Have Mercy: A Loveswept Contemporary Erotic Romance (6 page)

Tom interrupted her. “Because it’s ninety degrees outside and probably ninety percent humidity, and if we do manage to get to Tuscaloosa tonight, she’ll need to be as fresh as possible for her performance. People are paying to see
her
, guys. Not us. She’s the one in front of us on that stage, and I can’t
believe
you’d expect her to walk for two hours in this heat and then perform at her best tonight.
Jesus
.”

Emme had never heard him sound so angry. She liked it. She really, really liked it. His fists were actually clenched, his jaw tight and stern-looking. She wanted to reward him for going into battle on her behalf.

Guillermo nodded. “It’s true,” he said. “We’re not called Emme and Her Amazing Band. It’s Emme. You’re allowed to be a bit of a diva when the circumstances call for it.”

Dave rolled his eyes. “Just remember, I’m not the one who called you a diva,” he said. “Mo,
you coming?”

Guillermo looked back at Emme. He raised his hands, as if to apologize, before turning and following Dave up the road.

Emme watched as they disappeared over the hill. “Well.” She let out a huff of air. With nothing to do but wait, a little of the adrenaline racing through her drained out, replaced by anxiety with no outlet. Knees suddenly melty, she sank down onto the grass of the embankment beside the road.

Seeing Tom standing above her didn’t help the nervy feeling in her stomach. “Sit,” she said.

He did, folding his legs up in front of him. The humidity had stuck his shirt to his back, and without thinking, she reached over and pulled the fabric away from his skin. Even sweaty, he smelled clean, like laundry soap and sun. If she closed her eyes next to him, she’d imagine clotheslines and just the tiniest hint of cigarette smoke.

Tom’s back stiffened under her touch, and she pulled her fingers away.

He cleared his throat, then tapped his fingers on his knee. “So,” he said. He looked over at her, then away, before pulling a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, raising one to his lips, and lighting it. “Do you mind?” he asked.

“You always ask permission,” Emme said.

Tom shrugged. “Of course. It’s polite.” He slid the cigarette between his lips, inhaled deeply. The smoke curled out around his nostrils. “It’s a disgusting habit,” he said. “And hell on your voice.”

Emme nodded. “So why do you do it?”

She pulled up a blade of grass as he thought, fingers tearing it into strips.
He loves me, he loves me not
, her brain chanted as she ripped the blade to shreds.

Tom’s inhales and exhales followed a pattern, a rhythm syncopated with smoke. The way his lips caressed the filter as he put it to his mouth, his deep inhale, eyes closed with pleasure, and the release of smoke, curling lazily through the heavy air all combined to make a thudding pulse of want start up low in her body. His fingers held the cigarette gently, almost delicately, and the flick of his wrist as he tapped ash off the tip was practiced and smooth, not the kind of businesslike movement most smokers employed. She knew smoking was disgusting. It caused cancer. It wasn’t sexy. There was no way she found it sexy.

Maybe she found it just a
little
bit sexy.

Tom finally answered. “I’m … I’m not really good at moderation,” he said. “When I get started with something, I tend to go overboard. It’s something I know about myself, so there’s a lot I just don’t
let myself do. But when you’re twelve and spending most of your time in a bar, and you want to grow up but don’t want to be a drunk …” He stubbed out the cigarette. “I’m just glad I knew not to start drinking. At least this’ll kill me slow.”

Not good at moderation
. The thought, for some reason, oozed into Emme’s body like warm syrup. Of course he wasn’t; he’d told her before that he’d practiced until his fingers bled. What else would he do over and over again, given the chance?

Tom looked vulnerable and a little lost sitting there under the Mississippi sun. His hair was mussed and sticking up in all directions; his shirt had come untucked in the back. He couldn’t seem to meet her eyes.

He’s lonely
, she thought.

Emme was, too. She’d been lonely on tour before; it was the oddest feeling, spending every waking moment with three other people, and every
other
waking moment in front of a hundred more, and still feeling like an island. It led to dangerous decisions. She knew that from experience.

Her hand reached out, almost of its own accord, to trace the lines of his tattoo, when he suddenly chuckled. “Son of a bitch.”

Emme drew her hand back, but it didn’t look like he was talking to her. Instead, he pointed. “Think that’s the culprit?”

She followed the line of his arm with her gaze. She really didn’t want to look away from that masterpiece of sinew and muscle, but then she saw where he was pointing.

An awkward, lumbering shape made its way off the grass and onto the asphalt of the road. It looked like a cross between a dinosaur and a possum, and it was in no hurry. It snuffled, shuffled, and crawled around the tires of the van.

“There really is an armadillo,” she said, and the whole situation struck her as completely absurd. She was sitting on an embankment next to a deserted Mississippi road, sweaty hair stuck to the back of her neck, watching her damaged tour van filled with twenty thousand dollars’ worth of equipment, trying not to touch her new band member, all because of an animal that looked like a tiny dinosaur.

The laughter started in her gut and bubbled up from there until it burst out of her. She laughed so hard she fell back onto the embankment, her T-shirt smudging in the grass. She laughed until tears ran down her face at the thought of that silly, scuttling creature having so much power and so little idea of it.

Tom felt something inside himself unfurl at the sight of Emme laughing, her head thrown back, her body laid down in the grass. He wanted to burrow next to her until he shared her laughter, shared her breath, shared the tremble of her shoulders as her body shook. He even caved in to the temptation far enough to lean back, lying down in the grass on his side, so he could look at her.

Once her fit of mirth had tapered off, she turned to face him, head propped on her arm, elbow in the grass. “Sorry.”

Tom grinned back at her. The sight of her lounging on the ground next to him, the inward curve of her waist emphasized by her position, her breasts straining against the thin, damp fabric of her worn and sweaty T-shirt, was something beyond temptation. That fabric clung so closely to her skin that it managed to reveal and conceal in equally frustrating parts. He found himself wanting to lift up that shirt and nuzzle her belly, nip at the waistband of those magnificent tight jeans, maybe drag them down over her hips with his teeth.

And even with her hair falling out of its ponytail as she lay flopped on the grass next to him, there was still something commanding in her eyes. He liked it, liked that she could somehow still be in charge even after a fit of the giggles worthy of a teenage girl.

“Don’t apologize,” he said.

God, he just wanted to know everything about her. What she liked, what she hated. How she’d become who she was. It had to be dangerous, this wanting, because it felt like he stood at the edge of a giant yawning canyon and he wanted it to swallow him up.

Tom was startled by the touch of her fingertips on his forearm. She traced the line of his tattoo with her fingernail gently, so very gently, that he had to close his eyes for a minute.

“When did you get this?” she asked softly.

He couldn’t tell her all of his history. It would be like popping a boil onto someone—disgusting and rude and wrong. And then she would realize that she was too good for him, and he’d be stuck watching her from a distance, like the fans in her audience.

Tom closed his fingers over hers, just for a moment. “I just told you about smoking. It’s your turn. We’ll trade. Question for question.” His voice sounded hoarse and unfamiliar, and her fingers felt small and delicate beneath his.

Emme pulled her fingers away. “Okay.”

There were a million questions on the tip of his tongue, but the one he blurted out made him sound like a lovesick puppy. “I’ve heard you sing. I’ve seen you write songs that … blow me away, to be honest. And you’ve organized this tour like some kind of military assault. So my question is … is there anything you’re bad at?”
Ugh. Way to be cool
.

Emme laughed as though startled. “Thank you,” she said. “Though I’m not so sure about that ‘military assault’ thing …”

“It’s a compliment.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” She rolled her eyes, but Tom thought it was at herself and not at him. “Yeah, there’s plenty I’m bad at. U.S. history. I can’t remember who the Founding Fathers were or what they founded.” She grinned, and Tom found himself smiling in response. “Working at a real job. I was a receptionist for a while, but I hate talking to people on the phone, so sometimes I just wouldn’t answer it.”

“Kind of a job requirement.”

“Yeah, I got fired from that one. Let’s see … waiting tables. I once dropped an entire tray of gin and tonics on an eight-top. Luckily it was like their fifth round, so they didn’t really notice.” She ticked off the failures on her red-nailed fingers. “I took violin lessons for a while as a kid, but my mom made me quit because when I practiced it sounded like a dying moose. I can’t dance. And I’m hopeless at being sexy. Guys always seem to think of me as their baby sister.”

The thought of Emme as less than confident in anything felt like a punch to the solar plexus. That last statement was the one that floored him, but Tom ticked off her list in order. “I’m surprised you never tried to play the violin again. I bet if you picked it up now you’d learn fast.”
Who tells a kid their practice sounds like a dying moose?
He held up his own fingers in response. “Let me refute a few of these for you. One: anyone so drunk they don’t notice a gin and tonic being dumped on them obviously doesn’t need any more gin and tonics. I’m a bar owner, remember, so I’m the expert at this. We’ll chalk that one up to a service to society, not a failure.”

He held up a second finger. “Two: dancing is all about your partner and his lead. You’ve got to have a strong lead,
especially
if you’re a strong woman who normally leads. If your lead is good enough, you’ll dance well. I think we can safely say that you’re not a bad dancer, you’ve just been dancing with guys who don’t know what they’re doing.” The thought of holding Emme in his arms, directing her body with his—it was appealing, to be sure. So appealing that he readjusted his jeans unobtrusively and felt his face heat.

“As for number three … bad at being sexy.” He looked down at her, at the little downy hairs on the back of her neck that he wanted to kiss, the dip in and curl out of her waist and belly where he wanted to bury his face, the shape of her so warm and curved and inviting that sinking into her would feel like a hot, soft death. “I’ve watched you sing almost every night for the past two weeks. And I can tell you that no man in your audience ever sees you as a little sister. Unless they’ve got some serious
Flowers in the Attic
shit going on.”

Aw, hell. Might as well just throw yourself at her feet and beg her to let you kiss them
, Tom thought. And then was mortified when all the blood in his body rushed straight to his dick.

Emme smiled very sweetly, but her incisors showed. “Thank you,” she said, then bit her lower lip, making him want to groan. “It’s not when I’m onstage that I’m crap at it. Then I’m Emme. It’s like Clark Kent and Superman. Lois Lane digs Superman, but she barely notices Clark Kent.”

“But isn’t Clark Kent the one who’s the costume?” Tom asked. He was having trouble catching his breath, and he didn’t think it was because of his smoking.

Emme sat up. She wrapped her arms around her knees.
Bad sign
. “Tom,” she started, then stopped again. She looked up at the sky for a moment. Tom felt his gaze follow hers, even when he didn’t want it to. He wondered if she thought that cloud looked like a banjo, too.

“It’s nice to hear you say that,” Emme said finally, and Tom’s heart fell down into his toes. Then she touched him, just one finger atop his, and all his attention focused on that one spot, the most alive part of him. She looked up at him, her eyes liquid and heavy-lidded. Bedroom eyes. Against-the-wall eyes. On-top-of-the-dining-table eyes. “Very nice to hear
you
say that, especially. But I know you may have an idea of me after what people said after Indelible Lines.”

I have no clue what you’re talking about
, Tom thought, but kept his mouth shut.

“But I learned my lesson,” Emme continued. “I don’t get involved with coworkers. I’ve had to work hard to get here. I never want to go back to waiting tables or answering phones. This is what I’m good at, and I’m not willing to risk it.”

Tom blew out a breath. “I can respect that,” he said. “Look, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. But I can’t help the fact that I think you’re pretty awesome.”
Amazing. Gorgeous. Talented. Sexy as hell
.