The Bad Boys of Summer Anthology Page 3

  “I didn’t go through with it at all, Bluebird. Believe it or not, I’m capable of not fucking everything with a pussy.”

  Silently, I tilt my head to one side and then the other, giving him a look of disbelief. He said nearly the same thing to me several months ago, a week before Your Toxic Sequel started their last tour. We weren’t sleeping together at the time, and he sure as hell wasn’t mine to lay claim to, but I desperately wanted to believe him.

  Wyatt only lasted three days into the tour. I can’t remember her name now—because there’ve been too many during our breaks and bullshit—but she was beautiful, and my exact opposite physically. And though I shouldn’t have felt anything because I’d already expected the worse, it was impossible not to hurt when I saw her leaving his hotel room.

  The tour was one of the last major blows, and the following Thanksgiving firmly secured what I already knew in my mind. No matter how hard we try, there’s no place for me whatsoever in Wyatt’s life.

  I rub my right hand over my left shoulder. “I never said you screw everything with lady bits. Actually, I’m pretty sure you’re damn selective. All I’m trying to—”

  What I’m on the verge of saying is cut short by another couple wandering drunkenly into the alley. They’re falling all over each other, laughing and groping. They don’t seem to notice that we’re here at all.

  Shrugging away from Wyatt, I start in the direction of the club, and he follows right on my heels.

  “At least they’re having a good time,” I say under my breath.

  Of course, he hears me and snorts. “We’ll have better once we’re together again.” He pauses, giving me time to counter or look up at him. When I do neither, he walks backward, speeding up so that he can face me. “But we won’t be like them. I’m going to fuck you everywhere, Kylie, but not where anyone else will see it.”

  I’m at a loss for words, completely flustered, so I edge around his tall body, keeping my gaze directed at the blur of people on the sidewalks. Our bodies brush, and he turns around to walk next to me. His fingertips find one of my belt loops, tugging me just a touch closer to him, but I still don’t budge. Instead, I meet his stare. Wyatt’s eyes—they’re the reason we’ve been on this merry-go-round so many times. They carry all his emotions— the beautiful and hideous and heartbreaking.

  “I’m exhausted,” I say, faking a yawn as the entrance to the warehouse nightclub comes into view. A long line is zigzagging around the club, and I realize there’s no way we’re getting back inside. I wrench my iPhone out of the pocket of my jeans to send Heidi a message to let her know what’s going on, but she’s already beaten me to it. I have two missed FaceTime calls and a text from just five minutes ago.

  1:48 a.m.: Saw you leave with HIM, so I came back to the room. Don’t tell me Lucas ratted you out. You coming back after you’re done? Finn might be stopping by later, so text me if you do.

  As I read, Wyatt stifles a noise that sounds suspiciously like laughter, and I cock my eyebrow. He’s rocking back on his heels and working his thumbs together in front of him like a diabolical asshole.

  “What?”

  He shrugs his broad shoulders. “I know that look from anywhere. Somebody said something that pisses you off. And I bet you the panties you’ve got on that it’s about me.”

  Pressing my lips together, I run the tip of my tongue along the roof of my mouth. Even my best friend assumes that when Wyatt McCrae shows up, the probability of me falling into bed with him as soon as he snaps his musical note–tattooed fingers is pretty damn high. “No, but I am sleepy as hell. So, we’ll have to do this another time, and I’m going to respectfully keep my panties in place tonight.”

  “You sure know how to kick me in the balls, Ky, but I call bullshit.” Ignoring my sharp intake of air, Wyatt runs his hand down my forearm. He doesn’t stop until our palms touch, and he connects his fingers with mine. “I’ll get us a taxi. We need to talk, and we’re going to do it in my hotel room.”

  “I can get my own cab.” When his grip on my hand tenses, I release a sigh. I can stand here all night and argue with him, but it’s just going to make the situation worse. Wyatt wants to talk? Fine. I can handle conversation. “No trying to talk me into bed when we get to your room. And afterward, you’ll let me enjoy the rest of my vacation?” I have only one more night left after this one, and damn it, I want to spend it in peace.

  He nods almost convincingly, and a moment later, he flags down a taxi. I climb in and slide to the far left side of the car, and he comes in right after me, intensely gazing across the seat at me all the while. Judging by the hungry look in his eyes, I’d think I was sitting on the other side of a bed, naked and jutting out my B-cups while begging him for round two. Instead, I’m scowling in a cold, dark cab.

  “Stop picturing me without my clothes.”

  Smirking, Wyatt lowers his mouth until it touches my cheek, and my shoulders lift up involuntarily. “Not naked, Ky, but fully clothed,” he drawls softly enough so that only I can hear. “I’m thinking about how creative we’d have to be to get it in right here.”

  I give him an incredulous look. “What happened to the whole ‘not where anyone else will see’ spiel?”

  “Emphasis on the word creative, beautiful.”

  I’m damn lucky that the cab driver chooses this second to clear his throat a few times, letting us know that he’s waiting for a destination. The moment between us is ruined, and Wyatt and I break apart, glancing up to meet the man’s gaze in the rearview mirror. “The Veranda,” we say in unison.

  As I lift my chin, he grins, and—damn it—my stomach and chest constrict. “You Foursquare stalked me down to the hotel?” I ask, my voice subdued but hard. “I’ve got to say, Wyatt, your effort this go ‘round is a bit scary.”

  He shrugs. “Better me than somebody else. I have good intentions.”

  No, he has sweaty intentions.

  “It was someone else who did the stalking. Cal,” I point out, rolling my eyes. When I catch the cab driver glancing up at us through the front mirror again, I lower my volume. “What time do you have to be back tomorrow to record?” The sooner Wyatt has to leave, the better, considering my heart and the short remainder of my vacation.

  “There’s not going to be any recording for a while.”

  “Y’all are finished already?” I can’t keep the surprise out of my voice. The band just started to record. It’s been a long time since Your Toxic Sequel made a new album without a lot of B.S. and delays.

  “You’re sexy as fuck when you say y’all. You know that, right?” He bites his lower lip and shakes his head from side to side. Before I have a chance to smart off at him, he continues, “But, no, we’re not. Look, your brother didn’t want to mess up your trip, but Sinjin—”

  The moment he says Your Toxic Sequel’s drummer’s name, I know nothing good will follow. “Oh no, what’s happened now?” I murmur.

  “We talked him into in-patient.”

  I bury my face in my hands. Other than Wyatt, Sinjin is my brother’s oldest friend. Cal didn’t join the band until six years ago after they had changed their name from Falling Anarchy to Your Toxic Sequel. In the fifteen years I’ve known Sinjin—fifteen years where he’s become more like a brother to me than just one of Lucas’s friends—he’s spent half of that time in and out of rehab.

  “Was it bad?” I ask.

  Even though Wyatt’s mouth eases into a smile, I know this has to be painful for him. I always hate it when he’s hurting because the crazy range of emotions that play out on his face makes everything from my throat to my stomach feel like it’s all tangled up in knots.

  “Not as bad as last time.”

  My shoulders slump. The last time, Sinjin told me he wouldn’t make it if he had to go away, and it had scared the shit out of me. I start to tell Wyatt how relieved I am, but then I freeze. For some reason, he’s suddenly more interested in his phone than talking about Sin or ogling, touching, or teasing me. He’s holding s
omething back, and he should know me well enough to realize I’m going to ask more questions.

  “Okay, spill it, McCrae. What else happened?”

  He hesitates for just a moment, but then he looks at me directly. “He went off on Lucas’s girl.”

  “Lucas’s girl?” I repeat. “Please tell me you’re not talking about Samantha.” Lucas’s ex-wife, Sam, has been an expensive pain in his ass since they were divorced years ago, and I pray she’s not making trouble for him and the band again. And as much as I’d love to see Sinjin put that bitch in her place, that’s honestly the last thing YTS needs.

  Wyatt regards me silently, rubbing the pad of his thumb over his lip ring.

  “I’m not going to beg you for information,” I say through tightly clenched teeth, and the corners of Wyatt’s blue eyes crinkle.

  He’s laughing at me. We’re having a serious conversation, and this man is laughing at me.

  Unbelievable.

  “Yeah, Lucas’s girl—damn near six feet tall with red hair. One minute, she’s adjusting her halo, and the next, she’s telling me to fuck off.”

  “Sienna,” I say. She’s the girl who’s filling in for me, as Lucas’s assistant while I’m away on vacation.

  Lucas had met Sienna a couple years ago on a video shoot, but he’d screwed things up by kicking her out of his house in the middle of a date, right after his ex-wife threatened to drop by. A week ago, when he discovered that the house he’d purchased at an auction in Nashville—a house he doesn’t honestly care for now—belonged to her grandmother, he moved in for the kill. He made her some fucked-up proposition, and he used me to help him. He used me to convince Sienna to work for him for ten days in exchange for the deed to her grandmother’s home. I love my brother, don’t get me wrong, but I despise him for exploiting her weaknesses to get what he wants.

  “Okay…what exactly do you mean Sin went off on her? What did he say? Ugh, what did he do?”

  Wyatt doesn’t jump to answer me, so I bring up Sienna’s name on my iPhone. Of course, it’s much too late to call her, but it gets my point across.

  “Kylie,” Wyatt says. The taxi crawls to a stop just as he closes his large hand around my small one, stilling me. “I’ll tell you upstairs.” He keeps his blue eyes fastened on mine as he digs in his pocket to pay the fare.

  “I can’t stay long,” I tell him a minute later as the driver pulls away. He touches the small of my back, leading me inside the hotel lobby, which is eerily quiet. “And I’ll pay you my half of the cab when we get upstairs.”

  “No—to everything you said.”

  “Asshole.”

  He pretends he doesn’t hear the insult as he pulls me into the elevator with him. He chooses the fifth floor, leans back against the wall, and lifts his eyes to the glass ceiling.

  “I’ve got to say that I’m a little shocked you’re not on the second floor. You know, since you tracked me all the way to this hotel. Guess I just figured you’d be on the same floor as me, too.”

  The elevator stops, and he lowers his chin so that we’re face-to-face. “I can move rooms, Ky.”

  The door slides open to a few college boys who look stoned out of their minds. I step out first, barely missing the roving hands of the guy with the floppy hair. Wyatt comes out behind me, muttering a string of threats to the boy, and he grabs my waist to steer me in the right direction.

  His suite is at the end of the hallway. As soon as we get to the door, he slides his hands into my back pockets and places his chin on the top of my head. We stay quiet for what seems like a long time as he breathes me in while I listen to the steady rhythm of his heart. The only other sound in the hall is a woman who creeps out of her room with an ice bucket, and she stops for a moment to give us a sleepy smile.

  “What’s this for?” I ask him.

  “Because I told you I wouldn’t try to fuck you if you came here,” he says. Arching my body back, I look up at him and twist my lips to the side skeptically. “And because like I said earlier, I’ve missed you like crazy since you left.”

  But I didn’t leave. You just weren’t there when I needed you afterward, and I gave up.

  “I left because it wasn’t going anywhere, because things are holding you back. The reason I didn’t show this week is because I needed to…” I count backwards from ten. “I’ve held on to you for so many years—through Brenna and the tours and all the other bullshit. I just need a chance to catch my breath.”

  Smiling sadly, he lets me go. As he turns to slide his room key into the card reader, I have to lean in close to him to hear his response. “You mean you needed a chance to fucking forget me.”

  Yes.

  “No,” I say.

  “You’re a bad, bad liar.”

  Despite my burning cheeks, I shiver when I step into his room. Whenever Wyatt stays in a hotel, as soon as he enters the room, he always adjusts the AC to its absolute lowest temperature, and this time is no different.

  I sit on the end of the only bed in the room and play with the edge of the white cotton duvet. “So, tell me what happened with Sinjin and Sienna.”

  He sums it up quickly, explaining to me how Sin got so messed up that he not only talked shit to my temp, he threatened her, too. Since Lucas is hell-bent on possessing her, I have a feeling he was furious. By the time silence falls between Wyatt and me, my hands are balled into tight fists, leaving fingernail marks in my palms.

  “And you’re sure she’s okay?” I finally ask.

  Wyatt touches the side of my face. “I promise, okay? You can call her tomorrow. Stop trying to take care of everyone, and think about yourself this time.”

  I close my eyes. That’s what he doesn’t understand, what he doesn’t want to acknowledge. I was thinking about myself when I came here. “I’m trying,” I say in a strained voice. “I’m trying to do what’s best for me.”

  “I’m not talking about what your head tells you is right.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re going to say to think with my heart.”

  “You said it. I didn’t.” He drops his hand from my face and lifts my fingers to his chest. “I need you around.”

  “I work for Lucas, so I’m around all the time.”

  He puts pressure on my hand, pressing it firmly against his chest, so I can feel how fast his heart is racing.

  God, why is he doing this to me? Why can’t he just let us fall apart this time for good?

  “Fuck, then just give it one last time.” Before I can speak, he moves both our hands to cup my cheek and then rests his forehead to mine. His naturally tan skin is hot to the touch. “I know why you came here of all places. You can lie to me all you want, Ky, but New Orleans is really where it started for us, not Texas like you always claim. Let’s end it the right way. Spend the rest of your nights here with me, and when you go back to L.A.…”

  The last few words are broken off, leaving me to mentally fill them in for him.

  I won’t bother with you again.

  You can finally forget me.

  We can pretend like you never loved me.

  I wrap my fingers around his as if I need to hold on to him to stay upright. My chest is cold, and I try to figure out why. Am I scared of what will happen if I spent tonight and tomorrow night with him? Or do I fear that he’s agreeing to what I’ve already settled in my mind—to let things between us go after we’re done here? “And here I was thinking that you’d keep your word about not trying to get me into bed.”

  “Shit happens.” When he grins, I smile back, but mine is shaky and unsure. “You in or not?” he asks.

  Maybe it’s because I still want Wyatt, and this might be the last time I can act on that desire before I move on. Or maybe it’s because, not even a week ago, I convinced Sienna Jensen to take a chance on helping the man who screwed her over in the past. Either way, I know that I have to do this. I need to get this man out of my system.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I’m in.”

  Because Heidi soon texts me
that she and Shiner Bock—or Finn as she calls him—are having “drinks” in the hotel room that she and I are sharing, staying with Wyatt tonight becomes inevitable anyway, unless I want to cough up the fee to get another room.

  To my surprise though, when he comes out of the shower with a towel slung low on his hips, he says, “Night, beautiful.”

  “You’re going to bed?” I ask, surprised.

  He stands on his side of the bed with his back turned to me, but glances over his shoulder to cock an eyebrow. “Thought you were tired.”

  “Well, I am, but—” He drops the towel, revealing his incredible ass, and now, it’s my turn to lift an eyebrow. “Really, Wyatt?”

  He pulls on a pair of boxer briefs before turning around. Grinning, he jerks back the bedspread and stretches out on the oversized bed. What the hell is he doing?

  “Come to bed.”

  I keep my eyes trained on him as I shimmy my jeans down, pull off my boots, and step out of them. I drag my T-shirt—which smells like booze, cigarettes, and my Betsey Johnson perfume—over my head and drop it beside my pants. “Got a shirt I can wear?”

  His gaze dips to the tattoos on my shoulder and then to the big star in the center of my underwear. “Bag on the chair.”

  I grab the first thing I can find—a plain white T-shirt that smells like the Tide detergent his housekeeper washes his clothes in—and climb into bed with him as I finish pulling it on. When I move to lie down, he stops me, squeezing my hips gently between his hands.

  “What?” I whisper breathlessly.

  “How many of those things do you have now?” he asks, a serious expression on his face.

  “What things?”

  “Those goddamn blackbirds.”

  Unconsciously, my hand flies up to the left side of my chest to the tattoos, blackbirds in several different sizes. His T-shirt is covering most of them, but a few are still clearly visible. “Eighteen.”

  There’s one for each time things have gone to hell between us and for every time I’ve screwed myself over. Even though they’re not all because of him, my tattoos feel like eighteen tiny reminders of why accepting his challenge to stay with him for tonight and the next is as much of an omen as the ink itself.