Sweet Ache

Chapter 7

QUINLAN

I watch the lecture from the cheap seats near the very top of the hall. This time I pay attention, listen to his lessons buried under the glamour and glitz of his stories. His charisma comingled with his star power mesmerizes the other students in the room. They laugh with him, groan in the right places, and are rapt with attention.

I see the attraction now, why they hang on his every word because despite telling myself he’s off limits, I’m doing the exact same thing.

The lecture ends and while everyone stands, I remain seated as student after student approaches him to get their five seconds of personal attention. He comes off as approachable and yet after about thirty minutes and a line that never ends, I catch the glance Hawke slides to Axe in a practiced move so smooth that most wouldn’t notice it.

“Okay, folks! We’ve got to clear the room for the next lecture. Those who need to speak to Hawkin can do so through the Fine Arts department Web site or after the next lecture.” Axe starts ushering the stragglers out, walking behind them up the steps to assure that they keep moving toward the exit.

The minute they clear the door, Hawkin takes a deep breath and runs a hand through his hair before reaching for his phone on the podium shelf. Irritation flickers on his face when whatever he’s looking for isn’t there.

When I start to stuff my papers in my bag, his voice booms, echoing through the empty theater. “What do you mean Hunter hasn’t been there?” I jump when his fist pounds on the podium, obviously not happy with whatever answer he’s getting on the other end of the line. “She’s okay, though? … Okay. I will…. Later.”

He shoves his phone in his pocket and hangs his head down for a moment. “Do you need something?” Impatience, irritation, annoyance—so many emotions laced in the tone of the question.

I didn’t realize he knew I was still here and now feel like a voyeur, unsure of what to say or do. He lifts his head to meet my eyes across the distance of the room as I stand and lift my bag to my shoulder.

“No, I—uh—was just gathering my stuff.” I apologize without saying the words.

“You good if we take off, man?” I’m startled when Axe speaks behind me.

Hawke’s eyes shift from me to him. “Yeah. No. Fuck, Hunt’s got my car so—”

“I can take you home.” The offer is out of my mouth before I can think about it or the ramifications. “Or wherever you need to go,” I correct realizing no way in hell is Hawkin Play going to let some random woman he knows nothing about take him to his house.

Then again, he is a successful musician, aren’t random women a way of life?

His eyes move back to mine and although the agitation from moments before is still there, I also see intrigue. “You gonna drive me home, Trix?” He begins to walk up the steps as he asks the question. I don’t even get a chance to respond before he lifts his chin to Axe. “I’m good. Thanks man.”

Axe leaves without a sound. I wait for Hawkin, and with each step he takes, I can see him shed whatever it is that’s bugging him bit by bit so that by the time he reaches me, he’s the same man from earlier. Arrogant, enigmatic, and sexy as hell.

He stands in front of me, tongue flicking out to wet his lower lip, and all I want regardless of what I’ve told myself is to kiss those lips again. Screw caution because I’m throwing it to the wind when it comes to Hawkin Play.

“Are you afraid to take a ride with me?” I ask, knowing full well how the question will be received.

A dimple deepens with his lopsided smile, eyes dancing with mirth. “I assure you, I’m not afraid of riding anything with you.” He gestures in front of him for me to lead the way. “Just be warned, I like to take shotgun.”

“Good thing I’m great at driving a stick,” I say over my shoulder as the welcome sound of laughter returns to his voice.

“I have to tell you I’m seriously turned on here.”

The subtle change of subject from my question about whether he and his brother were close does not go unnoticed. I mean we’ve driven for forty minutes through traffic filled with idle chitchat, but the constant glances at his phone for a text he told me he’s waiting for have caused the somber mood from earlier to settle back over him.

So I figured why keep dancing around it and instead I would just ask. And of course, he just delivered the comment that has my mind shifting gears faster than my car climbing up through the hills of Bel Air. So now I’m left to try to figure out what it is he’s turned on by, hoping like hell it’s by me.

It’s one thing to be in a large lecture hall where there is space to move about, to step away. It’s another to be in the close confines of a car where everything about him is mere inches away, causing my libido to go into overdrive.

I wet my bottom lip with my tongue and nod. “And …” I’ll let him lead this conversation, see where it takes us.

“Between your choice of car and the way you handle her … damn.” He lets the last word trail off and I smile smugly at his compliment. “Impressive and hot.”

“Yeah, well, when your brother is a professional race car driver, you can’t shame him by being a shitty driver.” I recall the numerous driving lessons from Colton as a teenager, the constant ribbing that he was going to teach me to not drive “like a woman.”

I catch his double take in my periphery. “Race car driver, huh?”

“Yeah. Indy.” I navigate a turn up the windy road.

“Should I know him?”

“Colton Donavan?” I say his name like a question, my lips pursed as I wait to see Hawkin’s reaction.

“No shit.” He says it so casually that he earns major brownie points with me. But it’s not like he’s a slouch in the fame department either so my brother’s public lifestyle shouldn’t faze him—make him suddenly fawn all over me—like it does so many others. He falls silent for a minute as he thinks. “I don’t follow racing but know who he is. So that’s your last name, huh? I was wondering. Quinlan Donavan,” he muses more to himself than me.

And here goes part two of the Quinlan checklist of whether a man can handle me.

“Actually, no it’s not.” I glance over to catch the perplexed look on his face. “Colton wanted to make it on his own accord, not on the family name.”

“Go on.” He draws the words out. I can hear the amusement in his voice as he tries to figure out what I’m going to say next. “What is your last name then?”

“Westin.”

“Hm,” he murmurs as I can all but hear the thoughts connecting in his mind. The ones telling him that my father is the renowned film director Andy Westin. His lack of a reaction is so refreshing compared to the usual barrage of questions and requests that follow someone finding out who my dad is. “You’re like unwrapping a present. So many surprises to discover.”

You can unwrap me all you like.

“The best parts of me are hidden,” I deadpan, a lopsided smirk playing over one corner of my mouth. I love seeing his jaw fall lax in my periphery. Gotta keep him on his toes.

“Good thing I like to take my time when I open a gift. Nice and slow.” He draws the words out, a whistle falling from his lips as the tingle begins anew deep in my core. “And I always take my time untying them when they’re knotted tight. Always open the box by sliding my fingers in the seam first before I dive right in …”

How in the hell has he just seduced me and all he’s describing is a damn birthday present?

It’s best I don’t respond right now because his cologne, his unaffected responses, his just being normal is causing things inside me to zig and zag when they should be going straight.

“I bet your brother got in a lot of fights growing up.”

His comment throws me. “Why do you say that?” He points for me to turn left on another street and I steal a glance at him from behind my sunglasses.

“Well, I’m sure he spent a lot of time protecting your virtue,” Hawkin says, and I fight back the laugh that threatens when I think of the scuffles he got in with guys talking in the locker room about his little sister, then and now—Luke Mason, case in point. “Any good older brother protects their younger sibling. No questions.”

There’s something about the way he says it, the catch in his voice, that makes me feel like he’s not just talking about Colton. And of course I want to delve deeper, want to ask about Hunter because I’m not oblivious to the fact that this whole conversation has focused on me when I’d much rather have it be on him.

“You’re older than Hunter?” I ask in another attempt to learn more.

“Mm-hm … by four minutes,” he says, pointing for me to take a left turn.

“Are you guys close?”

“We’re identical twins.” I bite back the sarcastic remark on my lips about the obviousness of his statement, and how he didn’t answer the question. “Most people can’t tell us apart, especially when we dress alike.”

“I bet that was fun growing up. Does he—”

“So, you’re a TA…. What is your master’s degree in?”

“Film and television production.” I glance over to see his eyebrows raised for me to explain further. And it’s not lost on me that he’s turned the topic of conversation back on me. “I grew up watching filmmaking behind the scenes. I find it fascinating—the egos, the money, watching ideas come to fruition … the stuff that no one thinks about.”

“Well, it’s not like you didn’t have a good teacher,” he muses casually with a slight nod of his head. “No acting bug then?”

“Being in front of the camera doesn’t interest me.” I shiver at the thought. The assessing eyes and unforgiving critics. No thanks. While I’m all for being front and center in my personal life, I prefer behind the scenes in my professional one. I think of watching the media chaos that used to surround my brother when the woman he dated changed or if he got in a fight in his testosterone-fueled bachelor days. The thought of all that attention is not appealing.

“Right here,” he says pointing to a long driveway, ivy-covered walls on both sides as we drive up it. “It all makes sense now.”

“What does?” I ask, slowly getting used to his habit of speaking his internal thoughts without giving me a direction which way they are going. With most people I’d be annoyed but with Hawkin for some reason I find it endearing, a sign that his mind is running a million miles an hour although he never divulges what the other things are that occupy it.

“Your smart-ass mouth.”

“Come again?” I laugh as I pull my car to a stop in front of an expansive Tuscan-style house. I shift in my seat and remove my sunglasses so that I can study him, try to figure where exactly he’s going with this. How a conversation about my degree, my future career, has led him to a conclusion I’m sure is all wrong about me. I know I have a helluva bite, but get beneath the surface and I’m a softie to those that really know me.

“Most people walk on eggshells around me, kiss my ass”—he shrugs without apology and offers up a smirk that tugs on every part of my body yet to be awakened by him—“or want to kiss other things … just because of the music, fame, whatever you want to call it.” He looks toward the house and flicks his hand in front of him in a gesture signifying irrelevance and indifference over the whole attention aspect of his job. He brings his eyes back to mine. “But you treat me like anyone else. Give as good as you get. The chaos around me doesn’t faze you because you grew up with it. It’s kind of nice…. I like it.”

I hate the little thrill that shoots through me at his ridiculous praise but it does nonetheless. Shit, he just praised me for not fan-girling over him but if he keeps making comments like that I just might start.

“Well, it’s not like you’re a big deal or anything,” I tease with a wink. “Billboard charts are so yesterday.” I roll my eyes, loving the flash of mirth in his eyes before he snickers.

His laugh continues longer than it should and he leans his head back on the headrest. I can sense his release from whatever was eating at him in the manic sound of it. When it finally abates he closes his eyes for a moment to regain his composure, and now my curiosity has been piqued even further about the secrets he holds.

“Thanks. I needed that.” He shakes his head and then tilts it toward the house. “Want to come in?”

Warning bells sound in my head, alerting me that this is one of those first steps you can’t take back while another side of me says I’m reading way too much into the invite and to hurry up and get out of the car. And of course, my body is reacting, hand on the door handle before my head can tell it to sit still.

We exit the car together and he explains that he and the guys are renting the house while they finish up the current album. He tells me that when they are all in the same place, they mesh better, write the music quicker, are more creative.

He leads me up the steps to the front door, his hand placed on my lower back. Just when his free hand touches the door handle, he pulls it back in what seems like a moment of indecision. I stand there waiting and am taken by surprise when within a beat Hawkin has my back against the wall, his body pressed close, and his mouth on mine.

I react. I don’t allow myself to question it or him this time, don’t worry myself about the ever-afters I envisioned earlier because he is here and this is now and I like to live in the moment. I don’t even think I could analyze anything if I wanted to because desire clouds my thoughts, need overwhelms my senses.

I throw myself into the embrace. Tongues dance, lips claim, and hands fist as we pour the strange emotions of the day into our kiss. There’s something different this time around and I’m not sure if it’s my willingness or whatever he’s struggling with internally but I can feel the desperation in him for some kind of connection, can taste the need as he skillfully knocks all of my senses out from beneath me.

His hands move from framing my face and slide down my rib cage, thumbs brushing over my nipples through the fabric of my shirt causing the lick of desire to inflame. I moan into his mouth as one of his hands squeezes my ass and presses me against his dick that’s begging to escape the confines of his jeans.

My body is on fire with need for this man to the point that this front porch is looking pretty damn good but I wouldn’t know for sure because my eyes are closed and already rolling back in rapture. Take me, I want to tell him, because shame is so overrated right now. I want to lose myself to him so that he has no option to be the only person that can pull me out of his fog.

“We have beds inside if you want to keep going. Or not … and I’ll grab some popcorn so I can enjoy the show. Or some lube.”

The voice shocks us apart, my heart hammering in my chest, my hands unwilling to loosen from the old-school Def Leppard logo fisted in them, but my eyes remain locked on Hawkin’s and the lascivious thoughts flickering in his gaze.

“Fuck off Gizmo,” Hawkin growls, his lips reconnecting with mine like there’s no one watching. The desperation is insatiable now on our parts—we both need to draw out the last of this kiss since we know we’re about to be interrupted.

“Popcorn it is then.” He laughs and yet doesn’t move because I can feel the weight of his presence still.

And shit, I’m all for exhibition, but for some reason, as hot and primed as I am right now from Hawkin’s complete consumption of my willpower, I tear my lips from his. Our faces are mere inches apart, our labored breaths pant over the other’s, and our eyes are locked—regret and desire a potent combination reflected back at each other.

But there’s something else buried in Hawke’s eyes. And I can’t quite place just what it is. “You okay?”

Those flecks of silver in his gray eyes darken momentarily because he knows I see the hint of the secret he wants to keep hidden. He nods with a sigh, hands still flexing into the flesh of my hips.

“Did you need something, Giz?” he asks with a glance over to the door, breaking our stare. Reluctantly I drag my eyes from him and follow his gaze. I take in the man leaning against the doorjamb, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans, bare chest covered in a dizzying array of intricate tattoos that I could probably spend a week studying and not see all of them. His dark hair is shaggy down to his nape, ice blue eyes a stark contrast to it, and a smile so warm and welcoming when he offers it to me that I immediately like him.

His eyes flick up and down my body before aiming an approving glance back to Hawkin. “Yeah,” he blows the word out and brings a hand up to tug on the back of his neck. The motion reveals a pink tattoo of a heart on the inside of his wrist that looks out of place and contradicts the coloring of his others but his words pull me from the observation. “Hunter called.” The disdain in his voice matches the sigh that falls from Hawke’s mouth when he releases me.

It seems as if Hunter is a real favorite around here. Can’t say I blame them because my first encounter with him was less than favorable.

“Fuck.” It’s all Hawkin says before he glances back to me, irritation and exasperation prevalent in the furrow of his brow. “Quinlan this is Gizmo, Gizmo, Quinlan.”

We say hello to each other and Gizmo moves out of the doorway so we can enter the house. I can feel his assessing eyes on my backside but whereas Hunter’s perusal felt intrusive, Gizmo’s is more of the I’m a male—how can I not look? variety. The Old World decor of the house is warm and welcoming despite its opulence, but I’m more interested in the conversation between the two men.

“You gave him your car?” The shock in Gizmo’s voice has me listening a little closer.

“Long story man.” Hawke runs a hand through his hair as we all move into the stainless steel and granite-slab designer kitchen. He accepts a beer that Gizmo pulls from the fridge and pops it open, the sound reverberating through the silence surrounding us after I decline the offer. “He showed up at the lecture, was fucking with Quin.” I catch the concerned glance Gizmo gives Hawke and then the warning one he flashes Vince when he walks in the room. Vince nods his head in acknowledgement as Hawke continues. “… And then said he needed my car to go see Mom … but after class, I called and he never showed.”

The room falls quiet as I try to decipher what it is that’s going on, all of them pondering something serious I have no knowledge of. Vince glares at Hawkin in obvious chastisement, fingers drumming on the granite countertop, an unspoken message delivered.

“Don’t give me that look Vince, I don’t need you starting in on me right now.”

“I didn’t say shit, man,” Vince says, holding his hands up and darting his eyes my way. I catch the look, know he’s telling Hawkin Not here, not now, not with an outsider present and that makes me even more intrigued.

“Fellas,” Gizmo breaks in with a laugh, walking into the space between them. He shoves a bowl of candy in front of Hawke before hooking his arms around their shoulders. “So much testosterone wasted on one another when it could be used on the lovely Quinlan here.” He flashes me a playful grin like he has not a care in the world before walking out of the room toward where a cell phone chimes with a text in the other room.

“Quinlan?” Vince asks confused, and I scrunch up my nose, forgetting he doesn’t know the truth about my name. “What happened to Trixie?”

Feeling a tad shy under the quiet scrutiny he seems to be aiming my way, I opt to shake my head while his hazel eyes assess and judge me. So I hold his stare, letting him know that I can stand my ground.

“Like he didn’t deserve it for calling me out like that in the lecture?” I say, Vince nodding his head in agreement. “Trixie’s for the assholes who aren’t worth my time.”

“Damn, woman,” he says with a laugh, the intensity on his face easing some as his approval is granted. “I like the way you think…. And what? Now you think he deserves it?”

“Nah, he’s gotta work a lot harder to get what he wants,” I quip off the cuff, and it earns me an even heartier laugh from him.

The laughter draws Gizmo’s attention from the text he’s reading as he enters the room. “What’s that? You gonna make Hawke work for something? Ah, a woman after my own heart,” Gizmo says, beer to his lips against his smirk.

I glance over to Hawkin and he has his head angled to the side, eyes steadfast on mine telling me he’ll get what he wants despite the easygoing smile on his lips. And it’s such a turn-on, the unspoken words on the heels of the kiss on the porch that left his taste on my lips and the damp patch in my panties.

I try to hold on to that resolve of mine that says I will not mess with another player again but I can feel myself faltering when he looks at me this way. And hell if he’s not the perfect person to keep things casual despite my imagination running wild and wanting a whole hell of a lot more when he kisses me like he did.

The sound of an amplified guitar echoes through the house and draws me from my thoughts. It starts off slow and even, haunting and melodic, and then it hits hard and fast. The three guys around me transform at the sound, concentration etched on their faces, heads bobbing to the beat as the musician picks up the pace until his fingers are screaming up and down the notes.

Silence falls momentarily before he starts all over again.

The music is incredible but even more powerful is watching Gizmo, Vince, and Hawkin internalize the notes this time around and figure out their accompaniment to it, even if it’s in the form of hands beating against the counter. I don’t belong there in that moment but wouldn’t step away if I could because there’s something so captivating about watching it unfold.

In my periphery I see Gizmo hurry to grab a pad full of scribbled words from the kitchen counter behind him and start adding to the lyrics already there as Hawkin belts them out. And as much as I want to take them all in—watch them all do their own things—I can’t tear my eyes off Hawkin.

Talk about aural foreplay.

The musician thing was never my hot button; I never understood the groupie thing but holy mother of God, watching and hearing Hawkin work through lyrics as the guitar riffs down the hall, I’m a converted woman. A very needy, horny converted woman.

I’m with the band. The clichéd phrase runs through my head, but I can’t deny the pull I feel toward Hawke.

Hawkin opens his eyes, and they lock on mine immediately. The sudden jolt of arousal snaps through me, and the air between us practically crackles as it ignites from our unsated desire. He continues the song flawlessly all the while his eyes tell me to do what the lyrics he sings ask.

Play me. Beg me. Take me. Make me.

Be the one to make me fall.

Be the one to take it all.

The music ends, the house falling to silence. Hawkin and I just sit there until he glances over to his bandmates. The three of them all get similar smiles spreading across their faces, and then simultaneously they let out a whoop in celebration that startles me. They start giving one another high fives and slaps on the back.

“What? What did I miss?” A voice shouts from down the hall followed by the appearance of a tall, athletic blond guy, one arm sleeved, gauges in his ears, confused look on his face.

“Were you recording that?” Hawkin asks as the guys all stand still and stare at him, anticipation on their faces.

“Yeah, why?”

The guys start their celebration again, including the newcomer this time around. Finally and it’s about fucking time is murmured between them as I stand there and put the pieces in place.

Gizmo looks over and lifts his chin. “Been working on that song for four months. Couldn’t get it right. We were ready to scrap it from the album—and who the fuck knew that it would come together like that from Rocket fiddling around by himself in the studio.”

“Ha. He’s used to fiddling by himself, just not with a guitar,” Vince quips.

I raise my eyebrows, excited to be a part of what they’re creating here, the lyrics on repeat through my head for more reasons than how perfectly they complete the song. I feel like Hawke was talking to me, asking me, and I settle into the feelings they invoke within me.

Before I realize it, Hawkin’s at my side, hand on my elbow as he leads me from the kitchen. His touch on my skin is intoxicating, his murmur in my ear telling me “Let’s go,” even more so.

We clear the doorway and he tugs on my arm so that our bodies crash into each other’s the same time our mouths do. And hell yes the kiss on the porch was hotter than hell but this one is scorching. I don’t know if it’s the euphoric adrenaline of figuring out the song but Hawkin is a man taking what he wants and thank God he wants me.

His hands fist in my clothing and the kiss turns close to bruising as our bodies remain pressed and grinding into each other. I know we’re at risk of being caught by the rest of the band, but Hawkin is kissing me like he sings … with a little bit of roughness to his smooth and fuck if I don’t love the hard edge.

“Upstairs,” he pants, hand in my hair, mouth moving down the line of my neck.

“Yes.” There is no other response to his command. No concern that he’s a player because all I can think about is him and me. Naked. Moving. Entangled. Breathless.

My body responds to his body’s nonverbal commands. An intimate reaction to his every action, wanting more, needing more of everything he’s giving me.

My back bumps into the banister of the staircase as we move clumsily up the stairs. We both laugh at our impeded progress between urgent kisses and desperate gropes. I pull back and open my eyes to look at where we are going, and I gasp in shock when I lock eyes with Hunter.

“Ahhh!” The sound bursts out of me and Hawkin jolts in reaction. He whirls around as a slow, smarmy smirk curls up the corner of his brother’s mouth.

“What the fuck dude?” Hawkin’s hands are off me in a flash as he whirls around to face him, the desire raging between us moments ago converting to disappointed anger. And I know Hawke’s mad, I just can’t figure out if he’s pissed because his brother interrupted us or because he lied and took off with his car. Pride has me wanting to think one thing but reason has me knowing it’s another.

Hunter lifts his hands up in front of him. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt, really.” His mouth says the words but his eyes say something different. “I was just bringing your keys to you.”

“What’s going on?” Vince comes through the kitchen door and stops when he sees Hunter. The look that passes between the two of them is less than friendly.

Hunter ignores Vince’s question and lifts his chin my direction. “So this is more than just you being hot for teacher, huh Trixie? Got a thing for musicians too?”

It’s impossible to miss the derision that laces his tone and wonder why it’s directed at me. I’m not quite sure how to answer him, what to say, because while he may be the spitting image of Hawkin, he makes me uneasy.

“Who the hell is this Trixie?” It’s Gizmo now coming into the foyer, and I’m thankful for him unknowingly breaking up the tension. Although I don’t see Hawkin’s shoulders ease at all. I wish I could see his face, try to read his expression.

Vince’s chuckle and shake of his head pulls me from my thoughts. He slaps Gizmo on the chest. “Always late to the party dude and a few brews short of a six-pack.”

“Huh?” I hear him say as Vince pushes him back into the kitchen but doesn’t follow. He turns and leans his shoulder against the doorjamb, arms crossed over his chest and his eyebrows raised as if to say continue to the two brothers.

“Where were you? And don’t say with Mom,” Hawkin grits the words out.

“Yeah, sorry about that, I got sidetracked. Didn’t make it—”

“No shit,” Hawkin says stepping toward him, agitation in his voice and anger reflected in his posture. “Hard to show up when they didn’t call you in the first place. After everything …” He rolls his shoulders as he tries to rein in his temper. “Can’t you just follow through with a promise one fucking time, Hunter?” His voice is low and threatening. Vince’s eyes toggle back and forth between the two of them as he assesses the situation.

“Relax,” Hunter says with a roll of his eyes and a shake of his head as if the comment is irrelevant. His facetious attitude is a complete contrast to the humorless ones of Hawkin and Vince. “I’ll hold my end of the bargain, brother.” He says the last word with a disdained sarcasm that even ruffles my feathers. Hunter’s eyes track over to me and stop. “You can always ensure that I will though by sharing.”

“Come again?” The retort is off my tongue before I even think it through. If he’s saying what I think he’s saying he can move right along.

Hawkin is in Hunter’s face within a split second of my comment, hand fisted in the front of his shirt, nose to nose. “Leave her out of the bullshit between us! You had your chance and blew it. That’s on you. You want something I have again, you best figure out how to get your shit straightened out and get it yourself. Your second chances are wearing thin here, brother,” Hawkin says, mimicking Hunter’s tone, his voice quiet, yet the steel in his attitude more than obvious.

There is a tense few seconds where they remain toe to toe, their unspoken battle filling up the room, until Vince steps forward and grips Hawkin’s shoulder. At first he resists Vince trying to force them apart and then relents.

“It’s best you leave, Hunt,” Vince says with a cluck of his tongue. “You’re a bit outnumbered here, if you catch my drift. Door’s that way.” He gestures behind him, not backing down while Hawkin stalks down the length of the hallway, hands laced on the back of his neck, face grimaced in restraint.

“Ah, so cute you have your bodyguard to make sure you don’t get hurt,” Hunter sneers like a child.

“You’ve worn out your welcome, and I don’t have any promises that I’ve made keeping me from plowing my fist in your face,” Vince says with a shrug of his shoulders that’s anything but apologetic. “I’d love nothing more than for you to give me a reason….”

Hunter nods, teeth biting his bottom lip to fight the smirk playing there, like all of this is humorous to him. He looks over to where I’m frozen with uncertainty over what to do, and lifts his chin.

“You’ll learn soon that these guys aren’t worth your time. I look forward to seeing you again. Soon.” The shuffling of Hawke’s feet on the wood floor instantly falls silent at the same time Hunter lifts his eyebrows, smirk bordering arrogant, before turning and heading toward the front door like he hasn’t a care in the world. “You guys need to loosen the fuck up in this place,” he throws over his shoulder as he strides out of the house, his mocking laughter fading with him.

The front door slams, but no one moves. Despite Hunter’s departure, the tension still vibrates off the walls. I’m so uncomfortable, unsure what to do, but all I know is that the look on Hawkin’s face calls me to comfort him. But I don’t react right away. I barely know this man and as much as I want to fulfill my inherent need to soothe our ache—a quick fuck in the bedroom upstairs might fix him for a little bit—but it won’t make me feel very good.

“Sorry about that,” Vince says, breaking his stare away from Hawkin’s and turning on me, trying to relieve the tension. “Brotherly love.” He smiles, but it’s strained and never reaches his eyes. “Will you excuse us a moment?” he asks but is already walking toward Hawkin before I can respond.

As Vince approaches him, I wonder what the hell that was all about and what has Hawkin so agitated that he won’t meet my eyes. They stand face-to-face, their harsh whispers echoing off the wood floor, but only a few words at a time come back to me. And they are not enough for me to piece together the conversation.

“I’m Rocket.” The voice startles me to the point that I gasp because I was so focused on them that I never noticed Rocket standing in the doorway.

My eyes flash up to his, and I smile. “Hi, I’m Quinlan,” I offer, unsure what else to say as Hawkin’s temper escalates, their words unmistakable now.

“I know what I promised, Vince,” Hawke shouts.

“You know he’s going to take what he wants just to fuck you over anyway,” Vince says, glancing our way and then back to Hawkin before saying something I can’t hear.

“Sorry about all of this,” Rocket says, motioning to the two of them and sensing my discomfort. “Those two go way back. They’re close. Closer than Hunt and Hawke are.”

“They’re not close?” I pry, asking Rocket what I should be asking Hawkin myself but given his aversion in the car to questions about him, I know he’ll avoid answering.

Rocket’s laugh is low and cavalier. “Do they look like it?” His sarcasm is overtaken by Hawkin barking “Enough” to Vince.

“You’re dangling a motherfucking carrot in front of him, Hawke,” Vince yells and then blows out a breath in frustration. “If he can’t have X, then he’s gonna take Y.”

“Like you have to remind me. I’ve got it handled. Don’t bring it up again.” Hawkin slams a hand down against the console next to him, the sound echoing through the room. He stalks toward me, anger vibrating off him, and I have a feeling it’s from a combination of Vince and Hunter.

“Give me a minute,” he growls as he passes me without meeting my eyes, his angst palpable. I watch him retreat down a hallway and when I look back, Rocket has his eyebrows raised and a look of resignation on his handsome face.

“Welcome to Bent,” Rocket says with an exasperated laugh.

I smile awkwardly at him, feeling completely out of place after the transition from making out to being witness to the familial argument. Do I go? Do I stay? Rocket motions for me to follow him into the now empty kitchen where we both take seats at the island.

We talk for a few minutes about random stuff. How the band rents a house when they’re writing an album because it allows the four of them to work all hours, pushes them to be more creative when they can’t leave, and helps build their overall bond. He’s telling me a story about Gizmo and an accidental drum mishap when Hawkin interrupts us.

“Quin?” Rocket falls silent as I look over to Hawkin, stress etched in the lines of his tanned face. The look calls on the mothering instinct I didn’t think I possessed to soothe it all away. He nods his head over his shoulder, and I thank Rocket while I stand to follow Hawkin.

He doesn’t say anything to me, just leads so that I’ll follow him out to the front porch, where I assume he’s wanting some privacy away from the rest of the guys, although I’m unsure why he’s choosing out here to have it.

We stand there for a moment before he runs a hand through his hair and blows out an exasperated breath. “Look, I’m sorry about all of that, that you had to see internal band bullshit,” he says, confusing me since as far as I know Hunter isn’t part of the band.

“It’s okay. It happens.” I twist my lips, hands linking to prevent myself from reaching out and running a hand down his arm.

“Nah, it’s bullshit and I’m sorry,” he says again, meeting my eyes. Something flickers through them and I can’t quite catch what they say. “I’ve got some stuff to do though, so uh, thanks for the ride.”

I guess it was indifference since I’m getting a thanks for the ride and nothing else. I stare at him for a moment, although he’s not meeting my gaze, and try to figure out why I basically just got downgraded from girl he wants to have hot sex with to one only good enough to be his chauffeur. And it’s not that I expect the hot sex right now, that mood is done and gone, but I don’t expect to be brushed off without another thought either.

I have to be wrong here. I still feel the heat of his hands on my body and the taste of his kiss on my lips but right now he’s as closed off from me as my brother would be.

“Hawke?” I prevent myself from saying anything more and sounding like a needy female … but at the same time I’m confused, trying not to be hurt but failing miserably.

He licks his lips, and averts his eyes before stepping back so that his physical distance emphasizes the emotional distance he’s just established between us. “See you at the next lecture.”

“Did I miss something here?” I can’t help it, have to ask.

He shakes his head. “Nope. Just got work to do. That’s all.”

Our eyes meet, asking questions our mouths won’t answer. The silence stretches until the brush-off I thought I was mistaken about is more than obvious. “Mm-kay,” I say as I walk down the first few steps, trying to hold fast to my dignity. And I must be so used to watching movies where the guy calls after the girl when she walks away because I purposefully walk slowly to my car.

But he never calls after me.

Never says my name to let me know what he’s thinking or that he feels sorry for the whiplash of emotions. I climb in my car without another word from him and head out of the Hollywood Hills, rejection bitter on my tongue and confusion forefront in my mind. The afternoon was a strong affirmation why I shouldn’t believe in happily-ever-afters because let’s face it, the girl rarely gets the guy in the end.