Call on Me, Page 2

  Pike looked to the ceiling, letting that sink in. Karma was a fucking bitch. “You are totally ruining my hard-on here.”

  “Now don’t kid. I know my deep, brooding voice makes you hot,” Gib said. “Want me to talk dirty to you, Spikey?”

  Pike grinned. “So it’s finally happened. You’re going gay for me. I’m flattered. Of course, it was inevitable. I mean, have you seen me? But I hate to break your heart, Gib, I only play for one team.”

  He sniffed. “If I were gay, I’d have way higher standards than you. That record would need to be platinum.”

  “Aw, love you, too. I’m even making my duckface for you.” He made a loud kiss sound. “Now I’m letting you go because, unlike you, I’m about to get laid, son.”

  “Fine. But call me back in the morning. I have a charity thing I need to run by you.”

  Pike tucked the phone between his shoulder and ear and pulled his bedside drawer open to check the condom supply. “The Dine and Donate event? I told you the band’s in again this year, if you need us.”

  “No, this is for something different. More of a favor than anything else.”

  “Sounds ominous. But yeah, call you tomorrow.”

  “Cool. Now go rock her world, Spike.”

  Pike snorted and disconnected the call. He tossed his phone on the chair by the window and padded to his closet to grab a T-shirt. But when he stepped out of his room, ready to block out all the information he’d learned—selfies, Instagram, Spike—in order to enjoy his date, he was greeted by a shriek instead.

  Lark hadn’t seen him come in because her gaze had zeroed in on a growling Monty.

  “Give it back, you stupid mutt!” she yelled and jabbed a closed umbrella at Monty, catching him right in the side. Monty yelped.

  “What the fuck?” Pike hurried forward and grabbed her wrist, stopping another poke. “What the hell’s going on?”

  She pointed at Monty, rage twisting her pretty face into something ugly. “Look at him! Your idiotic dog is eating my Jimmy Choos!”

  She said it like Monty was murdering her kid. Pike glanced at Monty, who was in defense mode, baring teeth, two little paws on one of Lark’s high heels. Pike shrugged. “Well, the brand does say Choo. Maybe he’s just following directions.”

  Lark gasped and looked at Pike like he’d lost his mind. “Do you know how much those cost? What is wrong with you? Do something!”

  The grating tone of her voice made his teeth clamp together. Being yelled at by anyone pushed his buttons. But messing with his dog pushed the ugliest of them. He took a breath, trying to keep his cool. “Do you know that my dog was abused as a puppy? And that jabbing him with a sharp object is fucking traumatizing to him? I’ll buy you another pair of your goddamned shoes.”

  Her head snapped back a bit at that, and she had the decency to look chagrined. She glanced down at the umbrella still clutched in her hand. “Oh. Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  And he didn’t care. Abused or not, you don’t poke an animal with something that could hurt them, especially over something as stupid as a shoe. He could put up with her using him for his fame or whatever. They would’ve both been using each other. They each knew the score. But he wasn’t going to let anyone fuck with his dog.

  “Monty, release,” he said in the firm, dominant voice that worked best on the feisty dachshund/schnauzer mix. Monty looked up with big, sad puppy eyes and backed away from the shoe. But just when Pike was about to send him off to his bed, Monty trotted over to Lark and gave her the I’m-sorry look.

  Lark’s expression softened, and she reached down to pat his head awkwardly. “It’s okay, buddy …”

  Monty lifted his leg and pissed all over her bare foot.

  “Monty, no!” Pike said.

  But chaos ensued after that. Lark hopping and shrieking. Monty barking and spinning in a circle. And Pike doing his damnedest not to laugh.

  He wasn’t entirely successful, and that earned him a glare from Lark and a happy, yipping bark from Monty. Finally, he gathered himself together enough to direct Monty to go to his crate so he could help Lark.

  He showed her to the bathroom so she could rinse her leg off in the tub, and he cleaned up the mess in the living room—after sneaking Monty his treat and a belly rub.

  He was halfway through a beer when Lark stepped into the kitchen a few minutes later, wearing nothing but a pair of lacy pink panties and a bra that made her breasts look like icing-covered cupcakes. His dick jumped to attention—the response automatic.

  She leaned in the doorway, posing like she was at a Victoria’s Secret cover shoot, and gave him the inviting smile she’d given him from the audience tonight. “Sorry about all of that. How about we start over and get back to why we’re here, hmm?”

  Pike still had the bottle of beer pressed to his lips. He lowered it and set it on the counter.

  Lark’s smile spread wider and she sauntered over with a heavy sway in her hips. She pressed her hand to his chest. “I have all kinds of ways we can apologize to each other. For getting mad at your dog, I was thinking this would make it up to you.”

  She dragged her hand down his chest and lowered to her knees. Pike stared down at her. She looked like a fucking porn star at his feet—pouty lips with a fresh coat of pink lipstick, blond hair flowing down her back. A wet dream of a woman. But when she put her painted fingernails to the zipper on his jeans, he put his hand over hers. “Stand up.”

  She blinked, the sultry look shifting to a perplexed one. “Huh?”

  He helped Lark get to her feet. “Be right back.”

  Her smile returned, though it had a confused tilt to it. “O … kay.”

  He headed back to his bedroom for a minute then returned to the kitchen. She was drinking his beer, putting lipstick marks on the bottle. He draped her dress on one of the barstools, set a pair of his flip-flops on top of it, and handed her a few hundred-dollar bills. “For the shoes and a cab.”

  She stared down at the money in her hand. “What?”

  “This isn’t going to happen tonight.”

  “Wait, you want me to leave? But I thought—”

  “It’s time for you to go.” He was tempted to take a co-selfie with her. Hashtag: HookUpFail.

  She stiffened like a rod had been shoved up her back and she made these little sputters of disbelief—like she was trying to come up with a really good insult but couldn’t think of any.

  When she obviously couldn’t string anything worthy together, she shoved on his flip-flops, which looked like flippers on her small feet, and yanked her dress over her head. “I can’t fucking believe this.”

  He dumped the beer in the sink, bored.

  His lack of response brought a new level of hatred glowing in her eyes. “Is this about the dog? Because that’s just stupid. How was I supposed to know he was abused?”

  He walked to his front door and pulled it open. “You never know where anyone’s scars are hiding. Doesn’t mean you get a pass to hurt them.”

  She reared back like he’d slapped her. Then her lips pressed together, and she flounced out the door, muttering something about hoping that the dumb dog kept him warm tonight.

  He shut the door without watching her go and leaned against it, absorbing the quiet of the condo, relief instead of disappointment settling in. Hookup fail, yes. But even he had standards. He’d rather fuck his fist than spend another second with Duckface the Puppy Poker.

  A year ago, he might’ve just written it off and taken her to bed anyway. What did it matter if a woman was shallow? It’s not like they’d be seeing each other again. Plus, he’d always hated sleeping alone in a house. But now he couldn’t stomach the thought of spending another moment with a woman like that.

  Maybe he was getting used to being by himself. After his roommate, Foster, had moved out to live with his girlfriend last year, Pike had felt that old need to always have people over. Mostly of the naked female variety. But for the last few months, he’d been so busy with
band stuff and working at his music studio in between that he hadn’t sought out that brand of companionship very often. He hadn’t even gone to The Ranch, the kink resort he and his friends belonged to, in at least three months. Tonight had been the first night he’d done the hook-up-after-a-show thing in a while.

  Now he remembered why he’d backed off from this kind of thing. He had no issue being someone’s one-night stand. Most of the time, he preferred things that way. But now that he’d seen how Foster and Cela were together, how explosive the chemistry could be when two people connected like that, he could see how superficial this other shit was in comparison. Women fucked his type. The bad boy. The drummer. Whatever. They didn’t fuck him.

  And he’d been guilty of the same. He’d fuck the groupie, the model, the B actress. If not for Monty chewing Lark’s shoe tonight, he would’ve never known that the woman was capable of hurting a dog for something as inconsequential as a shoe. Because he didn’t know her.

  For some reason, that dug into him like a burr, annoying the shit out of him.

  He sank onto his bed and Monty jumped up to join him. He scratched behind Monty’s ears. “Good job, Monts. You’re making me grow a goddamned conscience.”

  Monty licked his chops. There were pieces of red shoe leather stuck in his teeth.

  Pike chuckled and kissed the top of his pup’s scruffy head. Monty rewarded him by releasing some noxious gas and dog-grinning at the effort.

  “Jesus, Monts.” He put his hand over his nose and mouth. “Take that stuff somewhere else.”

  Monty, of course, took that as his cue to settle next to him on the bed. Pike waved the poisonous fumes away, coughing, and grabbed his cell phone.

  Gibson answered on the second ring. “Please tell me you last longer than that because, seriously, any thoughts of going gay for you are definitely out of the question otherwise. I require stamina.”

  Pike let his head fall back to the pillow. “Shut the fuck up and stop flirting. It’s not going to work.”

  “So you kicked her out?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. You’re better than that,” Gib said, no sarcasm in his voice. “You need to stop dipping into the groupie pool, anyway. You’re too old for that shit. Find yourself some normal women your own age.”

  “Normal women have too many expectations.”

  “What? Like remembering their names and calling them the next day?”

  “Exactly. Plus, I’m best in limited doses. I’d send normal women running for the hills after too long.”

  “I don’t know. You haven’t scared off your friends yet. I mean, yes, I thought you were an egotistical douchebag when I first met you, but now you’ve grown on me. Like a fungus.”

  “So you’re saying I should try to infect some normal woman with my fungus? Good talk, buddy. Good talk.”

  “Dr. Phil gets all his best stuff from me.”

  “Just tell me about this charity thing so I can get to bed and think about the sex I won’t be having tonight.”

  Gibson paused as if ready to push the topic, but then relented. “Fine. The charity project. It would involve music.”

  “Excellent.”

  “And would be helping my lovely sister-in-law out.”

  “Making sexy Tessa happy. Good.”

  “You’d be working with kids.”

  “Aaaand … I’m out.”

  Gibson scoffed. “You have something against kids?”

  “I’m inked up, curse like a convict, and have piercings in questionable places. Parents don’t want me near their children, and kids freak me out.”

  “Bullshit. How can you be freaked out? You’re one of them.”

  “Sorry, Gib.”

  “Are you being serious right now?”

  “I’m not a kid person.” He could still smell the stench of the house he’d grown up in. The overstuffed diaper pails. The spoiling government-issued baby formula. His younger siblings seeking him out when their mom had to work or when her boyfriend of the month was in a vengeful mood. That deep, terrifying feeling that lived in Pike that he was in over his head. That he’d never be enough to make it okay for them.

  And he’d been one hundred percent right on that.

  “This would be the older group, not the little ones.”

  The dredged-up memories sent a sick feeling rolling through him, making his skin go clammy. “Can’t I just write a check or donate proceeds from a show or something?”

  Gibson blew out a breath. “No, they need your expertise not your money. Just hear me out. Tessa has a great idea for a fund-raiser, but she needs someone with experience in producing music. All the money would go toward the college fund and resources for the after-school program. You know what the charity’s about. These kids don’t have a lot, man. You and I both know what that’s like.”

  Fuck. “You’re really going for the jugular here, Gib.”

  “Just speaking the truth.”

  Yeah, that, and Gibson was a brilliant PR guy who knew how to pitch things. Monty laid his head on Pike’s chest, and Pike scratched behind Monty’s ear. “You’ve even got my dog giving me the don’t-be-a-bastard look.”

  Gibson chuckled. “I sneak him treats when I’m there. He’s on my side.”

  Pike ran a hand over his face. This was a bad idea. But even he wasn’t a big enough asshole to turn his back on kids who needed help. It was places like Bluebonnet that had helped his family when they needed it. He and his siblings probably never would’ve gotten a Christmas gift or decent coats if not for community programs. What kind of hypocrite would it make him if he said no? But the thought of working with children made him want to run for the damn hills. “What exactly do they want me to do?”

  He could almost hear Gibson’s victory grin over the phone. “It won’t be a big deal at all.”

  Pike closed his eyes. Famous last words.

  THREE

  Oakley fought to keep her eyes open as she transcribed information from the millionth file of the day and added it to the new thirteen-page government form that Bluebonnet Place needed to keep on every child. She polished off the rest of her coffee and glanced at the clock. Only half an hour before she got to take a break from the office work and go have her session with the kids. She could make it without a refill. Maybe.

  She traced her finger down the convoluted form, trying to figure out where this information should go. “If yes then go to line 7B. If no, go to line 10A. If neither, rip up this frigging form and forfeit any remnants of your sanity.”

  “You know, I’ve always wondered if the people who create government forms spend their free time tying people up and torturing them.”

  Oakley’s skin prickled at the low, smooth voice, the melodic sound like a soft stroke to the back of her neck. She spun in her office chair, poised to say Excuse me?, but nothing came out when her gaze collided with her visitor. At least six feet of lean, tattooed, blond bad boy was lounging against the counter and looking straight at her.

  The guy gave her a conspiratorial smile and leaned a little closer, cocking his head toward her pile of papers, his eyebrow ring glinting underneath the lights. “I mean, only a sadist would make anyone try to fit letters into those little boxes.”

  He was talking about documents, but he may as well have asked her if she’d like to go out back and get naked for the way her body responded to the comment. Oakley swallowed past the dryness in her throat, trying to regain her professional composure despite her rogue hormonal reaction to the man’s presence. This guy clearly was in the wrong place. Who walked into a children’s charity and started making jokes about tying people up? Maybe he wanted the tattoo shop down the street. Though there didn’t seem to be any spare spots on his arms to fill with ink. “Can I help you, sir?”

  Yes. Good. That sounded calm and professional. Go her.

  “No need for the sir.” His lips tilted, mischief sparking in gold-green eyes. “I didn’t say I was a sadist. But yes, I bet you can help me.”r />
  Yes, she could. Right out of that tight T-shirt.

  No, no, no. Stop. What the hell was wrong with her? Hello, libido, meet Mr. Not My Type.

  The man kept close, like this was some secret conversation. “I’m here to talk to the leggy blonde who runs this place. She here?”

  The words snapped Oakley out of her lust haze. Leggy blonde? Oakley straightened, affronted on behalf of her boss. “If you mean Mrs. Vandergriff, she has a parent in her office right now. Name, please.”

  He tilted his head at her cool tone. “Did I say something wrong?”

  “Name, please.”

  He rose to his full height and hooked his thumbs in his pockets, vague amusement on his face. “Pike.”

  She was about to ask his last name, but with a name like Pike, she doubted it was needed. “You can take a seat, and I’ll let her know you’re here when she’s done.”

  He glanced at the row of chairs in the small lobby. “Or you could take a break from the torture and give me a tour of the place. I’d like to know what I’m signing up for.”

  She lifted a brow.

  No way did he have a kid who qualified for services here. She’d taken a good long look at him now that he’d given her some breathing room. His worn jeans and vintage Dead Kennedys T-shirt may look thrown together, but she recognized expensive threads when she saw them. She’d taken that course in looking artfully casual once upon a time. Plus, imagining him with a kid just didn’t compute. He looked like the guy you’d try to keep your kids away from.

  “You do realize that you or your child have to be under eighteen to sign up for anything? And we don’t give tours. We protect children’s privacy here.”

  He grinned, undeterred. “I can see why Tessa puts you at the front.”

  Oakley straightened the file on her desk and gave him a tight smile back. “Because I’m so welcoming and warm?”

  “Exactly.” He eased forward again, challenge dancing in eyes framed by sooty lashes. “What’s your name, o’ powerful gatekeeper? Something about you seems so familiar.”

  Her fingers tightened around the file, his nearness and evaluating look making her heart skip a few beats, but she kept her reaction off her face. It was near impossible that anyone could recognize her these days. She’d changed her hair color from blue back to the natural dark brown, was a decade older, and at least fifteen pounds heavier since she’d been anyone worth recognizing. “Oakley Easton.”