Unwritten (Woodlands 5)

“You know, now that Davis is in my band, I consider him family.” A finger tilts my chin up until I meet Adam’s dark eyes. “And there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for family. Give me the name of whoever hurt you, and I’ll take care of it.”

I lick my lips. “I just got scared over nothing.”

“You don’t look like someone who scares easily.” His thumb rubs gently across my skin.

I don’t have a good response, because I want to agree, but I don’t think that’s the truth. Someone who didn’t scare easily wouldn’t be in my shoes. Someone who didn’t scare easily would’ve chased after Marrow. Someone who didn’t scare easily would lean forward, raise her face, and kiss this man.

“You ready?” Davis bangs the door open.

I jump back from Adam’s touch and dart a nervous glance in Davis’s direction. But he’s too impatient, gesturing for me to scoot out the door, so he doesn’t notice how close I was standing to Adam or sense how charged the air is in this small office.

“Yeah, I’m ready.”

“You sure I can’t do anything?” Adam offers once more.

Davis shakes his head. “We got it.”

I briefly meet Rock God’s eyes. “Nice to meet you, Adam.”

After a beat of hesitation, he nods. “Yeah. Same.”

Adam’s gorgeous and talented. Another time, another life, I’d be all over him, but for so many reasons, taking him up on his offer would be disastrous. So I hurry out of the room with the heat of his eyes on my back as I walk down the hall.

Out by the car, my brother shoves his guitar case in the backseat while I get into the passenger seat.

Once he’s in the driver’s seat Davis picks up my mangled glasses. “You did a number on these, didn’t you?”

“Yup.”

“That asshole. I wish I’d…” Davis trails off, swallowing what I imagine are very murderous thoughts. We’ve gotten into a dozen arguments about what he was going to do to Chris Marrow. I wanted Davis to stay away. Davis wanted to carve him up with a dull spoon.

“I know what you wish, but it was probably nothing.” I fiddle with my seatbelt as Davis pushes the button to start the car. When he shifts into drive, I wiggle in my seat.

“I only had two shots the whole night,” he says tightly.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I wasn’t checking up on you.”

“You sure about that?”

I pat my face. “Real sure.”

Davis grunts, but pulls out. We both fall silent. He’s probably dwelling on my idiocy while I’m multi-tasking—worrying about him and me at the same time.

When we arrive home, it’s completely dark. He keeps the lights on and hits the garage door opener. “Stay here,” he orders.

I get out.

He sighs.

I scamper inside the garage and find a flashlight, which I hand to him because if I don’t I’m sure he’d rip it out of my fingers.

“Where’d you see him?”

“By the side door to the garage.”

Davis shines the light in front of him, and we go investigate.

“Looks like someone was standing here.”