Call On Me

She blinked, the sultry look shifting to a perplexed one. “Huh?”

He helped Lark get to her feet. “Be right back.”

Her smile returned, though it had a confused tilt to it. “O … kay.”

He headed back to his bedroom for a minute then returned to the kitchen. She was drinking his beer, putting lipstick marks on the bottle. He draped her dress on one of the barstools, set a pair of his flip-flops on top of it, and handed her a few hundred-dollar bills. “For the shoes and a cab.”

She stared down at the money in her hand. “What?”

“This isn’t going to happen tonight.”

“Wait, you want me to leave? But I thought—”

“It’s time for you to go.” He was tempted to take a co-selfie with her. Hashtag: HookUpFail.

She stiffened like a rod had been shoved up her back and she made these little sputters of disbelief—like she was trying to come up with a really good insult but couldn’t think of any.

When she obviously couldn’t string anything worthy together, she shoved on his flip-flops, which looked like flippers on her small feet, and yanked her dress over her head. “I can’t fucking believe this.”

He dumped the beer in the sink, bored.

His lack of response brought a new level of hatred glowing in her eyes. “Is this about the dog? Because that’s just stupid. How was I supposed to know he was abused?”

He walked to his front door and pulled it open. “You never know where anyone’s scars are hiding. Doesn’t mean you get a pass to hurt them.”

She reared back like he’d slapped her. Then her lips pressed together, and she flounced out the door, muttering something about hoping that the dumb dog kept him warm tonight.

He shut the door without watching her go and leaned against it, absorbing the quiet of the condo, relief instead of disappointment settling in. Hookup fail, yes. But even he had standards. He’d rather fuck his fist than spend another second with Duckface the Puppy Poker.

A year ago, he might’ve just written it off and taken her to bed anyway. What did it matter if a woman was shallow? It’s not like they’d be seeing each other again. Plus, he’d always hated sleeping alone in a house. But now he couldn’t stomach the thought of spending another moment with a woman like that.

Maybe he was getting used to being by himself. After his roommate, Foster, had moved out to live with his girlfriend last year, Pike had felt that old need to always have people over. Mostly of the naked female variety. But for the last few months, he’d been so busy with band stuff and working at his music studio in between that he hadn’t sought out that brand of companionship very often. He hadn’t even gone to The Ranch, the kink resort he and his friends belonged to, in at least three months. Tonight had been the first night he’d done the hook-up-after-a-show thing in a while.

Now he remembered why he’d backed off from this kind of thing. He had no issue being someone’s one-night stand. Most of the time, he preferred things that way. But now that he’d seen how Foster and Cela were together, how explosive the chemistry could be when two people connected like that, he could see how superficial this other shit was in comparison. Women fucked his type. The bad boy. The drummer. Whatever. They didn’t fuck him.

And he’d been guilty of the same. He’d fuck the groupie, the model, the B actress. If not for Monty chewing Lark’s shoe tonight, he would’ve never known that the woman was capable of hurting a dog for something as inconsequential as a shoe. Because he didn’t know her.

For some reason, that dug into him like a burr, annoying the shit out of him.

He sank onto his bed and Monty jumped up to join him. He scratched behind Monty’s ears. “Good job, Monts. You’re making me grow a goddamned conscience.”

Monty licked his chops. There were pieces of red shoe leather stuck in his teeth.

Pike chuckled and kissed the top of his pup’s scruffy head. Monty rewarded him by releasing some noxious gas and dog-grinning at the effort.

“Jesus, Monts.” He put his hand over his nose and mouth. “Take that stuff somewhere else.”

Monty, of course, took that as his cue to settle next to him on the bed. Pike waved the poisonous fumes away, coughing, and grabbed his cell phone.

Gibson answered on the second ring. “Please tell me you last longer than that because, seriously, any thoughts of going gay for you are definitely out of the question otherwise. I require stamina.”

Pike let his head fall back to the pillow. “Shut the fuck up and stop flirting. It’s not going to work.”

“So you kicked her out?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. You’re better than that,” Gib said, no sarcasm in his voice. “You need to stop dipping into the groupie pool, anyway. You’re too old for that shit. Find yourself some normal women your own age.”

“Normal women have too many expectations.”

“What? Like remembering their names and calling them the next day?”

“Exactly. Plus, I’m best in limited doses. I’d send normal women running for the hills after too long.”

“I don’t know. You haven’t scared off your friends yet. I mean, yes, I thought you were an egotistical douchebag when I first met you, but now you’ve grown on me. Like a fungus.”

“So you’re saying I should try to infect some normal woman with my fungus? Good talk, buddy. Good talk.”

“Dr. Phil gets all his best stuff from me.”

“Just tell me about this charity thing so I can get to bed and think about the sex I won’t be having tonight.”

Gibson paused as if ready to push the topic, but then relented. “Fine. The charity project. It would involve music.”

“Excellent.”

“And would be helping my lovely sister-in-law out.”

“Making sexy Tessa happy. Good.”

“You’d be working with kids.”

“Aaaand … I’m out.”

Gibson scoffed. “You have something against kids?”

“I’m inked up, curse like a convict, and have piercings in questionable places. Parents don’t want me near their children, and kids freak me out.”

“Bullshit. How can you be freaked out? You’re one of them.”

“Sorry, Gib.”

“Are you being serious right now?”

“I’m not a kid person.” He could still smell the stench of the house he’d grown up in. The overstuffed diaper pails. The spoiling government-issued baby formula. His younger siblings seeking him out when their mom had to work or when her boyfriend of the month was in a vengeful mood. That deep, terrifying feeling that lived in Pike that he was in over his head. That he’d never be enough to make it okay for them.

And he’d been one hundred percent right on that.

“This would be the older group, not the little ones.”

The dredged-up memories sent a sick feeling rolling through him, making his skin go clammy. “Can’t I just write a check or donate proceeds from a show or something?”

Gibson blew out a breath. “No, they need your expertise not your money. Just hear me out. Tessa has a great idea for a fund-raiser, but she needs someone with experience in producing music. All the money would go toward the college fund and resources for the after-school program. You know what the charity’s about. These kids don’t have a lot, man. You and I both know what that’s like.”

Fuck. “You’re really going for the jugular here, Gib.”

“Just speaking the truth.”

Yeah, that, and Gibson was a brilliant PR guy who knew how to pitch things. Monty laid his head on Pike’s chest, and Pike scratched behind Monty’s ear. “You’ve even got my dog giving me the don’t-be-a-bastard look.”

Gibson chuckled. “I sneak him treats when I’m there. He’s on my side.”

Pike ran a hand over his face. This was a bad idea. But even he wasn’t a big enough asshole to turn his back on kids who needed help. It was places like Bluebonnet that had helped his family when they needed it. He and his siblings probably never would’ve gotten a Christmas gift or decent coats if not for community programs. What kind of hypocrite would it make him if he said no? But the thought of working with children made him want to run for the damn hills. “What exactly do they want me to do?”

He could almost hear Gibson’s victory grin over the phone. “It won’t be a big deal at all.”

Pike closed his eyes. Famous last words.

THREE

Oakley fought to keep her eyes open as she transcribed information from the millionth file of the day and added it to the new thirteen-page government form that Bluebonnet Place needed to keep on every child. She polished off the rest of her coffee and glanced at the clock. Only half an hour before she got to take a break from the office work and go have her session with the kids. She could make it without a refill. Maybe.

She traced her finger down the convoluted form, trying to figure out where this information should go. “If yes then go to line 7B. If no, go to line 10A. If neither, rip up this frigging form and forfeit any remnants of your sanity.”

“You know, I’ve always wondered if the people who create government forms spend their free time tying people up and torturing them.”

Oakley’s skin prickled at the low, smooth voice, the melodic sound like a soft stroke to the back of her neck. She spun in her office chair, poised to say Excuse me?, but nothing came out when her gaze collided with her visitor. At least six feet of lean, tattooed, blond bad boy was lounging against the counter and looking straight at her.

The guy gave her a conspiratorial smile and leaned a little closer, cocking his head toward her pile of papers, his eyebrow ring glinting underneath the lights. “I mean, only a sadist would make anyone try to fit letters into those little boxes.”

He was talking about documents, but he may as well have asked her if she’d like to go out back and get naked for the way her body responded to the comment. Oakley swallowed past the dryness in her throat, trying to regain her professional composure despite her rogue hormonal reaction to the man’s presence. This guy clearly was in the wrong place. Who walked into a children’s charity and started making jokes about tying people up? Maybe he wanted the tattoo shop down the street. Though there didn’t seem to be any spare spots on his arms to fill with ink. “Can I help you, sir?”

Yes. Good. That sounded calm and professional. Go her.

“No need for the sir.” His lips tilted, mischief sparking in gold-green eyes. “I didn’t say I was a sadist. But yes, I bet you can help me.”

Yes, she could. Right out of that tight T-shirt.

No, no, no. Stop. What the hell was wrong with her? Hello, libido, meet Mr. Not My Type.

The man kept close, like this was some secret conversation. “I’m here to talk to the leggy blonde who runs this place. She here?”

The words snapped Oakley out of her lust haze. Leggy blonde? Oakley straightened, affronted on behalf of her boss. “If you mean Mrs. Vandergriff, she has a parent in her office right now. Name, please.”

He tilted his head at her cool tone. “Did I say something wrong?”

“Name, please.”

He rose to his full height and hooked his thumbs in his pockets, vague amusement on his face. “Pike.”

She was about to ask his last name, but with a name like Pike, she doubted it was needed. “You can take a seat, and I’ll let her know you’re here when she’s done.”

He glanced at the row of chairs in the small lobby. “Or you could take a break from the torture and give me a tour of the place. I’d like to know what I’m signing up for.”

She lifted a brow.

No way did he have a kid who qualified for services here. She’d taken a good long look at him now that he’d given her some breathing room. His worn jeans and vintage Dead Kennedys T-shirt may look thrown together, but she recognized expensive threads when she saw them. She’d taken that course in looking artfully casual once upon a time. Plus, imagining him with a kid just didn’t compute. He looked like the guy you’d try to keep your kids away from.

“You do realize that you or your child have to be under eighteen to sign up for anything? And we don’t give tours. We protect children’s privacy here.”

He grinned, undeterred. “I can see why Tessa puts you at the front.”

Oakley straightened the file on her desk and gave him a tight smile back. “Because I’m so welcoming and warm?”

“Exactly.” He eased forward again, challenge dancing in eyes framed by sooty lashes. “What’s your name, o’ powerful gatekeeper? Something about you seems so familiar.”

Her fingers tightened around the file, his nearness and evaluating look making her heart skip a few beats, but she kept her reaction off her face. It was near impossible that anyone could recognize her these days. She’d changed her hair color from blue back to the natural dark brown, was a decade older, and at least fifteen pounds heavier since she’d been anyone worth recognizing. “Oakley Easton.”

His eyes narrowed as if trying to place her. The name wouldn’t be familiar to him even if he were close to the mark. But he gave up soon enough. “Guess we haven’t met.”

“I just have one of those faces.”

“No, you don’t,” he said, his gaze drifting over every inch of her features. “I’d remember your face. I think it might be your voice. There’s something about it.”

Oh. Shit. She swallowed hard. No way Pike could be one of her callers. She didn’t know much about him, but she had all the information she needed by looking at him. Tall. Confident. Sporting a body that made her want to stand up and hang over the desk so she could get a better look. He could walk into any bar or club and make panties drop with a smirk and a head nod. This would not be a guy who’d pay per minute for phone sex.

She attempted an air of nonchalance. “Lots of people have similar voices.”

“True. But I have an ear for them. And yours is unique—smoky with some rasp in it. I like it.”

Somehow the simplest, most innocuous words sounded illicit rolling off his lips. I like it sounded like I’d fuck you in her head. Paired with his intent focus, she was fighting hard not to squirm in her chair. She cleared her throat. “A voice fetishist. That’s new.”

The words slipped out before she could stop them. Dammit. Nighttime Oakley was not supposed to make an appearance at the day job. She worked hard to keep them separate.

Pike chuckled, the sound rich and full, like cashmere brushing over bare skin. “Maybe I am. Kind of comes with the territory.”

Territory? That’s when it clicked.

She should’ve pinned it from the start. Tattoos. Piercings. Attitude. She’d known enough of the type to last her a lifetime. Distaste filled her. “You’re a musician.”

He eyed her. “Wow, clearly, you’re impressed. You look like you just smelled something bad.”

“It’s not …” But it was, and she didn’t know how to finish the sentence without sounding even ruder. She picked up her phone and hit a button.

Tessa answered on the first ring. “What’cha got for me?”

“Was just checking to see if you’re done with your meeting. There’s a guy here to see you—a mister … Pike.”

“Seriously?” Tessa said, triumph in her voice.

“Uh … yeah.”

“Amazing. Bonus points to my brother-in-law. He actually got him here.”

Pike reached over the counter and plucked a butterscotch from Oakley’s candy dish. She gave him a you’re-invading-my-personal-space brow lift, but Pike only grinned and dragged the wrapped candy between his teeth to suck it out of the cellophane. Obscene. Especially when he didn’t look away from her the whole time. Her body stirred in a way it hadn’t in longer than she could remember. Very, very stupid thoughts entered her mind.

She smoothed her lip balm and tried to tamp down her body’s ridiculous response. Maybe she had some genetic malfunction. This was exactly the type of guy who shouldn’t flip her switch. She’d already been burned by this kind of wildfire. No, not burned. Incinerated. “Would you like me to send him back?”

“Sure, that’d be great,” Tessa said, the sound of shuffling papers in the background. “Is Ella coming in to relieve you this afternoon?”

“She should be here any minute.”

“Great. Because there’s something I need to run by you after my chat with Pike.”

“No problem. I’ll be in the music room when you need me.”

She exchanged a quick good-bye with Tessa and set the phone in its cradle. Pike was still half-draped on her counter, making everything smell like butterscotch and male arrogance. Damn but she needed to get this man away from her.

“Mrs. Vandergriff is available now. I need to get a copy of your ID before you can go back there, though.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He pulled out his wallet and handed her his driver’s license. Pike Ryland. So he did have a last name.

She ran it through the small desktop scanner and handed the card back to him. “Just go through that door. Her office is the last door on the right.”

He tucked his wallet back into his pocket, which made that worn T-shirt stretch tighter across his lean chest. “You’re not going to escort me back there? I may get lost or violate privacy laws or something. Plus, you never gave me that tour.”

His tone was teasing, playful, but there was a dare in those wicked eyes. She pretended to busy herself with the papers in front of her. “I can’t leave my desk until someone else covers it.”

He glanced behind him. “It doesn’t look like there’s a line forming to get in or anything.”

“Someone could come in.”

He rolled the candy in his mouth. “You always so strict about following the rules, Miz Easton?”

“Yes.” She didn’t know why she was being so bullheaded about it. She could leave her desk for a few minutes if she needed to. One of the volunteers could watch the front. But Pike’s presence had her off balance, and she didn’t want to extend that feeling any longer.

“Mmm, shame.” He cocked his head toward the door. “Then go ahead and buzz me in, Lady Gatekeeper. I wouldn’t want to get anyone in trouble.”

“I have a feeling that’s not true at all.”

He laughed. “Touché.”

She hit the button under her desk to unlock the door, and Pike gave the counter two raps with his knuckles, like a warning that they weren’t done here, before disappearing into the hallway.

She sagged back in her chair and expelled a breath she’d been holding. Then as soon as she determined he was safely ensconced in her boss’s office, she opened up a search box on her computer, typing in Pike Ryland.

A page of results filled the screen in an instant, including a short line of thumbnail images. Pike Ryland, drummer of the hard rock band Darkfall.

Ha. She should’ve known. He had drummer written all over him—cut biceps, lanky frame, that I-own-the-world swagger. She had yet to meet a humble drummer. You had to be a big personality to make your presence known when you were stuck behind a drum kit and the rest of the band on stage.

Unable to resist, she clicked through a few of the images. Pike on stage. Pike shirtless, dripping with sweat, as he banged the drums. Good God. She shifted in her chair and clicked some more.

But the next few featured Pike with a rotation of supermodel-gorgeous women on his arm at parties and events. Ugh. That effectively cooled her jets.

She clicked on the Wikipedia entry. The page listed two albums and a gold single from a few years ago. She vaguely recognized one or two of their songs. Hard rock really wasn’t her musical poison of choice. But everything she read and saw in the photos confirmed why she’d gotten that bitter taste in her mouth when she’d figured out he was a musician.

They were all the same. And it only got worse when they had some success.

She closed out all of the windows and went back to her forms, vowing to not give Mr. Ryland another thought. If nothing else she’d learned a few things this afternoon.

Good news: Her libido was not dead after all.

Bad news: It still had destructive taste.

And like a recovering alcoholic, she knew to stay far, far away from that brand of temptation.

FOUR

“Local children’s theatre?” Pike settled back in the chair, focusing on Tessa and trying to ignore the raucous sound of children playing in the yard outside her window. He tugged at the collar of his T-shirt. After his run-in with the hot, uptight receptionist, he’d almost managed to forget what he was walking into. Now it felt like the walls were closing in on him. “No offense, but you’re not going to make much money from that.”

Tessa frowned from behind her desk. “The guy we were supposed to be working with—the one who had to back out—was going to mentor the kids and polish them up musically. He said if we did a couple of shows, charged ticket fees, it could be good.”

“I don’t see that happening. The only people who will want to see kids sing live are their parents.” Pike hooked his ankle over his knee. “And I know that most of the families you’re working with don’t really have the money to pay a high ticket price. It’ll be a waste of time.”

Hers. The kids. And most of all, his. Maybe he could get out of this after all. No use helping with a dead-on-arrival idea.

“You’d make a lot more holding a benefit concert again and having some local bands play. I could get the guys to do a show, and I could reach out to a few other bands in the area.”

Her frown stayed in place, and she tapped her fingernails on her desk, thoughtful. “We could do that, but I was hoping to do something where the kids are more involved this year. It’s their college funds at stake. I think it means more if they feel like they’ve had a hand in earning it.”

“Have them work the shows, sell tickets.”

A line appeared in her forehead. “These kids have talent, though.”

His eyebrow lifted.

“Yeah, yeah, I know I’m biased.” She gave him a what-can-ya-do smile. “But we’ve got some strong singers, a couple of guitar players, and a burgeoning drummer. Plus, the woman I have working with them is amazing. She’s helping them to write their own songs and has really invested her time with them. I want to see the kids share what they’re creating with the world.”

The earnestness in her voice was killing him. He didn’t know Tessa all that well. He’d only been around her when she was with her husband, Kade—and then it was usually at The Ranch where she was in submissive mode. But he could tell this wasn’t simply a job for her. Lord knows she didn’t need to work. Kade was a goddamned mogul. So this was all heart for her. And it was making him feel like a dick for wanting to get out of it.

He sighed, an idea coming to him that could be a perfect solution but a pain in the ass. “Having a performance at the children’s theatre isn’t sharing it with the world. Maybe you should think bigger.”

“Bigger?”

He shifted forward, bracing his forearms on his thighs, trying not to talk himself out of what he was about to say. “I don’t know if Gibson told you, but I’ve opened up a small studio in town. It’s kind of a side project for me when I’m not doing Darkfall stuff. I cut demos for people and have started to produce some local start-up musicians.”

“Yeah, he said something about it. Aren’t you working with Colby’s boyfriend?”

“Keats? Yeah, talented kid.”

She smiled, her amused gaze flicking over him. “I didn’t know you were into country.”

“I’m into good music, regardless of genre.” Plus, if Pike wanted to make a real go of producing in the future, he needed to attract talent now, get some buzz going. Keats had a real shot at breaking out.

“So what does this have to do with the kids?” she asked.

“Well, I’m thinking that if you want the kids to be heard, maybe that’s the way.”

“Meaning?”

“There’s no bigger world stage than the Internet. I help them cut a record. They can put a few tracks together and put them for sale online. The proceeds could go to the fund. Then once the songs are out, maybe they can put on a small show to promote it.”