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She buries her face into his chest, and I take a step toward them. I want to explain to Laredo what's going on. I want to let Ariel know I'm here for her, too.
But what I want doesn't matter. It never does.
Laredo lifts one finger, and my world halts.
"I got her," he whispers in my direction. "Go take a walk."
My feet freeze, not sure I've heard him. He raises his hand in my direction, his index and middle finger wagging down toward the floor. He wiggles the digits, the universal sign to leave.
I do what's in my DNA. I don't object. I comply.
I leave.
Chapter Eight
Ariel
Laredo's powerful arms hold me tight, and for the moment, I feel safe. His fingers stroke my hair, and he coos into my ear. The scent of coffee and cologne reminds me of the band. Their over-scented attempts thrown on after a show on their way out the dressing room door.
We remain like this for what feels like ten minutes. Laredo's talented fingers massage my lower back, and I feel the tensions slowly easing from my body.
Why do I care about my mom? After all these years. She tried to contact me after our third album got some traction, but time hadn't softened my position. Her timing was suspect, and I let my stubbornness and temper get the better of me that day. I spat her words back at her, telling her if she was interested in having a relationship with me, it would have to wait until I had finished playing in my little band with my little friends. I slingshot her words back at her like rocks thrown through the windows of a glasshouse.
I'll never forget being abandoned by her. Not by someone who's supposed to never leave you, no matter what. It's one of the reasons my six best friends in the entire world are my bandmates. They've always been there for me.
When I refused to go home, I spent two months hopping from one friend's house to another. My stubborn anger telling me I didn't need her. I didn't care. She became my devil. The Devil may care, but I don't. At least that's what I fool myself into believing.
"Hey." Laredo's finger traces up my bare arm. The light touch causes me to lift my head from his chest.
I blink away the blurry image, and he comes into focus. He's staring down at me with a perplexed look of confusion and empathy. I can only imagine what's going through his head. The badass rock goddess he sees me as is, in reality, a whimpering little girl with mommy issues. Took him all of a day to find this out.
His index finger strokes along the outline of my jaw, stopping at my chin. A slight tilt up. I've gone quiet enough. I guess I'll have to explain to him why I'm crying.
My lips part, but no sound escapes because the bastard has pressed his lips to mine. WTF? I shove him in the chest. Hard. And follow it up with another. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
He steps back, but no apology escapes those lips. It's the opposite. He smirks at me.
My blood boils. I point a finger and shake my head. "I can't believe… for one second there, I forgot who you were. Did you really…" All I see is red. My hands ball into fists, and I lower them before I do something I'll regret. Not punch him, but possibly injure my hand.
I scan the studio and realize we're alone. "Where is your brother?" This question finally elicits a response. His smirk disappears.
"I told him to take a walk. He obviously said or did something to make you cry." He pauses as if he's weighing his next words. I wait and pray he uses the time wisely. "I thought I was helping."
"And kissing a woman without permission is your way of helping?" I don't need him to answer that question. I've seen too many men think it is. "Keep your hands and your lips to yourself from now on."
"Is that what you really want?" He lifts his hands up in surrender, but the mischievous sneer he gives me tells me giving up is the last thing on his mind.
"Get out," I scream, pointing toward the door. He hesitates as if a woman yelling at him to leave is foreign to him. I'm sure it's not. "If you don't leave this moment, I'll kick your ass and drag you all the way to the airport." My chest heaves, and I feel my pulse racing as I take a step toward him.
He steps around me in a half jog, stopping at his guitar case. He scoops it up along with his coffee. I cross my arms against my chest and tap my foot, hoping he gets the message. Get the hell out right now.
Most men would get the message. Most men, when faced with the fury of woman, have sense enough to heed the warning and run. Laredo isn't most men. He lifts his coffee and takes a slow sip. "So, what time should I come back?"
I flip him my middle finger, and he offers his standard sexy smirk.
"So, one o'clock it is."
I fight the laugh forming from his nonsensical response. I bite my lower lip and watch him turn and leave. Only when I know he's safely gone, do I relax. The stupid grin forming tells me that regardless of how much I can't stand his actions, Laredo does have a certain charm. He's the type of guy you know is trouble with a capital T. The type that has disaster written in billboard-sized neon letters. Yet, he gives you enough glimpses of the possibilities that make woman disregard all the signs.
