Heartbreaker (Unbreakable #1)(16)

Friends. No sexual qualifier after. Just friends. My heartbeat began to gradually slow. After another few seconds of easier breathing, I stepped out of my car.

Older houses lined the well-maintained street on both sides. A handful of cars were parked along the curbs. A couple sat on driveways. Most were older vehicles.

A captivating bass rhythm caught my attention. It streamed from the house straight ahead and drew me halfway up a flower-lined walkway before I realized I hadn’t shut my car door.

Yet I remained rooted in place. Something soulful about the sound penetrated deep into my bones. The effect was mesmerizing.

An errant breeze skittered a small brown paper bag down the sidewalk. Its crinkling racket continued until it lodged behind my back right tire. I returned to my car and shoved my door shut. Then I picked up the paper bag, crumpled it, and slipped it under the lid of a metal trash can set along the curb.

Seconds later, the incredible music stopped. The hum of a motor began as the two-car garage door slowly lifted, revealing the occupants inside. Five people stood in the empty space. Two college-aged guys held guitars. Haunting deep tones began to stream from the bass guitar, played by a girl, while a lanky guy draped a thin cover over a keyboard.

The fifth stepped out from behind a set of drums.

Darren.

He glanced my way for a split second before turning back toward his bandmates. One of the guys ducked his head under his shoulder strap, removing his guitar. The remaining guitarist stepped near the girl with the bass. They played a short rock riff, then stopped and laughed when she hit a wrong note.

Uncomfortable about intruding, since I had shown up early, I leaned a hip on the back corner of my car, waiting.

Darren secured his drumsticks into a case hanging on one of his larger drums, then walked over to the girl. She nodded, then glanced my way.

Did her charcoaled eyes narrow?

I narrowed my own, assessing her anew. She was young, maybe just out of high school. Her dark shoulder-length hair had a thick bright pink streak on one side. She wore frayed faded jeans, a dark gray henley that clung to a shapely figure, and a black newsboy cap that sat askew, dipping low over her right brow.

My view was suddenly blocked by Darren’s body. He embraced her—as well as one could with a bass guitar between them—then stood there for a moment, head angled down. Seconds later, he turned my way and began striding down the driveway.

“Hey, Flash.” He grinned.

I scowled at the nickname I’d inherited. “You ready?”

“Yep. Want to follow me or go in my truck?”

Hesitating, I glanced down the quiet street again. “It’s okay to leave my car at your house?”

“Not my place. It’s Nick’s. But yeah, it’s cool.”

About to clarify which one Nick was—the girl or one of the guys—my jaw dropped open, mind blanking as I stared at his feet.

“Vibrams!” I pointed to his gray-and-orange shoes in accusation.

He shrugged and opened the passenger door for me. “Yeah, so?”

“But…you harassed me about mine.”

He leaned in my open window, grin twisting sly. “Had to give you shit about something, friend.”

“When did you get them?” Much as I loved mine, his wearing them blew my mind.

“While ago.” He rounded the front of the truck, got in, started the engine, and pulled away before continuing, “You’re right. They are the best shoe for your feet. But, in my opinion, it depends on where you run.”

“Like where?”

“You’ll see.” At the end of the street, he paused, then turned toward the highway.

He said nothing further as he merged into traffic. We passed an exit, then another. A comfortable silence settled between us and I closed my eyes, wondering at the anomaly. What happened to the anxious girl needing her mantra?

Even so, without opening my eyes, I felt a subtle exhilarating tension between us.

I slowly exhaled, thrilling in the sensation. My breaths shallowed within seconds. My body began to warm.

I suddenly blinked my eyes open, off-balance yet again. Then I quickly focused on mundane things: green road signs, stripes on the pavement.

After another mile, once I’d gotten a handle on my libido again, I glanced at him. “So how was class?” He’d mentioned at the community center when he’d walked me to my car that he had two midday classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

“Good. Typical.”

I snorted. “What? The class? Or your short stereotypical guy-speak?”

“Ha ha.” He dropped a put-out look at me. “The professor’s great. He plays alto saxophone and clarinet. Toured with Wynton Marsalis for a few years. Then performed with his Jazz at the Lincoln Center Orchestra for over a decade before deciding to teach.”

“Sounds like a wonderful teacher.”

He gave a short nod. “You can tell he loves it. Just hearing his stories gets my blood pumping.”

“What kind of music were you playing back there?”

“That last was one of our original songs. Rock with a heavy drag rhythm. Did you like it?”

“Yeah. A lot. It was…different. Almost primal.”

An easy smile curved his lips. “Why I like it too. Seeps into your pores.”

I nodded. It had. “The band sounds really great. Do you have a lot of original songs?”