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I was surrounded by his heady scent of leather and musk. I wanted to lean in and take a long lick of Van’s throat.
My eyes caught on the black-beaded necklace he always wore. It was linked with a silver coin that rested in the divot of his neck. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve pictured him naked, except for that necklace.
My cock pulsed, aching, throbbing, inside my tight jeans.
“Maybe it is a hit. But not for you,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his jaw.
“Why?” I pushed him.
“I just can’t… I mean, I can’t let you make a mistake. And that’s what this song would be.”
“You’re wrong,” I bit out. “And I’m tired of you telling me no. I’m the creative drive behind the band; I know what works and when it’s time to try something new. I feel this song in my gut, in my chest, in my fucking balls. And when that happens, I know that it’s mine.”
Van finally made eye contact again. The pulse of electricity between us was tempered with worry.
“Why did you show it to me?” I asked, lowering my voice.
Van’s eyes closed, and he shook his head. “A moment of weakness.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
He opened his eyes again, and all I saw was pain.
Longing, heartache.
His gaze was so expressive. It was the only part of him that I could read clearly.
“You really want this?” he replied.
Were we talking about the song or about us?
I nodded. “Never been surer of anything in my life.”
CHAPTER5
VAN
What the hell am I doing?
Why the fuck had I given Brodie that song?
I’d said it out loud: a moment of weakness.
I’d had too many of those lately, and I was going to do something stupid if I didn’t get a hold of myself.
We’d finished Wayward Lane’s European tour this fall, and I was bone-tired.
Exhausted, lonely, and frustrated.
Confused and unsettled.
It was so unlike me that I’d started to worry, pouring all my uncertainty into my songwriting. There, at least, I could unleash everything.
And what I’d read back had shocked me as much as Brodie’s decision to want to sing my song.
I knew that once Brodie latched on to something, once he got that idea in his head, there was no dissuading him.
Arguing was futile, yet it was the one thing I couldn’t stop doing.
