Savage Rhythm (12 page)

***

They’d wolfed down their food in silence, Declan staring at her as she ate, Molly trying to get herself into a professional headspace. This was difficult to do while sitting cross-legged and barefoot on Declan’s bed. The man had very expensive sheets. Sheets that felt very, very good against her bare legs. Sheets she knew he’d been in, not too long ago, possibly while naked.

Not like he was wearing much now. Just jeans. Was the man allergic to shirts? The air conditioning on the bus wasn’t great, but in Molly’s opinion that should be balanced against the threat of a shirtless Declan. She could only retaliate with cutoffs.

Molly cleared her throat and flipped through her notebook one more time. She was never going to be more ready then she was now.

“You ready?” she asked, trying not to sound nervous.

Declan got up from the lone chair and started to pace. “It’s your show, sweetheart. Shoot.”

Molly took a deep breath. She’d had to be very careful when selecting the topics for this. For the first interview she didn’t want to press too hard, too fast. He was too ready for that, too guarded. She had to come at him indirectly, kind of sneaky, and eventually win him over. She should be entirely focused on wearing down his defenses. Instead she’d found herself wondering what questions she’d need answered to feel like she could trust him, what answers he could give that would get her to break her own rules. By the time she was done crafting questions, she wasn’t entirely sure what the purpose of this interview was.

“This is already personal,” she said, and when she heard the words out loud, she knew how true they were.

“No shit,” Declan said.

“Why is that?” she asked, glad to drop the pretense.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I just like you, that’s all. We click. But that’s not a bad thing, Molly. I can like you and want to fuck you at the same time and not have it turn into some crazy drama neither of us can get away from. You should know I don’t do that kind of thing, in case the whole contract thing didn’t make that clear.”

“I should, huh?”

“You know you should.”

Declan gave her one of those stares, and she broke. She looked down. Licked her lips.

She said, “What kind of thing is it, exactly, that you don’t do?”

“Relationships, commitment, obligations—whatever you want to call it,” Declan said. “Because I’m bad at it, and because guys like me can’t have that without some kind of drama. Write that down.”

It had been in the contract she’d signed—something about sexual contact not implying any commitments and a non-disclosure agreement for both signatories—but she hadn’t really connected the dots. It had seemed like an abstraction, a formality. But he was telling her it applied to her, personally, directly.

Maybe another girl would have been offended. But Molly was terrified of getting involved with Declan, of losing control of her emotions, her life—again. He was telling her that wasn’t going to happen for either of them.

He cocked his head and said, “I’ve never told a reporter that before.”

“I’m not a reporter.”

“You’re still writing it down.”

Declan started to prowl around the bed, back and forth, making Molly feel like she was being cornered. Herded. Hunted. It was making her feel decidedly other than professional. Was that what she’d wanted to hear? Did promises of not getting involved actually mean anything?

“So what kinds of things do you do?” she asked.

He looked at her. “Arrangements. Contracts. Don’t pretend you haven’t thought about it,” he said, growing impatient. “What’s your first question?”

Was he nervous? Jumpy? He seemed on edge, jittery, his muscles flexing as he walked, his arms pumping, his shoulders rolling. He looked as worked up as Molly had felt after her dream, as she was starting to feel now, just watching him.

“Did they all hear me?” Molly asked.

Declan stopped short, took a breath, his abs contracting in a long, sexy wave. “Yes,” he said huskily. “Is that your first question? Because then I know what I’m gonna ask you first.”

“No,” she said in a small voice, shrinking into a tiny little ball. “That didn’t count.”

“This room is soundproofed. I’m disappointed I didn’t get to hear you,” Declan said, planting both hands on the edge of the bed and leaning toward her. “To see you. What were you thinking about when you came?”

“That didn’t count!” she said, scrambling back on the bed, as if she could get away from his presence. From how much she wanted him. From how incredibly embarrassed she was; did he
know
that she’d dreamed about him? It was impossible, but he always seemed to know these things, like she was just too easy to read. Desperately, she looked at her notebook. “Here, this is my first question: Was Soren there when…”

She trailed off. She couldn’t read that. Damn it. This was hard, too hard. She shouldn’t have led with that, especially not because she was running from her own embarrassment, because she was flustered. Another dick move on her part.

But more than that, she didn’t want to ask him about his mom’s death because she cared about him. About what affect that might have on him. And on what he thought of her.

Already, even without sleeping with him, she was screwing up because she liked him. Because he was a good guy. But there was so little information out there about Declan’s life when he was kid, so little that it was kind of suspicious. About all anyone knew was that his mom had died when he was young and he’d moved in with his best friend’s family—Soren’s family—before his Uncle James took him in. And that was when Soren and Declan had started playing music together.

She had all these questions she needed to ask, all these things she needed to find out, and yet she hated the idea of being the one to bring up something painful for him.

“Oh my God, I suck at this,” she murmured, running her hand through her hair. “I am actually, legitimately terrible.”

“What are you talking about? You’re amazing,” he said. Declan studied her, the muscles on his arms standing out as he supported himself on the bed. He hadn’t gotten up from that about-to-pounce position, something Molly was very much aware of. He said, “What are you afraid to ask me?”

“Not afraid,” she said grudgingly. “I just don’t like the idea of hurting you.”

Whatever Molly expected, it definitely wasn’t deep, rumbling laughter. But Declan, for some reason, thought that was hysterical.

“Baby, you can’t hurt me by asking me questions,” he said. “You’re sweet, but you can’t. What’s hurt me is already past. Talking about it doesn’t make it any worse.”

Molly frowned, feeling more like an idiot than he could possibly guess. She’d made that assumption because, for her, talking about the things that had hurt her definitely
did
make it worse. Molly didn’t pretend her past didn’t exist, but there was a time and a place for dealing with it. She’d gotten so good at repressing all that stuff when she needed to, just to be able to function—which was basically all the time—that she assumed that that was how everyone dealt with painful things, and that forcing them to the forefront of his mind would mess with him. Well, fine. Declan didn’t have that problem. Declan was invulnerable. She went down her list, took a deep breath, and said it: “How did your mom die?”

Declan didn’t hesitate. Didn’t blink. He said, “She killed herself.”

Molly felt her heart break just a little bit. Maybe more than a little bit. Slowly. Along one deep, guilt ridden fault line, one that promised to become a painful scar, the kind of thing she’d think about later when she already felt bad. She’d never wished she could take something back so much.

“Declan, I’m so sorry.”

His eyes were soft, and his voice gentle. “Don’t be. It’s not your fault. It’s just something that’s a part of me now. I told you because I wanted to.”

“Soren was there?”

All the gentleness left his face. Declan’s lips pressed together, and his jaw tightened. He nodded. “Yeah. Soren was there. Soren’s the only one who knows about all of it.”

“And he still was able to do something so bad in Philadelphia that you lost control and hit him? And then kicked him out of the band?”

Silence.

Declan drew his brows together and frowned. Then he climbed up on the bed, moving toward her until she was backed up against the headboard, and he kneeled in front of her.

“That is the only time I have ever lost control,” he said, very quietly. “Soren was the only person who could’ve gotten that reaction out of me, and only with what he did. It will never, ever happen again.”

Molly’s breath came fast and shallow, her whole body on alert. He was so close, and he had brought it up, he was talking about what happened six months ago. She didn’t know which thing excited her more, but she was tense, taut, pulled tight. Wanting more. More of Declan, inside and out.

She licked her lips and said, “What did he—”

“You already asked your question,” he said, cutting her off. “My turn. But first—do you understand what I just said?
It will never happen again.
”

Molly had never seen him this intense. This demanding. Declan’s stare was never anything to mess with, but now she didn’t think she could look away if she tried. This was the one time she’d ever seen him need something from her. Want, yes; desire, all the time. But
need
?

He needed her to know that he wouldn’t lose control.

“I don’t think you would, with me,” she said.

And she really didn’t.

Why was she so certain? She had no idea why as she watched him exhale, the muscles in his shoulders and chest roiling over each other, his neck tense.

“I wouldn’t,” he said. His voice was rough. “My turn. Who is it you’re always trying to call?”

Molly felt her heart lurch. She could do this. She
would
do this, and she would find out if she could be like this with him, be vulnerable, and not lose herself, not lose her heart and her mind…

Oh God, was she really thinking about doing this? Letting Declan show her who she really was… Was he right all along? That it was inevitable?

“Molly,” he said, his tone a warning.

“My sister,” she said. “My baby sister.”

“Why are you so worried?”

“My dad got custody when my mom died a few years ago. Lydia turns eighteen in a few weeks, but she’s financially dependent on him. And he’s an asshole who won’t let me talk to her.”

Declan seethed.

“Why?” he demanded.

Molly took a deep breath.
Just get it out.

“Dad was always an asshole, but then he got saved, too, so he became a religious asshole.
After
he left us, conveniently. Not sure how that blind spot works for him. Anyway, apparently I’m an ungodly slut because I got pregnant four years ago.” She averted her eyes. “I lost the baby.”

Declan’s eyes softened and his shoulders went slack. Molly just couldn’t look at him. When he reached up to tuck her hair behind her ear, to brush her cheek, she tried to hide her face. She did not want to cry. She did
not
want this to be…

“There’s a whole lot there,” he said.

No kidding. Molly had tried to tell herself it was a good thing when she’d had the miscarriage. Robbie had just started parading his new girlfriend around, everyone hated Molly because Robbie told them all she was a cheating slut, she was a teenager who had been crying about being pregnant for weeks. She was sure her life had been ruined. So when it happened, she hadn’t understood why this hole had opened up inside her, why she suddenly cried for the lost future she’d been so afraid of, why every time she saw a child…

“I can’t,” she said, choking. “Not now. Please.”

Declan just put his arms around her. “Nope, not now,” he said. “Eventually.”

Eventually.
He was so goddamn certain! Molly blinked back tears and tried to figure out why that made her feel relieved instead of angry. Declan just…said it was going to happen, and so it was. She didn’t need to worry about it. Didn’t need to stress, didn’t need to be, once again, the one to carry all the weight…

“Oh Christ, that’s so messed up,” she murmured into his chest.

He pushed her back, against the headboard.

“What?” he asked.

She sighed. There was no point in trying to hide it. She was tired of that.

“There is a part of me that likes it when you do that, when you tell me what I’m going to do. Because then I don’t…I don’t know…I don’t have to think about it. You have no idea how much I stress about whether to tell people about that, about how they’ll see me, about how I’ll see myself, because I don’t even know what it means, or…and I usually am so good about not thinking about it. But then you say that, and suddenly I don’t have to be—”

He smiled. “In control.”

He didn’t know the half of it.

She said, “You don’t see how messed up that is?”

“No,” he said, that deep voice resonating right through her, penetrating to her core. “Because it isn’t messed up at all. It’s a fucking safety valve. If you let it be.”

Molly pressed her legs together and gripped the sheets. She tried not to think about how close he was, about how much he’d crowded her, about the weight of that stare…

Stay focused.

“What’s your safety valve?” she asked.

“Performing,” he said, coming a little bit closer still. “And this.”

There was no use pretending she didn’t know what ‘this’ was. What it might be.

“Oh,” she said, trying to figure out where to look. If she looked up, into his eyes, she’d be lost. He could get her to do whatever he wanted. She already knew that. She’d lose all control of the interview, of…everything. But he was so close, now she was stuck staring at his chest. His abs.

Not much easier.

“It must have been hard during the last six months, when you couldn’t perform,” she said. “You must have—”

“I didn’t do anything,” he said, his voice thick. “I need a sub who can actively consent, who can actually use their safeword. Being famous makes most women too compliant. I’ve been fucking frustrated.”