His Rock & Roll Girl (Emerald City #2) (3 page)

“Lover”–Quinn rested a hand on her cheek, thumb gliding back and forth across her skin—“everything between us is real. I didn’t ask anyone else to go with me on tour.”

The reminder of the tour made her gut clench. She still hadn’t told him what she’d decided. Was that why she was picking this fight? No. He needed to hear these things anyway. She needed him to understand that just because he’d signed a record contract didn’t mean she was going to drop everything—her education, her ideas for a business, all of it—and roam the country with him.

Still, she couldn’t keep the irritation from her question. “Who else would you have asked? Do you have a waiting list?”

His hands dropped away. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then why don’t you tell me what you meant, instead of making me guess?” Great. He had her so frustrated, she was getting repetitive. This needed to end. Now.

“Thank you.” Roz accepted the seat when Quinn held out her chair. She didn’t know what to think of his behavior, except that she figured that was the point. To keep her guessing, misdirected, and off-guard.

Which, honestly, was kind of a relief. Wondering what he was up to kept her from worrying about the failure at work. It wasn’t just the bad timing—there was really no good time for that kind of catastrophic crash. It was the nature of the problem. She’d never seen hardware fried like that outside of a power surge, and her entire building and setup had triple redundancies in place to keep things like that happening. If it had happened, somehow, it should have taken down everything, not just the one computer that recorded sound.

Quinn took the chair next to hers. His strategically ripped jeans and T-shirt were out of place in the restaurant. He’d picked the nicest steakhouse in town. With the mad cow outbreak that had swept the world a few years back, only rock stars and CEO’s could afford things like steak, so there weren’t many people in the place. Linen draped from the tables, the napkins were folded and tucked neatly into glasses, and the staff was all dressed in pressed white shirts and spotless black slacks.

And no one had even blinked, when he’d slipped the maître d’s a C-note—who even carried cash these days?—and asked for a quiet table. What made it even worse was the part of her enjoying the situation. She wasn’t star struck; she’d had enough big names in her studio, the fame didn’t faze her. But something about him… The way he held himself, the confidence, the memories of what it was like when he took control, all had her flushed and fantasizing about sharing one more night with him for closure and memory’s sake.

This was definitely a pleasant distraction from what had happened at work. As long as she didn’t remember the rest of what went with their relationship. Both the bad, and the good things which had made her fall in love back then.

She tucked away the graphic images of his rough, skilled fingers roaming her bare skin, but didn’t get rid of them completely. There was nothing wrong with looking. Her job had taught her that.

They tossed a couple of pleasantries back and forth while they looked over the menu and placed their orders. She locked her gaze on his when she caught him staring again. “What?” She made sure to keep a light, teasing note in her question.

He traced a finger over the back of her hand, eyes never leaving hers. “You look great. I just never expected to see you looking so comfortable in a business suit.”

“It’s not mine; it’s Morgana’s, if that helps.”

His face scrunched up in a scowl. “Of course it is.”

She ignored his disdain. He’d never gotten along with Ana, mostly because Ana had never thought much of him. It didn’t matter. The two wouldn’t have to talk to each other anyway. “Speaking of our shared past, how’s Jericho?” Jericho was his drummer, and the other original member of the band.

“Good. Same as always.”

“Tell him hi from me,” Roz said.

An awkward silence settled between them. Their soup arrived, and Roz fumbled for something to say. What had happened to the aggressive asshole, who had walked into her office that morning? “I like the band’s new single,” she finally said.

He rolled his eyes. “It’s shit. And you know it.”

Honesty, and self-effacement. So rare in him, and something she knew no one in public ever saw. He was actually opening up to her, and she couldn’t ignore the pleased warmth spreading through her chest. She wanted to reassure him. Tell him it was some of their best work. But he’d see through the false encouragement. “You’ve done better. But it’s got a catchy chorus.”

He let out a snorting laugh. “It’s too commercial. But it brings in the fans, you know?”

“You knew this was what you were up for, when you signed your contract.” The conversation was more familiar than she expected. It was business, but at the same time it felt like that one comment had crossed a more personal line, an admittance they’d talked about things like this once upon a time, because they knew each other that well.

“I know.” His posture relaxed, and the tension vanished. “But it’s what I do for the music, right?”

And just like that, the moment was gone. She wasn’t sure how she knew, but there was no question in her mind his walls had just gone back up and he’d put the mask back on. Disappointment tried to worm in, and she knocked it aside.

He was just another gorgeous guy; she knew that. Screw it. If she left the past in the past, there was nothing stopping her from flirting and maybe a little more. “Of course. Besides, what would you use those talented fingers for, if you weren’t playing guitar?”

He looked her up and down, eyes hooded. “I can think of a few things.”

Heat flooded her, and she didn’t try and fight it. Why shouldn’t she enjoy the same attention every other woman did when he was around? It was a good thing she’d gotten over him a long time ago. “Like what?”

His hand rested on her thigh, and heat seared through the fabric of her skirt. His voice dropped an octave. “Like finding out what’s under your skirt.”

“I could just tell you.” The teasing words slipped out before she consider them, but she liked the way they tasted gliding over her tongue.

His hand didn’t move. Not higher or lower, not away. The tension ran over her skin, tingling between her legs and making her wet. He held her gaze. “It’s not the same.”

“No, I suppose it’s not.” She ran her tongue over her lip, both to find her voice and to tease him. As long as she remembered she was doing this with a random guy, and not her ex, she could let the arousal race through her. “I’d hate to send you away without sating your curiosity. Maybe you could find out after lunch.”

“I’d rather find out now.” He pushed up the edge of her skirt, calloused fingers rough through her stockings.

Her need ratcheted another notch. “I won’t make you wait.” Her voice came out softer than she intended. Breathier.

His hand glided higher, and he traced the top of her stockings. “Thigh highs. God, that’s sexy.” He trailed under the elastic holding them up. “And garters. Fuck, lover. You always did make classic fashion sexy.”

Once upon a time, the pet name would have rubbed her wrong. Now it added to the tingles racing through her. She should stop him. The waiter could come back any minute. Even though it was quiet, they weren’t alone in the place. But she couldn’t find the desire to push him away. “They make me feel sexy.”

“You’re sexy anyway.” His voice was low and husky. “But knowing you’re hiding that… You’ve got me hard as a rock.”

She bit her bottom lip and suppressed a moan, when he brushed the crotch of her panties. “I’m sorry?”

“I doubt that.” He slipped a finger under the elastic and lace, and glided over her slit. “Jesus, you’re soaked,” he whispered.

She couldn’t even find a reply. It took the last of her concentration to keep her expression neutral and not groan at full volume. When he parted her folds and brushed her clit, she had to dig her nails into her palms to keep from crying out. The fact that someone could interrupt at any moment just heightened the sensations in every nerve ending in her body. She rocked against his hand, still intensely aware of how she looked to anyone else. The seconds bled together as he continued his attentions, and her breathing increased, until she was almost panting. Every circle he traced around her aching button made her head lighter.

Without warning, orgasm flooded her. She clenched her fists until her knuckles ached, and swallowed her own screams. When his touch became too much, she forced her fingers to unfurl, and lightly grabbed his wrist.

He chuckled. “Too much?”

“Not nearly enough,” she managed to say. “But yeah. For now.” She wanted more, definitely. Would he head back to her office with her? At least she knew he’d understand when she told him it didn’t mean more. She banished her pang at the thought.

Quinn’s dick strained against his jeans, so hard his temples ached. What was wrong with him? For as hot and bothered and ready to go as she was, he could have taken her in the bathroom. Found a hidden corner somewhere. Something. And even knowing all that, he couldn’t take his eyes off the flush on her cheeks. Couldn’t convince himself it had been a bad idea to please her and forget his own needs.

“What?” She ducked her head. Had she just giggled? God, this was too much. And he was enjoying every minute of it.

The chime of a cell phone shattered the pleasant mood. She reached for her purse, a frown marring her face when she looked at her phone. “Sorry. It’s the office.” She half turned her head from him. “Hello… Wait, whoa, slow down… Chuck. Chuck!” Her voice took on an edge. “What happened? … Shit. I’ll be right there.”

She was already on her feet as she dropped her phone back into her bag. “I’m so sorry.” She wouldn’t make eye contact. Her cheeks were still pink, but now a scowl slashed across her lips. “Those crowds that were out front this morning—someone started something. I guess there were some riots, some kind of mini scuffle. I don’t know.”

He grabbed her wrist. “Stop.” Seeing her instantly stressed and strung out devoured him, even after all this time. “Is everyone okay?”

“Yes, I guess. Probably.” She tugged her ponytail. “Chuck called me. He was fine, just worried. The place is secure.”

“So breathe.” He traced his thumb over the inside of her wrist.

She took a deep breath. “Better? I still have to go.”

He left money on the table, and made sure to leave a large tip. Seconds later, he stood next to her, hand on the small of her back. “I understand. Come on, I’ll walk you to the curb. Make sure you get back all right.”

Her frown faded, and her voice softened. “The Mag-Car does that.”

“Then this is double security.” He should let her go. Head back to his hotel. Call Iris and tell her someone objective need to be checking Roz’s studio out if they wanted to record here. But he couldn’t bring himself to let Roz walk away so stressed. Especially if it was his fans who had caused the problem.

She turned to him when they reached the curb. “Thanks, but I’ll be okay.” She stepped away from his touch. “I can’t take up any more of your time with my office’s problems. It was great to see you again.”

Whoa, was she brushing him off again? Pride welled inside, burying something softer that was limping at the idea of being snubbed. “I’ll be in town a couple more days.” He closed the distance between them. “I can stop by again.” He reached for her. Just one taste. The urge to crush his lips against hers was overwhelming. How could he be worried about missing her? They’d only spent a few hours together.

She pressed a hand to his chest, keeping him at arm’s length. “Goodbye, Quinn.”

She dropped into a waiting car, and was gone seconds later. Rage ripped through Quinn, and he snarled at the busy street. What the fuck had just happened? And why did it echo with regret in every inch of his body?

****

Quinn dumped his suitcase upside down on the bed, scattering the contents across the hotel comforter. He should have known it was too quiet last night. Even though he’d already repeated this ritual twice since he woke up, he did it again, picking up every item he’d packed, making sure there was nothing wrapped or caught in it, and packing it back into his carry-on. Nope, his phone was nowhere to be found.

He’d already called the hotel restaurant, to see if he’d left it there after dinner last night. He hadn’t even noticed its absence during lunch with Roz. Even if he hadn’t been too distracted by her, places like that were all about appearances and that meant spending cash, not digital currency. He hadn’t been anywhere else. Wasn’t in the mood to deal with fans. Which was new for him, but it was what it was. He must have left the phone at Roz’s studio.

Fuck it all. He should just leave it, report the device lost, and get a replacement. Even as the thought raced inside, he reached for the hotel phone and called a car. Forget that. He wasn’t running away with his tail tucked between his legs. He still owed Roz that apology, and wanted a chance to finish what they started yesterday at the same time. It had nothing to do with his missing her already, as much as he did.

Less than half an hour later, his Mag-Car pulled into the studio parking lot. His gut sank at the chaos waiting for him. He’d expected the fans to be gone, since he wasn’t due in two days in a row. What caught him off-guard were the cop cars and security tape. Fuck. Acid churned, rising in his throat. Please let Roz be all right.

He reached for his phone to tip the driver, and groaned. “I’m sorry, man. I’ll get you on the return trip. Circle back in an hour?” He didn’t wait for an answer; he was out and already sprinting toward the entrance, before the Mag-Car stopped moving.
Please let her be all right.

Two police officers blocked his path. “Whoa,” one of them said. “You can’t go in there. Crime scene.”

An unfamiliar panic fueled Quinn’s rage, and he struggled to squelch it with reason. “What happened?” The words squeezed through clenched teeth.

“I’m sorry, sir, I can’t say.”

“Hang on.” A third voice stepped into the group. He was dressed like all the others—uniform, badge. “You’re Quinn Blaydes, right? My daughter’s a fan.”

Quinn tried to rein in his frustration, toes tapping inside his shoes. If he signed a few autographs, would they look the other way? “That’s right.”

“We need to talk to you inside. We’ve got some questions for you.”

He didn’t even know what that meant, but if it got him closer to making sure Roz was all right, he’d figure out the details as he went. “Yeah, sure.” He followed them into the building.

The studio was a wreck, and his insides clenched tighter. The glass coffee table in the lobby was smashed. Profanity smeared the walls.
SHE DOESN’T DESERVE YOU,
and,
I’LL KILL YOU,
combined with lyrics from Lionheart’s songs. Shit. This was his fault. An unfamiliar thread wormed its way through him, and he realized it was guilt, but it was dosed heavily with rage that someone would do this to Roz.

His gaze finally fell on Roz. She was seated in her office, talking to another officer, Chuck by her side. Her face was creased, but some of the lines faded when her eyes met his. Chuck looked up as she did, mouth tightening before he turned back to cops.

More unfamiliar emotions reeled through Quinn, and he had to swallow the urge to race in, wrap Roz in his arms, and make sure she was all right. What was going on in his head?

“This way, please.” One guy ushered him into the break room, and closed the door behind him. The guy nodded at a chair next to the table in the middle of the room. “It’ll only take a few minutes.”

Quinn bounced his leg and dug his fingers into his thigh, to try and bring his thoughts under control. He didn’t like this feeling. “Sure. Whatever I can do. What happened?”

“I’m Officer Simmons.” The man extended his hand. “There’s coffee if you need. We talked to your agent this morning. Tried to get a hold of you, but couldn’t reach you.”

Quinn accepted the handshake, despite his growing frustration. This was getting old. “Yeah, I left my cell phone here yesterday. What happened?”

“She—your agent—tells us you’ve had a couple of death threats?”

Any semblance of order left in his head scattered. Fuck, this really was his fault. “Yeah. Shit. Is everyone okay? Is that who did this? Roz is all right, isn’t she?”

“Everyone’s fine,” Simmons assured him. The tight set of his jaw belied the casual tone of his voice. “We don’t know who did it, but we have to look at everything. You understand, right?”

“Of course.” Quinn raked his fingers through his hair. “I’ll tell you anything I can. Just ask.”