Sweet Ache

I run a hand through my hair, determined to focus on anything else besides the clusterfuck of my thoughts—the killer performance we gave tonight, the fact that my vocal chords feel incredible even after the extended set we did, or that I can still taste Quin’s lips and smell her perfume on my hands.

Get the girl, Hawke. I laugh out loud to myself. That’s the funniest fucking line I’ve ever said because I always have the girl, normally no work needed and yet now I’m seeing how the other half lives—and this shit sucks.

It’s just all of this shit with Hunter and Mom not doing well and now this bullshit seminar I have to do to prevent further damage that’s fucking with my head. The disturbance in the force crap is not for me.

And neither is she, but sometimes you can’t fuck with fate.

Time to get the girl.

Chapter 14

QUINLAN

I’m listening to Luke but secretly watching Hawkin under the cover of the club’s darkness. His drinks have been coming at a steady pace for the past hour.

I don’t know what it is that Hawke does to me, but it took every ounce of restraint I had not to mount him right then and there on the damn couch. His dick was so hard and felt so good rubbing between my thighs, never mind the way he kisses—the complete obliteration of senses and thoughts—all of the sensations made it so difficult to pull away even though I knew Luke was coming.

Now I’m in such a clusterfuck of a position—seems like a constant since Hawke’s come into my life—of hurting Luke in order to take what I want … but denying how I feel, how Hawkin Play makes me feel, is not an option.

My mind’s been running scenarios all night long and I just can’t seem to find a way to make this all play out without anyone getting hurt and that’s a shitty feeling all around. I’ve been in his shoes before and it sucks, it hurts, but I try to rationalize that I’ve been there after months of fidelity rather than a single date. But it doesn’t matter, I still feel guilty.

So I’ve had a few more drinks than normal, laughed a little too loud more times than I care to count to feign like I’m having a blast instead of sitting with damp panties and wondering just how Hawkin fucks. He’s a contradiction in so many ways—the cocky asshole, the rock star player, the protective brother, the consummate band member, and yet underneath all of that I can’t get a read on the side of him that he lets slip every so often. The side I want to know, intimately.

Luke leans in again to kiss me and while I’ve tolerated it several times, I can’t do it anymore. To not feel is to be dead and this girl likes to be made to feel alive. I’m sure it’s the alcohol bolstering my actions but instead of kissing him back dispassionately as I have the other times, I push up out of my seat and wiggle my hips.

“I want to dance! You want to come with me?” I ask, knowing damn well he won’t after catching snippets of his conversation with Rocket earlier about his two left feet.

“No. Nah. Not me,” he slurs, his alcohol intake making its presence noted as he holds his hands up in front of him despite the resignation in his eyes that tells me he wants to be the one grinding up against me on the floor.

I scrunch my nose up in apology and wish that Layla was here—a little girl time on the dance floor is always fun, especially to protect your backside from drunk bastards trying to make advances you don’t want. For when I have to use the name Trixie.

The music changes as I hit the floor, completely ignoring the several male hands that have already touched my arms asking for me to have a drink with them, and a David Guetta remix beat slams through the speakers. The alcohol, the unrequited sexual tension that’s controlled my body the past three hours, leaves me with each step that I push through the throng of people. I claim a small space in the middle of the floor and begin to move amid the undulating mass of club-goers. The lights play over the people around me and I let myself get lost in the beat and from my thoughts.

I dance a few more songs, glad I’ve pushed far enough into the crowd that I’ve been left alone by the guys trolling for action on the fringe of the floor, when I become too hot, my feet too sore in my heels, and decide I’m done. The beat of the music, the energy vibrating through my body, has only served to reinforce that I have to take this chance with him.

Making my way back up the stairs, Axe nods his head in greeting when I clear the landing. I walk on steadier feet toward the crowd of guys around the table where we’ve been sitting all evening.

Hawkin’s eyes find me first and a shameful smirk tugs up one corner of his mouth. The sight of his reaction to me does funny things to my insides. As I approach, I hear Luke groan out while the rest of the guys begin a chant I can’t quite make out. I swear to God it sounds like make it count—the irony of the saying Hawkin no doubt put to their game is not lost on me—but I’m unsure because they stop as I get closer.

“A bet’s a bet, man,” Hawkin says, shifting his attention toward Luke, who is obviously on his way to getting plastered right now, judging by the glaze of his eyes and the ridiculous amount of empty shot glasses lined up on the table in front of the band.

“Fffuuuccckkkk!” Luke slurs and lifts the glass to his lips with a defeated laugh. “Remind me never to challenge you to this again.”

Gizmo erupts into laughter. “Dude. You never challenge musicians to a shot contest. We have hours on tour buses to build up tolerance to this shit—we’ll win hands down every time. Especially that fucker!” he says, pointing at Hawkin, who just leans back with his half-empty Jack and Coke in one hand and an empty shot glass in his other and watches with amusement.