Drive(56)

“Nate,” I said with a sigh. “I can’t do this right now. I’m late.”

“Do what?” he said with a slow-building grin.

“Anything. I have somewhere to be.”

“Get in,” he ordered. “I’ll drive you.”

I bit my lip and stared at him.

“Stella, I’m harmless.”

“I’m good.”

“Get in. We can’t have you wandering the streets in that skirt.” I had changed into my black halter-top, hot-pink leather miniskirt, and black high-top Converse with Beastie Boy’s “Sure Shot” lyrics scribbled on the sides.

“Just a ride.” I jumped into his passenger seat and buckled my belt, the air from his AC blowing the heat back to hell. “Ahhh, God, it’s been a bitch of a summer. Thank you for the ride.”

“Where to?”

“Red Eye Fly. You know it?”

“Sure. Show?”

“Yeah.” I looked his way with guilty eyes, withholding an invitation for him to join me. He didn’t hesitate as he drove out of the parking lot.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get your emails. I’m in between places.”

“Would it have made a difference?” he asked, knowing the answer. I couldn’t resist the urge to look at him. He was the opposite of Reid, not nearly as jaded, a playful light in his eyes, and full of easy conversation, which he initiated.

“How are you liking Austin?”

“Ha,” I said, throwing my head back. “At the moment, that’s a loaded question.”

He leaned over to adjust the AC, and my body tensed. His chest rose and fell in a silent chuckle. He was satisfied with his effect on me.

“Little bit jumpy tonight, aren’t we, Stella?”

“I’m late,” I said coolly.

“Well, then let’s not keep him waiting,” Nate murmured.

“It’s a band I’m writing an article about,” I said defensively. “And they are incredible.”

“Looking forward to reading it,” Nate said, slightly withdrawn, as if his suspicions were confirmed. I was equal parts relieved and disappointed that he knew where I stood. And at the same time, I couldn’t stop looking at him. His sleek jaw, the wave in his hair, the light sprinkle of hair on the back of his hands. He was gorgeous in the way that made me uncomfortable. It was as if he was too much man.

“Stella?”

We were parked outside the club. “Oh,” I said, unbuckling my belt as I glanced over at the multicolored stone building. “Thanks again.”

“Anytime,” Nate said. “And I mean that. I’m just a few blocks away, okay?”

“Okay, thanks,” I said as I opened the door and looked back at him with a smile. “See you in two months, boss.”

I didn’t look back, though I was tempted, and heard him pull away. I was just about to enter the club when I saw a cloud of smoke to my right. Maybe it was instinct, but I knew he was there, and the sight of his black boots beneath the oak tree that hovered over the club confirmed it. I looked up to see his watchful eyes on me. Ben was next to him with a group of guys I didn’t recognize. They were all smoking in a circle, talking music as Reid’s eyes stayed trained on me as I approached.

Ben saw me and gave a low whistle. “Hey, beauty, settle this debate for us.”

“She can’t tell you anything, man,” a punk with peroxide-lightened hair said as he looked me over.

“And sexism lives on,” I muttered as I gave Reid a shy smile, but he didn’t return it. Shit.

“What’s the debate?”

Ben started rattling on about the difference between rock genres and The Dead Kennedys.

“Afro-punk,” I offered easily, feeling myself wither as Reid crushed his butt.

“Told you,” Ben said.

“No way, man. There’s no such thing,” the guy insisted.

“You should watch Spooner’s documentary. They’re coming up with subgenres every day for rock because it’s starting to vary in degrees. Suicidal Tendencies is afro punk, too.”

“And who the hell are you?” the guy asked.

“She’s little sister,” Reid said with bite as he walked past me.

“Hey,” I said carefully and grabbed his hand. He dodged my grasp and pulled out his keys. “Take the truck home.”

I pressed my brows together, my chest heavy. “What?”

“Or stay, whatever,” he said, turning his back to me.

“He just gave me a ride,” I piped as I showed my ID to the doorman, who barely glanced at it before he circled my wrist with a paper bracelet.

“It’s good you’re making friends,” Reid said, his voice cool, indifferent.

“Yeah,” I said, unwilling to entertain his shit another second. “Have a good show.”

“Thanks.”

We separated at the bar. I sat on my stool and watched the whole show, my grudge against him disappearing song by song. He lost his shirt, tucking it in his back pocket on the second set. Seduced by the sweat dripping from his hair, the movement of his body, I watched, my reaction the same, the warmth spreading as I kept my eyes glued while a group of girls screamed at the foot of the stage. The club was sweltering and packed beyond its limit. Ben shrieked out the lyrics to one of their originals, “Even”. It was a song about a little boy who was left alone in a dark house, screaming for his mother. It was dark, and it reeked of Reid. I shuddered at the thought of that happening to him. That night there was something different in the way he played, and it radiated off him. He didn’t look up, not once. Not even when Ben tried to engage him. He felt so far away as the fans screamed for them. After the show, Reid made a beeline for me, and we drove home in silence before he retreated to his balcony.