Taming the Storm Page 5

  Whoops. Too far maybe?

  Like I care.

  He steps back. I exhale.

  “Jesus Christ, woman. I hit on you ages ago. Get the hell over it. I’ve hit on hundreds of women, and I’ve fucked and dropped every single one of them—”

  “God, you are disgusting.”

  “Thanks.” He smirks. “And because I’m disgusting—as you put it—to the women I fuck, that gives them good reason to give me a frosty reception if they ever have to see me again. Considering we haven’t fucked and I haven’t been disgusting to you, I don’t expect the shitty attitude I’m getting. So, why don’t you get over it? Just try to think of me as your new manager, not as the hot guy who hit on you an eon ago. And I’ll try not to think of you as the ball-busting lesbian—”

  “I’m not a lesbian!” I splutter. There’s not anything wrong with being a lesbian. I’m just not one.

  “You’re not?” He actually looks genuinely confused.

  Oh my God! He thinks I’m a lesbian because I turned him down all those times. The guy is an egomaniac!

  “Jesus, you think I’m a lesbian because I wouldn’t sleep with you?”

  “Well, yeah. What other reason could there be?”

  I laugh loudly. I can’t help it. This is a real belly-aching laugh. I have to bend over and rest my hands against my thighs just to try to catch my breath.

  When I straighten up, a less-than-amused Tom is scowling down at me.

  I wipe the tears from my eyes. “God, you’re an egotistical asshole. You ever consider that I wouldn’t sleep with you because you’re not my type?”

  He scoffs. “Not possible, darlin’. I’m everyone’s type.”

  Like I said, asshole.

  I place my hands on my hips. “Sorry, but arrogant muts don’t do it for me.”

  He stares at me, stunned. “Did you just call me a…mut?”

  “Sounded like it.”

  “So, you’re calling me a dog?”

  I stare daggers at him. “No, asshat. Mut actually stands for man slut.” I make sure to punctuate the words to drive my point home.

  A smile breaks Tom’s face. Then, he throws his head back and roars out a laugh. It’s a deep, manly sound.

  And it hits me in all the right places.

  I have to bite my lip to stop from laughing.

  His eyes, filled with humor, meet mine. “You’re really fucking something, you know?”

  “I’m awesome.” I shrug. “But not a lesbian.” Why am I hammering that home?

  He nods his head, grinning. “Yeah, I’m getting that.” He scratches his cheek. “But now, I’m trying to figure out how you managed to resist me…and why.” He tilts his head to the side with a challenging look in his eyes.

  “You don’t need to figure it out. I just don’t like you.”

  “Like I said, not possible.

  “Are you for real?”

  His lips curl up. “I’m so real that it’s unreal, baby.”

  I laugh again. “Now, who’s something else?”

  He gives me a boyish smile, shrugging. It’s charming and endears me to him a little.

  There’s a moment between us. It’s the kind of moment when the air is clearing, and everything is settling.

  “So, we’re good here?” Tom asks, gesturing between us.

  Relaxing, I smile. “We’re good.”

  “Cool. Let’s make a deal. No more fighting or shitty comments—”

  “Or sexual comments,” I add.

  “Or sexual comments,” he agrees, albeit a little reluctantly. “We’ll be professional at all times. Deal?” He holds his large hand out to me.

  “Dealio.” I grin up at him as I slide my hand into his.

  The shock of electricity I feel at his touch nearly knocks me on my ass.

  He feels it, too. I know he does from the slack in his jaw and surprise in his eyes.

  His grip tightens around my hand. Then, his eyes flicker to my mouth.

  I lick my lips, feeling suddenly parched. I can feel him moving toward me.

  Or is that me moving toward him?

  Then, it hits me. I think he’s about to kiss me.

  Shit.

  I snatch my hand from his. “We should get back.” I step back.

  “Yeah, we should.” He’s staring over my head.

  I turn and start walking back to the bus.

  What the hell was that?

  I’ve never felt anything like that before from touching a man. Maybe this is what no sex is doing to my body. It goes into a mad frenzy at the first sign of the Y chromosome.

  I’ve just reached the bus when I hear Tom say from behind me, “Firecracker, I meant to tell you that I fucking love the T-shirt.”

  My eyes snap down to my Fraggle Rock T-shirt. It’s old, a little short in the hem, and snug across my bust, but I love it. I love cartoons. I collect cartoon T-shirts. I might be in a rock band, but I never said I was cool. I dressed for comfort today. I never expected to see Tom, not that it matters how I dress around him. I don’t care what he thinks about me, not one iota.

  And Firecracker? Seriously?

  I turn around. “Don’t call me that.”

  He smiles. “What? Firecracker?”

  “Yeah. I’ve just added another rule to our deal—no pet names. Pet names are a deal-breaker.”

  He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth in reprimand. “No can do, Firecracker. Because, really, there are no deal-breakers here. You’re stuck with me whether you like it or not.” He winks and then jogs past me, going up the stairs and onto the bus.

  Ever have that feeling you’ve been played?

  Yep, I totally feel played right now, but I have no clue as to what the game is.

  Confused, and frankly a little pissed off, I stomp my way back up the steps just as Henry, one of our drivers, gets into the driver’s seat.

  “Everyone on board?” Henry asks me.

  “Yeah,” I answer.

  Henry starts up the engine. The bus rumbles to life beneath my feet as the doors hiss and close behind me.

  “Y’all set for this?” Henry asks with a smile.

  I look over to where Tom is standing, talking with the guys.

  My stomach twists in two entirely confusing, different knots. “As I’ll ever be,” I sigh.

  Late Afternoon—Tour Bus, LA

  It’s late afternoon now, and I’ve been successfully avoiding Tom since we got on the road. I call that a great feat, considering we’re sharing a limited space.

  I know we cleared this air, but I still don’t feel totally comfortable around him. Part of that is my own body’s reaction to Tom, not that he needs to know that. His ego is big enough without me contributing to it.

  So far, in my avoid-Tom scheme, I’ve sat up front with Henry, chatting with him while he drives. I’ve learned that he’s got two grown-up twins, a boy and a girl, who both just started college. He’s a keen fly-fisher. He’s been married for twenty-five years, and he talks about his wife, who is a kindergarten teacher, with obvious affection.

  Good to know there are some decent men out there.

  After my chat with Henry, I go to take a shower. The guys are already on the PlayStation. Tom is on his cell, sitting at the kitchen table and having a quiet conversation. He doesn’t even look up as I pass. He’s probably having a sex chat with one of his many women.

  I don’t want to use up all the hot water, so I don’t stay in the shower for too long, but I linger in the bathroom to kill time.

  Then, I head to the bedroom and get dressed in my favorite ripped jeans and a T-shirt. I sit at the desk, my now makeshift dressing table, and sans makeup, I fix my hair into a messy bun on the top of my head.

  I hear a knock at the door and then the sound of Cale’s voice.

  “You decent?”

  “No, I’m butt naked.”

  I hear him laugh.

  “You’d better be kidding ’cause I’m coming in.”

  “Yes
, I’m kidding,” I call out.

  Cale comes in and closes the door behind him. He jumps on the bed and sprawls out flat on his back.

  I finish tying up my hair and turn in my chair to face him. “Comfy?” I ask.

  “Very.” He grins, stretching his arms above his head.

  I’ve just dipped my finger into my face cream when Cale asks, “So, why are you hiding out in here?”

  I look in the mirror at him. “I’m not hiding out.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Fine.” I sigh. “I’m hiding out.” I spread the cream over my fingertips and start to apply it to my face.

  “I’m guessing you’re hiding from Tom. So, are you going to tell me what’s up? I know you haven’t been happy about him coming on tour with us. And you lack a filter, Ly, but you were rude to him before—”

  “I wasn’t rude.” I see his unconvinced expression. “Okay, I was rude.”

  “So, what don’t I know?” he asks with that Cale tone, meaning he won’t let this go until I tell him.

  I twist in my seat and bring my knees up with my feet resting on the edge of the stool. I hug my knees to my chest, resting my chin on them. “Ages ago, Tom hit on me.” I let out a sigh. “He’s hit on me a couple of times.”

  “What?” Cale practically shouts, sitting upright. “When?”

  “Shh…” I admonish, eyes flitting to the closed door.

  These walls are like paper, and I don’t want Tom to hear any of this.

  “Keep your voice down. It doesn’t matter when he hit on me. Actually, he’s hit on me twice. The first time he tried it, I turned him down. He was fine about it”—I tug on my lip—“but then I saw him a few months later, and he hit on me again.”

  I can see anger rising in Cale’s face, prompting me to say, “He never crossed the line. He’s never touched me or anything. It’s just that I haven’t seen Tom since the last time he hit on me, and I didn’t know how things would stand…if he’d try again.” I grimace. “So, my guard was up—hence, bitch mode.”

  “Understandable. And has he gotten the message? Because if he hasn’t—” Cale is on full overprotective mode.

  “Calm down, angry. We talked.” Yelled. “He apologized and asked if we could move past it and be professional. I said yes.”

  “Okay…good.” Cale relaxes a little, resting back onto his elbows. “But if he does try anything—”

  “He won’t. But if he does, you’ll be the first to know.”

  There is no way I would tell Cale if Tom made a move on me again. Aside from being able to take care of myself, Tom is a lot bigger than Cale. It’s not that Cale isn’t muscular. He is, but Tom’s biceps are quite literally twice the size of Cale’s. Tom has always been a big guy, but he looks even bigger now, like he’s been putting in some serious gym time.

  I see a smile creep on Cale’s face.

  “So, you turned down Tom Carter?”

  “I did.” I smirk.

  He lets out an admiring laugh. “That’s my girl. I bet that was a massive hit to his ego. No guy likes to be turned down, and I’m guessing it’s never happened to Tom, so it would have dented his ego for sure.”

  “I’m sure I didn’t dent his ego. He’ll have been turned down by a women before.”

  I prod Cale in the thigh with my toes. He grabs my foot and yanks it, making me laugh.

  “I highly doubt it. Most women will just lie down and spread their legs for him.”

  “Too much info, thanks. And I’m not most women.” I look up at him, giving my best cocky grin.

  “I know you’re not. That’s the problem.” He gets to his feet, concern etched on his face. “You’re gorgeous, talented, and smart. You’re a challenge for a guy like Tom, and you flat-out turn him down—”

  “Twice,” I remind him. I don’t know why I did that.

  “See? This is what I mean. He already saw you as a challenge because you knocked him back the first time, so he tried again.” He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up. “He wouldn’t have liked the second knock-back. It was probably worse than the first. Guys like Tom are not used to rejection. It makes you a challenge, and there’s nothing a guy likes more.”

  “Cale, he’s not chasing me. He’s given up. He gave up. It was ages ago when he last hit on me, and he hasn’t tried to chase me down since then.” I get to my feet. “It’s done. Over. Anyway, Tom has got way too many other women running after him to bother himself with little ole me. But you’re sweet for worrying.”

  I put my arms around his waist, hugging him.

  He affectionately kisses the top of my head. “It’s my job to worry about you.”

  “Taken on that task, have you?” I lean back to look at him, releasing him from my embrace.

  He chucks my chin. “Since I was twelve years old.”

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you. That phone call earlier—it was Jake. He knows that Rally is my dad. Rally called him.”

  Cale’s brow furrows as he leans back against the wall. “How did that go?”

  “The tour bus is moving, isn’t it?” I smile.

  He returns my smile. “It was bound to come out, Ly. And when we’re famous—”

  “When?” I grin.

  “Damn right, when. The minute our music hits the airwaves, we’re gonna be big, baby!”

  I laugh at his enthusiasm and belief in our band.

  “You hungry?” He opens the door.

  I follow him through. “Is that translation for, you all are hungry, and you want me to make dinner?”

  He turns, walking backward. “You know we can’t cook for shit, Ly. So, it’s either that, or we starve, waiting for Henry to make his first stop.” He pouts.

  “Ugh.” I roll my eyes and give him a playful shove. “Fine. I’ll cook.”

  “You want some help?” He smirks.

  He knows I won’t want his help. Cale is a nightmare in the kitchen. He makes more of a mess than imaginable, and he gets in my way. In this kitchen, there’s not enough space for us both.

  “Go play games.” I wave my hand in the direction of Sonny and Van, who are playing some racing game.

  No sign of Tom. Maybe he’s up front with Henry.

  Cale sits with the guys. He tells them I’m going to make dinner. They all shout noises of love for me.

  Shaking my head, smiling, I hear a door open behind me, and I see a freshly showered Tom emerging from the bathroom, wearing nothing but a towel.

  My mouth actually starts to water. I kid you not. My eyes take on a mind of their own as they openly stare at him. Skin still wet, rivulets of water trickle down his tattooed chest. Of course, I knew he had tattoos. Both of his arms are sleeved, but he also has them on his chest and stomach, too. TMS is written in large script on his left pec.

  And what an amazing pec it is. There isn’t an ounce of fat on him.

  More script is under his pec, just above that amazing six-pack of his—Yesterday is a memory. Tomorrow may never be.

  I feel a flash of emotion from those words—that is, until I reach the top of his towel. My attention is taken again. I can see some script peeking out, but I can’t make out what it says.

  I’m brought back to the now at the sound of Tom clearing his throat.

  My eyes dart to his. He’s smirking.

  I was totally checking him out, and he knows that I was checking him out.

  Crappity crappola.

  My guard is back up, and I ignore the heat I feel in my cheeks. In a firm tone, I say, “I’d appreciate it if you’d wear a little more clothing while walking around here.”

  His expression stays neutral. “I forgot to take clean clothes in with me. My bad. Won’t happen again.” He turns away from me, but I hear him mutter, “Not her type, my ass.”

  Ignore it. He wanted you to hear it. That’s why he said it.

  Just ignore it.

  Damn it! I can’t ignore it!

  “You’re not my type!” I yell out.

  Oh God. W
hy can’t I just keep my mouth shut?

  I don’t dare to look to see if the guys heard me.

  Tom turns with a slim smile on his face. “I’m sorry. What?”

  His gaze flickers briefly over my shoulder, telling me everything I need to know. The guys heard me.

  Shit.

  I straighten my back, steeling myself. “I heard what you said.”

  He tilts his head to the side, an innocent look on his face. “And what did I say?”

  Game-playing bastard.

  “You know what you said.”

  “No, I don’t.” He shrugs. “Please enlighten me?”

  “Ugh!” I growl, annoyed that he’s making me repeat his snide words. “You said, ‘Not her type, my ass.’”

  “You sure I said that?” He rests a shoulder against the wall.

  My hands go to my hips. “A hundred percent.”

  “But why would I say that?”

  “Because I was staring at your bare chest.”

  Effing shitting bastard.

  He played me.

  My face flames. “You’re such a mut!”

  He laughs. “I’m a mut? Jesus, what are you? Twelve? And don’t throw insults at me. I wasn’t the one perving on my hot body.”

  “I was not perving!” I cry with indignation.

  “So, you admit I’m hot.”

  “I, what? No, I don’t admit anything!”

  He’s laughing at me now.

  Why aren’t any of the guys coming to my rescue here? Cale?

  I look over my shoulder to see them watching us with rapt attention. Well, Van and Sonny are. Cale just looks curious. I give him a loaded look and then swing my gaze back to Tom.

  “One, I don’t think you’re hot.” Total lie. “And two, I was merely admiring your tattoos. I like tattoos. I’ve been thinking about getting one, so when I see someone with them, I like to have a look and see if they might be something I would like inked on my body.”

  Worst excuse ever.

  Tom’s eyes flick to mine, his stare hot and heavy. There’s this moment—a stifling, blood-pumping moment—between us.

  Then, it’s gone.

  His eyes harden. His hand goes to the back of his neck. He looks to the ceiling and blows out a breath.

  I’m expecting some smart-ass comment from him, so I’m surprised when he looks back to me and says, “There’s nothing inked on my body that you’d want. Trust me.”