One Wicked Lick from the Drummer (The One Book 3)

drink too much and party with my friends.” If she was being honest, she’d say I had a lot of casual sex and I loved it, but that was veering way too far out into truth-space.
“Sounds reasonable.”
Her next step was more of a shuffle. Mena could no longer open her arms out to the sides without touching shelving as the room closed in around them. It should feel oppressive; it felt impossibly intimate and senselessly safe.
“To be truthful, I was a bit wild and irresponsible. I don’t want to go back to those days, but I do need to loosen up a little.”
“Tells me you don’t have anyone special in your life.”
“Reaching.” She made a mocking sound. “It does not. And I have plenty of special people in my life.”
He smiled, that blaze-across-the-sky smile, and then he hit her with, “Are you seeing anyone?”
Oh, dammit, he went for it. They shuffled towards each other. “I should never have asked you that question. It’s unnecessarily invasive.”
“Did feel like you were—” his glance started at her feet and traveled slowly up her body. She stopped breathing. Their eyes caught and he said, “What was the word you used, yeah, reaching.” They shifted closer. “I’m not seeing anyone, Mena. Haven’t had anyone special in my life long-term.”
Grip wasn’t joking around with that. She could tell by his expression. It ramped her yearning to a perilously high level. She took a step forward and so did he. “I’m sure you will one day.”
“Haven’t had anyone special in my life for a long time either.” He broke eye contact. “There was someone way back that I should’ve hung on to. But I didn’t know then what I know now. “
Sensible, professional, practical Mena should take the opportunity to change the topic. To pull a ripcord and float to safety. The weather, the state of the nation, anything but Grip’s love life, her own needs and wants. She’d left sensible, practical Mena in reception with her coat, laptop and handbag. “Which is?”
They took another shuffle toward each other, sheets and towels padding out the shelves as they got pushed together. She shouldn’t have asked. It was too personal. She made a study of her shoes.
“That some people have the ability to hear the real you through all the noise. They’re worth everything,” he said.
Ah. She had to look up and see his face because that was insightful and beautiful.
The let me out button glowed in her peripheral vision, like the alternative life she might’ve had if she’d gone after a relationship as hard as she’d gone after her career. “Could you find that person again?” She didn’t like to think of him as being alone and lonely.
“It was years ago. The Property of Paradise days. Jay was still with us. We had no idea what we were doing half the time. I couldn’t decide if it was worth the fighting and the constant fear of failing. We had some hits. We had a following. Small but dedicated and that made a huge difference, but I was working two jobs and not making rent some months and still having to go to my parents for a feed.” He shook his head as if he was back there and didn’t like it. She was back there with him and she should hit the panic button now, right now, because this was insanely too close to a time they’d shared.
“You don’t want to hear about this, do you?” he said, as they took another step closer.
Heaven help her, heart in her throat, she nodded. “If you want to tell me.”
“I was ready to give up, and this chick. This woman,” he corrected. “She was goth and smart and funny and had this wicked memory. We spent the time together and we didn’t truly know each other at all but she saw me through the noise.”
Mena’s body chilled. “Goth?” Her voice came out strangely. Grip interpreted that as uncertain and explained.
“Long blue-black hair, pale skin and dark makeup. She wore torn fishnets and vinyl.” He grinned, “Not much of either,” touched his throat. “Studded choker. Skinny. Fire as fuck.”
He could’ve slept with a dozen skinny goth girls. It’s not like Mena had been the only one on the scene, but he’d mentioned memory. She had to take another step towards him. He couldn’t know. He couldn’t possibly know. She’d left no clues to her former life, but she had to be giving them off now. He was going to think she was panicking.
Grip tucked a wayward towel back into the narrowing shelving, his big hand easily creating space for it. She remembered those big hands on her body, the span of them, the weight, the sanctuary of his hold, exciting her, giving her pleasure. She folded her arms to contain the feeling in her body, to put a barrier between the reminiscence and the reality. He could not possibly be talking about Philly.
“She taught me the eighty-twenty rule. She’s the reason I didn’t quit on the band. She’s the reason I’m rich enough to be standing in a squeeze box with my investment advisor.”
Mena locked her arms down on her ribs, her breath shuddering. There was no doubt now. He remembered Philly; if not by name, by the strength of their encounter.
“I’ve slept with a lot of women. But this one. We clicked. Dumbest thing I ever did was pretending it was nothing, walking away and not getting her number.” He dropped his chin as if embarrassed by his revelation. “You probably think I’ve got rose-colored glasses on?”
She shook her head, not trusting her voice and incapable of a response that wasn’t the truth. She’d have given him her number in a flick of his drumstick. Could they have made a life together? Would she have kept the promises she’d made to herself?