Mister Romance by Leisa Rayven
He glances over at me. “Eden, hey. Thanks for waiting for me, sweetheart.”
A very loud WTF is on the tip of my tongue as he hands a CD to a busty brunette. She gazes up at him the same way Asha gazes at Sprinkles cupcakes; which is to say with deep and abiding lust. All the ladies make a groaning noise as he extricates himself from them and heads over to me.
“Sorry, ladies, I’d love to stay and chat, but I promised my beautiful girlfriend we’d go to dinner after the show.”
So, it would seem that the onstage cameo wasn’t the full date. I guess that makes sense. Not to diminish the smoking-hot experience of having Max wrapped around me while he crooned about being deep, but as a client I’d be pissed if I paid five grand for four minutes.
“Oh, she’s your girlfriend?” the brunette says, not even bothering to conceal her envy. “I thought you two looked too cozy on stage to be strangers.”
“What can I say?” Max says as he puts his arm around my waist. “I just can’t hide my feelings when she’s near, no matter how hard I try.” He bends and grazes his lips over my cheek. It sends a rush of tingles through me that are so powerful, I suppress a full-body shiver.
The brunette’s friend lets out a snort. “Oh, I bet it’s hard when she’s around.” They all gaze at his crotch then giggle again.
See? This is exactly what I’m trying to avoid becoming. I’m sure all these ladies are strong, accomplished, and clever in their own ways. And yet, right now, they’re like a gaggle of school girls.
My face must show my inner thoughts, because Max whispers, “Just smile and nod. And don’t show any fear. They can smell it.” Then he turns back to his admirers. “Well, gotta go, ladies. Nice to see you all. Have a great night.”
There’s a general murmur of disappointment as he takes my hand and leads me past two burly security guards monitoring the door to the backstage area.
“Thanks for the cover,” he says as we walk down a long corridor. “Getting away from them can be tough.”
His hand is warm around mine.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask.
He stops, confusion coloring his expression. “Back to my dressing room to fuck, of course. I’m sorry, have you not read the groupie handbook? It’s one of the first things they teach you.”
I pull my hand back. “What?!”
He holds his serious expression for half a second before breaking into a smile. “Jesus, I’m kidding. I was going to take you into the green room for a drink. Don’t worry. Fucking is strictly prohibited in there.”
He goes to take my hand again, but I pull back. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I have to find Asha.”
“And Asha is ...?”
Oh, right. Even though Max knows Ash, Caleb doesn’t. I have to get used to this new reality. “She’s my little sister. I came with her and a friend, and they’ve disappeared.”
“What does she look like? Maybe I can help find her.”
“Five foot six. Red hair. Red lips. Gorgeous.”
“You’ve just described yourself. Is she a twin?”
I roll my eyes. He’s quick on the draw with those corny compliments. As I finish the thought, he hits me with a self-deprecating smile, and for some reason, ‘corny’ is instantly transformed into ‘charming’. How weird.
“Wait,” he says and snaps his fingers. “Was your sister with a blonde girl wearing an ugly eighties necklace?”
I nod. “You’ve seen them?”
He gestures for me to go with him. “I take it your sister is a fan of the Stoners?”
“Yes. She’s crushing on the bass player.”
“Yeah, I already guessed that part.”
He leads me into a big room filled with couches and lined with tables of food and drink. He points to the far corner where Asha is sucking face with a guy I’ve never seen before.
“That her?”
“Holy crap. Yes.”
My first response is total surprise that she’s acting like a regular horny twenty-three-year-old for a change, followed closely by the urge to chew her out for not letting me know where the hell she was. However, before I can open my mouth to yell at her, Max puts his hand on my arm.
“I don’t know your sister, but she seems to be enjoying herself. Maybe now’s not the best time to pull the big-sister card.”
“So that’s the bass player?”
“Bingo.” He points to the other corner, where I can see the back of Joanna’s head as she sits next to another band member on a giant couch. “And that’s the drummer.” He goes to the impressive table of alcohol and grabs some beers. “They’ll be going on for their set soon, so it won’t be long before your sister and friend are out of their clutches, but until then ... why don’t you come to my dressing room for a drink?”
I look over at the girls. “Are you sure there’s no weird stuff in here?”
“Positive. The security guys have cameras all over this place, and I’ve seen them swoop on a guy for adjusting himself too often. The girls will be safe.”
“And your dressing room? Is that safe?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “There are no cameras in there, but also no fucking. Just drinking. Maybe a little unrestrained adjusting if the mood hits me.”
His eyes actually sparkle as he says this, and against my better judgment, I smile. I suppose ‘Caleb’ is a required part of my research, and I could think of worse ways of spending my time than having a beer with him. “Sure. Why not?”
Max nods and leads me out of the green room to a nearby dressing room. Then he pushes open the door and holds it so I can step past him.
“Nice,” I say, taking in the surprisingly clean and stylish decor. “Forgive me for saying it, but this doesn’t seem very rock and roll.”
He uncaps the beers before handing one to me. “Really? Why not?”
I take a sip from the cold bottle and wander around the room. “Where’s the harem of groupies? The mountains of cocaine? Hell, there’s not even any broken furniture.”
He puts down his beer and packs the guitar lying across the couch into its case. “Well, the furniture in here is sturdier than it looks, so smashing it is more trouble than it’s worth; I’ve been off cocaine for four years now, so that’s out; and as for the whole groupie thing ...” He snaps the guitar case shut and stands. “It’s never been high on my list of life goals. I find it hard to keep any artistic integrity if I devolve into a horny teenager the minute I get some female attention.”
“So, wait ... you’re telling me you’re actually doing this for the music? What sort of maniac are you?”
He chuckles and packs the remainder of his belongings into a large duffle bag. “My band mates wonder the same thing. That’s why we don’t share a dressing room. I like my own space, and all of their cocaine, broken furniture, and groupies cramp my style.”
I laugh and sit on the white leather couch while Max finishes packing up. It’s amazing to me that he can be so different as Caleb. I don’t have any experience with role-playing, but I didn’t think it would be this believable. To be honest, I really like Caleb. He’s rough around the edges, has a great sense of humor, and the scruff coloring his jaw is hot as hell. Also, he’s more open than White-Bread Max, which isn’t a bad thing.
When everything’s packed away, Rocker Max joins me on the couch. Having him this close, I can get a better look at the ink on his arms. I have no idea how he suddenly has tatts everywhere, but it’s damn convincing.
I trace a dragon that snakes from his wrist to his bicep. “This looks amazing. What is it?”
I look up to see Max staring at me, his expression intense. “I was born in the year of the dragon, so ...”
“No,” I say, unable to look away from his eyes. “The ... uh ... ink. How did you get all of this onto your skin?” He had to have gotten them sometime between yesterday morning and tonight.
“A hulk named Brian strapped me into a chair and attacked me with a needle gun for hours on end.” Oh, yeah. His
“Did it hurt?” I raise knowing eyebrows, expecting another dig might provoke a flicker of irritation, but again, nothing.
He keeps looking me dead in the eye. “I don’t mind suffering every now and then. Pain reminds us we’re alive.”
“Is life something you forget about?”
He looks down at his beer and fiddles with the edge of the label. “I think that when we’re kids, we start out feeling everything. The whole world is amazing and magical. But as we grow up, we’re trained to believe everything is ordinary, and magic only exists in fairytales. That’s total bullshit, of course, but that’s how it goes.”
I lean back and study him. “You believe in magic?”
He nods. “Sure. Not Harry Potter magic, but magic nonetheless. I mean, look at this ...” He extends his finger then gently and slowly trails it from my elbow to my wrist. His touch is so light, it’s barely there, and yet I can feel the thrum of his energy in every part of my body. All of my hair stands on end, and I notice there are goosebumps forming on his skin, too.
“I’m barely touching you, and yet, we’re making electricity. It’s firing in every inch of skin.” He drags his fingers back down, watching it the whole way. “Edison and Tesla worked for years to harness something this powerful, and we just created it out of thin air.” His voice gets softer, and he looks at me with a hint of awe. “If that’s not magic, I don’t know what is.”
He pulls back, but he’s still too close. If he was any other man right now, sitting that close and looking at me with seventeen shades of sex-eyes, I’d be crawling into his lap and tearing off his shirt. But he’s not another man. He’s the one guy I need to keep my distance from, for personal and professional reasons.
He keeps eye contact as he takes a sip of beer then glances down my body. “Sorry. I kind of hijacked the conversation there. We were talking about tattoos. How about you? Got any ink you’d like to show me?”
I lean back and say, “Can you see any?”
“No, but you strike me as the kind of woman who might have something hidden.” His voice gets quiet. “You wouldn’t feel the need to show it off. It would be just for you.”
He’s not wrong, and for a few seconds I sit there and consider what to do.
“You don’t have to show me,” he says. “I mean, we’ve just met, and I’m basically asking you to take off your clothes, but ... I’d love to see it.”
He’s looking at me so earnestly, it’s disarming. I’ve never shown someone my tattoo before. People have seen it, of course; after all, I’ve been naked with my fair share of men. But none of them knew me.
Is that why I’m hesitating? Because on some level, I think this man, who’s sitting there pretending to be another man, sees through the person I’m pretending to be?
Throwing caution to the wind, I put my beer on the table and kneel on the couch next to Max. Then I take a breath and pull up my shirt.
Max leans forward to study the two lines of cursive letters that stretch up the right side of my ribcage from my hip to the band of my bra.
He looks up at me. “May I?”
When I give him a tight nod, he grazes his fingers over the elegant lettering. Stupid move, letting him touch me. My physical reactions are insane. There’s no way a man should affect me like this. Any man. But especially not a man about whom I’m trying to remain objective.
He trails over the letters again, and I close my eyes and clench my teeth.
“‘Screw you and all the ways you didn’t love me.’” When I open my eyes, I find him looking up at me. “Bad relationship?”
“You could say that.” I can’t stand the contact anymore, so I drop my shirt, sit down, and take a large swig of beer to try and calm my runaway heart.
“Did he hurt you?” There’s an edge to his tone, and when I glance over, I’m surprised he’s wearing a hard expression.
I blink as old memories roll and stir, threatening to wake. “It was a long time ago.”
He tightens his hold on his beer bottle. “Do you still think about him?”
“I do my best not to.” The less I think about him, the easier it is to ignore how angry I am all of the time.
When the thudding bass of live music starts up, Max drains his beer and sighs. “Sounds like the Stoners have finally made it to the stage.”
Almost at the same time, my phone buzzes with a message.
I stand and push my phone into my back pocket. “Well, thanks for the beer.”
Max stands, too. “Where are you going?”
“My sister’s waiting.”
When I grab the door handle, he covers my hand with his, and for the second time tonight my back tingles where his chest presses against it.
“Don’t go,” he says quietly. “Come with me instead.”
I look down at where he’s lazily stroking my fingers with his. “Where to?”
“My place.”
“I thought you didn’t do the groupie thing.”
“I don’t. You think all musicians just want women for free, easy sex?”
“Seems to be a perk of the job.”
“Do you think that’s what I want from you?”
“I don’t know what you want from me.”
He looks down at our hands. “Neither do I. That’s why you should come with me. I’d really like to find out.”
He reaches behind me and slides my phone out of my pocket. “Text your sister. She’ll survive without you for one night.”
I take the phone from him, and I’m surprised how tight my breathing is as he watches me type out a message.
I press send.
No doubt Asha will interpret my words to mean I’ve hooked up and won’t be home until morning. Let her believe that.
I’m more comfortable with her assuming I’m sleeping with a stranger than staying fully clothed with Max, and I have no idea why.
Max steps back and grabs his duffle and guitar case. “Come on, pretty Eden. Let’s get out of here.”
TEN
Interlude
Forty minutes in the back seat of a cab with Max feels like an eternity, and I’m relieved when we climb out into the cool night air in front of an impressive industrial building.
“The old Brooklyn Pencil Factory?” I say, looking up at the iconic facade.
“You know it?”
“Yeah. my grandmother lives a few blocks away, so I’ve seen it heaps of times. Just never been inside.”
“Well, then, now’s your chance.” He holds the door open for me. “After you.”
We climb up to the top floor, where Max slides open a huge metal door to reveal his apartment. Well, an apartment. God knows who it belongs to, but it’s everything and nothing like what I’d expect from a musician. It’s a large industrial space, but even with the concrete floors and exposed brick, the way it’s been decorated makes it seem warm and elegant. There are several different areas defined by furniture, a large kitchen, and at the back is what seems to be an enclosed bedroom and bathroom.
“You live here by yourself?”
He nods as he dumps his bags and opens the fridge. “Used to belong to a friend of mine. When he moved out to L.A., he passed it along to me.”
In the corner of the room is an impressive studio setup, complete with an array of instruments including a violin, saxophone, clarinet, trumpet, full drum kit, tuba, and a well-worn baby grand piano.
“Do you play all of those?” I ask, pointing at the musical collection.
He nods. “Not well, but yeah. That’s what comes from having musical A.D.D as a kid. I could never figure out which instrument I liked the best, so I gave them all a try.”
“Is there much call for a rock-n-roll tuba these days?”
“Word.”
He moves over to an impressive bar set up on one side of the room, and I follow. I’m not sure if I should have another drink. For the entire cab ride over here, I’ve felt ... off. Dizzy and feverish. It’s not my usual reaction to alcohol, which tends to mellow me out. Maybe I’m getting sick.
Even now as I watch Max slide behind the bar, I find myself staring and not blinking. I’m wired but it feels too intense.
“What can I get you?” he asks.
I look over the bottles lined up on the scuffed wood. Screw it. I’ll have one more drink. Maybe it will help with the tension in my muscles. I feel like I have so much pent-up energy, I could run a marathon. “Can you do a G and T?”
He raises an eyebrow. “I even have ice.” As he goes about mixing our drinks, he glances over at me. “So, you didn’t seem too heartbroken about missing the Stoners tonight.”
“My sister was the fan. I was just tagging along. Live gigs really aren’t my thing.”
He brings my drink around and stands closer than I expect. He leans on the bar, and I don’t miss how extraordinary his arms are. Again, my attention is drawn to his tatts. I didn’t think I had a thing for ink on men, but he may very well change my mind. Also, his chest is spectacular in that T-shirt. And although I’ve never had a strong opinion on belts, the one he’s wearing, which is drawing my line of sight to his crotch like a magnet, is disturbingly hot.
See? This is another symptom of my current wrongness: noticing everything about him; wanting to touch everything. I’m craving to run my fingers over his skin; crumple the fabric of his T-Shirt in my fist; press my forehead against the cool metal of his belt buckle.
“Well,” he says, either ignoring how hard I’m staring or not noticing. “I’m glad you tagged along. And I’m glad I picked you.” He takes a step forward, and it makes the air between us way too thick. “And above all, I’m very glad you’re here now.”