Faster

By Deana Birch

Drummers on tour aren't relationship material. But hot one-night stand material? That's a different story. At least that's what Louana Higgins always thought. Until the sexy rockstar with the melt-your-heart eyes had the nerve to call her after their fling, wanting more. Her brain tells her to run the other way, but her heart—and her body—are apparently all out of synch …

Jake Riley's paid his dues and finally has a hit song to show for it. But his new success also comes with a million ways to blow it and ruin everything. What he needs now is stability—a calm port in the storm. Someone who isn't impressed by his fame and money to help ground him. He needs Louana. Now all he has to do is convince her that he's not the potential heartbreak she thinks he is.

But the road to forever won't be easy. Secrets from Jake's past loom large, and not everyone in his life is happy about his retreat from the party scene. Can Jake and Louana overcome everything—and everyone—that stands between them? Or will their love be left in the rearview of Jake's tour bus?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Deana Birch
• Release date: Jun 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386718321

Book preview

1

Fine

---

JAKE

Ishook an antique maraca in a simple two-four rhythm and eyed my buddy at his desk. Steven squinted at his laptop and poked at its keys. Rare percussion instruments littered his entire office, but the prize beckoned from the shelf above my shoulder. Cuban bongos. Instead of a head of leather, an old X-ray film covered the higher-pitched drum. A thin black-and-white piece of plastic showed a broken finger, and the rebel in me regretted it was the index. I placed the maraca back in a box on the floor and glanced over to Steven again; he was busy deleting something one key at a time. I snatched the bongos and carried them across the room to his leather couch.

I sat on the edge and secured the drums between my calves, tapping the smaller of the two heads at the rim. I slid the thumb of my free hand down the center to find the sweet spot. The sound brought Steven’s disapproving eyes. I knew he didn’t want me touching his baby, but it was too late. I flashed him my shit-ass grin and banged out a Latin beat.

After six bars, an out-of-rhythm tap, tap, tap interrupted from outside his office. Over the noise, Steven shouted, Yeah?

The real reason I was loitering at Steven’s office leaned in. Louana Higgins. Other than the fact that she was a junior producer for a film composer, what I knew about her ended there. Except maybe I had committed her legs to memory. And her ass. Fuckin’ A, her ass.

She shot me a tight smile—not what I was hoping for—and I stopped playing. I released the bongos from my legs, and she waited to speak until I set them on the floor. I had no idea how she made her work clothes sexy, but this woman rocked business attire like I rocked the drums. Maybe it was the red heels. But however she did it, it worked. And it worked for me in a colossal way.

Is this a bad time? she asked, and her attention shifted to Steven.

Not at all, Steven replied, in a tone I was sure he only used with his girlfriend’s parents.

I need your cartage bill from the session last week. I’m finishing up the contracts with Bob.

Right. Sorry. I spaced. I’ll e-mail you after lunch.

Louana’s eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared ever so slightly. I noticed because I was staring at her. I checked to make sure my mouth was closed.

"Actually, this is the second time I’ve asked. So since this isn’t a bad time and I’d like to send the contracts to the union so you can get paid, how about you do it now?"

Her thin nose scrunched at the end of her question, probably an attempt to lighten the blow.

No problem. Steven nodded his defeat. You’ll have it in five minutes.

Cool. Thanks! She turned on her heel and shut the door behind her.

The same cheeky smile I’d flashed Steven moments prior reappeared.

No. No. No. He glared at me.

Why not?

No. You will not take out Mario Mendina’s assistant producer, fuck her, go back on tour, and leave me to pick up the pieces of her broken heart. No fucking way. I need to stay on her good side. You saw how scary she is. Steven’s dark brows pulled together.

Come on. She’s hot. And I gotta say, that bossy act works for me. Not to mention, there was lace under her white blouse. I liked lace.

No. Steven held up one finger. Being Mendina’s number-one call on percussion is incredibly lucrative. You will not fuck this up for me.

Please? I exaggerated a frown with puppy dog eyes.

Nope. He went back to typing.

You realize this makes me want her more, right? If you dangled anything in front of my face and then told me I couldn’t have it, I’d want it out of spite. I knew it was childish. But I wasn’t in a rock band because I was ready to grow up.

"What if I’m really, really clear that it’s just a hookup?" I said.

No. Chicks never believe that.

What if I want it to be more than a hookup?

I knew it could happen. I’d crashed on Steven’s couch for the last few days, and seeing him with his girlfriend had made the life of a touring musician read a little lonely. And I had thought about Louana on and off for weeks since I’d first seen her in her office. Maybe thirty would be the year I’d try to have a girlfriend. In fact, the crazier shit was getting on the road, the more I craved some normalcy. Not that I was ready to admit that to him. Or anybody.

Steven frowned at me from over his laptop. No one in this office would believe you.

Come on. She’s wound pretty tight. Maybe I could loosen her up. My eyebrows jumped once.

One hit song and you have a magical dick now?

I shrugged just to egg him on. Come on. You know I’m going to do it either way. You might as well help me.

Fine. Whatever. He groaned in disgust. The smell of his defeat was better than the smell of my mom’s chocolate cake. Just be crystal clear that you go back on tour at the end of the week.

I clapped my hands together in victory and hopped up.

While Steven e-mailed Louana about his cartage fees, I paced around his office. I honestly couldn’t remember the last time I’d asked a girl out—not that I had any problems in the women department. The opposite, really. Ever since my song Faster blew up, girls had been lining up to meet me. Literally. And not just me—all four members of The Spades. Only our bass player, Sam, had a girlfriend and refused to partake in the noncommittal romps backstage. But the rest of us were taking the saying bad boys of rock and roll to sky-scraping levels. After twelve years in this grueling business, I was finally getting some perks. But it was empty. Meaningless. And for every city we played, the fans were more and more smitten. The ability to have a conversation about anything of substance was becoming rare.

Shit. Maybe a girl like Louana wouldn’t even want to go out with me. She barely acknowledged me when she spoke to Steven. I glanced down at my vans, cargo shorts, and black V-neck and ran a hand over my stubble. She probably dated doctors or computer billionaires. I needed a plan. And caffeine.

I walked down the hall past Mario Mendina’s music studio and hooked left past Louana and her other boss, Bob’s, empty office, into the little community kitchen, where I screeched to a halt.

Louana was propped against the L-shaped counter, her head down and staring at an e-reader. One of her hands lifted and froze in midair. Her eyes raced back and forth, and a tiny smile formed on her lips. The raised hand moved down to the device, and a finger swept over it.

Now was my chance. I needed to think. I stepped farther into the kitchen and she looked up at me. No smile. Damn it. This was going to be harder than I thought. I scanned the room and my eyes landed on the empty coffeepot.

Could you make me some coffee? Fuck. My game was off, and I’d resorted to middle-school-tactic number one: Do anything to get the girl to notice you. Even if it’s being a douche.

Excuse me? She blinked long and slow.

Yup. Definitely the wrong move. She was annoyed.

It’s just there’s no coffee. I shrugged and gestured to the pot as I sank deeper into the worst pickup line in history.

And you want me to make it for you? Why? Because I’m a woman?

My game had crashed into an iceberg and was going down faster than the Titanic. The ding of the microwave saved me and stole her attention.

Sorry. That came out wrong. Would you mind showing me where the coffee is, so I can brew a fresh pot?

She sat her reader down on the counter and exhaled through her mouth. She moved in front of me and opened a cabinet. I’d never realized I could identify the scent of lavender until that moment.

The ground coffee is above the coffee machine. Tricky hiding place. Oh, and look! The filters are right next to the bag. Her eyes widened as she presented the items like a prize on a gameshow. I thought I was dead in the water, but a quick wink as she went back to the microwave was my flotation device in an otherwise empty, freezing sea.

When the door of the microwave sprang open, steam poured out, activating my drool response and reminding my stomach it was empty. Forget coffee.

Smells amazing.

Thanks. The way she accepted the compliment told me she had cooked the contents of her steaming plate. Sausage and peppers.

She carried her meal and reader to the adjoining conference room, where a bottle of water and a set of silverware were already waiting for her at the large oval table.

I emptied the cold grounds into the trash, poured water into the machine, and added a new full filter of coffee. As I stood there waiting, I realized the dark-brown drips were the sands in my hourglass. In the time the coffee perked, I would need to convince this girl to go out with me, or I was done.

I slid into the rolling chair opposite her and propped my elbows on the table.

Your boyfriend make that for you?

Super subtle.

But she smiled. I was still above water.

It’s a family recipe. A bite moved from her plate to mouth.

Italian?

She finished chewing.

The recipe, yes. Me, just a quarter. Whatever the other three-quarters of her lineage was, they didn’t show. Her olive skin, long brown hair, and dark eyes had Mediterranean written all over them. And she was little: There was no way she was more than five feet four without those heels. Those hot red heels.

I’m Jake. I held out my hand across the table.

Louana.

I didn’t need to tell her I already knew her name. Or that I had replaced a song lyric with it and sung it in my head to a cheesy tune from the ’80s. And maybe once out loud in the shower. Okay, twice. What I did need was a new line and a taste of her food. I searched her plate for inspiration. She busted my eye drool and said, You wanna bite?

Um…yes. I wanted all kinds of bites. Starting with that pouty bottom lip. Shit, I was willing to turn into a vampire to get a taste of her.

I don’t want to steal your lunch, I lied.

Louana grinned and got up. She walked over to the kitchen and grabbed a new knife and fork from a drawer, which rattled shut after a push from her hip. Back at the table, she stuck the fork in a piece of the thick sausage, loaded it with peppers and onions, and dipped it into some polenta. With her hand in a cup to catch the drippings, she offered the bite across the table. I took the fork from her and sank my teeth into the most amazing Italian dish I’d ever tasted. I had to resist giving her compliments through my full mouth. I chewed and moaned, hoping she could read the approval through my facial expression and happy sounds.

Holy crap, I said when I finally swallowed. It’s taking all my self-control not to steal the rest of your plate. That’s like sweet-and-sour, Italian style.

Thanks. Balsamic vinegar. She smiled a little and went back to her plate. Her eyes flicked back to mine. I have more. I brought it for my boss, but he went out to lunch with a client. It’s all yours if you want it.

I had a faint memory of a plan to grab a burger down the street with Steven, but it evaporated with her offer. The corners of my mouth turned up and my lips pressed together. I had my hook.

I would love your leftovers. But only if I can buy you a drink after work.

She stood again, revealing nothing, and went over to the fridge. She pulled out a plastic container, which she set on the counter. She found a plate in the cabinet and dumped the contents of the container onto it. With my food popped into the microwave, she came back and resumed eating. I wasn’t sure if she was going to give me an answer, but I didn’t want to sound desperate, so I remained mute and watched her eat.

When the microwave sounded its finish and broke the silence, she stood, walked to the kitchen, and I heard her slide her dishes into the sink. She came back with the new, warmed-up plate and set it in front of me.

I should be done around six thirty. She headed to the door and stopped. I was already mid chew when she said, Oh, and thanks for doing the dishes.

⸎

Full, and back in Steven’s office, I plopped down on the couch and crossed my ankles over the armrest.

You ready to go? he asked.

Sorry, man. I’m stuffed. I closed my eyes and rubbed my belly.

I thought the whole reason you came here was to have lunch with me.

Nope. I came to bang on those bongos and get that girl to have dinner with me. I folded my arms and sucked the remainder of my lunch out of my teeth. I bet she tasted better than her cooking.

"If you’re going to sleep on my work couch and my home couch, you need to at least pay for my meal."

Fine. I dug into my pocket and fished out some cash. I peeled out the smallest bills, wadded them up into a ball, and tossed it over in his general direction. My ass settled into his couch and I closed my eyes for a nap. With a grin on my face, I thought about what might be hiding under Louana’s top. In my book, the only thing better than a lacy bra was no bra at all.

2

A Terrible Friend

---

LOUANA

Jake. His name was Jake. I’d seen him somewhere before; it must have been with Steven. And I remembered him. Because when a girl encounters a tall, fit, delicious man, he doesn’t fade away from her memory. He lingers in her brain and corrupts her thoughts. Now that his chocolate eyes and swimmer’s body had a name to go with them, he was sure to do more than linger. And I didn’t care if he was just buying me a drink to say thank you for his lunch. My social life was so starved, I was ready to wash his car if it meant a conversation outside work. But I was at work and needed to prepare for our afternoon. I printed out the union contracts for my executive producer, Bob; tidied my desk; and went down to Mario’s studio to set up for our clients.

Our three o’clock meeting with French director Vincent Renier and his assistant was our first session to discuss Vincent’s latest movie, The Drifting. It was a dark and twisted story, true to Vincent’s style and existing body of work. It was also my first solo project without my other boss holding my hand, and I did not want to disappoint. Mario was the only film composer Vincent ever used, and there was no way I would jeopardize the relationship with my greenness.

The first time I met Vincent, it was briefly, at the same party where I met his assistant, Casey. Casey and I hit it off, and we stayed in touch as our mutual project drew nearer. We even went to lunch a few times. But I hadn’t had much time to read Vincent, and industry rumors of him being difficult and a bit of a ladies’ man clouded my judgement.

When it was time for the meeting, Vincent and Casey were a bit late. My executive producer, Bob, squirmed in his chair, waiting. He was ready to leave so he could beat traffic and get back to the Westside. The receptionist for the floor finally buzzed Vincent and Casey’s arrival, and Bob and I went out to greet them. Bob put his arm around Vincent and led him down the hall to Mario’s studio.

Casey, wearing a buttoned-up, short-sleeve shirt over his pale skin, air kissed both cheeks and said, Hello, gorgeous. You wore pants to hide your sexy little legs. Good thinking.

I laughed. He was 100 percent correct. I wasn’t tall, and I didn’t think anyone would mistake me for being curvy, but I ran a few times a week and watched what I ate. Of all my body parts, my legs were my favorite. Exposing them in this meeting would be the wrong call, based on what I’d heard about director Vincent Renier. After telling the receptionist to send all calls to voicemail, Casey and I chitchatted on our way back to join the others.

In Mario’s dark studio, we went through all the formalities of the greetings, and our clients sat on the leather couch behind Mario’s massive mixing console. Finally, Bob said, "Vincent; Louana, as you know, is our new producer, and she’ll be the point person for the rest of the project. I’ll always be around if anyone needs me, especially you. He eyed me. But I am spending less and less time here and more with Karen. I’m sure you understand."

Bob waved his way out of the studio and asked me to join him for a second. I followed him to our office, where he grabbed his phone and keys off his big wooden desk.

Don’t let Vincent scare you with his cleft chin and spooky stares. He likes to test the waters to read reactions. Don’t forget: he’s a dramatic director.

Right. Good advice. Thanks.

Take notes and e-mail me later.

When I came back into the studio, all eyes were on me, and a grin was plastered on Casey’s freckled face. The second Vincent spoke French, I realized I had been sold down the river. In fact, Vincent spoke so fast, it was difficult to keep up with him. What I did catch was him asking me where my family was from. Casey said my grandmother was an opera singer, and Vincent wanted to know which one. He was delighted to meet another true Frenchie.

Leaving out the fact I was only half French, I answered him back that yes, my grandmother was a singer; but it wasn’t a big deal.

But Vincent insisted. Elle s’appelle comment?

Stella Forlini.

Non! The big, bad, scary director erupted with excitement and turned to a laughing Mario. This must have been a side of Vincent he had not seen before. Mario! You didn’t tell me you had the granddaughter of French music royalty working for you!

But Vincent exaggerated. It made sense he was familiar with my grandmother, because he was French and involved in the arts. But even in France, just a handful of people listened to opera. She wasn’t a celebrity. Not that I would ever tell her that, but if she was going to help me make my first huge project a success, I was ready to latch on to her coattails.

Surprise! Mario said to Vincent. He knew my family history but had never asked much about it. Mario was more interested in whether I could do my job, not if someone in my gene pool could sing.

After we wrapped up, Vincent hooked my arm and accompanied me down the hall. In French, he asked me more about my grandmother. His father was a fan, and he had wondered what had become of her. Mario and Casey walked silently behind us, their common interests ending with the man to my right.

When we reached the lobby, the receptionist’s glare was plenty evil enough to understand she was not happy. A quick peek at the couch stopped me in my tracks. Jake sat there reading a magazine, a wiggling foot on top of his knee. He bent the upper edge of the pages to see me and smiled. Shit. Our meeting had gone over and I had kept him waiting. My heart pounded in my chest, but I focused on my clients. Vincent—who now knew my family was from the South of France—kissed each cheek twice, and he and Mario left to call the elevator.

You threw me to the wolves back there, I scolded Casey.

Casey darted his eyes toward Jake, then back to me. Yeah, maybe, but it totally worked. He loves you. He shrugged and shot Jake one more glance, then hurried to join the others as the elevator rang its arrival. He was already on his phone before the doors closed.

With the receptionist’s energy searing at my back, I dealt with her first. She had the good sense to wait for Mario to walk back down the hall toward his studio before she said, Jesus, Louana. You could have warned me you were expecting someone. Now I can’t see my boyfriend before he goes to work. Thanks a lot.

Why I was to blame for her doing her job was beyond me. The phone rang and she changed her tune, but not her stank face.

Mario Mendina Music. She listened to the voice on the other end. One moment, please. After placing the caller on hold, she peered back up with her stink eye. It’s Casey. For you. Can I go now?

Sure, I said to her. I turned to Jake. Hi.

Hey. Lord, his voice was divine. A little raspy and just low enough. How had I missed that earlier? And that half smile? Lord-y.

In a cloud of cheap perfume, the receptionist huffed by me and stomped out the door.

I need to take this call and then I’m finished. Give me five?

No worries. He unwrinkled his magazine and went back to reading it.

I jogged down the hall to my office, where I found Mario in the doorway.

I think Vincent liked you.

I hope so, I said with a nervous smile.

Mario paused, decided against whatever it was he was going to say, tapped the doorframe, and instead said, See you tomorrow.

Good night.

I sat down at my desk and picked up the phone. Louana Higgins.

Hey! What took you so long? But before I could answer, Casey spat, Anyway, I’m dying!

What? Why? I grabbed a pen in case I need to write down directions.

Why is the drummer of The Spades in your waiting room?

What? Who? My eyes searched the blank wall in front of me.

The guy sitting on the couch. Jake Riley. The drummer for The Spades.

Oh.

Jesus, Loulou. Do you not know a rock star when you see one?

Apparently not. I swiveled my chair and tried to look down the hall.

"You really need to stop listening to all that old French shit and step into the present day, girl. The Spades are, like, the hottest rock band right now. You