Where Lightning Strikes (Bleeding Stars #3)(2)

You are strong. You are strong, I chanted beneath my breath.

I hated being this girl. Fearful and scared of emotions I didn’t want to feel. But that’s how this boy made me. Shaky and confused and losing the grip of the carefully constructed walls I clung to.

Like each step he took tipped my world further on its side.

He shouldn’t have been here.

Not in my adopted town.

Not yet.

Last fall, I’d nearly dropped to my knees and shouted my relief toward the heavens when he’d returned to Los Angeles for seven months. He’d gone with the rest of his band, Sunder, where the four had been working on their latest album.

I’d known he’d be returning. But I’d thought I had another week. Another week to prepare and fortify and strengthen all my shields.

I needed that week.

And there he was, twenty feet away.

He paused beneath one of the many canopies set up along the sidewalk, grinning at a middle-aged woman offering her wares at her stand. He smiled, spoke words I was too far away to hear, but in the short distance, I was pretty sure the poor girl was melting at his feet.

I understood her pain.

His hair was thick and black, pieces chunky and unruly. Just as unruly as the near pitch-black of his eyes. I was convinced they’d be completely black except for the fact those darkened pools of obsidian were broken up by flecks of grays and browns that sucked you into their depth. Like sharp, cutting edges of crystallized molten flamed from within.

He was tall.

So damned ridiculously tall.

Lean but strong in a menacing way. Bad was written across him, just like the tattoos covering every inch of exposed skin. Each cocky grin was hand-delivered with a lethal dose of masculinity, and I was sure I heard every single movement of that sinewy body scream with the same warning: Touch at your own risk.

That same feeling of endangered excitement shivered down my spine and flipped in my belly.

The buzz before the strike.

No. No. No.

Those dark, dark eyes suddenly snapped my direction. I yanked my attention back front and center. I pretended I was all too interested in the Red Delicious apples spilling out of a short wooden barrel turned on its side to make a display on the table in front of where I stood.

Damn it.

“Those are as fresh as they come,” the man running the booth was telling me. “Picked them myself this morning.” My head bobbed along in agreement as if I possessed the faculty to process what he was saying, while I fought against that warm sensation welling firm and far too quickly.

A bristle of energy and a flash of light.

Coming closer.

Growing stronger.

A tattooed hand darted out in front of me and plucked up an apple. He began to toss it in the air.

With nowhere left to hide, I conjured the fight. The promise I’d made myself that I was the one in control.

No man would ever hold the power to hurt me. Not ever again.

Eyes narrowed, I turned to glare up at him.

The air rippled and shook.

Or maybe it was my knees.

Lyrik smirked, amusement tweaking his red, full lips that I’d bet had to be just as delicious as the apple.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Red.”

Damn Sebastian Stone, lead singer of Lyrik’s band, for giving me that nickname. I mean, come on, my hair was red. He could have come up with something more ingenious than that.

It’d stuck.

But the way it slid off Lyrik’s tongue? It sounded as if it were one of the seven deadly sins. One he’d sell his soul to commit.

“What are you doing here?” I forced a sneer, praying he’d get the message and go on his way.

He kept tossing that apple.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Right into his big, capable hand.

“Here for the big wedding. What do you think I’m doing here? And don’t tell me you didn’t miss me.”

“Can’t miss what doesn’t even cross your mind.”

“Ouch.” He inflected the word as if it were nothing more than a joke, as if the idea were completely absurd. His laughter was cool and confident. “You really gonna stand there and tell me in the last seven months, you haven’t thought about me at all?”

“Yeah, I really am.”

Big, fat lie.

One I was taking to my grave.

And like there was a chance I’d crossed his mind. Even once. This boy didn’t just look bad.

He was bad.

There wasn’t a photo I saw him in where he didn’t have at least two girls hanging on him, those arms wrapped around their shoulders with a lusty gleam in his eye. Not to mention, I’d seen him in action on more occasions than I cared to count at the bar where I worked.

It was apparent Lyrik West had a type.

Maybe I looked like it from the outside. Short skirts and high, high heels, dark-rimmed eyes, tattoos and lace.

But I was nothing like those girls.

It didn’t matter how hard he tried to coax me into being her.

He chuckled, playing his game. This guy was so absurdly hot, so damned gorgeous, he rode around on a chariot of presumption.

He just reached out and took whatever he wanted, probably because he was so accustomed to it being thrown at him at every turn.

“That’s a shame, Red,” he said, giving another toss of that apple. “I was hoping when I got back, you and I could be friends.”