Starting From the Top (Starting from 5)

Or maybe it was stress talking. Maybe it was a matter of falling for the first friendly face around when the world started spinning too fast. On one hand, I felt like I owed him complete honesty. But the other part of my brain insisted that this was all fucking business, and Johnny was just a point of contact.

The latter idea made more sense. Just business.

“You’re right.” I nodded solemnly and tried a smile that went nowhere near my eyes. “I’ll call him.”

Johnny leaned against the doorjamb, crossing his arms. “You know what your problem is?”

My gaze roamed over his tattooed biceps and toned chest, then lingered on his full lips. Yeah, I knew what my problem was.

“No. What is it?” I rasped.

“You wear life like a heavy coat. It’s not all sunshine and rainbows, but why be so serious? You’ll give yourself an ulcer,” he chided lightly.

“I’ve already got one of those.”

Johnny smiled. “You need to relieve some stress.”

“Yeah. I’ll swing by the gym before I go home,” I commented, absently stepping toward the door.

“Have you eaten? I wouldn’t go to the gym on an empty stomach. Actually, I wouldn’t go on a full stomach or in the dark or in the rain or pretty much ever if I could help it. I hate working out.”

“Why?”

“It sucks. If I’m going to be forced to sweat, it should be for something fun. Like sex.” He waggled his brows lasciviously, then gestured at the drum set behind me. “But when that option isn’t available and I don’t feel like jerking off, the drums work too. I’m not very good. Just making noise helps. Want to play? Banging out your frustrations might get you to relax.”

Banging drums wasn’t quite what I’d had in mind. He was killing me with rude innuendo and that mischievous grin. I had to get out of here before I did anything stupid.

I shook my head as I stepped closer. “No, thanks. That won’t work for me.”

“Try it,” he insisted, handing me a set of drumsticks, then pointing at the stool behind the kit. “Sit.”

Unbelievably, I obeyed. “Now what?”

“Go for it, man. Smack the hell out of those drums. Find your own rhythm, do your own thing. Just go,” he urged.

I parted my thighs and tapped the top of the drum on my left twice. “Like that?”

Johnny rolled his eyes. “Oh, my God. Hit it like you mean it. Boom! Tap. Tap. Go on. I’ll play with you.”

“Johnny…”

He pulled the strap of his Stratocaster over his head and plugged in to one of the amps.

“Here we go.” His fingers flew over his guitar. He closed his eyes, letting the music take over. It poured out of him in waves, screaming, then singing in a stream of lyrical notes. I sat there transfixed by his skill, the sticks propped on the drum in front of me. “Jump in, Sean. Go.”

“I don’t know how.”

“Try it now.” Johnny slowed down, but he didn’t stop plucking at the strings. I tapped a simple beat with no rhythm or rhyme. “That’s it. Keep going.”

“Really?”

He snickered. “It’s so bad, it’s good. I cannot believe you dated a drummer.”

“Fuck you.”

That made him laugh harder. He egged me on, praising me one second and teasing me the next while he paced the rug, strumming his guitar like a star. He ended with a flourish, striking a pose like the one Darren had earlier in the office. Yes, I could see why they wanted him.

I wanted him.

Johnny pumped his hips forward, threw his hands in the air, and stuck his tongue out. “Yes! Do you feel better now?”

I chuckled as I stood. “Much better.”

“See? Music is a great stress relief. For me anyway. What does it for you?”

“Clearly the drums,” I joked. “Wasn’t I awesome?”

Johnny winced. “Yeah. Awesome. What else?”

I met his gaze, intending to make an off-the-cuff remark and move around him. But I couldn’t. Johnny’s eyes sparked with a lightness I wanted more than my next breath. He exuded sensual awareness and confidence but didn’t wield it like a weapon. I didn’t know anyone like that. Men his age usually wanted something from me. Johnny didn’t. In fact, I was the one with my hand out, telling half-truths, and wondering why he seemed like more than a business deal to me.

“I…I don’t—what’s the question?”

He cocked his head, letting his eyes drift briefly to my mouth as he hung his guitar on the wall. “What does it for you?”

“I suppose it depends on my mood,” I whispered.

His Adam’s apple slid theatrically in his throat, and his cheeks flushed a pale shade of pink. We were a foot or two apart. We hadn’t crossed any lines, but damn, I wanted to touch him. Not gonna happen. I needed him to step aside so I could get the hell out before I did something I’d regret.