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She could only imagine. Rock stars, man. Rock stars. “Still, here. Take this.” She pulled off his shirt, held it out to him.
He froze, his eyes darkening to nearly black as they swept over her now naked body from head to toe and back again. Then he was grabbing her, pulling her full against him as his mouth devoured hers.
Seconds passed, minutes, decades maybe, as he kissed her like she’d never been kissed before. Kissed her like she was the only woman in the world. Kissed her like she was the only thing that stood between him and utter destruction. It was desperate and devastating, sexy and sensual, a full-on sensory assault that she barely knew how to deal with. Barely knew how to control even after everything that had happened between them.
So she didn’t try. Instead, she gave herself up to it—to him—her hands clinging to his shoulders, her body wrapped around his like a vine, her soul and heart and mind yielding to him in a way they never had for anyone else. And still he took and took and took, and gave and gave and gave, until they were both breathless. Exposed. Broken wide open.
That’s when he pulled away, staring at her with eyes as wild and devastating as the storm-tossed Pacific. She waited for him to speak, waited for him to pull her into his arms and make love to her right there in the middle of the living room.
He didn’t do that, though. In fact, he didn’t touch her at all. Instead, he yanked the shirt over his head and all but ran from the apartment. And she was left standing there, watching him flee and wondering at the panicked, fluttery, desperate feeling deep inside of her.
Love or lust? she wondered, more than a little terrified.
Infatuation or something deeper, something more real?
As the door slammed behind him, Poppy lifted a trembling hand to her mouth and prayed it was just infatuation. Because if it was love…if it was love, then she was totally fucked.
Chapter Seventeen
Wyatt slammed out of Poppy’s apartment then slammed down the fifteen flights of stairs to the lobby because the idea of being trapped in an elevator right now made him feel like his head was going to blow apart. Well, that and he’d been hoping the extended time in the stairwell would help him get his raging hard-on under control. Turned out hope wasn’t the only thing that sprung eternal, at least when he was arou
nd Poppy.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
What the hell was he doing? With her, with the band, with his whole fucking life? He didn’t have a clue and he was damn sick of flying blind. Damn sick of giving control of his life over to something or somebody else. For too long, that thing had been heroin. And now, now he was letting Bill Germaine pull his strings like the man was some kind of evil puppet master.
There were a few people in the lobby—getting mail, talking to the doorman, waiting for the elevator—so he shoved his hands in his pockets and kept his head bowed as he made his way to the door. The last thing he needed right now was to be recognized. He loved Shaken Dirty’s fans, loved that people listened to their music, but after what Poppy had pulled out of him upstairs, he felt like if he had to stop for pictures and autographs he would probably lose his shit right there. Add in the fact that he was still packing a semi, and being recognized just wasn’t an option.
He slunk toward the main doors of the apartment building, his keys already in his hands. This was downtown Austin—a notorious music city, and Shaken Dirty’s home town. It was still early and people were walking to work, which meant traversing the block and a half to where he’d parked his car was going to be more complicated than he anticipated.
Still, he was determined, so he kept his head down and his shoulders hunched. He wanted a cigarette, desperately, but when he reached into his pocket all he found were more of Poppy’s damn lollipops. She must have put them in there when he was still asleep.
Despite the turmoil churning up his insides, he couldn’t help smiling a little at her persistence. At her utter determination to save him—even from himself. It felt strange to have someone who cared so much, someone who wanted what was best for him just because he mattered. It made his skin itch a little, but it also felt…good. Damn good. Too bad she was only assigned to the band for a little while.
Then again, that was probably for the best. She could see the good in him now because she didn’t know him well. The longer she stuck around, the more likely it was that he’d disappoint her. That she’d end up seeing him how he really was instead of how she wanted to see him.
Though he wanted a cigarette—or at least something to do with his hands—he figured walking down the crowded street with a lollipop in his mouth would only draw more attention to himself. So he forced himself to wait. Just like he forced himself to wait before he started thinking about what she’d said to him. About it not being his fault. About him being a better man than he thought he was. About—
He cut the thoughts off even as he sped up, determined to make it to his car before he freaked out completely. He’d almost made it, too, the entrance to the parking garage in sight when he noticed three guys who looked like they were still in high school elbowing one another and nodding in his direction.
Fuck. That’s what he got for walking around downtown Austin with his very recognizable tats on full display.
He started to speed up, but it was too late and he knew it. There was no way he was going to make it to his car before they got to him, so fuck it. Just fuck it.
He ducked inside the entrance to the parking garage so at least they wouldn’t be on the street, drawing more attention, and then waited the thirty seconds he figured it would take the kids to catch up. Turned out they must have been all but running, because they got there in fifteen.
The first one spotted him and stopped in his tracks, and Wyatt watched—amused despite himself—as first one, then the other, of his friends careened straight into his back.
He waited for them to say something, but they didn’t. Instead, they just stood there, eyes wide and mouths open, and stared at him. And stared at him. And stared at him.
Because it was getting awkward—and because he didn’t know how long it would be before someone else came along—he stepped forward. “Hey, how are you? I’m Wyatt Jennings.”
“I know. I mean, I recognize you. I mean, I know. You’re Wyatt Jennings.”
He laughed and held out a hand. “Pretty much what I just said, kid.”
