don’t know Blake’s either, you saucy little minx. You just want to know our drummer’s name, don’t you?”
Well, I guess he’s not wrong. My gaze flicks to the man in question, and I find his stony stare already fixated on me. His face is void of emotion; he’s a book with blank pages. Which is so frustrating when he’s looking at me like that. He folds his hands in front of him and steeples his pointer fingers before pressing them to his lips like he’s forming his opinion about me. It makes me so uncomfortable. If I sit here under his scrutiny any longer, I’ll end up squirming in my seat. And I already feel too exposed as it is.
With a huff, I stand to move toward the staircase. Nash catches my hand, and in a swift tug, he has me collapsing on his lap. “Where are you going, roomie? I haven’t talked you into sharing your bed with me.”
Blake chuckles and shakes his head while the drummer remains silent.
“Keep dreaming, Nash. Stop fucking with me.”
His long arm reaches over me to where I set my wineglass down and takes a sip before handing it to me. “Stop fighting me or you’ll spill the wine,” he admonishes, because I’m not about to sit on his lap like a docile puppet, letting them dictate my life.
“He’s near impossible when he gets something on his mind that he wants,” Blake comments. His Caribbean blue eyes trace over me, pausing over every spot my skin touches Nash. When he realizes I’m watching him, he nonchalantly grabs the glass from my hand and takes a sip himself. After swallowing, he draws the glass out at arm’s length, staring at it like he’s surprised he liked it so much.
“You can’t sleep in my room,” I say, shoving my elbow into Nash’s ribcage. He lets out an oof and bends forward, only to be stopped by my body being in the way. His breath leaves him in a puff, and it grazes across my neck, making goosebumps prickle my arms. A light chuckle leaves him as he trails a fingertip over my arm.
“Can I have the room next to yours until you change your mind?”
“No,” I snap. The desire to get rid of them for the night suddenly outweighs my need to make Tristan miserable. “You can pick rooms on that side of the house,” I say, pointing in the direction I mean, the same area I mentioned before. They need to be as far away from me as possible.
Before he can expect it, I jump from Nash’s lap and leave for my room. Fuck having housemates.
Blinding sunlight burns my eyes as I blink them open. A low groan spills from my lips unbidden, the haze of exhaustion clinging to me. What a shit night of sleep. I’ve suffered from nightmares every night for years now, but last night was one of the worst I’ve had in a long time. It was one of those did I even really ever fall asleep? I swear I only closed my eyes for a second, paired with vivid dreams of Tristan barging back into my life and moving into my house with his band. Fuck. Thinking about it again makes me shudder.
The bedspread bunches around my waist when I sit up, rubbing at the sleep gathered in my eyes. Blinking some more, the room swims into focus. It’s furnished much nicer than the hotel rooms I’ve grown accustomed to. Where the hell am I?
Coffee, god’s gift to the world. I need some.
Not bothering with any pants, I turn to leave my room in only an oversized T-shirt. I have a small collection I bring with me wherever I go, no matter where my travels take me.
The moment my toes leave the decorative rug positioned under the bed and touch the cold wood floor, I jump back from the shocking temperature change. Turning back to my closet, I slip my feet into a pair of fuzzy slippers. Much better.
It’s slowly coming back to me that I’m in my house in Rhode Island. There was something in an email about my closet being filled with clothes, along with all other essentials I may need in the house. Including a full fridge, and most importantly, fresh coffee beans.
A yawn pulls at me from deep in my chest as I reach the kitchen and move on autopilot as I gather everything I need to make a cup of my beloved bean juice. It’s not that hard when everything is at the tip of my fingers, organized within a trendy coffee bar area. I may never have planned on staying here a day in my life, but I certainly made sure it was stocked with everything I needed. Running my fingers over the syrup selection, I choose the chocolate macadamia nut. My mouth is already watering thinking about how yummy it will be.
There’s a chance I may be a little extra when it comes to my coffee.
Even if it’s been a hot minute since I’ve had to make my own coffee, it’s like second nature at this point. I run through the motions of grinding the beans and pressing them into the tool that clicks into the espresso machine. As it brews and the sweet seductive scent of coffee permeates the air, I work on prepping the milk and measuring the syrup into my... fuck. I didn’t grab a mug yet.
Unfamiliar with the layout of my kitchen, I open the cabinet above the espresso machine, assuming that makes the most logical sense. Apparently, the person who put everything away didn’t agree because I find plates of various sizes. The one next to it has serving platters and bowls.
Who organized everything, a dolphin?
I need my damn coffee before I deal with bullshit like this. I finally find the mugs on the other side of the kitchen, but they’re on the higher shelves.
I’m not short, but I’m not that tall, either. A good 5‘6“ where I can still wear heels and make my legs look like they go on for days but won’t tower over whatever man I’m standing next to. Not that it would matter, because men ain’t shit. But it’s still nice to tilt your head back when you’re dancing and look into his eyes before he kisses you. At least that’s the image stuck in my mind from one of those reels I watched yesterday.
Stretching up, I have to lift to my toes, and yet my fingertips barely graze against the mug I’m going for. Grunting, I struggle to reach a little further, desperate for my morning coffee.
Suddenly, a warm hand lands on my hip, right above my panties where my shirt rode up, and a chiseled chest presses against my back as whoever it is grabs a mug.
Jumping, I scream and twirl around when he backs away. My stomach swoops when I find the hot as fuck drummer standing there with amusement in his eyes and a smirk on his kissable lips.
The memories come back in vivid reality. Tristan, my asshole ex-best friend moved in with his band. The flirty Nash with the sinful lip ring that I want to feel against me. The reserved Blake who’s drop dead gorgeous but doesn’t have confidence when he’s wearing glasses. And of course, the drummer. The man who doesn’t speak.
So much for thinking it was only a nightmare...
Although, a girl could get used to this sight. A smooth, tattooed chest with rippling abs. The dude is built. And to make the view even better, he has a set of drumsticks tucked into his sweatpants. If only they were gray.
Wait, no. Stop checking out your new drummer, Raina. Naughty!
He hands me the cup with a smirk. His pecks do a dance, making the tattoo of a drum set over his left side stand out. Within the silhouette shape of the instrument is a desert scene with a starry nighttime sky.
Ugh, love a man with ink. I want to explore the rest of him, to see if the tattoos are only on his chest or if they are in other areas too.
He grunts, the sound making my gaze dart to his face. I have a feeling he knows exactly where my mind went.
Heat warms my cheeks. “Would you like me to make you some—“ I pause, realizing I still don’t know his name. “What’s your name?” I feel stupid having to ask. Especially after what Nash said last night.
Dark eyes trace over me, and my mouth goes dry when he steps into me once more and reaches for another mug. Gorgeous man chest fills my vision, giving me an even closer view as it presses against me, my nipples making it clear they give their stamp of approval with how hard they get. His hand returns to my hip, somehow making its way under the T-shirt, reminding me that I neglected to put pants on. When his thumb brushes back and forth, I barely hold the moan back. What the hell? And he still hasn’t said anything.
I tilt my head back to look at his face and find him watching me. His lips are about an inch from mine, his dark gaze locked onto me not giving away a single thought. I don’t take the much needed breath my lungs scream for until he steps back and there’s space between us again.
Tell me why I instantly miss his touch when he removes his hand, even if I am embarrassed he saw my panties. At least they’re a sexy lacy pair. Could’ve been worse if it was some ratty ripped pair. Not that I have any of those.
He thrusts the cup into my hands, and I take that as his answer. I’m starting to wonder if he can speak. Have I heard him say anything at all?
I turn back to the espresso machine to finish making my coffee. The moment my back is to him, he utters a single word. “Keaton.”
The sound of his voice is like silk running over my nipples. It makes my breath catch in my throat for a moment and causes goosebumps to travel along my arms and legs. Holy shit. Why doesn’t he speak more? Is it because he knows his voice has this effect, or is it only me who reacts this way?
Probably for the best he’s a man of few words. I’m not sure what kind of havoc he’d wreak on me speaking all the time.
“Would you like to pick your poison?” I ask, gesturing to the syrups and working on grinding more beans.
He waits until the sound dies out, and much to my surprise, he doesn’t simply point to one. “Same is fine.”
My eyes flutter closed, and I let the soft tone wash over me. Three words this time, and it’s like he’s unlocked the tight muscles in my shoulders. Something relaxes within me like I’ve taken a Xanax.
Reaching for the glass bottle holding the syrup, I realize the label isn’t even facing him, and I turn around quickly when a horrifying thought comes to mind. “You aren’t allergic to nuts, are you?” I find him leaning on the island counter, drumsticks in hand, tapping a silent beat on his thigh. His eyes are on me like he was watching me the whole time.
With one raised brow, he slowly shakes his head. I’m slightly disappointed I didn’t get to hear him again, and it raises a new round of questions. Is it the lack of pressure I put on him, or is it because I wasn’t looking directly at him? Maybe he only likes speaking when it’s unexpected.
Returning to my task, I finish making his coffee, too. It goes by much quicker this time since I have a mug ready to go. When I turn around to hand it to him, I find he’s still watching me, and it makes me wonder if it’s because he doesn’t trust me. I can only imagine what awful things Tristan made up about me to get that reaction. Or maybe it’s the fucking rumors. I never did spend any time diving down that rabbit hole. I’m leaning toward the side of it’s better not to know at this point. The damage is done, after all.
He moves the drumstick into his other hand and takes the cup with a nod. This time it’s my turn to watch him. He sniffs the coffee and seems to appreciate the aroma, then tentatively sips it with a grunt of approval. At least I thought it was. He sets it down and moves to the fridge.
“Is it missing something?” I ask. Not going to lie, my pride is a little bruised. I think I make a perfect cup of coffee, not burnt like some places that shall not be named. It’s local shops all the way when I’m on the road or there’s hell to pay. It’s in the runner handbook. At least I assume there’s some kind of handbook.
Keaton doesn’t reply, shocker. Instead, he turns from the fridge, his arms laden with ingredients. He gently rests them on the counter and starts rummaging through the cabinets. I’d ask what he’s searching for, but I wouldn’t be any help. It’s not like I know where things are in my own kitchen.
I should’ve realized he’d want to make himself breakfast. Taking another sip of my coffee, I head for the back patio. May as well relax to the rhythmic sound of waves crashing on the beach. The quiet rustle of shells moving with the tide. Warm coffee working its magic to give me that spark in my day...
