Текст книги "Double Time"
Автор книги: Olivia Cunning
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 23 страниц)
“Who said anything about a relationship? I just wanted to congratulate Brian,” Mark said.
“Do whatever you want. I’ve already left the hospital.”
“Oh.” Mark hesitated. “Are you hungry? I could take you out for breakf—”
“No, I’ve got plans.”
“What kind of plans? Are you seeing someone else?” The jealousy in Mark’s voice was so fucking annoying Trey considered hanging up on him. But then Mark would just call back and blame a bad connection or some stupid shit.
“Yeah,” Trey lied. “I am seeing someone. I’m seriously dating a woman right now.”
“Bullshit,” Mark said.
“It’s not bullshit. I’ve sworn off men for the rest of my life.” When the lie had formed, Trey hadn’t meant it, but now that he’d said it, he decided it was the best idea he’d ever had. Women he could deal with. Men either broke his heart or complicated his life. Exhibit A was upstairs bonding with his son. Exhibit B was on the phone. Exhibits C through triple X were scattered across the US and Canada waiting for Sinners to pass through their area again.
“Whatever, Trey. Come over to my place tonight and I’ll make you dinner. Suck your cock.”
Mark was a decent cook. And he did suck good cock. He was also exceedingly easy on the eyes and had a spectacularly tight ass, but the guy needed to move on. Trey had tried to hook him up with a few different men, but Mark was too hung up on Trey to consider anyone else.
“I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?” he challenged.
“Don’t want to—how’s that?”
Mark sighed loudly. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Mark, what do I have to do to convince you that it’s over between us?”
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Shit. Trey was going to have to get his number changed. Again. He honestly didn’t understand why some people couldn’t take a hint. He didn’t want to be in a relationship. Why was that concept so difficult for his sex partners to grasp?
Chapter 2
Reagan leaned against the brick wall and clung to the neck of her red, electric guitar as if it was her lifeline. Breathe, Reagan, breathe. If you don’t win this competition, it’s not the end of the world. Maybe you were meant to be a barista for the rest of your life.
“You should have taken some Dramamine like I did,” an emo-punk hybrid, who was wearing more eyeliner than a three-dollar whore, said. He was also a finalist and set to go into the sound booth right after her. “You look like you’re going to hurl.”
She felt like she was going to hurl. Why was she here? She’d sent in that demo tape never thinking Exodus End’s manager would actually call her to audition for the band. Over five thousand guitarists had sent in a demo tape, too. How had she ended up in the top five? They were fucking with her. Had to be. She was a complete unknown. Of course, Dramamine guy was an unknown too, but that confident son of a bitch in the corner looked familiar. She was sure he’d been in some popular eighties band at one time.
Dramamine turned to look at Hair Band Hasbeen and sighed remorsefully. “We made it this far, at least.”
“I think I must be dreaming,” Reagan said. Dramamine’s hair definitely looked like something out of a bizarre dream sequence. How did he get it to stay sticking straight out to one side like that? And who thought the burgundy and green stripes through his jagged-cut bangs were a good idea? “How often does a mega-famous, amazing band like Exodus End let unknowns audition for their group?” Reagan continued.
Dramamine opened his mouth to answer, but Reagan prattled on. “Never, that’s when. I can’t believe I’m actually here. In Dare Mills’s house. Doing an audition with Exodus fucking End.” She checked a clock on the studio wall. “In twenty minutes.” She swayed and Dramamine grabbed her shoulder to keep her on her feet. She removed her guitar and set it against the wall. It didn’t usually feel heavy, but today if felt like she had an elephant hanging over her shoulder. She massaged her temples with both hands. “I think I’m going to pass out.”
“You’re hyperventilating. Breathe more slowly.”
“I can’t help it.” She needed to keep talking about something to keep her mind off things. She patted Dramamine on the chest. “Hey, what’s your name?”
“Pyre.”
She lifted an eyebrow at him. “No shit?”
“Well, that’s my stage name.”
Lame.
“It’s short for Vampyre,” he added.
Wow. Okaaaay.
“I’m Reagan. It’s short for Reagan. I’m not into vamps. What are you going to play, Pyre?”
“The three Exodus End songs we all have to play.”
“‘Bite.’ ‘Encore.’ ‘Ovation.’” She ticked the song titles off on one hand. She’d been practicing them for days. And every other Exodus End song ever released in case they threw a surprise at her. Like a pop quiz. They probably wanted to make sure whomever they hired could really take over the duties of rhythm guitarist—and what better way to do that than to request a surprise song? Reagan would rather play lead guitar than rhythm, truth be told, but Dare Mills wasn’t the one being replaced. Maximilian Richardson was giving up rhythm guitar and just sticking to vocals. At least, that’s what she’d been told. She hadn’t actually met him or anything. In fact, they’d been ushered into this studio and hadn’t had the opportunity to meet any of the band members. So much for her plan to win them over with her sweetest smile. Probably for the best. At the moment she doubted she could produce a decent grimace, much less a smile. “What about the solo of our choice? What are you going to play for that?” she asked Pyre.
“‘Temptation.’” Another Exodus End song. A great solo, heavy on technique, but not speed.
“Nice choice.”
“What are you going to do?” Pyre asked.
“Sinners’ ‘Gates of Hell.’”
“Are you foiking insane?” Pyre asked, his eyes wide in astonishment.
“What do you mean? That solo is awesome!” she said, her heart thrumming with excitement. She hearted Sinners. Their lead guitarist, Brian Sinclair, was an absolute god.
“That solo is impossible,” Pyre said. “Foiking Master Sinclair has seven fingers on each hand or something. No mere mortal can do that solo justice.”
Reagan grinned. “You can’t play it?”
“No one can play it like Sinclair does. You should pick something easier.”
“Let her play it.” Hair Band Hasbeen saw his way into their conversation. “If sweet-tits blows her chance, it’s one less piece of competition for us to worry about.” He grinned to himself as he stared at her ass.
Reagan bristled. “What are you going to play, dildo? ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb?’”
The guy rolled his eyes and shook his head in disgust. “It’s not like they’re going to want to hire a chick guitarist anyway. Who’d you sleep with to get an audition, baby?”
Reagan gave him a once-over and wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Not you, old man.”
Pyre chuckled. “Ouch.”
“You got a problem, douche bag?” Hair Band grumbled.
Pyre’s stance turned threatening. Reagan supposed she could let the two of them get into a fistfight. It might make it easier for her to outplay them if they broke their fingers on each other’s faces. Might. But she stepped between them to try to defuse the bomb instead. Pyre looked like he hadn’t seen a protein-containing meal in months, and Hair Band had apparently subsided on a beer diet since he’d given up on wearing snakeskin-print spandex. It probably wouldn’t have been an interesting fight. More likely pathetic than anything. Reagan figured she was tougher than the two of them put together. “Easy, guys,” she said. “We’re all a little on edge here. No need for you to get your panties in a bunch. Mine are bunchy enough for all of us.” She pressed a hand to the center of Pyre’s chest. Though his stance was confident, his heart hammered out of control against her palm. Pyre wrapped an arm around her waist and drew her closer. Using her as a human shield, no doubt.
“Are you the finalists?” a deep voice asked from somewhere behind her. Its low tone seemed to caress Reagan’s back. A shiver of delight streaked up her spine.
Reagan turned to identify the speaker and almost fell on the floor. Trey Mills, the rhythm guitarist of Sinners, stood just beside the studio door. He checked her out a little and then a little more. Just enough to make her want him to inspect her closely. And naked.
Black-haired, green-eyed, and exuding sexual energy, the man was gorgeous onstage, but up close his sensual charm overwhelmed her. What was he doing here? Not that she wanted him to leave or anything. More than anything she wanted to challenge him to one of Sinners’ dueling guitar solos. The ones he and Sinclair performed onstage together. She always wondered if she could outplay Trey. At every Sinners’ concert she’d attended (eleven and counting), she’d wanted to charge up on stage and challenge both of Sinners’ guitarists to a little competition. Somehow, she’d managed to keep herself in the mosh pit instead of storming the stage.
“Fuck. If Mills is in this contest, we’re all screwed,” Hair complained. “Nepotism much?”
Trey grinned and Reagan’s heart dropped into her combat boots. “Nope, I’m not in this. I’m helping with the judging. Good luck.” He opened the door and disappeared into the studio.
Reagan sighed in feminine bliss. Freakin’ gorgeous man. And then his words sunk in. Trey Mills was going to be listening to her play?
She grabbed Pyre by the front of his ripped-up, electric blue T-shirt and gave him a panicked shake. “Hey, do you have any more of that Dramamine on you?”
* * *
The four members of Exodus End sat in the small recording booth facing a large window that overlooked Dare’s music studio. Trey took a seat next to his brother in front of the soundboard and immediately had a set of headphones thrust in his direction. Trey held one earphone up to his ear.
“Listen to this guy,” Dare said and played a demo for Trey.
Trey’s heart skipped a beat. Six-stringed perfection filtered into his delighted ear. “Is this a joke?” Trey asked.
“A joke?” Dare asked. One dark eyebrow lifted over a piercing green eye.
“This is Brian,” Trey said. “I’d know his playing anywhere.”
“It’s not Brian. Some guy named Elliot.” Dare tapped on the empty CD case. It had a plain white insert with the name Elliot scrawled across it in black marker.
“El-li-ot,” Logan, Exodus End’s golden-haired bassist, said in a perfect impression of E.T.
“Phone hooooome,” their drummer, Steve, added.
“Are you guys fuckin’ bored or what?” Max, their lead singer, asked. “You need to take this shit seriously.” He had a brace on his left wrist and a scowl on his devilishly handsome face. Not that Trey noticed. He wasn’t interested in men anymore. Not even ones who looked as good in a black tank top as Maximilian Richardson did. Besides, Max was straight. Trey didn’t bother with straight guys. What was the point?
“Frieeend,” Logan said to Max and pointed at him with one finger. Trey could almost picture it glowing at the tip.
Steve snorted with laughter.
Max just rolled his eyes. “I think you need another beer, Lo.”
“I need some pussy,” Steve said.
“You always need pussy.”
“This is Brian,” Trey insisted and no one would convince him otherwise. The longer he listened to the guitarist’s demo, the more certain he became. And the more angry. “Someone must have pirated some of his material. Fuckin’ rip-off artists piss me off.”
Max said, “I guess we’ll find out when they audition. Can’t fake that kind of talent.”
“So what do they look like? A bunch of douche bags?” Dare asked.
“You haven’t seen them?” Trey asked and set the headphones down. Not because he didn’t love to hear Brian play, but because the longer he listened, the more ticked off he became that someone would use his friend’s material that way.
“No, we’re going into this blind. Our manager’s brilliant idea to make a contest out of this has turned into a major pain in the ass. We don’t care what the winner looks like. We just want the right sound. Chances are we know some of them and Sam didn’t want us to be swayed by that either. Is Sam even here today? Fuck no. He’s in New York with some all-girl goth band he’s trying to sign. So now this stupid contest he came up with is all on us.”
Trey’s gaze shifted from one gorgeous man to the next. Did they really expect him to believe that they didn’t care what the newest member of their band looked like? They all worked out and had excellent physiques. Tribal tattoos accentuated the cut of their hard-muscled bodies. Their long, well-kept hair made the girls go wild and they wore just the right amount of leather. Maybe they didn’t want the newbie competing for their women and secretly hoped he was a toad. Or maybe they were so pissed at their manager they really wanted this unorthodox way of picking a new band member to backfire. Trey doubted that. He knew how serious this band was about its career. They wouldn’t have gotten this far if they lacked sense. Too bad their manager didn’t share it. He was all about promotion.
“Well?” Logan prompted. “What do they look like?”
“I didn’t notice,” Trey said. “One of the guys brought his girlfriend along with him. That I noticed.” Well, he had also noticed the weird-looking guy who’d been hanging on her, but mostly because he couldn’t figure out what she saw in him. Must be the guitar thing. Some girls had a thing for musicians no matter how fugly they were. Still, something about that woman had been unquestionably raw and sexy. Too bad she was taken. Trey didn’t chase after women who were taken. There were enough single ladies out there to meet his every need. Why fuck up some other guy’s miserable relationship?
Max sighed loudly. “Might as well get this over with. If they all suck, we get to go home, right?” He flipped a switch and spoke into a mic that fed into the sound booth. “Send in victim number one.”
There was a heavy window shade pulled down to block those auditioning from view. Victim number one was a phenomenal instrumentalist. As was number two. Max scribbled notes on a pad of paper while the rest of them just listened. Were all vocalists anal? Sinners’ lead singer, Sed, would have probably done the same thing. When guitarist number three began to play, Trey jumped to his feet, knocking his stool over backward. He leaned forward and squinted at the glass in front of him as if it would give him X-ray vision and he could see through the shade blocking his view.
“That’s Brian,” Trey said.
“El-li-ot,” Logan insisted.
“You guys have taken this joke far enough. He needs to be in the hospital with his wife and new son.”
“Trey, it’s not Brian,” Dare said. “No one is fucking with you.”
“I’ll prove it’s Brian. Don’t you think I know his sound? I’ve played guitar with him for eighteen years.” Trey turned on the microphone. “Play the solo to ‘Gates of Hell.’”
There was a screech in the booth as the guitarist stopped playing in the middle of ‘Bite.’ A second later Brian’s most insanely complicated and fast solo filled the booth.
Trey scowled at Dare. “I told you it was him. No one can play that solo like he does. Not even me.”
“Why would we go to all this trouble to fuck with you, Trey?” Dare asked.
“How the hell should I know?”
Trey exited the studio and opened the door to the sound booth. “Ha ha, Brian, very funny.” Except it wasn’t Brian playing ‘Gates of Hell’ to perfection. It was that woman. Her dirty-blond hair was cut into a short, sassy style. She wore faded army-green cargo pants, combat boots, a plain white tank top, and not a stitch of makeup. She held her red Stratocaster with authority and played it as if it were her little bitch. The woman was a fucking goddess.
Chapter 3
Reagan slapped her hand on her guitar strings to stop their vibration. Trey Mills had burst into the recording booth and scared the shit out of her. He stood there in the open door gaping at her and setting her heart aflutter. The last time she’d felt like this was the day she’d met Ethan Conner, and that had turned out to be the most fucked up experience of her life. She didn’t need this kind of nipple-tingling distraction right now. She needed to concentrate on her audition.
Max’s voice came through the speaker overhead. “Send the wannabes home. We don’t need to hear anymore. We’ve found our man.”
“Woman,” Trey called.
“What?” Max asked. “We want Elliot.”
“I’m Elliot,” Reagan said. “Reagan Elliot.”
“Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch,” Max grumbled.
“Where did you learn to play like that?” Trey asked her.
Wait just a fucking minute—did Exodus End just hire her? She’d won? Really? She played a victory screech on her guitar and carried the note with way too much whammy for polite company.
Trey stepped closer to her and she caught the scents of cherry, leather, and sex on him. “You didn’t answer me.”
“Self-taught,” she told him.
“You sound so much like Brian, I thought you were him playing a prank on me.”
“Brian?” When she realized to whom he was referring, her eyes felt like they were going to pop out of her head. “You mean Master Sinclair?”
He nodded slightly.
“Seriously?” She smiled, her heart thudding like a jackhammer. “That’s quite a compliment.”
“Especially coming from Trey,” Dare Mills said from the doorway.
There should be a law against the Mills brothers standing in the same room. Separately they were murder on a woman’s ability to think straight. Together? Reagan’s mind went entirely numb. Other areas of her anatomy were fully attentive, however. The pair looked somewhat alike. Both had green eyes. Trey’s were sultry, as if he’d just woken up after a long night of fucking some lucky girl’s brains out. Dare’s were piercing and made her feel naked, exposed, and liking it. Trey’s hair was short in the back, longer in the front. By flopping in his face, his bangs drew attention to those bedroom eyes of his and made him look mysterious. Naughty. Oh so naughty. Dare’s hair was all the same length, settling a few inches below his collarbones, and made him look wicked. Dangerous. Oh so dangerous. Trey had a bad-boy vibe, accentuated by his various piercings. Dare had a similar vibe, but more feral. Dare’s sexy shadow of beard growth made Reagan crave some whisker burn on the insides of her thighs. She wasn’t sure how long she stood there staring at them and imagining them making her a very happy woman—together, separately, together again—but they allowed her inspection as if they were used to it.
“I’m Reagan,” she gushed and rushed forward with her hand extended in Dare’s direction.
Dare gripped her hand firmly, measuring her up as a fellow musician, not as a woman. Damn it. Well, actually that was for the best if they were going to be working together. Oh yeah, they’d be working together. Awesome!
“I’m Dare Mills.”
“Yeah, you are.” She broke out in nervous laughter and wished someone would tranquilize her before she made a bigger ass of herself.
Maximilian Richardson entered the room and Trey had to grab her shoulder to keep her on her feet. Electrifying sensations radiated through her flesh from where Trey touched her. She turned to look at him in amazement. He stared back, looking just as stunned.
“We’ll want you to play a few songs with us before we have you sign an official contract,” Max said, “but you’re one hell of a guitarist. How is your band not already signed?”
She tore her gaze from Trey and forced her attention to Max. Forced her attention to Max? What the fuck was wrong with her? The leader of one of the most successful metal bands past, present, and undoubtedly future was addressing her, talking about contracts and making all of her wildest dreams come true and she was thinking how much she’d like to spend a few moments alone with Trey, just so she could hear the timber of his voice again. Well, maybe she wanted to do a few other things while alone with him, but he could talk to her at the same time. At least when his sexy mouth wasn’t otherwise occupied.
“My band broke up several months ago,” she told Max. “The lead singer’s wife had a baby. Bands don’t usually last long once members start having kids.”
Trey’s hand dropped from her arm and he shuffled past his brother, who gave him a look of empathy and a squeeze on the shoulder. Was it something she said? Her brow furrowed as she tried to figure out why Trey would care that her band had broken up. They hadn’t been all that great. No real spark between them. Once Trey was out of the room, half of her brain returned. The gushing fangirl half. “Oh my God, I’m so excited. You guys are so amazing! I’ve been a fan of yours since high school. I really appreciate you giving me this opportunity.”
Exodus End’s bassist, Logan, and drummer, Steve, squeezed into the small room. Her band shuffled around so they could all fit into the small space. Her band. Hers. Oh my God, this had to be a dream. She pinched her arm as hard as she could. “Ouch. I guess I’m not dreaming,” she muttered.
“You wail, sweetheart,” Steve said. “What’s your name?”
“Reagan.”
She shook hands with Logan (long, golden hair, gentle blue eyes, and hot) and Steve (soft waves of shoulder-length brown hair, dreamy brown eyes, and hot). Snuck another peek at Max (dark brown, trendy short hair, deep hazel eyes, and hotter) and then Dare (silky, sleek jet-black hair, intense green eyes, and the hottest). How would she survive being in a band with this many luscious and talented men without her panties spontaneously combusting?
“Reagan, we love your sound,” Max said. “We’d like to head down to Dare’s practice room and jam through a few songs together to make sure you’re compatible with the group as a whole. Unless you have something better to do.”
In twenty minutes, Reagan was supposed to be at work serving coffee to stressed-out customers in knock-off Armani suits. Did that count as something better to do? “Fuck no, I don’t.”
“Great,” Dare said. His wide smile was like a double-shot of espresso to the happy lobe of her brain.
Reagan followed the group through the maze that was the north wing of Dare’s sprawling mansion. She’d never been in a house that had wings before. That entire section of his house was dedicated to the band. Gold and platinum records lined the hallway. Bits of Exodus End’s history: Photos of the band at award ceremonies and playing live shows, guitars, posters, backstage passes, drumsticks, and other memorabilia covered every square inch of wall space. Dare’s interior decorator obviously frequented chain restaurants. She wished she had time to examine it all and learn the history behind each piece. They passed another recording studio packed wall to wall with Steve Aimes’s ginormous drum kit and other percussion instruments.
“Do you take that entire thing on tour?” Reagan pointed into the open door.
Steve chuckled, his brown eyes sparkling with mischief. She had the feeling she’d need to keep a close eye on that one, which would not be a chore but a privilege. “Naw, that’s my old kit, which I use mostly for special studio recordings. I just take the essentials on tour.”
“His essentials take up half a semitruck,” Logan said.
“Says the man with four hundred bass guitars,” Steve countered.
Reagan gaped. “Four hundred?”
“Not quite that many,” Logan said.
“Three hundred and ninety-nine,” Steve amended.
Reagan had one good electric guitar, one cheap piece of crap, and one acoustic. She was far out of her element here. Could she handle going from zero recognition to instant infamy? She didn’t know, but she was about to find out. There was no way in hell she was giving up this opportunity.
They passed another room that looked like a tastefully decorated high school gymnasium. The highly polished wooden floor gleamed beneath modern-styled chandeliers. A huge, fully stocked bar took up the majority of the far wall. Some chairs were stacked against one wall, but the rest of the room was empty.
When Reagan paused and gaped through the spectacular archways, Dare said, “The ballroom.”
“We have a ball in there, all right,” Logan said.
“Parties?” Reagan asked.
“A few,” Dare said.
“Will I be invited to the next one?” she asked eagerly.
Dare chuckled. “I’d say so.”
The other band members continued down the corridor and entered the next room, talking and laughing about various party memories. Reagan caught movement out on the expansive patio outside the floor-to-ceiling ballroom windows. Everything in this house was huge. She wondered if Dare lived here alone. Seemed a waste of space for one person. She had no doubt that he had an easier time forking out millions of dollars for this place than she had coming up with mere hundreds for rent each month.
The man outside the windows pulled his shirt off over his head and tossed it on the ground.
“Is that Trey?” she asked breathlessly.
Trey pushed something on the ground with his toe and a huge Jacuzzi set into the slate patio began to bubble.
“Helping himself to my hot tub again,” Dare said. “I keep telling him he might as well move in. He says he doesn’t want to impose. The dipshit imposes all the time.”
Reagan looked up at Dare and was momentarily dumbfounded to find she was having a conversation with one of the most famous guitarists on the planet. One of her idols. “I think I said something back in the studio that upset him. Does he really care that Bait-n-Switch broke up? We weren’t very good, to be honest.”
“I’m pretty sure he’s never heard of Bait-n-Switch,” Dare said. His hand slid up into his long, silky hair and he scratched his head before tucking the black strands behind one ear. “No offense.”
“None taken. Do you have any idea what I said to set him off?”
Dare smiled at her. “He has a lot on his mind. Brian Sinclair’s wife had a baby this morning. What you said about kids causing bands to break up—”
“Oh shit! I didn’t mean Sinners.” She tore her gaze from Dare to watch Trey kick off his shoes. He looked entirely too depressed. “I’m going to go talk to him. Can you give me a couple minutes?”
“Sure, we need to get our instruments tuned up anyway.”
Reagan had completely forgotten that she was still carrying her guitar strapped around her neck and shoulder. She looked down at it wondering if it was wise to take it out near the rolling hot tub water.
“Do you want me to take that into the practice room for you?” Dare asked.
Reagan was dumbfounded by his thoughtfulness. Weren’t rich and famous rock stars all assholes? “I’d really appreciate that, Mr. Mills.”
Dare laughed. “Oh please. No one calls me Mr. Mills besides my lawyer. Call me Dare.”
She smiled wondering why he would need a lawyer. “Thanks, Dare.” Reagan lifted the strap over her head and handed her guitar to him.
He held it in one hand and wrinkled his nose at it as if it had an infectious disease. “You know, since Max won’t need his guitars anymore, he’ll probably give you a few high-quality instruments to use until you find something more to your liking.”
Max played custom-made Gibson Les Paul guitars. Expensive custom-made guitars. “Are you serious?” she blurted.
Dare chuckled. “Completely. I bet you’re a little overwhelmed at the moment. Go talk to Trey. Put a smile on his face for me. Just don’t take too long. My band can be sort of diva when you make them wait.” He winked at her and carried her guitar down to the practice room where various clangs and twangs were being produced.
As soon as she recovered from Dare’s flirty wink, Reagan rushed across the polished floor of the ballroom and slid into the bank of windows. Trey stood with one toe in the hot tub water. The rest of him was completely exposed. Completely. He turned his head at the sound of her graceless crash and offered her a crooked grin before slipping into the water.
In those five seconds that his naked body had been in view, she’d snapped enough mental pictures to get her through several nights of adventure with her favorite vibrator. Trey’s body relaxed into the water and he sat there facing the windows, staring at her with the most unreadable expression she’d ever encountered. He obviously thought she was a total idiot, a klutz, and an embarrassment to the human species. Oh well. She’d made worse first impressions in her life.
She opened one of the French doors and heard a faint beep. She glanced around looking for its source.
“I think you just triggered the alarm,” Trey said.
“Shit! What do I do?” Panicked, she slammed the door shut behind her.
“Now you’ve triggered the alarm and locked yourself out of the house.” He chuckled and hauled himself out of the hot tub. Naked, gorgeous, and dripping, Trey padded to a different door that led into some sort of changing room. Reagan scarcely heard the beeps as he entered some code into a touch pad on the wall. So much blood was rushing through her ears she would have had difficulty hearing a jet engine. As he crossed the enormous patio in Reagan’s direction, she couldn’t take her eyes off him. She prided herself on keeping her head when it came to men, but this one… Must be all the excitement of the day catching up with her and making her giddy with duh-ness.
Trey made things worse (better?) by coming to stand before her instead of returning to the concealing water of the hot tub. Displaying no signs of self-consciousness, Trey stood there and waited for her eyes to drift from his bare feet to his thickening cock to his flat belly to his… thickening cock. Why was he getting excited? Surely not because she was there. She glanced around looking for the typical bikini-clad, sexpot supermodels these rock stars spent most of their time with. She found she actually was the only female in attendance. Weird.
“Do you want to join me?” he whispered close to her ear.
He didn’t touch her, but her entire body responded with electric jolts of lust that converged between her thighs. His low voice did jittery things to her already frayed nerves and she laughed. She laughed at Trey Mills instead of shedding her clothes and jumping into the hot tub with her ankles behind her neck. She bit her lip, suppressing the urge to slap herself in the forehead repeatedly.
“I’ll take that as a no.” He turned and started back to the hot tub.
She caught his well-muscled arm and scarcely stifled an excited gasp. He paused and glanced over his shoulder to melt her into a puddle of Reagan pudding with those maddeningly sexy green eyes of his.
