by Roni Loren
The last beating he’d taken from Red had ended with Pike pulling a gun on the guy. Pike had gotten caught trying to sneak out with the car for the night, and Red had slammed Pike’s hand in the car door, breaking the delicate bones in one swift crunch. The pain hadn’t even registered at first. All Pike had seen was bright red rage. One of his hands—the only fucking thing about him that was special, the thing that was going to get him out of this hellhole existence—was now crushed. How the fuck was he supposed to drum one-handed?
Without thinking, he’d grabbed the gun from the glove box with his good hand and jumped out of the car. He’d shoved Red against the wall and had held the gun right to his head, his finger twitching to squeeze the trigger. And when Red had smirked, grabbed Pike’s nuts, and told him he didn’t have the balls to do it, Pike had pulled the trigger and braced for the blast. Nothing had happened. The gun hadn’t been loaded. But before Pike could even register how completely crazy he was being, his mother and younger brother had come out, seeing him with the gun.
He’d dropped the thing like it was on fire, but the incident had sealed his fate with his family anyway. If Pike ever had any doubt, he’d learned that night where his mother’s loyalties lay. She’d been hysterical when she’d come into the garage. Pike’s hand had been a mangled, swelling mess. But she hadn’t listened to his side of the story. And instead of carting him to the ER for his hand, she’d listened to Red and had told Pike to get out for good.
Pike had considered going to the police about his hand. But he knew no one would buy that the punk teenager hadn’t been the one who started it. So after a night sitting in the free clinic to get his hand looked at, he’d officially moved in with Foster, cutting his mother and Red out of his life. Unfortunately, he’d lost his siblings in the process, too. Red took out a restraining order and forbade the family from talking to Pike. And Pike’s mom hadn’t protested the edict, too far under Red’s thumb or too enamored with her new suburban life to bother fighting for her first child. Red paid the bills. He won. Pike was cut out. Dead to them all.
Pike hadn’t slept for weeks after he’d left. He’d always tried to act as the buffer between any of his mom’s boyfriends and the younger kids, so he knew it’d only be a matter of time before one of his siblings became Red’s next target. He made anonymous calls to CPS and tried to get the asshole caught, but his mother and Red were too good at putting on a show and faking it for whoever investigated.
By the time his younger siblings were old enough to make up their own minds, they’d only known what they’d seen—a brother who’d abandoned them—and what they’d been told—that Pike was some psycho asshole who almost killed Red. Pike couldn’t deny the charges because they’d been true. The gun hadn’t been loaded. That’s all that separated him from being a murderer.
Reagan ran up to them, breaking Pike out of the old memories and dragging him back to the present. She bounced on the balls of her feet. “I’m ready.”
Her enthusiasm and bright smile hit him in the gut. His brother, Tristan, had been just a little older than Reagan last time he’d seen him. Tris had been his constant shadow back then. And the one he’d worried about the most when he’d left because he was the obvious choice for Red to move onto once Pike had left. Pike had always sworn to Tristan that he’d keep him safe, and he’d bailed. Thinking about that had given him daily nightmares. He’d known Tris was too sensitive and gentle of a kid to survive the stuff Pike had been through. Tristan was a kid who bottled everything up and let it eat at him instead of exploding in anger. But when Pike had tried to sneak over and check on him, Tristan had run from him—betrayal in his eyes. They’d all counted on Pike and he’d let them down.
He’d tried to call Tris one night a few years ago when he was having a particularly rough night on tour. Right before Christmas. Alone. He’d been fucked up with pills eight ways to Sunday, and he’d pulled out the number he’d tracked down months earlier. He’d been closest to Tris since they were the only two boys, and for some reason, he’d felt this need to connect with someone who shared his blood. He’d barely been able to string words together, and when Tris had realized who it was, he’d hung up on him. Pike had tried to call him back a few days later when he was clear-headed, but he hadn’t answered. Message clear: I don’t want to know you.
Then a year later he’d gotten the news that Tristan had been killed in a car accident in Austin. His car had wrapped around a tree, and there’d been speculation that it might’ve been a suicide. Pike had been torn to shreds at the news and had gone to the funeral. But a security guard had met him at the door and told him he couldn’t go in.
He’d never gotten the chance to say he was sorry. The kid he’d helped raise was gone.
Pike rubbed the heel of his hand over his chest where that hurt still burned bright and dragged his gaze away from Reagan, the memories still too hard to think about.
Oakley gave him an odd look, like she’d caught his shift in mood. “You okay?”
“Fine. Just getting heartburn.”
She didn’t look like she bought that one bit, but she cocked her head toward the room. “Rae, why don’t you help Mr. Pike get the room straightened and I’ll walk the rest of the group back to the activity room? We’ll head out after that.”
“’Kay.”
Pike lifted his head, the simple act of Oakley trusting him to be alone with Reagan both surprising him and helping him pull out of that dark cave in his mind. Usually being alone with a kid was not something he’d want, but Oakley’s endorsement buoyed him. “You sure?”
“I’ll meet you out front.”
Oakley rounded up the other kids and guided them out of the room. There wasn’t much to clean up, but there were instruments to put away and chairs to move. The mindless work helped Pike come back into himself, locking that ugly stuff away again.
Reagan seemed perfectly content to do the work in silence, and Pike found it to be a comfortable quiet. She wasn’t like the other young girls who needed to fill all the blank spaces with chatter.
He stacked a few chairs and Reagan grabbed potato chip bags and granola bar wrappers off one of the tables. Then in the quiet, he heard her soft voice as she sang to herself. He pretended not to notice, not wanting to make her feel self-conscious, but the notes were hard to ignore. Her voice was pure and strong even at low volume, like a lonely bird in a still night. He slowed his movements, recognizing the chorus of Christina Aguilera’s “Beautiful.” A sweet eleven-year-old girl singing about words not bringing her down. His chest tightened.
He stacked another chair and glanced over at her. “You have a pretty voice, Reagan.”
She ducked her head and went over to the trashcan to dump the wrappers. “Thanks.”
“No, seriously, you’ve got something special there. You should use it in the group.” He didn’t add that her voice was heads above the girl they’d chosen to do the solo parts on the first song, but it was the truth.
“I’m not a singer. I just want to play guitar.”
“How come?”
She shrugged. “Mom told me playing an instrument is better.”
“Who says you can’t do both? Braxton, the lead singer in my band, also plays bass.”
She toyed with the headphones hanging around her neck as if she were considering blocking out the conversation. “I don’t think Mom likes my singing.”
He frowned. “I can’t imagine that. I think your mom loves everything about you.”
She tilted her head, her expression turning thoughtful. “No one loves everything about anyone. That doesn’t make sense.”
“Why not?”
“Because no one is perfect. Being friends or family is liking someone even when they have stuff about them that you don’t like.”
“Is that right?” he asked, impressed by the mini-philosopher.
“Yep. Like Mom thinks tattoos are dumb, but she still likes you.”
He laughed. “You think so?”
Reagan nodded seriously. “She smiles at you a lot. And she let you come to our house. And she listens to your music all the time now.”
Pike’s eyebrows rose. Well, then. “That’s good to know.”
Reagan put her hand on her hip. “So how many albums do you have at your house? Any Patti Smith?”
He pretended to think, tapping his chin with his finger. “Hmm, I may have a slightly scratched copy of Horses in the mix.”
“Really?” Reagan’s blue eyes went big. “We’re done cleaning up, right?”
He slid the last chair in place. “Looks done to me.”
She gave him a crooked grin, lighting up every part of a face that had been drawn and dark when she’d come in earlier. “Let’s jet, Mr. Pike.”
He chuckled as she ran toward the door. An eleven-year-old who got giddy about Patti Smith. That was definitely a first.
Seems the Easton girls were full of surprises.
SIXTEEN
Oakley put a blanket over Reagan and got an annoyed huff from Monty for disturbing his position curled up by Rae’s side. The dachshund/schnauzer mix had taken an instant liking to Reagan and had followed her around most of the night like her personal mascot. He apparently was not relinquishing the position anytime soon.
Rae nestled her head deeper into the throw pillow but didn’t wake up. Oakley smiled. Poor Rae. She’d been all excited about staying up late, but she’d zonked out right after finishing Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory—a movie she’d chosen from Pike’s DVD collection and declared “weird but kind of awesome.”
Pike sauntered into the living room, his feet bare and his jeans and T-shirt replaced with blue plaid pajama bottoms and a white undershirt. Something about seeing him in sleep clothes, sauntering through his personal space—a beautiful but not ostentatious modern condo with a killer view of downtown—did something to Oakley.
“She’s out?” he asked. “I was about to dish up some ice cream.”
“Yeah, she had a long day. Usually she has trouble sleeping anywhere but home or at my brother’s, so she must’ve been wiped.” Oakley rolled her neck, the stress of the day trapped there in her muscles.
A loud snore came from the couch—the dog’s, not Reagan’s. Pike laughed. “Monty must’ve had a rough one, too. All that chasing birds from window to window.”
Oakley’s mouth curved. “He’s adorable.”
“You don’t have to be nice. He’s obnoxious. But we get each other, so it works.”
“Because you’re both adorable and obnoxious?”
“Precisely.” He nodded toward her kneading hands. “You know it feels way better if you let someone else do that for you.”
She lowered her hands from her neck. “I’m good.”
“Come on. Sit on the floor, and I’ll help you out.”
“Pike.”
“Don’t get all excited. I didn’t say there was a happy ending involved.” He gave her a playful waggle of his eyebrows. “But do you have any idea how strong a drummer’s hands are? And this one’s been shattered and rebuilt into a bionic one. There’s magic in these here fingers, woman.”
“Your humility overwhelms me.”
He pointed to the floor. “Sit.”
She checked her phone. Her brother would be calling any minute to give her the green light to head his way. What could it hurt? She lowered herself to the floor. “Fine. But hands must stay above collarbone.”
“Yes, mistress. I like it when you get bossy.”
She rolled her eyes. “Did you really break your hand?”
“No. My mom’s boyfriend did it for me.” He said it offhanded, like he was announcing he’d fallen off his bike as a kid or something. He climbed over the back of the love seat and settled in the spot behind her, his knees on each side of her head.
“Jesus.”
“Yeah, I told you my mother’s taste in men sucked. She was like catnip for assholes. But in the end, the injury altered my drumming style, which gave me a unique technique and made me stand out. So screw him.”
“That’s awful.” Her stomach wrenched at the cruelty. A child’s hand—shattered. She wasn’t naive enough to think those things didn’t happen. She’d seen her fair share of stuff working at Bluebonnet, but her heart broke for that young version of Pike nonetheless.
He put his hands on her shoulders. “I survived, mama. Don’t stress. And it gifted me with excellent massaging ability. You don’t realize how lucky you’re about to get. Just sit back and behold the greatness.”
She could tell he was deflecting, changing the subject. She let him. She had a feeling he hadn’t meant to share that much.
“I will do my best to behold.” But she didn’t have to try hard. The minute his hands squeezed her shoulders, she groaned aloud.
“Damn, woman, you’re like stone.” He ran his thumbs over her knotted muscles, sending hurts-so-good sensations through her. “You sure you’re not moonlighting as a linebacker?”
“You know what I’m moonlighting as.” She closed her eyes. “And that feels amazing.”
“Don’t say that in that sexy voice,” he warned, leaning close to her ear. “Makes me think about other ways to get you to say those words. Because it would be amazing. So. Amazing.”
“Pike, you promised,” she said, but there wasn’t much oomph behind it. His massaging fingers were too good, making it hard to muster up any annoyance. The simple indulgence of being touched by a man intent on making her feel good was pleasure in and of itself, making her acutely aware of how little physical contact she had with anyone outside of Reagan these days.
He traced his thumbs along her spine to the nape of her neck, making small, wondrous circles along the way. “I know, but I think we have an issue that needs to be discussed.”
She let her head loll forward. “What’s that?”
“After what happened in the parking lot today, I think we both need to admit that the phone calls aren’t working for us.”
“Mmm,” she said, losing herself in the bliss of loosening muscles. “Yes. We need to stop doing that.”
“Agreed. Wholeheartedly.”
She lifted her head, a little surprised at his emphatic agreement. After the kiss, she’d been planning to tell him that they had to quit messing around, that it was getting too intense, but she hadn’t expected him to be the one to bring it up first. “Well … good, then. We’re on the same page.”
His fingertips made their way into her hair, kneading her scalp with near-orgasmic results. “Yep. We definitely need to do this in person.”
She straightened and whirled around, his fingers knotting in her hair for a second. She pulled free. “What?”
He sat back, his expression frank. “That’s not what you were going to suggest?”
“No. You know it wasn’t.”
He shrugged. “Look, I’m a believer in the get-something-out-of-your-system method of dealing with cravings. People fail on diets because they deny themselves what they really want. But if they had a few bites of the chocolate cake they want instead of sucking on sugar-free candies as a replacement, they wouldn’t fall off the wagon so easily.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
He leaned forward, cupping her jaw, and ran his thumb over her lips, a feather-light touch that sent swirls of smoky need curling through her. “Don’t you see? The phone calls are our sugar-free candy.” His thumb paused at the plump part of her bottom lip and his gaze moved there. “I always knew it wasn’t enough for me. But after that kiss, I know it’s not enough for you either. You want me.”
She felt the urge to pull the warm tip of his thumb into her mouth, to taste the salt of his skin. But she turned her face away from his touch, trying to find her voice. “I told you why we can’t.”
“But you can’t stop thinking about it, right?” His voice was a hypnotic song in the quiet of the condo—beckoning, tempting, a juicy apple dangling at the edge of her fingertips. “What it would be like? How it woul
d feel? I know I can’t get it off my mind.” He captured a lock of her hair and wrapped it around his finger then let the hair unfurl slowly from it. “My fist has gotten quite a workout over you, Ms. Easton.”
Her eyes were locked on his hand, that strong, talented hand that had just released her hair. And she couldn’t block the images from coming. Pike in the shower, head tilted back, fist wrapped around his cock, soap sliding over his inked skin as he stroked himself.
“I—” Her lips parted as words failed her, arousal washing over her like a rising tide.
He tucked the lock of hair he’d played with behind her ear, his gaze holding hers. “I can’t be the kind of guy you’re looking for. I’m not going to bullshit you and say that I am. But I also know that we’re driving each other to distraction and there’s one easy way to fix it.”
She closed her eyes, her head automatically moving in a no motion.
He brushed his lips along her jaw, his breath hot on her neck. “Let me have one night, Oakley. One night and I can give you what I can’t over the phone.” He pressed a kiss to the spot behind her ear—a barely-there touch that lit her aflame. “Let’s eat the cake, baby.”
A very pointed ache settled between her thighs, and she inhaled a ragged breath. How was she supposed to think with him so close? With the scent of him filling her head.
He nuzzled her neck. “We’ll do it right. I’ll take you out, get us a private table at Barcelona, maybe go dancing at that new club downtown, then I’ll show you what I’ve been wanting to do to you since that first time we talked.”
She swallowed hard, trying to quell the instant reaction his nearness and words were giving her. But she couldn’t block out the images his invitation incited. One night. Pike naked and braced above her, glistening with sweat as he pumped inside her. Pike laid out on twisted sheets as she explored all the places her eyes hadn’t been privy to. Hers for the night. An indulgence to fill the near obsessive craving she’d developed for him. A purging.