Unwritten Page 2

  “It sounds legit. I’ll vet it tomorrow, but if you guys want to go, I’m down with it.”

  Five months playing music with a decent band isn’t a hardship for me. I have plenty of money to take care of us if the tour craters, but while Ian and Rudd are willing to throw five months of their life away for their music, I don’t have the same confidence about Davis.

  He peers at me over the top of his glass before draining the contents. Slamming the empty glass on the bar, he hails the bartender.

  A girl trots down immediately, her white T-shirt damp from work. “What do you need, babe?”

  “I’ll take four shots of the top-shelf whiskey,” Davis orders.

  “We celebrating something?” I ask, cautiously.

  “We’re going on tour,” Davis answers with a crooked smile. “That seems like something to celebrate, no?”

  Rudd and Ian bust out the cheers. They body slam each other. Across the room, Hollister catches my eye. I give him an affirmative chin nod and a thumbs-up for good measure. He salutes me.

  I pick up my just-delivered shot and raise it. “To FMK.”

  “To FMK,” the boys cheer.

  The whiskey burns as it slides down my throat.

  “Christ, man, it’s all coming together,” Ian crows, slamming his shot glass onto the bar top.

  “Can you imagine the road pussy?” Rudd claps his hands together.

  “Do you ever think about anything but sex?” Davis jokes.

  “Yeah, music. Which is the same thing, ain’t I right?” Rudd asks me.

  “Can’t argue.” Speaking of sex and women, now that I’ve arranged the band, I have other matters to take care of.

  “Give us another round!” Rudd shouts over his shoulder. To us, he says, “I’m going to hit the head. None of you motherfuckers touch the glasses until I get back.”

  Hurriedly, I toss a few bills on the bar to cover the bill. “I’m out, too.”

  My band finally coalescing? Check. An undiscovered talent like my new singer found hiding in an office cube? Check. Big tour on deck? Check. Girl I’m supposed to spend my future with waltzes into a random bar and stares at me for nine minutes straight like I’m the incarnation of every wet, dirty fantasy she’s ever had? Check. Check. Check.

  “Where are you going?” Ian asks.

  “To meet my future,” I answer.

  Chapter Two

  Landry

  I broke my glasses an hour ago, but from my vantage point in the corner of the bar it looks like two arrows are slicing through the thick crowd of drunk, hyped people, heading right toward me. One of them looks like the hot guitar player who was onstage with Davis. The other looks like Davis who was slamming drinks at the bar.

  “What’re you doing here?” Unfortunately, it’s Davis who reaches me first. The stench of whiskey on his breath is strong. I wonder how much he drank before the set, or hell, during the set.

  “Can’t I come see you play?” I counter, trying to downplay my unease. After all, can I really lecture him about bad choices after the night I’ve had.

  “Yeah, but—”

  Thankfully, before Davis can say anything else, Rock God steps forward.

  “Who’s this?” he asks, his voice rich and deep.

  Our eyes meet—a collision of green against brown causing a shower of electricity to spark and cascade around us. My breath catches at what I see in those dark pools. I don’t have a ton of experience, but it looks like lust and it’s directed toward me.

  The minute I stepped into the bar, he drew my eyes. Who wouldn’t look at him twice? He’s gorgeous. Sandy brown hair, strong jaw, high cheekbones and searing eyes that could hook you a mile away. There’s a piercing at the corner of his right eyebrow that somehow only emphasizes his good looks. His smile made all of the women and half of the men want to climb on to the stage and press their mouths against his lips to see if the smile tasted as amazing as it looks.

  His body is muscled perfection—not the thick necked stuff that screams steroids, but the defined, proportional goodness. He looks strong and sturdy, like a thousand pieces of emotional baggage could be flung at him and he’d be able to bat them away like some super hero. He’s taller than Davis by at least two inches and Davis stands six feet.

  But it wasn’t his looks that captured my attention. It was his intensity and focus.

  As he played and performed with passion I hadn’t seen before, I began to wonder what it would be like if I were the object of his attention, what it would feel like if his fingers worked their magic on my body instead of the frets, what his tongue would taste like if it were making music with my mouth. Given the number of screams directed toward him, I wasn’t the only one having inappropriate thoughts.

  His dark eyes laser into mine, rendering my mouth dry and other parts of me wet. I now understand why Davis thinks his new band is going to be a huge success.

  “My sister. Landry, Adam. Adam, Landry.” Davis waves a casual hand back and forth, completely oblivious to the sexual tension simmering in the air.

  At least…I think it’s sexual tension. I’m partially blind, having left my broken glasses in the car, and it’s been so long since I’ve had a man between my legs that I’ve likely regrown my hymen. Maybe Adam’s just a super intense guy, and I’m reading too much into it.

  My nerves are frayed thin. I could be misinterpreting everything right now. Lord knows, my instincts aren’t worth shit.

  “Landry,” he says slowly, as if enjoying the feel of my name on his tongue.

  “Hey,” I choke out, reaching for the wall behind me so I don’t collapse in a puddle at Adam’s feet.

  He smiles and that’s it. I’m slain. Roll me into a grave and throw some dirt on me, because I’m all done.

  “Glad you could come tonight. Did you enjoy the show?”

  I nod vigorously. “It was good.”

  Davis laughs out loud. “Bullshit. You hate live music.”

  Adam arches his eyebrow in surprise, a stray strobe light glinting off the upper ball.

  “I’ve never said that,” I protest. Suddenly it’s important that everyone within listening range believes I love music. That it’s my life.

  “You kind of did. Last month I invited you to see a show and you said, ‘I’d rather cut my ears off.’”

  His eyebrow creeps higher while I turn beet red. Brothers are the worst.

  “I’m sure I didn’t.” Although that was probably an exact quote by Davis. It’s not that I don’t like live music, per se. It’s more that I prefer to sit at home in sweatpants, watching re-runs of Real Housewives. I like my glamour and excitement secondhand. My face throbs, reminding me of what happens when I go out.

  “I’m pretty sure you did,” Davis counters. I wish the floor would open and swallow Davis. Or me. Both of us would also be an acceptable option. “Anyway,” he continues in the oblivious way older brothers can be, “since you’re here now, come and meet the rest of the guys.”

  He grabs my arm, and I yelp in pain. Jumping back, I manage to knock my injured elbow into the table behind me. The beer glasses to tip and a bunch of people to shout in dismay.

  “What the hell?”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Goddammit!”

  A rush of cold beer spills down my back.

  Laughter mixes with curses as Davis hauls me off the table, causing me to cry out in pain again. I cradle my arm against my body. Crap, it hurts. Tears spike behind my eyes.

  “She spilled my fucking beer,” some drunk guy yells.

  There’s a jostling and more cold liquid spills down my back and into my jeans. About the only thing that could make this evening worse would be for me to get my period. I close my eyes for a second and wait for my body to betray me. Nothing happens. I tell myself to be grateful for the small things in life.

  “Are you okay?”

  I flick my lids up to see Adam leaning over me.

  Davis’s face appears in the periphery.


  “Hey, did you hear me? She spilled our beers.”

  “I’m—”

  “Seriously, man, that was a twenty-dollar pitcher.”

  Adam straightens quickly and slams his hand on the table. “Here’s your fucking twenty. Buy a pitcher and shut your pieholes before I shove the bills down your throat.”

  “No need to be pissy about it, man.”

  “I’m fine. Really.” I tug on Davis’s arm.

  “Is there a problem here, Adam? Do you want me to kick these guys out?”

  I look up to see an older man with straggly hair hanging down to his waist glaring at our group. A crowd of people stares in our direction.

  Davis clears his throat. “There’s no problem, Mr. Hill. I slipped.”

  The old man slaps Davis on the back. “Told you to call me Kenny.”

  “Davis,” I say quietly but urgently. “I’m okay. Really. I’m going to go—”

  “Kenny, this is Davis’s sister,” Adam interrupts. “She got a bunch of beer down her shirt. I have an extra one in my kit. Do you mind if we use your office so she can change?”

  “No, no, of course not.” Kenny pulls a huge set of keys from his front pocket and slaps them in Adam’s hand. To the angry beer boys, he says, “You folks okay?”

  “Yeah,” the one who Adam threatened concedes glumly.

  “We’ll get you a new pitcher,” Kenny promises, hailing a waitress.

  Adam jerks his head. “Come on.”

  I close my eyes. How do these embarrassing things happen to me? Better yet, why?

  I came to Davis’s show tonight to hide, and ended up making a big scene. “Sure,” I agree sullenly. My new silk shirt sticks to my back, and my panties are now wet because of beer rather than something else.

  “What happened to your arm?” Davis asks as we follow Adam down a dark hall past the restrooms. “And where are your glasses?”

  “Broke them,” I mumble.

  “And you drove here?”

  “I held them to my face and left them in the car.” It sounds as dumb as it felt when I was doing it.

  “That’s inventive,” Adam remarks. His lips are twitching as if he’s trying not to laugh.

  Davis groans. “Or stupid.”

  “Thanks, Davis. I love you, too,” I snap.

  Adam releases that laugh he was holding. “You guys sound like siblings.”

  He stops at the last door and unlocks it. Inside, he throws on the lights and that’s when the danger of this situation hits me.

  It was dark in the bar, lit only by colored strobe lights that concealed more than they revealed. I don’t want a bright light illuminating every dark cranny—or in my case, bruise and cut.

  “Come on in…” Adam’s voice trails off as he stares at me. “Fuck me. Who did that to you?”

  I stick my tongue in the corner of my mouth, feeling the cut and tasting the copper of the blood, and desperately wishing I were home. Was it possible to run away? “Does it look that bad?”

  Davis spins me around. He takes one look at me and jumps to a conclusion. “Marrow.”

  There’s no sneaking home now. I drag my palm down my face. “Let’s go in and I’ll tell you about it.”

  * * *

  For only being twenty-four, my life has held a multitude of humiliations. I ate a worm in kindergarten because some punk in fourth grade told me it was a piece of candy. It was as gross as you can imagine. When I was fifteen, I went for an entire period with my skirt tucked into the back of my tights until a teacher, not even one of my damned friends, pulled it out for me. On my first day of college, I tripped over a nonexistent wrinkle in the tile and spilled a Venti Frappuccino all over the cutest guy in my dorm.

  Then there was the time I attracted the unwanted attention of some psycho stalker and had to tell everyone in my life about him—along with an innumerable amount of police officers, detectives, investigators, and judges—so I could be safe again. And tonight? I’m sitting in a dingy office with a fat lip that I caused myself, watching my brother pace and rant while a tatted and pierced god glowers at me.

  “Here,” says Adam, handing me a towel. The tattoos on his arms meld together in one bold but blurry black shape. He takes a step back, away from me and out of Davis warpath.

  “Thanks.” The ice cubes scrape against each other as I lift the damp towel to my lip. Sighing, I sink onto the cushions of the sketchy leather sofa, cracked in places and sticky in others. The first contact I’ve had with a hot guy in a long time is when I have a busted lip and my brother is railing on me for my stupidity. How unoriginal.

  Also, why I can’t berate him for drinking.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t call me.” Pace, pace, pace. “What kind of friends just leave you at your house alone?” Stop and turn. “I swear to God, next time I get my hands on that motherfucker, I’m going to kill him. I don’t care how long I spend in jail.” Pace, pace, pace. “Why didn’t the alarms go off?” Stop. Glare. Turn. Commence pacing.

  “You probably don’t need stitches,” Adam observes.

  I tongue the cut. “No, I don’t think so.”

  I squint, trying to bring Adam’s face into focus. Damn my far-sightedness. Davis’s big, blurry head appears in my line of sight instead.

  “You being straight with us? That you hit your face on the side of your car?” he demands.

  “Unfortunately, yes.” It’s humiliating, but the truth. “I thought I heard something.” I still believe I did. A dark shadow slunk around the side of the house, and it wasn’t a dog, like Penny suggested, or a shadow, which is what Gail insisted. “I was startled, bumped into Gail, and twisted my ankle on a rock. When I tried to right myself, I stumbled into the car, cutting my elbow on the handle.” I raise my elbow up. “I’ve a bruise, I think, but the cut stopped bleeding.”

  “And the face?”

  “Well, as we both know, I’m a klutz so I face-first into the mirror.” I tap my cheek. “It looks worse than it feels. I mean, it only hurts when I laugh and smile.”

  “I’ll keep the jokes to a minimum, then,” Adam quips—which, of course, makes me laugh.

  “What’s funny about this?” Davis barks.

  I slump back against the cracked cushions. “Nothing.”

  Adam raises his palm. “Just trying to lighten the mood.”

  Davis’s jaw tightens and I sense he wants to tell Adam off, but won’t, because Davis loves being in this band too much. Yet my showing up here with my banged-up body and banged-up face is pushing him over the edge.

  Suddenly I’m exhausted. The adrenaline rush from listening to the band has worn off. Davis has every right to treat me like a child. Instead of investigating exactly what—or who—was lurking around the house, I ran straight to my brother. I need to start dealing with my own problems.

  Besides, I’ve already ruined one band experience for him. I don’t want to do that again. No, I correct. I won’t do that again.

  I knuckle my eyes and get to my feet.

  “Where the hell are you going?” Davis demands.

  “I’m tired. I’m going home.”

  “Not without me, you’re not.” He turns to Adam. “We done here?”

  Adam straightens. “You need some help? Because I’m all in for whatever you need.”

  “The police won’t do jack shit, if that’s what you’re asking,” Davis informs Adam. “They were useless before, and they’re going to be useless now.”

  At the word before, Adam’s pierced eyebrow shoots upward. My cheeks grow hot again. In my head, I know that being the victim isn’t something I should be ashamed of, but my head doesn’t control my emotions very well.

  “There was nothing to call about,” I say. “Gail and Penny swore I was imagining things, so it’s not like I had good eyewitnesses.”

  “Those two brainless twits were probably too drunk to recognize their mothers,” Davis rants.

  I bite my tongue to prevent a bark of laughter from spilling out. Davis’s charact
erization isn’t far off the mark. Penny and Gail are pretty, but the elevator doesn’t go all the way to the top for them. Still, they were fun to barhop with, and I’d been stuck in the house for far too long. “Another reason not to call the police.”

  “You should’ve called,” Davis insists. “You’ve got the restraining order. They would be bound to follow up on that.”

  “Do we have to get into it right now?” I flick a gaze toward Adam, who rises to his feet. I hate that my dirty laundry is being aired in front of him.

  I direct a frown in his direction. Doesn’t he have anything better to do? There were about a dozen girls trying to crawl onto the stage. In fact, he had to shrug a couple of them off as he was leading us back here.

  “Why not?” my brother says.

  Davis can be so damn obtuse sometimes.

  “I think she means that she’d rather not talk about it in front of me,” Adam offers. He turns to me. “I want to help, Landry. Davis is part of the band and what affects him affects all of us.”

  I’m sure that was meant to be reassuring, but it only serves as a reminder of how my stupidity can screw things up for Davis.

  “I’m fine. Really. I just want to go home.”

  “Do you think that’s a good idea? Going home alone? Davis, if you want to stick around here, I can run your sister home.”

  My stomach flips in excitement, closely followed by dread. I don’t need to be in close quarters with this man. I’ll end up doing dumb things. I shoot a pleading glance at Davis. For once, he reads me clearly.

  “Nah, I better get going. Let me know about the tour thing, will you?” Davis moves toward the door.

  “What tour thing?” I ask.

  “We’ve been invited to go on a five-month, multi-city tour with four other bands, including Threat Alert,” Adam explains.

  “Threat Alert?” I echo. The name doesn’t sound familiar.

  Davis snorts, one hand on the doorknob. “She has no idea. Landry listens to the radio.”

  He says radio like it’s a dirty word, but it’s true. I listen to pop hits. What can I say? I’m a pleb.