Fade Into You (Shaken Dirty 3)

“It does matter,” she answered. “It will always matter. You’re a drummer—”

“I was a drummer. Now I’m—” He broke off, not knowing what to say or how to even complete the sentence. Being a drummer was everything to him. It was his whole identity, his whole life, and if he wasn’t one anymore, then he didn’t know what the fuck he was.

Except an addict. He’d always be one of those, wouldn’t he?

He wanted to deny it, wanted to pretend it wasn’t true. But it was. He knew it was. Just like he knew if he could get his hands on a gram of smack right now, he’d do it all. Smoke it, shoot it, fuck, at this point he’d snort the shit up his fucking nose. Anything to get away from himself for a while—to get out of the skin that hadn’t fit right for as long as he could remember.

He closed his eyes at the thought, flexed his hand, tried to concentrate on the pain. On the cravings. On anything, on everything, but the past he couldn’t take back. The mistakes he couldn’t get away from unless he was so far gone on drugs and booze that he barely knew his own name.

It didn’t work.

Then again, no fucking surprise there. He’d been trying to perfect that trick since he was a kid and it had never fucking worked. Would never work. He was stuck in his own head until all the bullshit he couldn’t leave behind finally destroyed him once and for all.

He pulled back his arm, determined to hit the tree again and again—to break himself against it until there was nothing else to concentrate on but the pain. But in the end, he couldn’t do it, not in front of Poppy. Not when she was standing right in front of him, her face pale and her big, brown eyes wide and worried.

He couldn’t stand it—couldn’t stand the way she was looking at him, like she was afraid he was going to fall to pieces at any moment. Couldn’t stand the idea of losing it in front of her and looking totally pathetic. And he definitely, definitely couldn’t stand her pity—or the fear he saw lurking deep in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” he told her, finally breaking the long moments of silence that stretched out between them. “I didn’t mean to lose it like that.”

“You didn’t,” she answered.

As one they looked down at his bruised and swollen knuckles. “Yeah. Right.”

She took his hand then, rubbed her thumb gently over the back of it. “It’s okay,” she soothed. Her voice was soft—gentle—and he could tell she was trying her best not to spook him. Almost like he was the deer and she the hunter.

Because he didn’t like that analogy—or the kernel of truth to be found in it—he reached forward and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her toward him.

She came, but it was obvious she was wary. Nervous. He wondered if she regretted coming after him. If she wished she’d sent someone else.

He wouldn’t blame her if she did. God knew, even he wouldn’t be here if he didn’t have to be. He’d spent most of his life wanting to shed his skin like a snake. To leave behind who he was and start over as someone new.

Someone better.

Someone who hadn’t fucked up everything he’d ever touched.

No way would he pick himself if he had the choice. Not in a million years.

And yet, even as he told himself that, he didn’t let her go. He couldn’t, not yet.

Not when her body felt so soft and warm against his arm. And not when her chest was rising and falling so rapidly, her full breasts straining against the soft cotton of her hot pink tank top. If he moved, just a little, her nipples would brush against his chest.

Because he couldn’t resist the temptation of that, he did, taking that last little step that closed the gap between them completely.

She gasped, her eyes growing even wider as his body pressed against hers from chest to thigh.

“You okay?” he asked, his thumb burrowing under her shirt to stroke the silky smooth skin of her waist.

“Me?” She sounded breathless and incredulous all at once. “I came out here to ask you the same question.”

He forced a grin he was far from feeling. “Don’t worry about me, sweetheart. I’m always fine.”

“You sure about that? Because you don’t look fine.” Once again her fingers ghosted over his battered hand.

He shrugged. “Just trying to do what’s good for the band.”

“You’re what’s good for the band, Wyatt. Anyone with a brain or any musical knowledge whatsoever knows that much.”

“Not Bill Germaine, obviously, and he’s one of the smartest guys in the business.”

“Bill Germaine is an asshole who can’t see past his bottom line to save his life.” Her response was much more adamant—and vicious—than he’d expected. “He’s so wrapped up in what happened three months ago that he’s not looking down the road to three months, or three years, from now.”