my life as a rock album Page 6

  “You are quite the dichotomy, Mr. Carmen.”

  The anger that he flashed was so fast that she hardly had a chance to see it before his face shuttered closed into this unreadable blank slate.

  “I’ve told you, it’s Seth. Or dickhead if you prefer, but please do not call me by my shit-for-brains father’s name again.” His voice was hard as he moved towards her. And she got a glimpse of the tough Bronx kid he must have been. He put his arms on either side of her, blocking her exit. His face was steely, not angry, but determined, ready for a fight.

  “So which is it going to be? Seth or dickhead?”

  At first, she froze while staring into his icy blue eyes. She wasn’t quite frightened, but something close. Then, she was pissed that he was blocking her escape and throwing his aggression at her. She reacted without thinking by plunging a flattened palm up into his solar plexus in a self-defense move that Justice had taught her long ago.

  As soon as she made contact, he coughed and staggered back, which was exactly the effect she intended. She was off the stool, bag in hand, and halfway to the door before his voice stopped her.

  “Please. Stop. Wait.”

  He tried to straighten up with a hand to his chest where she’d hit him.

  “Shit. That was one hell of a punch,” he coughed out.

  She didn’t move as he slowly approached, hands extended in a sign of remorse and peace.

  “Don’t go. I am a dickhead. And more like my asshole father than I care to admit. But, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “You didn’t,” PJ said lifting her chin in defiance even though he had frightened her a little. She wasn’t even sure what she was doing there with this crazy, intimidating, over-the-top bad boy who she knew would end up making her break every last one of her promises to herself.

  He gave her a weak smile. “I did. And I’m sorry.”

  He sounded truly contrite.

  “You seem to have to apologize a lot, Mr… Dickhead.”

  He grimaced. As if he knew he deserved the name, but was still upset that it was the one she chose. “As a rule, I never apologize anymore.”

  “Anymore?”

  He eased back towards the stove, watching her. “It’s a long story. But, I have a feeling that I’m going to be doing a lot more of it with you in the picture.”

  “I’m not in the picture,” PJ said, crossing her arms.

  With him back at the stove, she could slowly let out a breath again. He dished up two bowls of the stew-like substance that had smelled so tantalizing only moments before and made his way toward the French doors that led to the back deck. He expertly pushed down the lever with his elbow and stood holding it open, waiting for her.

  She knew he’d made it her decision. And yet, when she looked into his eyes, she swore she saw a plea there. Her heart took several, startling leaps. She expected cockiness and conceit, but definitely not begging.

  She still hadn’t moved.

  “I promise. I’ll be on my best behavior.”

  She almost didn’t believe it herself when she walked toward him, setting her bag down on the counter again. As she passed him, she looked up into his eyes with what she hoped was confidence. “That was strike two.”

  He followed her out and placed the bowls on a stone table set upon steel legs intricately curved and shaped. The matching chairs were swathed with blue and yellow cushions. On the table was a vase of flowers, a covered bread bowl, and utensils with twisted vines for handles. With the beach and the ocean behind it, it was a tempting scene. One that had her drawing in a shaky breath because it was so romantic and unanticipated.

  “What was strike one, my storming away from you at the gallery or my kissing you?” His voice was back to the teasing, cockiness from before. Pleading time over. PJ guessed that any kind of plea would be short lived with Seth.

  “Surprisingly, neither. Strike one was the stalking you did yesterday,” she responded.

  He laughed, hard. Like she’d surprised him, and it made her belly flop in ways she hadn’t felt it flop before.

  “Thank God I’m not out already,” he replied.

  “I’m sure you will be before lunch is over.”

  He laughed again, and she couldn’t help the thrill it gave her to make him laugh. He didn’t seem like the type of man that laughed often, but when he did, it would surely be with all of him, including those twinkling eyes. That she’d made him laugh was its own little joy ride to her heart.

  She lowered her eyes to hide the swirl of emotions that filled her. She grabbed the utensils, eyeing the curling vines. “Did you make these?”

  He looked down as if he was astonished to be holding them. “Yea. I guess I did.”

  It was her turn to laugh. “You don’t know your own work?”

  “I just didn’t know that Becca had set them out.”

  PJ found her stomach falling at the mention of a woman’s name coming from his mouth. She had definitely gotten the impression that this meeting was far more than a professional one, but if Becca was his girlfriend, then that couldn’t possibly be the case. She didn’t know what she was more disappointed about.

  “Who’s Becca?” she finally eased out, hoping that it sounded nonchalant.

  Seth watched her carefully, she could feel his gaze on her even when she wasn’t looking at him. She fought the pink in her cheeks, but knew it stained them anyway. Fighting it always made it worse.

  “She’s my housekeeper. She comes in several times a week, or as I need her,” he said equally casually.

  PJ’s stomach continued its painful twists at the thought of what those other needs might entail. She watched his hands as he deftly cut the bread and placed a piece into her uneaten stew.

  He leaned in with a husky voice, “Don’t worry. She’s like sixty years old and really isn’t interested in me that way.”

  Her heart flipped over as she looked into stunning eyes that were teasing her even though you wouldn’t have known it if you didn’t see the glint that resided there. His face certainly didn’t reflect it. It was still a shutter, hiding his depths.

  “Are you sure? Your sex appeal might surprise even you.” She meant it to sound sarcastic, but PJ had never been good at sarcasm, and she realized it probably sounded flirty instead.

  His lips twitched once more. “No darlin’, that’s something I’m rarely surprised about.”

  She rolled her eyes at him but turned away hoping he wouldn’t see how embarrassed she was.

  She tucked into the stew and found it was really delicious. She’d never been a huge foodie. But she worked out hard and enjoyed good food. And the stew was definitely good food.

  “This is really good.”

  “Thanks. My abuela forgives you for your earlier insult.”

  “Is this your mom’s mom or your dad’s mom?”

  “It was my mom’s mom. She was Cuban. Came to the U.S. through Florida and met my Grandpa while he was at college there. They fell in love, and she moved home with him to Tennessee to manage the ranch after his dad died.”

  “Did you spend much time with them?”

  “I spent as much time as I could. Mostly summers, and one semester of my junior year. They were very cool people. They changed my life twice.”

  “Twice?”

  “They helped me with money for school. Then, when they passed away, they left me their ranch.”

  She paused, looking at him a little stunned. “You own a ranch in Tennessee?”

  He was amused and his lip did that half-twitchy smile thing again. “No. I sold it and bought this house. I take it by that comment you aren’t a country girl?”

  “Not really. But, it’s more that I can’t see you on a ranch.”

  “I was good at it when I visited them, but they knew that it wasn’t my life. They knew this was. I was lucky.”

  “Luck only takes you so far.”

  He looked at her, thoughtfully. “I guess that’s true.”

  “So why
didn’t you stay with them? Why were you only there a semester?”

  He paused as if he was trying to determine how much to tell her. “Heartbreak. Addiction. Art.”

  She watched him as he seemed to fade away into the distance thinking of a whole series of memories. “That’s quite a combination.”

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t imagine you getting your heart broken. I mean. I can see you breaking a lot of hearts, but not letting them break yours.”

  He caught her gaze with his, and she was stuck in a sea of blue that could easily drown her. “I think you could easily break my heart,” he said quietly.

  She shivered down to her toes. She didn’t know how to respond to that honest, raw truth. And it was the truth. She could see it in his eyes even if she couldn’t see it in his face. She was both terrified and thrilled that she might have the power to do that to him. To break this rock.

  Before she could respond, he looked down at her bowl and changed the subject. “More ajiaco?”

  She glanced down too and was surprised to find the bowl empty. She must have been hungrier than she thought or so nervous that she’d swallowed it whole.

  “No, thank you, but it was delicious.”

  He took her bowl before she could grab it herself and stacked it in with his, taking them into the kitchen and placing them in the sink. She followed him.

  When he grabbed her hand on his way back, it sent a tingling through her finger tips that traveled all the way down to her pink painted toenails. “Come on. I’ll show you your piece.”

  He took her through a doorway into a room that looked like it been added on to the house. It was stripped down to its bones, barely cement and walls, but it was full of windows that allowed the sun to fill it with warmth and natural light. Heavy equipment and shelves full of random pieces of metal and glass littered the place in a way that might seem haphazard but clearly was set to a tune that was all Seth.

  In the middle of the room, catching her eye, was a chair made of metal, twisted and curved much like the chairs on the deck were, and yet different. From the back of the chair, flowed a piece of purple sateen silk shimmering in the light of the sun streaming in through the huge windows.

  His work was brilliant. She hadn’t studied art history for nothing. She knew brilliant. And many of his pieces left you scarred with the memory for days, memories of something unique and powerful.

  She first saw his work at Locke’s gallery a month ago. She still remembered every moment. The first thing she’d seen was the waterfall because of its size. It made it hard for you to escape it. The truth was, you didn’t want to escape it. Instead it made you long for a trip to Paradise because that was clearly the only place you’d ever see something as beautiful again. But, the waterfall hadn’t been the art that made her ache. The work that made her hurt was the one of a metal man twisted and torn apart by fractured whiskey bottles. That piece spoke of addiction and torture and endless amounts of self-inflicted pain. And now, after knowing him just a little, she sensed that that man was him.

  It was a pain that she’d felt in the kiss he’d taken from her lips at the gallery and to which she had responded with her own aching pain and need. She hadn’t felt herself respond to a kiss like that ever. Not even when she’d been kissed a lot.

  Self-conscious thinking of it, she flushed again. To cover it up, she moved ahead of him to touch the silken material coming off the chair. She was stunned when instead of pliable woven cloth, her hand touched metal. It was smooth as silk, but steely, unbendable.

  “It’s breathtaking.”

  “It’s you,” he said quietly. She could feel him staring her down, willing her to look at him, but she couldn’t. Instead she did the predictable thing which was to flush an even deeper shade of red. Because the thought that he would think she was this, beautiful, silky, smooth and yet hard and determined was more than she could take. It was as if he’d tried to read her soul the first time he’d met her. She didn’t feel hard or determined these days. She’d been floundering in a well of self-pity since the rejection from Pratt.

  All her roommates already had a path set in front of them. Law school for Claire. Acting classes for the twins. She didn’t have a path now. She guessed she’d continue with her blog and working at Justice’s gym until something else crossed her way or she applied to a different master’s program.

  She shook her head to try to clear it of the uncertainties. And tried to flip the conversation from her back to him.

  “So, your cooking is amazing, your art is amazing, and your look is amazing.” She tried again for sarcastic and knew it came out breathless instead.

  She risked looking at him and saw his lips twitch, resisting that cocky-grin. It irked her a little. This moody artist so easily playing on her emotions.

  “So, what’s wrong with the package?” She put her hand on her hip, turning away from the art that scarily resembled her in heart rather than form.

  This did cause the cocky smile to reappear, and he turned the full intensity of his blue gaze on her. “I guarantee you, there’s nothing wrong with my package.”

  She squinted her eyes in disapproval and stepped back towards his work bench and the random pieces strewn about the counter top. She picked things up and then set them down not really acknowledging them. Focused on the man behind her and the upsurge of emotions he was already so good at eliciting from her.

  “Well. There’s something off otherwise you wouldn’t be living alone chasing some nobody of a blogger.”

  He eased towards her, and it was a moment before she realized she’d trapped herself against his work bench with no clear out unless she used her self-defense moves again. She turned to face him, her back up against the bench.

  “Maybe,” he drawled, moving until there was barely an inch between them, “I just like living alone.”

  “Well. That,” she took a breath to calm her shaking body. “That might be what’s wrong with the package.”

  “Because most people can’t stand being alone?” He ran a calloused hand up her bare arm until it hit the strap of her dress. His finger slid underneath the strap. Slow. Seductive. Thrilling.

  “Maybe you just have commitment issues. You don’t have to get married to have a long-term relationship,” she said swallowing hard as his touch made her skin feel as if it was coming back to life after being asleep for a very long time.

  “Maybe I just haven’t found the right woman.” He traced a path along her shoulder blade and towards the hollow at the base of her neck. Goosebumps littered her skin, running down her arm.

  He dipped his head and took her lips in his own. And she felt the same burning need and pain and intensity in them that she had with his first kiss. It felt as if she was drowning in a wave of his emotions that somehow merged with her own desperate ones, and she couldn’t help but respond like she’d known she would. Her body reacted by moving into him instead of away. She pushed her tiny frame against his rock hard one. She shivered again with pleasure and desire. It had been too long. Liv was right. Claire was right. It has just been too long.

  His hands pushed off the straps of her dress and carefully caressed her as his tongue searched the depths of her mouth. She opened her mouth fully to him and trailed her own hands down his back.

  His hands moved from her shoulders, returning instead to her waist, picking her up and setting her on the bench. Tools and metal and glass were pushed aside with a loud crash, all the while his tongue was seeking answers and relief with her own.

  She pulled his soft t-shirt from his jeans and caressed the bare skin of his back, swirling around to his toned stomach. Somewhere inside her logical brain, she knew she’d lost it completely. She’d never felt this kind of unbridled desire before. Certainly not with any of the teenage boys that she’d run through. She wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him closer as if she could blend them into one being.

  Before she even registered it, she had popped the button on his jeans and
pushed at them. He growled in response. The growl of a panther, but instead of complying with her wish, he picked her up and carried her from the studio with her legs still around his waist.

  In what seemed like barely five strides, he’d crossed the open area of the living room and into what she figured was his master suite. And the entire time, his lips never left her skin, her mouth, her neck.

  In the bedroom, he stood her on the bed and carefully, almost reverently pulled her dress down over her hips. As the dress disappeared, his lips covered her skin with gentle caresses. She ended up standing in her underwear in front of him. She watched with an odd fascination as his calloused fingers traced her body. His words, barely a rumble from the depth of him, brought her eyes back to his intense blue ones. “You're breathtaking.”

  In a wink, her underwear was gone, and his clothes had disappeared as well, and all she could do was stare at his perfect body. Hard. Golden. Glowing. He had a scar that ran almost the entire length of his left side. She touched it gently, and he watched her as if waiting for her to react to it.

  She didn’t. Not then. It wasn’t until later that she learned how he’d gotten the scar. Instead, she bent and kissed the entire length of it. He sucked in a deep breath and pulled her face back up to his own. And then they were on the bed together, tangled in legs and arms, and each other as he reached for his bedside table and the condom that was in the drawer.

  She knew she had one last moment to stop whatever this was. One last chance to walk away, but her body and her heart were overruling her brain for the first time in a long time, so she just gave in. To all of it. Her heart. Her body. His hands. His body. To desire and relief.

  It was a long time later that he collapsed onto his side, pulling her up close to him where she seemed to fit into him like a nesting doll. One into the other. He kissed the top of her head.

  “You’re beautiful.” His voice was gruff as if he hadn’t recovered from their intensity. “I’m sorry.”