Strum Your Heart Out (7 page)

"Still—"

"Do you admire me, Kendrick?" he asks.

"I don't know. We're friends. It's not really like that."

"Exactly. We're on the same level. We can communicate like real people. You don't have me up on this pedestal." His bad mood shifts into a smile. "Which must be hard, given how dead sexy I am."

"Yeah, very hard." Not thinking about Drew hard. Not at all.

The rest of Dangerous Noise makes their way on stage. There's a small chorus of cheers from the audience.

Drew takes my hand and leads me closer to the performance. We're right by the curtains. It's a perfect view of the stage. Well, the back right side of the stage. Too bad I lack interest in checking out any ass besides Drew's, because I have an eyeful of rock stars in tight jeans.

The band launches into their first song. It's not half bad. Catchy. Rhythmic. They have a great energy and they're fun.

It's impossible to see the audience with the bright lights, but their cheers are plenty loud. The next two songs only get everyone more hyped.

The singer turns toward the backstage area, like he's looking right at us. "We have a very special guest here today. One Mr. Drew Denton." He turns back to the audience. "Do you guys like Sinful Serenade?"

The crow goes wild. Way louder cheers than before.

"What you might not know is that Drew was in Dangerous Noise for a hot second. Back in the day, we shared custody of his very talented hands with Sinful Serenade. But there were a few creative and personal differences, and he left us for fame and fortune."

No doubt about it, Drew is red, though I'm not sure if it's from anger or embarrassment.

"There was this song that we couldn't agree on." Gavin looks back at us. "I hated it. Drew loved it. How about you come out and play it with us, Drew?"

The band's guitarist looks back at us, apparently unfazed by the stunt. He must know he's not as talented as the man he replaced.

Drew shakes his head. Under his breath, he mutters, "No fucking way."

I nudge him. "Do it."

He leans close enough to whisper. "The differences were more personal than creative."

"What happened?"

"My ex... Vivian. She was with Gavin before she was with me. He didn't take it too well." Drew shakes his head. "Stupid way to leave a band."

"So go make amends." I press my hand into his lower back and push him onto stage.

He looks back at me and shakes his head. "Kendrick, you're going to pay for this."

"Break a leg." I blow him a kiss. For good luck. Only for good luck.

Drew's demeanor changes the second he's on stage. No longer irritated. He's right where he belongs. A roadie runs out with a guitar, slinging it around Drew's shoulders and plugging it in.

Drew looks back to me with that same
you're going to pay for this
expression. Then his attention turns to the crowd.

The song starts with a guitar intro. It's amazing and spotlight-hogging. I close my eyes and soak in the music. There's a great energy and finesse to Drew's playing. The rest of the song falls away, until there's nothing in this entire club except me and Drew's hands and that guitar.

When the song ends, the crowd is screaming. Drew's posture is proud and confident. He really belongs here, on stage, lost in his music.

Gavin steps up to the mic again. "How about those hands, huh?"

The band's actual guitarist pouts.

Drew slides the guitar off his shoulders and takes a bow. The crowd goes wild, screaming and cheering and clapping. Drew waves goodbye as he walks backstage.

His eyes find mine. "Pleased with yourself?"

"It was a good song."

"The guitar part." He takes my hand. "Let's avoid any more of this by going to the front."

"What if I want to find a hot rock star boyfriend?"

"Over my dead body."

***

We spend the rest of the concert in the main area. I don't know the headlining band, but that doesn't stop me from swaying along to the music. Drew sits on a bar stool, watching me and shaking his head.

"You can't dance to rock music," he says.

"Then what the hell am I doing?" I step further into the crowd.

It's only a few seconds before Drew's hands are on my hips. He pulls me toward the bar. "You're not leaving my sight."

"I'm dancing."

"Not out of my sight."

Drew's overprotective attitude is not going to keep me from the one thing that relieves the tension in my body. I make my way toward the stage. He's right. No one is dancing. But that isn't going to stop me either.

I move in time with the songs. It's half-jumping, half-dancing, but I fit right in with the enthusiastic fans. Drew stays close to me, his arm tight around my waist. What the hell is that supposed to mean?

It's dark enough that no one recognizes him. Or maybe it's considered rude to ask a rock star to sign an autograph at another band's show. Either way, we make it all the way to the final song without interruption.

Everyone is cheering. It's so loud I can't hear myself think. Drew's grip tightens. He pulls me closer, his mouth mere inches from my ear. His breath sends goosebumps down my spine.

"I should say goodbye," he whispers.

It's too loud to respond with words, so I nod. We make our way backstage. Security waves us through without batting an eye. It seems Drew is known by everyone, even when he'd rather be invisible.

There must be a few dozen people here. I guess the headliners have quite the posse. Drew cuts through the crowd, his hand tight around mine. He finds Gavin in the main dressing room.

Drew stares daggers.

Gavin stares back.

Drew speaks first. "Consider us even."

No comeback. Gavin nods. And that's it. Conflict big enough to break up a band settled. Men. Who can understand them?

A fan paws at Drew. A woman. She's in a tiny dress and she's teetering like she's drunk. She laughs, a loud obnoxious laugh. Definitely drunk.

"Oh my gawsh, I love Sinful Serenade. Will you sign something for me?" she begs.

Nope. Not watching this. I go to break Drew's grip. He squeezes harder, but I fight it enough to slip away. I cut through the crowd. Time to find a nice bottle of tequila and something to mix it with. That's the only way I'll survive watching this flirting disaster without vomiting.

The booze is in the corner, and there are half a dozen mixers. I fill a red plastic cup with plenty of tequila and plenty of orange juice. It's no Paloma, but it will get the job done.

"Oh, you better hope Drew isn't looking."

Fuck my life. That's Tom.

He's standing there with a blonde woman on his arm. This could be Drew. He could be the one about to take home a pretty girl and never speak to her again.

Tom turns to his conquest. "Meet at my car in five." He taps her ass and sends her on her way.

"That was a beautiful display of affection. Thank you for that." This drink can't fill my throat fast enough. I drink with greedy sips. Not great tequila. It burns.

Tom is unblinking. "You like Drew."

Time for another sip. Heat spreads through my cheeks and throat. "I don't know—"

"Yeah, you do." Tom points to Drew and the flirty fangirl. "You looked like you were gonna deck her right in the jaw."

"I don't hit people."

"Drew does." Tom looks at me. "When he was with Vivian. And then after, when he was fucking his way out of his bad mood."

"What are you talking about?"

"You want those details?" Tom leans closer. "You want to think about him fucking a different girl every night, driving them all insane with that look in his eyes that promises he'll love them?"

"Seems like I don't have a choice. You're doing a great job explaining it. Really evocative language."

"You like him a lot, huh?"

I finish the rest of my drink with one long gulp. "I should go."

"I want to help."

No, Tom doesn't help. Tom is only out for Tom.

I study his expression. It seems genuine.

"Why?" I ask. "You don't help anyone."

"That's not a very nice thing to say."

"You only care about yourself and what you think is best for the band."

He takes my plastic cup and pours me a refill. "This is what's best for the band. Drew's pleasant when you're around. Shows up to practice in a good mood. Doesn't argue that we need guitar solos in our singles."

"Is this supposed to be a compliment?" I take my drink from Tom and take a long sip. It's a lot stronger. At least Tom does something right.

Tom looks me right in the eyes, dead serious. "You're good together. And you're normal. That's what he needs."

"How do you know I'm normal?" I ask.

"If you'd seen him with Vivian, you wouldn't have to ask." Tom's phone buzzes loudly. He picks it up and glances at it. "I have things to do, but I want to help."

"Things?" I raise my eyebrow.

"Okay, I have a woman to fuck. Two, actually. That a problem with you?" He throws his shoulders back, all self-righteous. "You trust me?"

"No."

"Follow my lead. I'll make him figure it out."

"Figure what out?" I ask.

"That he likes you too." Tom steps toward the exit and waves goodbye. "I'd get him home if I were you. Drew hates attention."

"I know."

"You want him or not?"

I bite my lip. I'm not about to trust Tom to help me. But he is right about this. Drew does hate attention, and I hate standing here watching him get flirted with.

Tom shakes his head. He motions to one of his friends and whispers something in the guy's ear. Then his attention turns to me. "See you soon."

He steps out of the room.

The friend, a short guy with broad shoulders and a dark t-shirt, saunters up to me. He leans close. "Tom asked me to flirt with you. Any clue why?"

Some clue. I turn back to Drew. Sure enough, his eyes are on me. He's staring daggers at this guy, and all the guy is doing is standing near me. Really near me, but still.

"Tom is an idiot," I say.

The guy laughs. It's a big, hearty laugh. He grabs my arm like he needs it to steady himself.

Ten seconds later, Drew is at my side, his arm wrapped around my waist. "Let's get out of here," he says.

I nod goodbye to the guy whose name I don't know.

Once we're outside, Drew softens. His grip moves to my hand but it's still tight and protective.

So Tom is smarter than he looks.

I just might have to trust him.

***

I wake up with a throbbing headache. Sleeping on an air mattress didn't help in the hangover avoidance front. Downstairs, Drew is sweating on the floor. Doing push-ups, more specifically. The muscles of his back tense and release. So back muscles can make your legs go weak. Who knew?

I make my way downstairs. He pops up with ease. His footsteps are so, so loud. And it's awfully bright in here too.

"I know that look," he says.

"Ugh."

"You shouldn't drink so much."

Yeah, and maybe he shouldn't allow hyena fangirls to flirt in front of me. I try to offer him a smile, but the pounding in my head won't allow it.

"Thanks for the tip." I sit cross legged on the floor.

He does something in the kitchen. I guess he unpacked a set of pots and pans. It's extra bright over there so I'm not about to look.

"I'm making eggs. You want some?" he ask.

"Yes. Thank you."

He moves closer. His hands graze my shoulders. "You want to come with me?"

Mind going straight to gutter. I clear my throat. "Come to what?"

"To practice. It's in an hour."

Not with this headache. Just the thought of groaning vocals and a screaming drum set...

Tom. He knew what he was doing last night. And maybe today too.

A heavy dose of ibuprofen and a greasy breakfast should be enough to make band practice tolerable.

"Sure," I say. "As long as you drive."

"Wouldn't have it any other way."

CHAPTER EIGHT

The guitar's wail fills the room. It's a riff I've never heard before. It's heavy and melodic and totally captivating.

Either the drugs did wonders for my headache or the music is so beautiful it's chasing the pain away.

I dog-ear my page and drop my paperback in my lap. My eyes flutter closed. Nothing to distract me now. Nothing here except the sound of Drew's playing.

The music shifts. Something faster. It's not like the normal Sinful Serenade stuff. It's rawer. It's harder. It's way more aggressive.

Something stirs inside me. Like the song is throwing open a hiding place and letting all the dust free.

The music shifts back to the melody. All that dust swirls around my brain. I shake my head, willing it to settle down, but it does no good.

I don't want to think anything. I don't want to feel anything but Drew's song washing over me.

I play with the pages of my paperback. Something for my Russian Literature class. I'm supposed to be reading it.

My eyes open and my gaze goes straight to Drew. He's completely oblivious to anything except his guitar. There's this look on his face—a mix of concentration and serenity. His fingers glide over the fretboard, fast and exact.

We're early. It's just us. By all accounts, the room is huge. But it feels small. It feels like a closet. Like there's absolutely no room to move or even breathe.

The song ends. I grab my paperback and pretend to read it. Drew is looking at me, checking on me. I can feel it. I bury my eyes in the text and read the same sentence five times. There's a highlighter and a pen in my purse. If I'm going to pretend I'm doing homework, I should sell it better.

I sneak a peek at Drew as I reach for my purse. He's tuning his guitar, a pick between his teeth. He closes his eyes and plays a note. It must be right, because he moves to the next string. He does it again and again.

His eyes blink open. He glances at me. Crap, I'm staring at him. I nod like it's a coincidence. He doesn't seem to notice. He takes the pick from his mouth and rubs it between his fingers.

He plays.

A different song. Another song I've never heard before. This time, I don't fight the feelings whirling around inside me. I close my eyes and let the song wash over me. How can something that sounds so beautiful make me hurt somewhere so deep? It's like there's a hole in my gut out of nowhere.