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

thing anyone on or off her list had ever done for her. That simple can I kiss you, the wait while she answered, before he’d yanked her close and kissed her senseless.
They’d spent hours making out and having sex, but they’d spent longer talking. He’d told her how difficult it was to stay neutral when the Tice brothers, his bandmates, fought amongst themselves and how much his parents had sacrificed to give him music lessons and his guilt at not being able to pay them back.
“I feel like I’m on a treadmill going nowhere,” he’d said.
As the sun rose, he admitted he was thinking about quitting because he couldn’t see how he’d ever be able to make a decent living with the band without having to keep his second and third jobs. And that he was worried about how he’d cope if Jay, the only other non-Tice family member, left the band.
Mena let him talk and didn’t try to solve his problems for him, then he’d kissed her into a stupor and woke her up again by asking her questions about her life. That was another first. She’d told him about her disapproving mother and her horrible café job and how she didn’t know what she was doing with her life. And then she admitted he was the top of her list. That having scored him, she’d made a promise to herself to go back to uni, finish her degree and get a proper job.
She could still replay their conversation in her head.
“I don’t really want to go back,” she’d said. It would be hard. She’d have to keep her shitty café job and carry HECs debt for years.
“So don’t do it.”
“I can’t do this forever.” She didn’t want to be broke and scared and running on bravado for the rest of her life. She wanted normal. She wanted secure but it was impossible to admit that out loud. “And everyone isn’t kind like you.”
He’d frowned at that. “I’m not being kind, I’m—”
“Most of the men I sleep with don’t bother asking about me.”
“That’s—”
“What this is. A good time, not a long time. This is the ultimate in hooking up but it’s not real life.”
“It’s my real life,” he’d said.
“Even knowing you might quit?”
He’d rolled her over then, so they faced each other. Both of them on the verge of quitting who they were to become something different. “Do you think I should quit?” he’d asked.
“Not if you’re doing what you love.”
“I don’t always love it.”
“Give me a percentage.”
He’d kissed her for a while then, as if he needed thinking time, and then replied. “Eighty, twenty.”
“You love it eighty percent of the time?”
He’d nodded. She’d opened her legs to him and when he was seated inside her she’d said, “The Pareto principle rules. Suck it up, sugar.”
He’d given her orgasm number four then and before they slept, he’d said, “Whatever you choose to do, Philly, you’ll always be extraordinary.”
Seven mornings later she’d woken alone with a hangover, to find Grip had drawn the word extraordinary on her hip as if it was a nightclub stamp, the kind you got on your hand when you paid your entry fee. Bold capital letters shot through with shooting stars. She’d realized later it was the visual style used for their next album cover of the same name, the one that helped them break out.
She’d had a guy autograph her boob once, this was different. Making it permanent was like a tribute to her old life and a prayer for her new one.
Now it felt like a liability. As if Grip could see through her clothing and have a sudden epiphany of how they’d met which would lead to her being suddenly no longer partner material.
Vera nudged her. “You’re thinking about him, aren’t you? All the lewd details.”
“I’m thinking I really can’t see him again.”
“You’ve gotten so conservative, Mena. It’s like I don’t know you anymore.”
“That’s not fair. I wanted something better, I wanted security and I went after it. You were always going to remain a rebel.” And they were always going to be friends, regardless of occasional disputes like this.
“It’s not about that. It’s that you’re ready to jeopardize a partnership that you’ve worked toward since you tumbled out of Grip’s bed over nothing. Even if he remembered Philly, you’re not her anymore. And like you said you don’t really know him. What did he say in the car?”
“It was a truck with monster tires with the number plate Wanker and he said he was looking forward to working with me, because he thought I had the right stuff to help him become a better person.”
Vera laughed. “He wants you for his muse.”
“Oh Goddamn it.” Mena hung her head. Once she’d have given anything, everything for that status with a talented musician. “Don’t say that.”
Puffing on an imaginary cigar, Vera said, “I’ve only got one more question. Can you be his financial muse without wanting to be between his legs again because if you can’t keep your hands to yourself, maybe you’re right about resigning him. A sex scandal with a client is something you don’t need.” She groaned. “I can’t believe I just said that, but here I am respecting your most ardent desire for being boring.”
“I’ve long since grown out of wanting men who hit things for a living.”
Had the cigar been real, Vera would’ve blown smoke in Mena’s face. “Pants on fire.”
“I’m not lying. Did you hear me say he drove a monster truck? I can admit he’s still sexy and he does it for me, but I don’t want a musician in my life. Imagine the baggage. It would be like regressing. Besides, I’m building something with Stu.” That was the idea at least.
“As long as that thing you’re building