Rock My Heart (Luminescent Juliet #4) (12 page)

Then it hits me who it might be.

“Fuck!” I say, stepping from April and dragging out
my phone.

Shit, it
is
Sharon.

“Sorry,” I say to a dazed eyed April before I answer
the phone with a, “Hey, Sharon.”

“I need your help,” she says in a frantic tone.
“Your dad’s here at the bar. He won’t leave. He’s getting argumentative and I’m
afraid he might hurt himself.”

I snort. “More like you or someone else. I’ll be
there in ten.” I’ve tried to get Sharon away from my dad, stayed at the house
longer than I should have to keep her safe, and even offered to share an
apartment with her. However, she won’t leave him—claims she loves him and he
needs her, though I’ve questioned that and her countless times—and I can’t stay
any longer or I’ll forever be caught in the cycle.

“
Please
hurry up!” she says as I hang up.

April’s already jumping off the counter. “Where are
you going? Do you need my help?”

“No!” I say a little—maybe a lot—harshly at the idea
of her anywhere near my father. I run a hand through my hair. “I’ve got to go.”

“Okay…should I wait?” she asks in small, confused
voice.

Though ecstatic that she would ask to wait, I shake my
head. “This may take a while. Sorry. Really sorry.
Sorry for
you
and
me.
I owe you dinner,”
I say, shutting the door and not looking back. If I look back at her tousled
form, at her swollen kissed lips, or her blue confused sexed eyes, I won’t be
able to leave.

Chapter 18

~April~

I sit across from Dr.
Medina as she flips through my folder. This date for our meeting had been
looming in my head since mid- August when I applied to the Clinical Counseling
Program. Now near the end of October, I’d almost forgotten about it. If it
hadn’t been on my phone calendar, I would have missed the meeting. She has
asked several questions already, but I’m getting the suspicion that were moving
on to my group therapy—more like group agony.

She closes the folder. “Well, April, I talked with
Jeff last week and he assured me that you were progressing nicely. Naturally,
he wouldn’t give me any particulars, but I trust Jeff.” She takes off her
reading glasses and lays them on the folder before folding her navy suited arms
on the edge of the desk. “So I’m more than happy to inform you that I think we
should go ahead and schedule your interview with the board of Psychology
professors.”

Relief comes over me. Finally. “Thank you, Dr.
Medina.”

She smiles. “During our call, I also asked for
Jeff’s permission to tell you a bit about him.” She sits back, hands in her
lap. “Jeff was one of my…I suppose favorite students. Not that I pick
favorites, he just has such an unconventional way of working with people, that
as a professor I couldn’t help being intrigued. Though he is competent in the
current strategies, he tends to adapt therapy to each individual group.” She
smiles at me again, though this time it is more of a compressed smile. “Your
approach is very by the book, April. Nothing is wrong with that per say. But
along with facing your own issues, I wanted you to perceive how therapy should
be about individual needs, and not only what the texts say is obligatory. I
hope you have gleaned that from Jeff’s sessions.”

“Um…” I say, stalling because I haven’t gleaned
anything from
those torture
like sessions. “Yes, I
suppose he does adapt to our groups needs, though I probably wouldn’t have been
able to express it as clear.”

Nodding, she picks up her glasses. “It’s always good
to understand and remember that all those textbooks are starting points. People
and their needs can transform all those philosophies into true counseling and
therapy.”

“Quite true,” I say numbly, feeling like she just
tossed three years of college out the window.

After scanning the schedule on her computer, she
assigns me a date for the interview. I thank her and leave, actually rush out
of her office, feeling bewildered at her praise of Jeff and on the edge of
embarrassed by her opinion that I’m rigid.

Out of the psych department offices and in the hall,
I’m startled at the sight of Riley and Romeo waiting by the entrance to the
stairs. Until seeing them, I had forgotten telling Riley about the upcoming
meeting. Of course, they would both be here to offer support in case it didn’t
go well.

“Hey,” Riley says, coming up to me, her expression
growing more worried with each step. “Are you all right?”

I nod, even force a smile. “Yes, my interview is in
about four weeks.”

“That’s great, April!” Riley says, hugging me.

Romeo watches me with lowered brows. When Riley
moves away, he asks, “Then why do you look like someone just kicked your ass?”

Because I just learned what Dr. Medina really thinks
about me, but instead of revealing that, I shake my head, as if I’m shaking off
an emotion. “I don’t know. It’s been a stressful morning, a couple of months.”

“Then let’s go to lunch
and celebrate!” Riley says, moving toward the stairwell.

Crap.
Along
with everything else, I’d forgotten about Riley’s earlier plans about lunch
since none of us have Thursday afternoon classes.
 “Yeah, sure,” I say, not wanting to let her
down and forcing yet another smile. I feel so much like a damn cheerleader with
their fake toothy smiles that I’m getting on my own nerves.

The three of us head to
the parking lot and her car.
 Some fans
of Luminescent,
two
girls and a guy, spot Romeo as we
walk across the campus. The guy asks for an autograph on his notebook. Always
aware of the importance of fans, Romeo signs the notebook and talks with them a
bit while the girls eye him in awe. Riley, having grown used to this, just
stands to the side with me and grins.

In Riley’s car, not
wanting to discuss the interview, I keep the conversation about her gig on
Saturday night, asking about their music set. Luckily, she spends most of the
ride describing why she choose each song.

As she pulls into the
parking lot of the bar where Sharon works, panic erupts in me at the
realization Gabe may be here. I’m still in shock over the other night,
especially at my response to him. Between the interview shock and my lingering
lust shock, I’m not emotionally prepared to face Gabe.

“
What are
we doing here?” I blurt.

Riley smiles over her shoulder at me in
the back seat. “
Best burgers ever. Unless you
don’t want burgers?”

“Um…burgers are fine.”
I mumble, wanting to ask about Gabe but not daring.

Inside, the place is
half-full of people eating. My eyes scan the room while I follow Romeo and
Riley to a table. So far so good, Gabe’s not in sight. After my stressful morning
and awful meeting, I don’t want to deal with the feelings he evokes. Or face
the fact that we’ve come to a fork in the road in our friendship, because
although I’d been certain he didn’t want anything to do with me in that way,
the other night
clearly
proved my
opinion wrong. But I’m still utterly confused about our mutual desire, as in
what does he exactly want? A fling? A one-night stand? A relationship? More
importantly, what do I want? Because even the thought of anything semi-serious
freaks me out. I have a
plan,
have had a plan for
years. And it has never included anything like the fire between Gabe and I.

Riley hands us all a
menu from in between the ketchup and mustard, then asks me, “So are you
dressing up on Saturday?”

I pause glancing at the
short menu of burgers and sandwiches. Though Sunday is Halloween, the gig is in
celebration of the holiday. “I’m not sure. It’s not really my thing.”

“Me either,” Romeo
says.

Riley elbows him in the
ribs. “You’re dressing up.”

He groans.

“Your band is dressing
up?” I ask Riley.

She nods. “You’re going
to have to wait and see as what.”

“The suspense may kill
me,” I say with a touch of sarcasm.

Riley laughs. “Well, it
is going to be awesome.”

Sharon steps up to our
table, holding an order pad. The sight of her reminds me of Gabe again, since
she called while we were in the middle of hot and heavy. I push the thought
away, I’m not going to be rude or standoffish to this woman because I’m
slightly—very—mortified by my—really my body’s—behavior.

She smiles wide and
takes a pen from her apron. “Hey, guys. How’s everyone doing?” Petite with
brown hair shot with gray and deep laugh lines, she appears older than my
mother
, though I’m guessing she’s around the same age. Yet
Sharon’s smile and bright eyes are far more welcoming than my mother’s polished
look.

“Awesome,” Riley says.
“And you?”

Sharon shrugs. “Working
a double, so tired but paying the bills.” She turns toward me. “Thanks a bunch
for helping move Gabe’s stuff the other night, April. Without you, he probably
would have lived out of those boxes for months.”

I flick the edge of the
plastic menu. “It was no big deal.”

Sharon shakes her head.
“No. It was very nice of you.”

I can’t help a blush,
looking down at my menu. When I look up, Romeo is watching me with a critical
expression. Great. Sharon’s revelation probably put more ideas in his head.

We all order burgers,
and then the onslaught comes. Riley asks question after question about the
meeting. Knowing she is interested in my life as a friend, I answer as honest
as possible, but I gloss over anything related to my group therapy or Dr.
Medina’s comment. Neither are topics I’m prepared to confront with anyone,
except maybe Gabe…well, at least before we almost had sex on his kitchen
counter.

Romeo mostly listens
and watches, which makes me aware that he knows that something is off.
Although, I present my perfect self to him, he knows me quite well. When Riley
takes a break from her interrogation and heads to the restroom, he raises his
brows and waits patiently.

I play with my straw
bending it back and forth,
then
let out a sigh. “Near
the end of the interview, Dr. Medina made a comment basically saying that my
counseling style is paint by numbers from textbooks.”

He leans over the
table, his eyes intense. “Who cares what she thinks? She is only a professor,
probably hasn’t counseled people in years.
You
got the interview for the master’s program. And I for one know, have seen on
several Sundays, that you’re not paint by numbers. You care, you care a lot.”
He sits back. “So forget her.”

I tilt my head and nod.
“I guess you’re right.”

He smirks. “I’m always
right.”

I let out a “harrumph.”

He leans forward again.
“So
what
is going on with you and
Gabe?”

My gaze narrows on his
knowing look. I do not need to go into this today. “I already told you we’re
just friends,” I say in a low voice.

His expression stays
skeptical.

Riley plops down.

“So,” I say in a
conspiring tone. “Have any ideas what I could dress as?”

She certainly does, enough
to fill the rest of the time between burgers and the bill. And unfortunately,
after all her brainwork, it looks like I’m going to have to dress up.

Ugh. It already seems
like I’m dressing up as someone other than me every damn day.

Chapter 19

~April~

I feel lost, adrift on a sea without a boat, about to drown. Everything
is twisting, doing one eighties, changing, and transforming before my eyes
and
behind my back. I’ve been lying
around my apartment since having lunch with Romeo and Riley, more than eight
hours ago.
I can’t get a handle on anything: not myself, nor
the situation with Gabe, and definitely not my education or future.
Though I know Dr. Medina didn’t intend to, her comment has me second-guessing
everything, especially my capabilities.

The meeting ruined my
confidence, not only in what I have learned the last three and a half years,
but also in all of my plans for the future. I’m suddenly wondering if I’m a
square peg trying to fit in a round hole. Certainly, not everyone ends up in
the career best suited for
them
. Yet if I’m not cut
out for counseling, it could hinder people who need help, and that’s the last
thing I want to do.
 

So I’ve been trying to
figure out how big the space is between reality and my desire, my need for the career.
I’ve laid on my bed or the couch. I stare at the walls or ceiling and think,
but I’m having a hard time seeing past my want to reality. I have planned and
wanted this career for too long. So long, it has become part of who I am, who I
need to be, and I can’t imagine giving it up and walking away.
 

Somewhere past eight at
night, I’m lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling when a knock sounds at
the door. 
 

Oh no, that has to be my other problem.

Gabe.

I close my eyes, wishing him away.

The knocking grows louder.

Not wanting to deal with the dilemma, I roll into the couch,
smashing my face in a cushion.

“April! Open the door!” he yells, knocking the loudest yet.

I finally get off the couch and go whip open the door.

He grins at me.

His stupid, lovely grin deflates some of my anger
and
serves as a huge warning sign. I
cannot resist this man. Those giddy bubbles that his mere presence produces
rise up inside of me, even with the last hours of depression. My response makes
me more depressed. Obviously, I’m nowhere near conquering my infatuation.

“I’m sleeping, not feeling well, going back to bed,” I say,
shutting the door.

He stops the door with his foot. “You sick?” His eyes are
troubled as they roam over my wrinkled shorts and T-shirt.

“No,” I sigh, not being able to lie to him. “Just in the
head.”

His head tilts in question.

I lean on the edge of the door. “It’s about school, and I
really don’t want to talk about it.”

“Well then,” he says, pushing a bottle of wine into my hands.
He picks up the pot that I gave him. “A little dinner and booze might get your
mind off of it.” He breezes past me.

I shut the door, none too gently, and follow him to the
kitchen. “Did you hear—” I pause both speaking
and
moving to stare at him. He’s dressed in a slick pair of
designer jeans frayed with holes, a wide black belt, and a long sleeve, white
button up shirt. The sides of his hair have been pulled back into a small
ponytail, which should make him look like some sort of mafia douchebag, but instead
it reveals his harsh lined jaw and cheekbones. Though he always looks good in
his normal jeans and white T-shirts—kind of like a modern surfer James Dean—he
looks good like this too, real good.

“What are you wearing?” I finally ask, stunned with his presence
in my little kitchen.
 

“Oh, yeah, thanks for reminding me.” He reaches for the top
button of the shirt. “We had a photo shoot. Hate those things, but with Peyton
behind the lens”—I’ve learned from Riley that Sam’s new girlfriend Peyton works
for the school newspaper and went on the summer tour with the guys—“they’re not
as bad as usual.” He peels off the shirt to reveal a tank top.

Oh, hell no. I can’t be around in him in that thing. His
lean, hard muscles take up the entire kitchen. I can see the indentations of
his damn six-pack through the worn material of the tank. My fingers curl with a
sudden, strong want.

He holds the shirt out with one finger. “Got a hanger? It’s
Justin’s, and would probably cost me an entire paycheck from the garage.”

“Sure,” I say, keeping my eyes from the sight of his body. I
set the bottle of wine on the counter and take the shirt, careful not to touch
his hand. I hang the shirt in the hall closet. When I come back to the kitchen,
Gabe is at the stove, facing away from me.

The tattoo on the back of his neck is crossed drumsticks.
Outlined and shadowed, they almost look real. Thinking of how important
drumming must be to him, I’d like to touch the ink, maybe even trace the lines
with my tongue.

Where the heck did that come from?

He glances over a muscled shoulder at me. “Hope you like
pasta,” he says with another panty melting grin before going back to stir
whatever is in the pot.

I lean on the counter that encloses the kitchen, worried
about my sanity. “I’m not very hungry.”

“Did you already eat?” he asks in a tone that says he didn’t
think of the possibility.

“No.”

“Then you’re hungry.” Without asking me, he starts searching
inside the cupboards and takes out two short glasses. After setting them on the
counter, he twists the cap off the bottle of wine and pours. He comes around
the counter and hands me a glass.

“I’m not much of a drinker,” I say, thinking that if I lose
any of my inhibitions, I’m going to attack him.

He lifts his glass and clinks it with mine. “It’s strawberry
wine.”

My brows lower. I turn the bottle around. Yup. Cheap
strawberry wine. “We’re not splitting that bottle,” I say in a tone of
disbelief.

He lowers his glass. “And why not?”

“Because…because,” I sputter, taking in his sculpted chest
and warm brown eyes and his sexy full upper lip. My gaze comes back to his and
his expression changes from
light and carefree to dark
and ominous as he watches me. “It’s not a good idea.”

“Why not?” he demands in a silk shot tone.

“Because… ” I mutter, backing away.

“Because why?” he demands, following me, staring at my outfit
in an entirely different way than earlier, and definitely noticing my braless
state.

I back up faster. “It’s just not.”

“Why?”

My back hits the wall next to the bathroom.

“Why?” This time the demand is harsh.

“Last time I drank, I hit on you!”

He comes within inches from me, his eyes blazing into mine.
“What’s stopping you now?”

“Um…” It’s really,
really hard
to
think with him so close.

He puts his hands on the wall, one on each side of my head. “
I
won’t stop you,” he says in a low tone
that hits me in the gut. His lips hover above mine, and I’m tipsy from just his
mouth and body so close.

I blink at him. “Ah…”

His eyes bore into mine.

Damn. I want him. Those eyes. Those lips. That body. I want
all of him. Other people do this. All the time. Why can’t I? His eyes are
telling me I can. My body is telling me I should. My brain is trying to tell me
something else. Lots of something
elses
.

He lowers his lashes and leans closer but waits.

My body yearns, definitely buzzes at his close proximity. He
waits and I want him so bad, lust hits me like a gust of hot wind.

Screw my brain.

For once, I’m taking what
I
want, especially after all the despair of the last hours.

Leaping at him, I grab his jaw and kiss him with all the
desire that’s been building inside of me for over a month, and he kisses me
back just as fierce. With his hands on my back, mine twisted in his hair until
it’s free and clutched in my hands, the kiss is long and deep and sexily messy.
When we come up for air, it doesn’t last long. Gabe practically slams me onto
the wall and we go for round two.

I refuse to think. I just go with the sensations. The muscles
under my palms. The hard body flush on mine. The taste of his lips. His hot
hands on my skin. His thick desire against my stomach. His harsh breath in my
mouth.
 

I feel wild. Uncontrollable. And free.

I feel alive.

Something I haven’t felt in ages.

He kisses my jaw, my ear, my neck while my palms learn the
landscape of his muscled back and hot, smooth skin. When he sucks at my neck,
my response is to yank him by the waist even closer, pressing against him. At
the contact, a four-letter word is huffed on my collarbone.

Then he’s kissing me again, moving his hands under my shirt,
skimming my ribs and breasts as he raises the shirt. He breaks the kiss to yank
the shirt over my head and drops it to the floor. The wall is cool on my back
as I grasp his hips to steady myself. He leans back, his gaze caressing my skin
from stomach to face.

His eyes lower to watch his fingers trail around the piecing
at my bellybutton. “You’re so damn beautiful, it almost hurts.” He continues
watching his hands skim until he’s cupping my breasts. “So fucking beautiful,”
he sighs, and that sigh hits me between the legs.

When he lowers his mouth and covers a breast, my fingers dig
into his shoulders. The sensation of his mouth is amazing. My memories, mostly
awkward and self-conscious, of teenage groping are nothing like this. Gabe
flicking his tongue over my nipple feels right, so dang right that I groan.

Wow. His lips
are
magic. Everywhere. They’re melting me in a pile of lust goo.

In the next second, he has my legs wrapped around his waist,
his mouth on mine, and my back off the wall. His lovely, magic lips drain
every last
brain cell to the point that I’m startled to find
myself lowered to the bed. Body humming, I wait and want with a catch of
breath.

Leaning over me, Gabe raises a hand to fan out my hair above
me. He drags his fingers over my ribs to my waist, then leans back into crouch,
taking my shorts with him. He pauses above me, his eyes wandering over me, a
sexy lock of hair almost obscuring his view.

I’m still, letting him examine me in the soft light—the only
source coming from a small lamp on my dresser. Obviously, he likes to look.
Slowly. My feminine pride
should be
screaming at being objectified, but the warmth and lust in his gaze keeps my
body humming. The intensity in his eyes has my breath hitching. He leans
forward, hands on my thighs, sliding up and pushing them apart. I’m not sure
what is hotter, his gaze or his touch.

His eyes grow scorching as his hands slide to the top of my
thighs and both his thumbs brush me. “So wet,” he murmurs in a hoarse voice.
“Just for me.”

His touch, holy hell, his touch is hotter! My breath hitches
more at both his words and his caress.

He comes back over me, hands skimming my ribs, his mouth
finding a breast as fingers slide into me.

“
Ahhhhha
,” Comes out of me in a
scale of awkward notes.

His mouth and hands play my body like an instrument, and I do
lose my mind, twisting and turning and thrashing in the messy bed. I grip and
pull at his shoulders, astounded at the response he gets from my body,
astounded that I can feel so much passion, so much want. Dry, boring me, on
fire. Though I’d like to stay under his touch forever, it doesn’t take long
before I’m melting into the tangled sheets and gasping into the room. Opening
my eyes, I’m not surprised to find him watching me.

I do surprise him—if the slight widening of his eyes is an
indication—by tugging at his tank. “Take it off,” I demand in a hoarse voice.
I’m done with the wanting. I’ve become determined to have it all.

Though his face stays intense, a cocky grin curls his mouth
as he pushes up on his knees and sheds the shirt in one quick swoop.

“The pants too,” I say in a low tone, drinking in lean, hard
muscle, my fingers itching to touch.