Crash Into Me (5 page)

He shook his head to clear it. He needed another drink. Badly.

“You aren’t just going to leave me out here alone, are you?” Jamison grabbed onto
the back waistband of his jeans. “I still need a dance partner.”

He froze. Her fingers were brushing against his lower back, setting off all kinds
of sensations deep inside of him. “I need a drink,” he told her, refusing to turn
around.

“And I need to dance.”

She let go of his waistband and Ryder breathed a sigh of…relief? Disappointment? He
couldn’t tell. At least not until her arms wrapped around his waist and she splayed
herself against him. He nearly groaned at the feel of her breasts pressed against
his back. What the hell was she up to? And then she started to move, swaying softly
to the ballad that had just started.

It was one of theirs: “Entice.” He and Wyatt had written the lyrics during a three
day bender—after Wyatt had broken up with his girlfriend—and Ryder had added the music
about a week later. It was a favorite of his. A favorite of a lot of people, it seemed,
since it was currently sitting at number three on the charts after a seventeen week
run at number one.

He’d heard the song a million times, had analyzed every word in the verses he’d helped
put together, but this was the first time he’d really connected with the chorus Wyatt
had insisted upon.

I push, you pull.

I walk. You run.

I reach for you and you slip away.

Why do you entice me so?

Why do you Eentice me so? I’m stunned. I’m stunned. I’m stunned.

It was surreal standing here, listening to his voice as he sang about the same emotions
that were currently ripping through him. “What are you doing, Jamison?” he demanded,
turning to face her.

“What do you mean?”

He started to snap at her, to tell her not to mess with his head. But her eyes were
slightly unfocused and this time when she swayed, he knew it had a lot more to do
with the tequila she’d consumed than the music currently blasting through the club.
He couldn’t be angry with her when she was drunk, and he couldn’t blame her for being
drunk after what had happened earlier. Which meant there was only one thing he
could
do. Dance with her. Because there was no way he was leaving her out here, vulnerable
to any jerk who wanted to take advantage. Jared could act as unconcerned as he wanted,
but he knew the second Jamison started grabbing on to strangers the way she was currently
grabbing on to him, her big brother would be all over that shit. It seemed…expedient
to just dance with her himself and keep things on an even keel.

Gritting his teeth, he turned back to Jamison. Took her in his arms. And did his damnedest
not to notice how sweet she smelled. Or how soft she was. Or how perfect her body
felt pressed against his own.

She rested her head on his shoulder—he was suddenly, absurdly grateful for the five-inch
heels she wore that enabled her to do that. She was tall for a woman, about five-eight
in her bare feet. But he was six-foot-five and it wasn’t often he could just bend
his head and place his cheek on a woman’s head. He did it now, savoring the sweet
peaches-and-cream scent of her and the way her crazy hair tickled his nose.

“Thanks,” she murmured.

“For what?”

“For this.” She sighed. “No one’s ever worried about me before. It feels kind of nice.”

He stiffened. “Jared worries about you.”

“That’s not the same thing. He’s my brother. He has to worry.”

“And what am I?” He held his breath, unsure of what her answer would be. Suddenly
unsure of what he wanted it to be.

She pulled back, looked up at him with wide, shimmering eyes. “You’re Ryder.”

He tamped down on the frustration—and the arousal—raging through him. “What does that
mean?”

“You see who I really am instead of what you want to see.” She sighed, snuggled back
into him. “Just like I see you.”

He froze at her words, at the implication that she saw all the things he wanted to
hide. The thought pissed him off, terrified him. But it also turned him on—he hated
to admit that, but it wasn’t like he could deny it while his dick grew impossibly
harder by the second. He shifted away, not wanting Jamison to feel how she affected
him.

She stumbled as he moved his hips back, fell against him. He gritted his teeth, started
to move back a second time. But again, she flopped against him.

Anger ripped through him. Why was she doing this? Did she really want to drive him
crazy? He put his hands on her shoulders, nudged her back so he could see her face.
And that’s when it hit him. He was an idiot.

Jamison wasn’t deliberately trying to get close to him, wasn’t trying to make him
want her at all. All the while he’d been lusting after her, she’d been so drunk that
she’d passed out cold in the middle of the dance floor.

Chapter Four

Jamison woke up in the dark, with a pounding headache, a fuzzy brain, and absolutely
no idea of where she was. The last thing she remembered was downing three shots of
tequila in a row. She had a fuzzy recollection of dancing with Wyatt and Quinn some
time afterward, but that was it. There were no memories of how the night had ended
or how she’d gotten to wherever she currently was.

She should have been panicking—and any other time she probably would have. But she’d
been with Shaken Dirty last night. There was no way her brother or Ryder, or the others,
would have let anything happen to her. And there was no way they would have let her
do something stupid like go home with some strange guy.

Groaning, she rolled over and buried her face in one of the pillows. Ugh. And her
friends from college had wondered why she didn’t like to party? Who wanted to be so
out of control that they couldn’t remember anything they’d said or done the night
before? Or worse, so out of control that they’d had to entrust their own safety to
someone else? It was humiliating, especially considering what had almost happened
to her backstage last night.

Face still buried in the pillow, she tried to make sense of the shattered edges of
her consciousness. She definitely remembered dancing with Wyatt. She’d flirted with
Micah, she thought, though she couldn’t recall anything that had been said. And she’d…slow-danced
with Ryder? The thought had her shaking all over again, trepidation swamping her as
she wondered what she’d said. What she’d done. Whether she would be able to look him
in the eye once it got light or not. She’d spent years hiding her feelings for him.
The idea that she had blown all that in one night was horrifying.

But no matter how hard she tried to remember, nothing came to her. It was like the
memories were there, buried beneath a pile of quicksand. Every time she reached for
them she started to sink, but somehow never got any closer to what she wanted to remember.
It was awful.

Taking a deep breath, Jamison told herself to calm down. But it was easier said than
done, even when she was distracted by the delicious scent of the pillow she currently
had her face buried in. It smelled warm and fresh, like citrus mixed with the wild
saltiness of the ocean.

It smelled, she realized with no small amount of apprehension, like Ryder.

Which was a crazy thought, she assured herself. If she was in anyone’s bed, it was
probably Jared’s, while he crashed somewhere else. Her brother might trust Ryder and
the other guys with his own life, but he’d made it clear early on that he wasn’t nearly
as trusting with his sister’s virtue. His over-protectiveness had driven her crazy
when she’d been younger, drove her even crazier now. But at the same time, she couldn’t
help appreciating it. There was something to be said for knowing that when she was
with him and the rest of the band, she was safe.

She sat up gingerly, looked around. She couldn’t see much in the dark, but what little
she could see made it obvious that she wasn’t on the tour bus. The bed was way too
big, the room far too opulent. She was definitely in a hotel, and from the looks of
it, in one of the fanciest rooms in the place.

Which meant she was probably back in the guys’ hotel suite. Jared had mentioned that
they only stayed on the tour bus if they were on the move. If they were in the same
city for more than one show, the label usually put them all up at a hotel.

Knowing she wasn’t going to be able to go back to sleep until she knew for sure where
she was, Jamison pushed off the covers and climbed carefully to her feet. The room
spun around her a little bit, but she didn’t feel nauseous. Just thirsty and headachy.

She reached for the bedside lamp, switched it on, then cursed as the pain in her head
exploded one hundred fold. After slapping at the lamp until she managed to turn it
off again, she sank onto the bed for a second and waited for the pain to subside.
As she did, she cursed herself. What on earth had made her think partying like a rock
star would be a good idea?

For some reason, Ryder’s pissed-off but concerned face hovered at the back of her
eyelids, and she groaned. Prayed that it was just a hallucination and not a memory.
She could handle a lot of things without freaking out—obviously—but making a fool
of herself in front of Ryder was not one of those things. For a second she actually
contemplated sneaking out in the middle of the night rather than facing him in the
morning, but she knew that would only worry Jared and the others. Even with a sketchy
memory, she was certain she’d already done more than enough of that at the club.

Eventually the pain subsided to a dull ache and she stood up a second time. Then headed
for the attached bathroom, where she rinsed her face and brushed her teeth in an effort
to feel somewhat human, before fumbling her way down the short hallway to what looked
like a living room. Someone had left a small lamp burning and the TV was on low, an
infomercial about acne medicine in full swing. She would have rolled her eyes at the
ridiculous claims it was making, but just breathing hurt at the moment. Eye rolling
would be torturous.

Instead, she headed around the couch toward the television set so she could turn it
off, only to freeze when she realized Ryder was stretched out on the couch, sound
asleep.

She froze.
Had
she taken his bed, then? She blushed a little, grew warm as she thought about the
fact that she had just crawled out from between Ryder’s sheets. That the warm, citrusy
scent she’d awoken to had indeed come from him sleeping the night before in the exact
spot where she had been lying.

Ryder drew her attention back to him when he rolled over in his sleep, mumbling something
she couldn’t understand. He looked so beautiful lying there. So open and unguarded
and innocent. None of those were words she would normally apply to him—he’d had a
rough life and when awake, he wore his response to that roughness like a shield. But
here, now, asleep, he looked so vulnerable that it broke her heart.

Before she even knew she was going to do it, Jamison crouched down next to him. He
was shirtless, wearing only a pair of black pajama bottoms that rode low enough to
reveal the cut lines of his abdomen. She itched to touch him, to run her hands and
lips over the strong contours of his chest. The dark, sexy lines of the tattoos that
covered so much of his torso. But she didn’t have that right. He wasn’t hers, would
never
be hers, and she wasn’t so desperate that she would take while he was asleep what
he would never give her while awake.

So instead, she just sat there, watching him in the dim light. Memorizing him. After
all, she’d probably never get this opportunity again.

She studied his tattoos for long moments, wondering why she’d never before noticed
that the placement of the thick black tribal bands seemed to be imprisoning the phoenix
on his arm even as it rose from the ashes. It was one of the most beautiful pieces
of ink she’d ever seen, but looking at it now, from this angle, it was also devastating.

Like so much of Ryder was.

Oh, she’d seen him in this pose before—all wild hair, bare chest and bad-boy ink—in
a layout for
Rolling Stone
. Just like tonight, his jaw had been shadowed with two days of facial scruff, his
ears—and one of his nipples—pierced with thick hoops. But the resemblance ended there.
For the photo shoot, Ryder had obliterated any trace of vulnerability until all anyone
looking at him could see was the carefully crafted image of sex, drugs, and badass
rock and roll. He wore the image well, so well that it was almost impossible to remember
that it really was just a facade.

There was none of that distance while he was sleeping, no signs of the wall he usually
kept between himself and the rest of the world. Instead he looked tired, worn-down,
like the act of hiding his true self was too exhausting to handle.

It made her hurt, made her wish he could see how wonderful he was. How he didn’t have
to hide who he was anymore. Not that she didn’t understand. When you grew up with
a father like Ryder’s, who beat your mother and you and then blamed your very existence
on everything that was wrong in the world, it was hard to look past that and believe
you were actually a worthy human being. Harder still to let anyone in, not when you
were desperate to hide your perceived flaws.

Ryder stirred again and she forced herself to her feet. She could spend the rest of
the night just sitting there, looking at him, but it was an invasion of his privacy.
One she knew he wouldn’t take kindly to if he were aware of it.

A little steadier on her feet now that she was fully awake, Jamison made her way to
the bar in the corner of the suite. She got herself a bottle of water out of the mini-fridge,
drank it down in long, greedy swallows. Then got another one and started in on it
at a much slower pace as she swallowed a couple of Advil from the bottle sitting on
the bar like it was waiting for her. After re-capping the bottle, she made her way
to the large picture window that gave her a glorious view of San Diego.

The city looked so peaceful from way up here, so clean and beautiful and perfect.
She didn’t know what hotel they were in, but it must be near the harbor because she
could see an inky blackness past the fluorescent glow of the skyscrapers that could
only be the water.

She smiled, a little giddy at the view. She might not like partying with rock stars,
but she certainly couldn’t find fault with living like them. The suite was beautiful,
the view amazing. It was a far cry from the apartment Shaken Dirty used to share while
they were waiting for their big break. An even farther cry from her cramped little
inland apartment, where bars on the windows and three locks on the door were necessities
of life.

She reached out, traced a pattern on the glass as she looked at the sleeping city
far below. And thought about how dismal her immediate future looked.

She wasn’t sure how long she stood there, drinking her water and trying not to think
as fatigue weighed heavily on her. She hadn’t slept at all the night before—she’d
been too worried about the car, the boyfriend, the job and the meager state of her
finances to relax enough to drift off. And she must not have gotten much sleep yet
tonight, either. It had been close to two a.m. the last time she’d glanced at her
watch and if dawn was just now beginning to creep across the sky, she couldn’t have
been out for very long.

Which meant the guys wouldn’t be up for hours. That might have annoyed her normally—she
was a total morning person—but at this exact moment, it felt just about right. After
all, it wasn’t like she had a job to get up for. She could sleep as late as the guys
would let her.

She’d just crossed the room to turn the TV off when Ryder made a strangled sound.
It was low, unintelligible,, fraught with discomfort and desperation. Her heart jumped
to her throat and she whirled to face him, convinced he was going to be sick. Maybe
she wasn’t the only one who had gotten drunk at the bar.

Except her first good look at his face told her that sickness would have been preferable.
Anything would be. He looked terrified, traumatized, his eyes squeezed tightly shut
and his mouth open in horror. He was thrashing around, kicking out at the leg of the
couch as he made terrible noises that cut to the very center of her.

“No!” he shouted. “Don’t! No! Please.”

Heart in her throat, Jamison dropped onto the floor beside him. “It’s okay, Ryder.
It’s just a dream.”

He was too lost in the nightmare to hear her.

She’d read somewhere that you weren’t supposed to wake someone who was in the middle
of a bad dream, but she couldn’t leave Ryder like this. He was obviously suffering,
was making low, animalistic sounds in the back of his throat. She couldn’t, absolutely
couldn’t, leave him like this.

“Ryder, please.” She put a light hand on his shoulder, shook him gently. When that
didn’t work, she grabbed his hand in her own, squeezed tightly even as she wrapped
her free arm around his waist in a loose kind of hug. “It’s okay. I’ve got you, sweetie.
I’ve got you.”

His free hand shot out, fastened like a steel band around her wrist. Jamison squeaked
in surprise, but she didn’t fight him. Even when he tugged her closer and rolled her
onto his prostrate body, she didn’t fight. This was Ryder, and even asleep, even tormented,
she knew he wasn’t like Max. Knew he would never hurt her.

“Ryder, honey. Wake up,” she whispered, her face only inches from his.

He didn’t respond, didn’t acknowledge with so much as a blink or a nod that he’d heard
her. That freaked her out a lot more than being splayed on top of him did. Still,
she scooted around, tried to sit up, hoping that the movement would pull him out of
whatever strange sleep state he was in. But all her squirming around got her was one
large hand on her hip anchoring her in place and another one tangled in her hair.

“Ryder,” she gasped, shocked at how breathless she sounded. But she couldn’t help
it. His body—his hot, hard,
aroused
body—was pressed intimately against her own. And though she knew he didn’t have a
clue what he was doing, that didn’t seem to matter. Her nipples were hard, her breasts
aching, her sex damp, all from the feel of Ryder beneath her. It was wrong, and she
hated herself for it, but she couldn’t prevent her response any more than he could
prevent his nightmares.

At the same time, she couldn’t let this continue. She needed to get off him, now.
But as she shoved at his hands, tried to scramble onto the floor, he opened his eyes
and stared directly into her own.

“Stay,” he whispered.

She froze. Was he seeing her, talking to
her
? Or was that one desperate word meant for someone else?