Whisper to Me(14)

I studied his face, terrified that I’d ruined everything. An enormous amount of guilt and fear and pain swept over me.

His fingers reached out and stroked my hair away from my face in a gentle gesture that confused me even more. Was he angry, or did he accept what we’d done?

There’d been a tenderness in his eyes right before they turned distant. Frustrated. Perturbed, almost.

“Kai, I—”

“Fuck, Rach,” he growled, cutting me off. “Just . . . sleep it off.”

Then he was gone.

I lay there staring at the ceiling, my heart bouncing around in my chest until my vision blurred and I fell into a fitful sleep.





Chapter Six


Kai





I was too damn worked up about what had just gone down between Rachel and me. There was no way in hell I could fall asleep right now.

All I could think about was the way she’d felt in my arms—soft and vulnerable. The way her lips and tongue had moved against mine. How she’d sounded when she said my name and then came against my fingers.

I lifted my dumbbells from the corner of the room and started with bicep curls. Before the night was over, I’d probably get through my entire workout routine. It was a healthy habit I had picked up in Amsterdam during a particularly stressful afternoon at the studio. And somehow I figured it balanced out my unhealthy vices.

Johan had a weight machine and barbells laying around in the back room, and he’d taught me some simple exercises. I’d go back there and work out my frustrations on practically a daily basis. At night, I’d head to my favorite “coffee shop,” also known as a hash bar, and work out my troubled head in a different way—only to wake up the next morning and do it all over again.

After my twelfth rep, I focused on my quivering muscles instead of my desire to head straight back into Rachel’s room and lay down beside her. I wanted to pull her body taut with mine and smell her again. Taste the skin on her neck and whisper in her ear.

But that would have only confused the situation further. I needed to steel my emotions away. What happened tonight was just a fling to her. It was the same thing she’d been doing the last few years at college. I was just another guy she’d hooked up with. Used to make herself sane.

It had taken every sober brain cell I had to stop me from sinking myself deep inside of her. Because if I had, I’d be an even bigger wreck than I was right now. For her, this was about forgetting Miles, not about sharing something with me.

My phone buzzed with a text message from Dakota.

Dakota: How is she? Did she beat your butt for jumping in the car?

Shit, I’d forgotten that at any moment Dakota could’ve walked through that door and caught us in a compromising position.

Me: She’s going to be fine. Already asleep. Took a couple of shots to get her there.

Dakota: I don’t doubt it. K, gonna crash here. I don’t want to hear anything about it. You’ve been gone for 3 years & I’ve taken care of myself just fine.

Me: Whatever. Shane better give you a bed to sleep in. Alone. See you in the morning.

That motherfucker better not try anything with Dakota. Of course I knew that my best friend had a crush on my sister on and off through high school, but no way did I need them to have a drunken hookup over the summer. Or even date and then break up. It would’ve been all kinds of awkward between the three of us for all of eternity.

Hell, I was being a damn hypocrite. Rachel was practically a member of the family and look what line I’d crossed tonight. I brushed my fingers through my hair and paced around the room. Dakota had never given me any kind of warning about Rachel, because, even though Rachel and I were friends, Dakota thought we were interested in different things. Different people. No way could she have ever suspected how my feelings for Rachel had grown before I left for Amsterdam, could she?

And Rachel. Never would I have expected her to be attracted to me. I knew she was only interested in sex, sure. But I also knew I had never been her type. Somehow that had changed tonight. Damn, the way she’d begged me for it. At this rate, I’d be hard for two more hours.

I set down the weights and stalked toward my upright bass, pulled it off its stand, and positioned myself behind it. I placed my fingers on the strings and began playing something I’d been working on since moving back home.

I was never one to use a bow for the upright bass or even a pick with my electric bass—I preferred hammering away at the strings with my bare hands. It felt more organic that way, as if I were one with the music. Some of the best musicians I’d ever had the privilege of hearing used only their fingers, so I figured I was in good company.

The pads of my fingers had long since developed a thick skin. If I didn’t play for a few weeks—which almost never happened—a painful process would occur all over again. Blisters would turn into scabs and then into dense and unyielding calluses. My hands would never be the same again.