Full Tilt (Full Tilt #1)(25)

This time, she wasn’t out cold, but swimming in inebriation—sometimes deep under and hardly able to keep her feet, sometimes coming up for air to walk with me. Twice she threw her arms around my neck and murmured in my ear how grateful she was I’d saved her. My skin broke out in gooseflesh and my groin tightened as I went to lay her down in my bed.

“Jonah,” she sighed, still clinging to me, trying to pull me down on the bed with her. “You’re so good to me. The last good man on earth.”

“Kacey, wait…”

I tried to gently pry her arms from my neck but she was tenacious. Her lips brushed my skin above my uniform collar. Warm, wet kisses under my ear, working up until her teeth grazed my earlobe, and I had to clench my teeth. She licked and teased, her mouth a gravitational pull and I was being sucked in, ready to collapse over her, into her. My hands wanted the softness of her skin and hair, the full curve of her breasts under my palm…

“Kacey,” I said. “We can’t…”

“We can,” she whispered against my cheek. Her mouth moved along my jaw, her lips blazing a trail across skin that hadn’t felt a woman’s touch in more than a year. Her hands tangled in my hair, little breathy noises of want issuing from her throat. Her mouth had almost found mine when a pungent waft of whiskey filled my nose, bringing me around like a slap.

What the hell are you doing?

I pulled away before her lips found mine and disentangled myself from her embrace.

“You’re no fun,” she murmured, and then stretched her arms over her head, her fingers splayed on the wooden bedframe. Her breasts pushed against the flimsy, glittery material of her black halter-top. “Don’t be like that. Come to bed, baby.”

Reality doused me like a bucket of ice water.

I could be anyone right now.

“You need to sleep it off,” I snapped. I unzipped the duffel that Lola had packed for her, and dug around until I found a T-shirt and pair of soft shorts. I laid them out on the bed and started for the door.

No sooner had I shut off the light then her voice carried to me, small and fragile in the dark.

“Wait. Jonah…?”

I stopped but didn’t turn, my shoulders sagging. “Yeah?”

“Stay. The ceiling…It’s spinning…”

Don’t do it.

I did. Drawn in.

I turned and moved slowly back to the bed. The only light came from the street outside, a white light casting a silvery glow over the bed, through her hair that had fallen from its knot. She held out her hand. I took it, and sat beside her.

Kacey sidled up close to me, pressed her cheek against my thigh and wrapped her arm around my knees. “Where am I?” Her voice was slurred a little, growing weak as sleep took her. “Where am I, Jonah?”

“You’re safe, Kacey,” I murmured. I held her for a little while, then helped her change into her comfortable clothes—taking care to keep my eyes averted as much as possible from her body, pale and smooth and stretched out before me.

I pulled up the covers. And because I thought she wouldn’t remember this in the morning, I stroked her hair until she fell asleep. Then I went out, closing the door softly behind me.





Someone was running that damned chainsaw again.

I jerked awake, blinking at the early morning light streaming in from a small window. It illuminated a bedroom: bed, dresser, nightstand, all plain in a bachelor-pad kind of way. On the floor next to the bed were my duffel and the small leather backpack that served as my purse. Outside the door, the whirring continued.

Jonah and his godawful blender.

It took me a blurry minute to put the puzzle pieces together from last night. Memories came to me like scattered photographs: the drummer from Until Tomorrow, our opening act, pawing at me before Jonah knocked him on his ass.

“Do you want to get out of here?”

And I had felt so safe…

I sat up slowly and pushed back the covers to find I was in a T-shirt and sleep shorts. A vague memory swam up: Jonah helping me peel off my leather jeans, helping me change clothes…

I kissed him. Just his neck and ear… But he smelled so good. I tried to pull him to bed and…

“Oh my God.” Mortification ran scarlet over my skin and I held my aching head in my hands. “No, no, no… Not Jonah. Not him.”

It wasn’t the alcohol. Not entirely. It was the goddamn insatiable need for connection, driving me to find comfort anywhere and any way I could. Jonah took care of me, protected me, and I’d reduced him to the same level as the nameless roadies I took to my bed.

I glanced at the nightstand. A glass of water, two aspirin.

Tears sprang to my eyes.

The clock radio read 7:04. Jonah would be leaving for the hot shop any minute. I got up, opened the bedroom door and padded into the narrow hallway. The blender went quiet and I heard men’s voices talking. Someone else was here. I shifted on the balls of my feet, frozen. Part of me begged to slip back to the bedroom and hide, pretend none of this happened. The other half, sick of hiding behind Jagermeister and whiskey, pushed me toward the kitchen.

Jonah looked cleanly handsome in jeans and a pale blue T-shirt. He took a pill from the Sunday compartment in one of those day-of-the-week medication containers. The rest of the compartments were crammed full, their lids bulging into domes. He washed the pill down with what looked like a tall glass of mud and ground up grass. The grimace that twisted his lips told me the drink didn’t taste any better than it looked.