Dirty Past (10 page)

They’re incredible, truly. Four brothers, each so different, so unique, yet they jell together like they’re quadruplets. I don’t think it would make a difference if Kye and Aidan weren’t twins. I think the four of them would fit together in the most perfect way anyway.

It’s easy to see why America—and no joke, the world—loves them. It’s easy to see why they have rabid, crazy fans. Why even moms and grandmas sing along to their songs.

Dirty B. are magnetic, their pull so strong it’s irresistible.

Standing here, listening to Conner drawl the words to the song, to Aidan banging a low beat on the drum, to Kye strumming his guitar, to Tate on bass, every part of me feels alive. Every beat of my heart is in time with the music, every pump of adrenaline matching the strum of the guitar.

And I know that this is what it is to feel. Really feel. To relax and love, to be one with something positive. To understand the sweep of music through your veins.

Each one of them has a different view of the song. It’s in their expressions. Even when they switch to another song seamlessly, never taking a beat or a breath, it’s evident. Every lyric means something different to each of them.

I slide along the wall and take a seat on the chair in the corner. Somehow none of them notice me, so I set my purse on the floor quietly and lift my knees so I can hug them to my chest.

I rest my chin on my knees and listen. I just listen. To the drums, to the guitars, to Conner’s voice, to Tate’s backing him up huskily. And I close my eyes. Hearing them here is different from on a stage, whether it’s a concert or not. This seems more . . . them. How they do it. Where they’re most comfortable.

“Enjoy that?” Conner asks with a teasing lilt in his voice.

I smile and open my eyes. “It wasn’t bad.”

“You wanna hear another?”

“I’d love to,” I admit, still smiling. “You’re all so different here from onstage.”

“We’re sing-in-the-garage boys at heart,” Kye murmurs. “One day, we’ll find a hotel with a fuckin’ garage.”

“Get on that.” Aidan nods his head toward me.

“I’ll make sure to put it on my to-do list.” My smile follows my gaze to him.

“Anythin’ else on that list, darlin’?”

I flick my eyes to Tate. “Oh, a lot of things, but every one that includes your name also includes the word ‘behave,’ so don’t get too excited.”

He smirks. “Els, I’m on the list. That’s enough.”

“But so are your brothers.”

“And that just got a whole lot less sexy.”

“It was never meant to be sexy.”

“Are we singin’ or what?” Conner interjects. “Fail to seduce her on your own time, man. My girlfriend will chew my balls off if I’m late for dinner. I promised Mila Southern fried-chicken pops at dinner if she behaved at bath time this morning, and she did, so let’s get a wriggle on.”

“What are we singing?” Kye asks.

“Take it old school,” Aidan butts in. “ ‘Summertime.’ ”

Conner smiles and runs his hand over his guitar. “All right, bro. ‘Summertime’ it is.”

Aidan counts them in, and they all kick in with the beat, perfectly in tune. I lean my head to the side as Conner begins to sing.

You and me, girl, we were meant to be,

Wave surfin’, sunset kissin’,

Dawn ’til dusk, dusk ’til dawn,

But you were a summertime dream,

Never meant to be, oh girl . . .

“He wrote this for me,” Sofie whispers, sliding onto the seat next to me, Mila clasped on her lap.

“Really?”

She nods sadly. “It was one of the songs he wrote after I left Shelton Bay. I hate it.”

I swallow and look at her. I can see she does—there’s a downcast glint in her eye. “He really loves you, huh? Even back then?”

“Yeah. He does. And I do, too. I made some stupid mistakes, Ella, but I fixed them.” She smoothes Mila’s hair. “I feel guilty, even though he’s forgiven me. I hear these songs . . . and, damn. I know they gotta sing ’em, but I wish they wouldn’t.”

“They sing them so well,” I whisper. “And Conner—it’s so easy to see why so many girls adore him. He means every word he sings, doesn’t he? Especially the ones he’s written.”

Sofie’s lips twitch to the side. “How can you tell the difference?”

I shrug a shoulder. “He sounds . . . different. Like, he smiles a little when he sings his. I didn’t notice it before, but now I’ve seen them without tuning and all that other crap they do, I can see it.”

“He does.” Sofie hugs Mila tight. Mila sucks Bunna’s ear and stares at Conner. “It’s all they know. Music . . . It’s their oxygen. Lyrics are their breaths. They couldn’t live without it. Any of them. It’s been that way as long as I can remember, Ella. If it was taken from any of them . . .” She shakes her head. “Marc threatened to put Tate in rehab.”

“I know. He told me.”

“It isn’t happening.” She looks at me, her eyes glimmering with determination. “These boys are my family, and no one is taking that cocky banana brain away from us.”

I smile. “It’s up to him to stop it. Not us.”

“No. Keep their schedule so full he can’t go out and meet random chicks. Have him escorted from every concert, so even when he signs autographs, he’s guarded. I won’t have him taken away. It would kill her.” She rests her cheek on the back of Mila’s head. “She loves him.”

“He loves her,” I say softly, tugging on a lock of dark unruly hair. Mila looks at me and gives me the biggest, cheesiest grin I’ve ever seen. “It’s a total contradiction to his personality.”

“I know.” Sofie laughs quietly and lets Mila down when the song finishes. “He acts like a big hard man, yet a two-year-old can bring him to his knees.”

“You talkin’ about Tate?” Conner calls, sitting Mila on his lap.

“I wouldn’t give his ego the satisfaction.” Sofie winks.

“Wind it in, sugar, or I’ll come over there and kick your butt,” Tate teases.

“Tay! Be nice!” Mila demands, frowning and pouting. “Be nice, Mama!”

“Yeah, Mama, be nice,” Tate nods to Sofie.

“No! You be nice, Mama,” Mila repeats.

“Be nice to Mama?”

“Yeah!”

Sofie grins. “Yeah, Tate. Be nice.”

Tate looks at her flatly.

“Sofie, stop being mean to him. He doesn’t have his usual frustration outlet, and it’s us with him all day,” Aidan calls across the room. “But if you brought a
Playboy
with you, carry on.”

“Oh, yeah. Because buying a
Playboy
with a two-year-old as a fifth limb doesn’t look awkward at all.”

“Does that mean you got one?” Tate asks, resting his elbows on his knees.

Sofie looks at him. “No.”

“Fuck.”

“Tay!”

“Frogs, Mimi! I said frogs!”

“Hmmm.” She eyes him then turns to Conner. “Dadda, chitten?”

“Okay, baby. We’ll get chicken now.” He stands, lifting her, and sets her on his hip. “Anyone else coming?”

I shake my head no as everyone else answers. Everyone except Tate agrees to go out for dinner.

Crap it. Should have gone with it . . .

“Looks like it’s just me and you, darlin’.” He half-grins across the now-empty room.

“Or it’s me and me, and you and you,” I respond. “Just because we aren’t going doesn’t mean we have to dine together.”

“Who said a thing about dinin’ together?”

My eyes find his across the room, slowly. His look back at me with a glint, one that looks suspiciously like desire.

“No one. But just in case you got ideas.”

“Els, darlin’, I’ve always got ideas when you’re around.”

Oh hell. “I think I’m going to call for room service. Alone.” I add as an afterthought, making it clear with a sharp gaze that “alone” really does mean “alone.”

“Whatever you want.” Tate leans back in his chair, crossing his arms across his chest.

“You’re not—you’re not going to fight me on that?”

“Do you want me to?”

“No. I’m just surprised you’re not.” I gather my purse from the floor and sling it over my arm. “What are you going to do?”

He shrugs, a tantalizing smirk playing on his lips.

“Tate.”

“If you keep saying my name, my answer is ‘I’m goin’ to kiss you.’ ”

I narrow my eyes. “I’m going to call Carlos and get him to keep an eye on you. You’re not to leave this hotel. Do you understand that, Mr. Burke?”

The smirk falls from his lips. “Mr. Burke again? Really?”

I whip out my cell phone, press call, and shoot him a look over my shoulder as I walk away.

Tate

That look was far too fucking attitude-filled for my liking. And that smirk on her pink lips. Damn.

I leave my guitar leaning against my chair and get up, following her out the door. Having dinner alone my ass—there ain’t a chance in hell she’s gonna do that. I’m going to follow her ass through this hotel and up to her room because I want to. Besides, with the others not around, it’s the perfect chance to pull some of that past of hers out of her, to make her talk.

I wanna hear her talk.

You don’t run from one night of abuse. That much is painstakingly clear.

“Hey, sugar,” I drawl, leaning on the receptionist’s desk.

“Mr. Burke.” She glances up through her hair.

“C’mon, now, I’ve told you to call me Tate . . .” My eyes flick to her badge. “Stacey.”

She blushes. “How can I help you, Tate?”

“I can’t seem to get hold of my assistant on the phone, and she’s sick. I know she’s in her room. I’m real worried about her. What are the chances of you givin’ me her room key so I can check on her?”

“Oh—I don’t . . . I don’t think I can, sir, I’m sorry. It’s against policy.”

“Aw, Stace.” I lean forward fully and her eyes flick to where my arms are straining against my T-shirt. “Her room is booked in my name. Who’s gonna know, huh? It can be our little secret.” I wink.

Stacey’s eyes flick to her colleague and back to me. “I tell you what. Buy me a drink tomorrow after work and I’ll give you the key.”

Aw, fucknuts.
“You drive a hard bargain, sugar, but I’ll agree. It can’t be too bad takin’ a girl such as yourself for a drink.” I give her my most charming smile and hold out my hand. “Room 218.”

Stacey gets up and programs a new key in less than a minute. She puts it in my hand, smiles, and lets her touch linger for a minute too long. I widen my smile and pull the key from her grip before heading to the elevator and dropping the grin.

Fucking hell. Ella better appreciate the effort I’m putting in for this room-service chat.

I exit the elevator and walk down the hall to her room. The key card slips into the door easily, and I knock twice, then push the door open.

“Tate! What the hell!” Ella shrieks, holding a fluffy white towel firmly around her body. Her dark hair is wet and falling about her shoulders, almost black against her porcelain skin.

“Well, damn.” My eyes trawl across her wet body of their own accord. From her long, curled eyelashes fluttering in shock to the droplets of water trailing down between her breasts to the way that towel barely skims the tops of her thighs. “Hello to you, too.”

“What are you doing here?” she squeaks, stepping back into her bedroom.

“Couldn’t stand the thought of a beautiful girl like you eatin’ dinner alone,” I say to her half-towel-covered tits.

“Me or my girls?”

“All of you, darlin’. Your ass and pussy, too.” And food isn’t the only thing I’d like to eat around her . . . or off of her . . . or on her. . . .

“You are so crude!” She shuts her bedroom door. The loud sound is followed by the click of a lock.

“Aw, fuck. There goes plan B.”

“Oh my God!” she cries through the door, banging in the room. “You’re unreal!”

I grin and drop onto her sofa. Fuck me—no girl should ever be seen in a tiny white towel like that. Especially not if that girl is Ella Dawson and I’m the guy seeing her.

My dick is throbbing in my pants, steadily growing harder with every passing second. So easy. It would have been so motherfucking easy to push her against a wall and rip away that pathetic excuse for a towel and show her exactly why she should be fully clothed around me at all times.

Fuck—no, she shouldn’t. She should be stark fucking naked and clean-shaven around me. Making coffee, ordering pizza, watching a movie. . . . This chick should not own a single fucking item of clothing.

Except panties. Panties are A-OK.

I fucking love panties.

I adjust my jeans over my rock-hard cock. Sweet fucking Jesus. If I’d have known she was practically naked I would have waited five minutes and saved myself the torture of seeing and not touching. But, shit, man. That was a quick-ass shower. I know for a fact Sofie takes at least fifteen minutes. Ella wasn’t even in there five. Or maybe she was—Stacey the Receptionist’s seduction attempt swallowed up several minutes of my time.

“What on earth are you doing here, Tate?”

I focus my attention from my boner to Ella. At least I try to. They’re pretty much fucking synonymous. “I already told you, Els. You can’t have dinner alone, so here I am, ready to wine and dine you.”

She licks her lips and fails to hide her smile. “Really? You’re going to wine and dine the assistant you’ve known for nine days?”

“Darlin’, I usually fuck girls without finding out their names after ten minutes in their presence.” I smirk. “You should count yourself lucky.”

“Oh, I do. As lucky as the kid that didn’t win the goldfish at the country fair when all his friends did.” She gives me a pointed look over the top of the room-service menu. “So what is this? A business meeting? A casual dinner? A lame and misguided attempt at a date?”

I choke on nothing at that last question. “A casual dinner. I don’t do dates, darlin’.”

Ella sits next to me and throws a menu onto my lap. “One would assume you’re not leaving, so there you go.”

“One would be correct,” I put on my best New York accent.

Ella looks over at me, her mouth tugging into a smile, her eyes sparkling. “Really? That’s the best you have? You’re way too country to nail it.”

“What?” I sit up straight. “I don’t believe you.”

“You are!”

“Do a Southern accent then, Ms. You Can’t Nail It. I dare ya.”

Ella rolls her eyes, sets her menu on her lap, and looks at me. “For real?”

“For fuckin’ real!”

“Fine!” She looks away a second then back to me. “Well bless your heart, sugar.”

I blink at her. What. The. Fuck. “What the fuck was that?”

“A Southern accent?”

“You sound like Sofie. How the fuck?”

“You seem to have forgotten I’ve spent a whole bunch of time with you all in the last nine days, mostly Sofie, and I also went to school with a few Southerners.” Ella shrugs, lifting her menu again.

“Damn. You’re hot as hell, sort my legal shit, love my music, and you can pull off a Southern accent? Marry me, Els.”

She throws her head back and laughs. “Tate Burke, the day you find a girl stupid enough to marry you, I’ll get your name tattooed on my butt cheek.”

I grin. “Better start lookin’ then, eh?”

“You better. It’s gonna take a while.” She giggles into her menu. “Okay. I know what I’m eating. What are you having?”

“I’m orderin’.”

“Not for me you’re not.”

“I never said that. I just said I’m orderin’. It’s polite and shit.”

“The add-on at the end of that sentence really rudened it up.”

“Rudened? What the fuck is that?”

“I made it up, all right? Lay off.”

I laugh and lean over her for the phone. I dial the code for room service, stutter out my order between chuckles, and then Ella says hers into the receiver. I order one bottle of Moscato for her and a few beers for me, to be brought up immediately, on ice.

“Moscato, hmm?” She looks at me questioningly.

“S’all you drink, darlin’.”

“I’m surprised you noticed.”

“Me, too.”

A few minutes later, there’s a knock at the door and I get up to answer it. A small cart is rolled in with our drinks, and the guy pops the cork on her wine and uncaps me a bottle of Budweiser. I thank him and take the glass and bottle.

Ella takes the glass from me with a contemplative expression. I smile as her fingers brush mine and drop down unceremoniously on the couch next to her. She shakes her head and rolls her eyes but she doesn’t say a word.

Our eyes meet several times over the next few minutes. I’m checking to see if she’s looking at me, and I’d bet she’s doing the exact same fucking thing. It’s dumb, because I’m always looking at her. Even if she is sans makeup, with wet, unruly hair.

The girl is unreal.

“Would you like me to dry my hair? You’re looking at me all confused,” Ella mumbles into her glass.

“That’s because I ain’t used to bein’ attracted to natural girls. Yet I find myself incredibly fuckin’ attracted to you.”

“Must be my stellar personality.”

“Or them killer tits.”

Her gaze snaps to mine. “God, Tate!”

“Now there’s a phrase I’m used to hearin’.”

“Oh my God!”

“That, too.”

“I’m just going to stop talking.”

“No, Els. Don’t. Your voice is pretty.”

She slaps my bicep with the back of her fingers. “My voice is pretty? For real, Casanova? That the best you got?”

I tug on a lock of her hair. “I’m tryin’ to be nice here, which is, again, somethin’ most chicks don’t get. Give me a chance, all right?”

“But if I did that, I’d be one of those dumb chicks you associate with.”

“True story that, darlin’. Although I ain’t doin’ that for now. I’m being good. Except for that chick at reception.” I brush my fingers down Ella’s jaw. “I had to agree to buy her a drink before she’d give me your room card.”

“Hmm,” she hums. “I wondered how you swindled that one.”

“I’m a regular Romeo.”

“Seems it. Are you sure this dinner isn’t getting in the way of meeting Ms. Receptionist?”

“Nah, I don’t have to grace her with my awesome presence until tomorrow evening.”

“What time?”

“She didn’t say.”

“Shame. You’re busy all evening, practicing, per your manager’s orders.” Ella smiles and sips her wine. “Part of his plan to keep you on the straight and narrow and away from kissing random girls.”

“What if I kiss you? Does that count?”

“As what?”

“A random girl.” I set my beer on the table in front of us and scoot along toward her.

Her chest heaves, and she swallows, holding her wine in front of her body. “I’m not a random girl.”

“So you don’t count,” I breathe, taking her glass from her and putting it on the table. “Right?”

“Um. I do count. I’m kind of random. And I’m a girl. So.”

“Ella?”

“What?”

I press my chest against hers and curl my fingers around the back of her neck. “Shut up.”

She inhales as I close the distance between our mouths. The taste of her wine is strong on her lips, and I run my tongue across her bottom lip, reveling in the silky sweetness of it. Despite her protests, she arches her body into me, wrapping her hand around the back of my neck.

Sweet fuck, she’s everything that’s bad and good. She’s temptation and resistance. Shit, she’s sin. She’s dark and light, a contradiction, a mystery to unravel. She’s every fucking thing I didn’t know existed.

She’s everything I never wanted to know existed.

I run my fingers through her half-damp hair to the ends, and hers go into the curls at the nape of my neck, holding me tightly to her. It’s nothing like I expect.

By rights, she should push me away, too afraid to blink at me. But every sweep of her lips, every kiss, every grasp at me tells me she trusts me. It could be smart or it could be dumb.

But I’ll never hurt her. Never. Fucking. Ever. Not the way she’s been hurt in the past. The thought of marring her beautifully white skin makes me fucking sick to my stomach. She’s not a goddamn punching bag—she’s a woman, formed and curved and gorgeous. More than that, Ella Dawson is the woman you respect, because she respects herself.

Knock, knock.

What is it with people knocking when I’m kissing her?

“Food,” I whisper against her soft mouth.

“Get off me,” she murmurs, but I can feel her smile against me.

I groan into her, but she shoves at me, and I get up and answer the door. Another server wheels a cart into the room, this time with two plates topped with those silver dome things. She uncovers each plate, my steak and Ella’s chili nachos. I thank the girl, shove a twenty into her hand, then grab Ella’s plate.

Damn, those nachos smell good.

I put her plate on the coffee table in front of her. Then I grab a nacho, dip it into the chili topping, and shove it into my mouth. She gasps as I back toward the cart and get my steak. It’s decorated with fries and salad, but hell, I shoulda gone for what she did.

Ella grabs a cheese-coated nacho from the side and dives it into the center of her plate. With a huge mound of ground beef on the chip, she forces it into her mouth quite spectacularly. Holy fuck, this girl can open her mouth wide.

And I mean. Wi. Hi. Hiiiiiide.

“See something you like?” she questions, doing it again.

“Darlin’, I see a lot of things I like.”

She rolls her eyes and eats another chip. “Of course you do. You’re drooling, Tate.”

“Els, you’re eating them like you’ve never had them before.”

She pauses, a chili-coated chip halfway to her mouth. Her eyes drop to it, and I stare at her, her silence anything but accidental. Or maybe it is—who fucking knows?

“I wasn’t allowed them,” she says in a quiet voice. “Only when I got to have a slumber party with the girls, which was way too infrequent.” She swallows, setting the chip down. “It didn’t matter if we had company or not. I had to eat with cutlery, because fingers were for uncivilized people.”