Chapter 10
In the span of one night, my world has gone crazy. Okay, maybe crazier. And I have nowhere to go to escape the madness. Semi-drunk I sit on the curb in front of Marcus’s dorm next to my car. The keys are in my bag in his room. Though I wouldn’t drive after drinking, at least I could curl up in the backseat if I could get in, but no, my night just keeps getting better. Between Aaron’s horrendous hot flash and my two best friends who can’t stand each other having a screw fest, I can’t imagine things getting worse.
“Riley?” someone asks from behind me.
I turn to find Romeo staring down at me. Yup, things just got worse. The last thing I need right now is dealing with his shit.
He bends, setting his elbows on his knees. “You okay?”
My lip quivers. Maybe it’s the craziness of the night. Maybe it’s the consumption of too much alcohol. Or maybe it’s the concern in his gaze, but suddenly I feel like bawling all over again.
His brows lower. “Why are you sitting out here?”
My lip quivers again but somehow I hold in the tears. “Um…I’m waiting for Marcus and Chloe.” That’s kind of the truth.
He glances at the phone in his hand. “It’s past two o’clock. You shouldn’t be out here alone.”
I shrug while holding in a second round of tears.
His dark eyes become more concerned. His fingers reach for my arm. “Why don’t you wait in my room?”
“You live here too?” I asked surprised. I’d expect Romeo to live in some kind of swanky apartment where girls come to be seduced. Or maybe to seduce.
Nodding, he pulls harder and we stand. I’m thinking about telling him that I’ll just wait here. Extra time around Romeo isn’t on my agenda, but the idea of Marcus finding me out here waiting and explaining why doesn’t hold much appeal. So I let Romeo tug me inside. His door is the second from the entrance.
For a few seconds we’re engulfed in darkness until he flips a lamp on and soft light fills the space. Of course, the room looks very similar to Marcus’s. Two twin beds on each wall. Two desks and two dressers on top of an industrial tiled floor. But the thing that sets it apart are the two halves of the room. On one side, the walls are covered with movie and band posters like any other dorm room. The other wall is plain except for a long shelf over the bed filled with musical instruments.
Romeo drops his keys on a dresser while I stare at the shelf. There’s a banjo, several flutes, a violin, and even a thin drum. The sight of the shelf has me forgetting the problems overwhelming me while sitting on the curb. After his acoustic performance tonight, I don’t even have to ask if they’re all his. “Do you know how to play all of those?”
He falls onto a chair in front of a desk. “Some better than others.”
Entranced with that shelf, I tug off my boots, kneel on the bed, and reach for the drum then pause. My glance to him is questioning. He nods stoically. I sit on the bed with the instrument on my knees. The wood is slightly warped. A faded, knotted design fills the center. And the fastenings are made of wood. The drum is obviously old and homemade. My fingers trace the painted knots. “Where did you get this?”
Romeo’s gaze rises from the motion of my fingers. He lets out a short breath. “It was my grandfather’s. His father’s before that. Someone down the line even farther made it.”
I smile. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s called a bodhrán,” he says softly. Most likely thinking I’m a sentimental drunk girl, Romeo just stares at me.
My eyes shift away from his gaze back to the shelf. I’d like to reach up and grab the beater for the drum, but other than the care the instrument needs—I still feel the cloudy effects of one too many shots—it is late. Pounding on a drum in the dorm during the wee hours of morning probably isn’t a good idea. I turn and put the drum back, but the sight of all those instruments has me yearning for the sound of music. “Which do you play best?”
His dark eyes now hooded hide what he’s thinking. “The fiddle.”
I tilt my head and glance at the instruments.
“The violin,” he says, clarifying.
“Oh,” I say, reaching for the instrument and its bow. I hold them out to him. He raises a brow that slips under the ever-present angle of hair across his forehead. I extend my arms. “Play something for me. Since it’s late, something soft I guess.”
With an expressionless face, he slowly reaches out and takes the fiddle from my grasp. Tucking it under his chin and lifting the bow, his dark eyes watch me but at the first note, his lashes sweep down.
The tune is soft and haunting with long notes as his dexterous fingers move on the stem. My breath catches at both the melody and the sight of him. The muscles of his neck are held tight at an angle from holding the instrument under his chin. The light from the lamp shines off one high cheekbone. Full lips are slightly open while the sweep of his lashes creates shadows on his skin.
He plays with a deep felt emotion like he did playing Remember Everything. I sit frozen and captivated. Drunker on him than alcohol.
Done, he lowers the fiddle to his lap and his gaze finds me.
I let out the air I’d been holding in. “That was beautiful.” I don’t tell him both the music and the sight of him.
He gives me a half smile.
“What was it?”
“Some old Irish folk tune,” he says with a shrug.
“Your grandfather taught you?”
“Years ago.”
My foggy brain puts two and two together. “You wrote all our original music?”
He nods.
Thinking of the band, my eyes narrow. “You’re not being a dick to me. Why aren’t you being a dick?”
He glances at the wall of posters across from us. “Not the time. I found you sitting on a curb looking lost and sad. Not your usual warrior self.”
I flinch. He’s referring to super bitch. “Okay, but why are you usually such a dick?”
“I told you.” He sighs and runs a hand through his dark hair. “I want you to quit.”
Shit. I feel my lip trembling again. “Why?” I say in a desperate sounding whisper and embarrassment rushes under my skin.
He stands and lays the fiddle back on the shelf before plopping next to me on the bed. He claps his hands together and sets his elbows on his knees. Looking at the floor, he says, “When it comes to the band, Justin and I rarely get along. Sam picks sides every other day. I’m fucking sick of it. I formed the band. I write the music. I set up almost everything. Do most of the work. I had three meetings with those fraternities and sororities over the last two weeks so everything would go smooth tonight. Justin likes to play at being the front man and I don’t really give a shit in public but when he tries to call the shots behind the scenes,” he finally looks at me, “I get pissed.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Most likely Marcus, I ignore it. I’m trying to understand what Romeo’s saying but it isn’t clicking. “So you didn’t want me for a drummer because Justin did?”
His mouth turns down as he nods. “That’s part of it.”
“What’s the other part?” I ask with dread.
“Like I said, we don’t get along. And…having a girl in the band just seems like a bad, bad idea. Especially you.”
I stare at him totally confused. What’s so wrong with me?
“It’s not just that you’re good looking.”
Me good looking? Though far from obsessed with my physical side, I accepted my little girl cuteness a long time ago. I could be plain or even unattractive. Cute isn’t so bad, but good looking? Coming from His Hotness? My head swims, and it definitely isn’t from the alcohol.
His gaze finds the floor again while his clasped hands tighten. “When you play, you’re so focused, so driven, so damn beautiful.”
My breath catches. I go from swimming to drowning. No one has ever called me beautiful. Much less the hottest man on the planet. And after Aaron’s revelation this evening that Romeo called me beautiful probably means more than it should.
“They’re already flirting. Soon one of them is going to make a move and…” He glances up and stops at my open mouth stare. “What?”
I’m humming inside. I could blame it on the alcohol but it’s him. His eyes so dark they’re almost black. Lips so full they draw me to them. The sexiness always dripping from him somehow hums into me. And that word. Beautiful. I want to kiss him. Badly. Desperate for him, I lurch forward. Completely uncoordinated within my rush of desire—and perhaps too much alcohol—I collide with the side of his head.
“Ow!” I rear back holding my forehead.
“Shit!” Romeo says at the same time. “What the hell was that?” Leaning back, he rubs his temple. “You trying to kill me?”
My face burns as he watches me. My red skin must give him a clue at what I was trying to do because comprehension slowly enters his gaze.
Still rubbing his temple, he says, “I can’t figure you out. Every time I think I have…” His eyes cloud with indecision.
Turning redder by the second, I’m about to jump off the bed and run from the room when he reaches out and catches my chin in a tender grip. I freeze. My skin tingles under his touch. He gently pulls me closer and leans forward. My heart threatens to thud out of my chest as our gazes lock. Mine has to be a picture of shock and wonder.
“You do something that blows my opinion upside down,” he whispers, tracing my bottom lip with a calloused finger.
Those full lips come closer and I’m lustful energy, trying to throw myself in his lap and attack him, but he holds me back with a gentle hand at my shoulder and kisses me softly. Once, twice, three times. My heart still thuds wildly yet I catch the rhythm he sets. A rhythm that wants to savor our kiss. Savor me.
I thought I was drowning, but I’m floating. Upward and into him and his slow burning lips.
He builds the tempo, pressing his soft lips harder against mine while his hand gently slides up my neck, digs into my ponytail, and loosens my hair. Fingers tangle in released strands, gripping my head while his other hand curls around my waist. He gently drags me closer and his tongue sweeps, slow and delicious, across mine. His mouth’s sensual and slow exploration has my hands gripping the skin of his shoulders left bare from his sleeveless shirt. As he delves deeper, I suck at his tongue and he groans into me. My nails dig into his skin.
That groan was hot.
Suddenly, I’m lying on my back. Romeo kneels over me, hands pressed into the bed on each side of my head. He bends, his hair brushing my forehead, and slowly draws my lower lip into his mouth in a sensual draw that has me both drowning and floating. Though I can feel the warmth radiating from his body, I want to feel all of him. I curl a leg around the worn butt of his jeans and attempt to pull him down, even pull at his string necklace with its attached Celtic symbol. My body is screaming for the contact.
Letting go of my lip with a tender tug, he rolls to my side. Not what I was aiming for but the line of his hard body against mine has me turning my head. Once again, we kiss slowly until the rhythm between us builds. Callused fingers find the bottom edge of my top and skim across my stomach. My body’s jolt tears our mouths apart. He chuckles —the sound echoes inside of me—but his hand stills.
“You okay?” he whispers and nips at my ear.
Unable to speak with his mouth on my skin, I nod.
His lips slide along the line of my jaw while his fingers swirl a pattern on my stomach and ribs. By the time his lips cover mine, I’m panting. Hard. The kiss is frantic and hot and nothing like I’ve ever felt. A mere kiss has never gotten me so worked up. Between more searing kisses, he tugs at my top and I eagerly help him shed it from my skin. His mouth and weight press me back into the bed. When his hand slips under my sports bra and his rough palm grazes my skin, I moan into him.
His arm trembles. His tongue pauses its movement with mine. Slowly he pulls back and I almost whimper as his hand leaves my skin. “This is going too fast,” he gasps. His gaze devours my body before he quickly yanks a blanket across my semi nakedness.
My fingers grip his arm as my eyes question his.
“We’re just starting to become friends,” he says with lashes sweeping down so I can’t read his eyes. “We’re not ready for this.”
“You don’t want me,” I blurt out miserably still raw from Aaron’s revelation earlier and the memories of countless girls surrounding Romeo.
“No.” He shakes his head. “That’s not it.”
I look at the wall while my lower lip trembles again. What the hell is wrong with me tonight? I want to put my trembling lip in a strait jacket.
“Riley,” he says lowly, but trying to get my emotions under control I stare at the painted brick wall. He tugs my hand gently and places it there. “Does that feel like I don’t want you?” he asks hoarsely.
My gaze flies to his. He drops my burning hand. It curls in remembrance.
I try to explain my reaction. “I just…my ex…he didn’t…he said…” I ramble weakly with my voice breaking. A sob builds in my throat while he frowns and stares at me. Still a bit buzzed and depleted from our blast of lust, I’m falling apart into pieces of anguish. “He admitted…he never thought—”
“Shhhh,” he whispers, pulling me closer to him by the waist and cradling me against his shoulder while his fingers stroke through my hair.
The weight of the night settles on my chest. I slowly release a shudder and my body calms. He keeps gently stroking my hair. My eyes flutter closed. His thumb at my waist creates a soothing pattern. I let out another deep breath and drift into the cocoon he creates until dreams and darkness engulf me.