Sighing, I reach out to tug at the hem of her baggy sweatshirt. “What’s with the get-up?”
She purses those full lips at me. “It’s not a get-up. It’s called comfort.”
I fight back a grin, pleased to have her sass back.
Without thinking, I ask, “You coming to the party at my house this Saturday?”
“I wasn’t sure if I was invited.”
“Why wouldn’t you be?”
She frowns. “Because no one asked me.”
“You don’t need an invite, Stasi.”
She sinks her teeth into her bottom lip, and I have to shove my hands into my pockets to keep from tugging it free. It’s rare that I have to practice restraint anymore. My success in the metal music world has earned me a ticket totakewhat I want in most situations.
“Do you need help getting ready?” she asks.
“Not unless you want to help.”
An audible breath escapes her. “It’s like talking in riddles with you. Yes, Liam. I’d like to help.”
We get stuck in another dangerous staring game. As much as I want to close the distance between us, I won’t be the one to make the first move. She knows what I’m about. I earned my reputation as a heartbreaker.
I try to think back to when my thoughts about Anastasia Koval shifted. If I had to pinpoint a moment, it might have been the night I gave her the keys to my 1969 Firebird as a joke while I wrangled a drunk Hail out of a music venue after a show. We were nothing more than a popular local band at the time. Kids still obsessing over a dream.
I knew Stas couldn’t drive a stick, but I also knew she wasn’t one to turn down a challenge. With a quiet stubbornness, she’d climbed into the driver’s seat.
By the time we made it to Hail’s apartment an hour later, she was shifting smoothly enough to have me hard. Fuck, ifthatdidn’t make for a confusing night.
It was the first time I’d thought about kissing her.
Stasi turns away from me and drops onto the bench. I watch her tighten her ponytail, imagining the drag of her polished red nails down my bare back.
My jaw clenches. This desire for somethingmorewith her was so much easier to avoid when I was touring. It’s definitely a mistake inviting her over. The last thing I want to do is hurt her. I’ve only experienced a connection like this with one other person, and I haven’t spoken to him in seven years.
Pushing aside thoughts of Beau and then visions of Stasi in tempting positions, I move behind the barbell and give it a smack. “You gonna show everyone up or what?”
two
Stasi
How am I supposed to lift this weight with Liam Beckner, sex god and legendary metal guitarist, standing over me?
Muscles flex as he crosses his arms over his broad chest. His dark eyes sear into the very center of my being. They’re notactuallyblack—I’ve had the luxury, and the travesty, of seeing them up close for most of my life—but in certain lighting, combined with his devastating looks,allof him looks like he was forged in hell itself.
Okay, so he can be scary.
Hewouldbe scary had I not known him since the fourth grade.
Sure, I didn’t get to stay close to him like Hail, but sometimes they took pity on me and let me tag along when they played shows at rundown graffiti’d venues or snuck out for a late meal.
Most of the time, though, I admired Liam from a distance. I watched him transform from a scrawny, bruised up kid who struggled to read to this beast of a man, tattooed, pierced, and shrouded in intimidating energy.
He’s got his black hair tied up in a messy bun today. Shorter layers of it have fallen out to frame his face and hide some of the elaborate black and gray tattoos along his thick neck. His brows slightly arch up at the ends, adding to his overall image that screams danger.
And possibly the best orgasm you’llever have.
