Tracy Wolff - Crash Into Me

“I just wanted to dance.” Her voice shook a little and her amethyst eyes were nearly incandescent with rage. And something else. Something that looked a lot like hurt. It made him feel like a total prick for throwing what had happened earlier in her face. He’d wanted to protect her, not hurt her. She was his friend, Jared’s little sister. It was his job to look out for her. Wasn’t it?

He glanced back at the bar, where Jared was deep in conversation with Quinn. But if Jared wasn’t concerned, why should he be? Jamison was entitled to have a little fun, wasn’t she? Especially after the evening she’d had.

Of course she was. He stepped back, thrust a frustrated hand through his hair. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I made a mistake.” Except it hadn’t felt like a mistake. Getting that guy’s hands off Jamison had felt as necessary as breathing.

He shook his head to clear it. He needed another drink. Badly.

“You aren’t just going to leave me out here alone, are you?” Jamison grabbed onto the back waistband of his jeans. “I still need a dance partner.”

He froze. Her fingers were brushing against his lower back, setting off all kinds of sensations deep inside of him. “I need a drink,” he told her, refusing to turn around.

“And I need to dance.”

She let go of his waistband and Ryder breathed a sigh of…relief? Disappointment? He couldn’t tell. At least not until her arms wrapped around his waist and she splayed herself against him. He nearly groaned at the feel of her breasts pressed against his back. What the hell was she up to? And then she started to move, swaying softly to the ballad that had just started.

It was one of theirs: “Entice.” He and Wyatt had written the lyrics during a three day bender—after Wyatt had broken up with his girlfriend—and Ryder had added the music about a week later. It was a favorite of his. A favorite of a lot of people, it seemed, since it was currently sitting at number three on the charts after a seventeen week run at number one.

He’d heard the song a million times, had analyzed every word in the verses he’d helped put together, but this was the first time he’d really connected with the chorus Wyatt had insisted upon.

I push, you pull.

I walk. You run.

I reach for you and you slip away.

Why do you entice me so?

Why do you Eentice me so? I’m stunned. I’m stunned. I’m stunned.

It was surreal standing here, listening to his voice as he sang about the same emotions that were currently ripping through him. “What are you doing, Jamison?” he demanded, turning to face her.

“What do you mean?”

He started to snap at her, to tell her not to mess with his head. But her eyes were slightly unfocused and this time when she swayed, he knew it had a lot more to do with the tequila she’d consumed than the music currently blasting through the club. He couldn’t be angry with her when she was drunk, and he couldn’t blame her for being drunk after what had happened earlier. Which meant there was only one thing he could do. Dance with her. Because there was no way he was leaving her out here, vulnerable to any jerk who wanted to take advantage. Jared could act as unconcerned as he wanted, but he knew the second Jamison started grabbing on to strangers the way she was currently grabbing on to him, her big brother would be all over that shit. It seemed…expedient to just dance with her himself and keep things on an even keel.

Gritting his teeth, he turned back to Jamison. Took her in his arms. And did his damnedest not to notice how sweet she smelled. Or how soft she was. Or how perfect her body felt pressed against his own.

She rested her head on his shoulder—he was suddenly, absurdly grateful for the five-inch heels she wore that enabled her to do that. She was tall for a woman, about five-eight in her bare feet. But he was six-foot-five and it wasn’t often he could just bend his head and place his cheek on a woman’s head. He did it now, savoring the sweet peaches-and-cream scent of her and the way her crazy hair tickled his nose.

“Thanks,” she murmured.

“For what?”

“For this.” She sighed. “No one’s ever worried about me before. It feels kind of nice.”

He stiffened. “Jared worries about you.”

“That’s not the same thing. He’s my brother. He has to worry.”

“And what am I?” He held his breath, unsure of what her answer would be. Suddenly unsure of what he wanted it to be.

She pulled back, looked up at him with wide, shimmering eyes. “You’re Ryder.”

He tamped down on the frustration—and the arousal—raging through him. “What does that mean?”

“You see who I really am instead of what you want to see.” She sighed, snuggled back into him. “Just like I see you.”

He froze at her words, at the implication that she saw all the things he wanted to hide. The thought pissed him off, terrified him. But it also turned him on—he hated to admit that, but it wasn’t like he could deny it while his dick grew impossibly harder by the second. He shifted away, not wanting Jamison to feel how she affected him.

She stumbled as he moved his hips back, fell against him. He gritted his teeth, started to move back a second time. But again, she flopped against him.

Anger ripped through him. Why was she doing this? Did she really want to drive him crazy? He put his hands on her shoulders, nudged her back so he could see her face. And that’s when it hit him. He was an idiot.

Jamison wasn’t deliberately trying to get close to him, wasn’t trying to make him want her at all. All the while he’d been lusting after her, she’d been so drunk that she’d passed out cold in the middle of the dance floor.

Jamison woke up in the dark, with a pounding headache, a fuzzy brain, and absolutely no idea of where she was. The last thing she remembered was downing three shots of tequila in a row. She had a fuzzy recollection of dancing with Wyatt and Quinn some time afterward, but that was it. There were no memories of how the night had ended or how she’d gotten to wherever she currently was.

She should have been panicking—and any other time she probably would have. But she’d been with Shaken Dirty last night. There was no way her brother or Ryder, or the others, would have let anything happen to her. And there was no way they would have let her do something stupid like go home with some strange guy.

Groaning, she rolled over and buried her face in one of the pillows. Ugh. And her friends from college had wondered why she didn’t like to party? Who wanted to be so out of control that they couldn’t remember anything they’d said or done the night before? Or worse, so out of control that they’d had to entrust their own safety to someone else? It was humiliating, especially considering what had almost happened to her backstage last night.

Face still buried in the pillow, she tried to make sense of the shattered edges of her consciousness. She definitely remembered dancing with Wyatt. She’d flirted with Micah, she thought, though she couldn’t recall anything that had been said. And she’d…slow-danced with Ryder? The thought had her shaking all over again, trepidation swamping her as she wondered what she’d said. What she’d done. Whether she would be able to look him in the eye once it got light or not. She’d spent years hiding her feelings for him. The idea that she had blown all that in one night was horrifying.

But no matter how hard she tried to remember, nothing came to her. It was like the memories were there, buried beneath a pile of quicksand. Every time she reached for them she started to sink, but somehow never got any closer to what she wanted to remember. It was awful.

Taking a deep breath, Jamison told herself to calm down. But it was easier said than done, even when she was distracted by the delicious scent of the pillow she currently had her face buried in. It smelled warm and fresh, like citrus mixed with the wild saltiness of the ocean.

It smelled, she realized with no small amount of apprehension, like Ryder.

Which was a crazy thought, she assured herself. If she was in anyone’s bed, it was probably Jared’s, while he crashed somewhere else. Her brother might trust Ryder and the other guys with his own life, but he’d made it clear early on that he wasn’t nearly as trusting with his sister’s virtue. His over-protectiveness had driven her crazy when she’d been younger, drove her even crazier now. But at the same time, she couldn’t help appreciating it. There was something to be said for knowing that when she was with him and the rest of the band, she was safe.

She sat up gingerly, looked around. She couldn’t see much in the dark, but what little she could see made it obvious that she wasn’t on the tour bus. The bed was way too big, the room far too opulent. She was definitely in a hotel, and from the looks of it, in one of the fanciest rooms in the place.

Which meant she was probably back in the guys’ hotel suite. Jared had mentioned that they only stayed on the tour bus if they were on the move. If they were in the same city for more than one show, the label usually put them all up at a hotel.

Knowing she wasn’t going to be able to go back to sleep until she knew for sure where she was, Jamison pushed off the covers and climbed carefully to her feet. The room spun around her a little bit, but she didn’t feel nauseous. Just thirsty and headachy.

She reached for the bedside lamp, switched it on, then cursed as the pain in her head exploded one hundred fold. After slapping at the lamp until she managed to turn it off again, she sank onto the bed for a second and waited for the pain to subside. As she did, she cursed herself. What on earth had made her think partying like a rock star would be a good idea?

For some reason, Ryder’s pissed-off but concerned face hovered at the back of her eyelids, and she groaned. Prayed that it was just a hallucination and not a memory. She could handle a lot of things without freaking out—obviously—but making a fool of herself in front of Ryder was not one of those things. For a second she actually contemplated sneaking out in the middle of the night rather than facing him in the morning, but she knew that would only worry Jared and the others. Even with a sketchy memory, she was certain she’d already done more than enough of that at the club.

Eventually the pain subsided to a dull ache and she stood up a second time. Then headed for the attached bathroom, where she rinsed her face and brushed her teeth in an effort to feel somewhat human, before fumbling her way down the short hallway to what looked like a living room. Someone had left a small lamp burning and the TV was on low, an infomercial about acne medicine in full swing. She would have rolled her eyes at the ridiculous claims it was making, but just breathing hurt at the moment. Eye rolling would be torturous.

Instead, she headed around the couch toward the television set so she could turn it off, only to freeze when she realized Ryder was stretched out on the couch, sound asleep.

She froze. Had she taken his bed, then? She blushed a little, grew warm as she thought about the fact that she had just crawled out from between Ryder’s sheets. That the warm, citrusy scent she’d awoken to had indeed come from him sleeping the night before in the exact spot where she had been lying.

Ryder drew her attention back to him when he rolled over in his sleep, mumbling something she couldn’t understand. He looked so beautiful lying there. So open and unguarded and innocent. None of those were words she would normally apply to him—he’d had a rough life and when awake, he wore his response to that roughness like a shield. But here, now, asleep, he looked so vulnerable that it broke her heart.

Before she even knew she was going to do it, Jamison crouched down next to him. He was shirtless, wearing only a pair of black pajama bottoms that rode low enough to reveal the cut lines of his abdomen. She itched to touch him, to run her hands and lips over the strong contours of his chest. The dark, sexy lines of the tattoos that covered so much of his torso. But she didn’t have that right. He wasn’t hers, would never be hers, and she wasn’t so desperate that she would take while he was asleep what he would never give her while awake.

So instead, she just sat there, watching him in the dim light. Memorizing him. After all, she’d probably never get this opportunity again.

She studied his tattoos for long moments, wondering why she’d never before noticed that the placement of the thick black tribal bands seemed to be imprisoning the phoenix on his arm even as it rose from the ashes. It was one of the most beautiful pieces of ink she’d ever seen, but looking at it now, from this angle, it was also devastating.