It starts to snow lightly as we make our way to Penn’s. He rode with Tanner earlier, so he doesn’t have his truck. Tonight will be the first time I’ve been to his place.
I’m driving cautiously as the tiny flakes falling start to grow thicker and heavier. I hate driving in the snow. It makes me nervous. I usually prefer to walk or stay indoors if I can help it.
My hands are firmly gripped around the wheel and my eyes stay on the road as I ask, “So a label, huh?”
“Yeah.”
When he doesn’t offer more, I push. “That’s great, right?”
“Not really. Anytime a label comes sniffing around after a big show or a viral video, it’s usually a bullshit money grab. They want to capitalize on the momentum, but as soon as the smoke clears, they just want you to conform to whatever’s selling at the moment. They don’t actually give a shit about you.”
“Oh.” I guess it makes sense now why Tanner wouldn’t bother telling them.
“Travis is just being a dick. He doesn’t actually want to sign. He just likes fighting with Tanner. We all agreed we’d never sell out. If we ever sign to a label, it’d be a small indie one. One that wouldn’t want us to change who we are to sell records. Tanner hasn’t come out and said it, but I think his goal is to open his own label when he’s done with his business classes.”
“Really? That would be cool.”
He nods, pointing to a white two-story building up ahead. “Turn right.”
I ease into the lot and park beside his truck. The building issmall, probably only big enough for four apartments, but it’s well-kept and not far from my place.
He leads me up the stairs, and when I step inside, I’m surprised. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting his place to look like, maybe something dark and messy. But no, it’s cozy and neat, and smells just like him. There’s a black leather sofa, a coffee table with notebooks scattered on top, and a TV on a wood stand. A few framed band posters hang on the walls, similar to the ones at Travis’s, but other than that, not much else. To the left of the living room is a small navy kitchen with an island and a round table with a couple of chairs around it.
“Want the tour?” He places his hand on my lower back and ushers me down the hall, showing me the bathroom first, then a bedroom. “That’s my spare room.”
I peek inside. There’s a small white daybed with a matching dresser next to it. A couple of guitars are lined up on a rack, an amp and some speakers are along the wall, and a keyboard is propped against them. “Do you play?”
He shrugs. “A little.”
Wow, God really went all out on him, huh? He can write music and lyrics, play the guitar, has a beautiful voice, and he can play the keyboard. Not to mention how hot he is.
His room is at the end of the hall. It’s spacious, with dark gray walls, a huge black framed bed in the center, a matching dresser, and two nightstands. Another door leads to a walk-in closet and another bathroom, this one much larger than the other. The bathroom has a double sink with wood floating shelves that hang above it and a tile shower. I stare at it, noting that there isn’t a door, and all I can think is that’s where he showers. Where he gets naked.
He tugs me back into the bedroom, and I shake my head, trying to get rid of my dirty thoughts. I seem to be having those a lot since meeting him.
I plop onto his bed, bouncing up and down to test the softness of his mattress. “I like it.”
He smirks. “I like you,there.” He points at me on his bed.
I lean back on my elbows. “Oh yeah?” I say coyly.
He nods but stays planted a few feet away, his hands safely tucked in his hoodie pocket. I fall back and sigh. “Your bed is so soft.”
The next thing I know, he’s towering over me, his hands planted on either side of my head as he stares down at me. “Are you trying to tempt me, Barbie?”
I bat my lashes at him. “I don’t know what you mean.”
When I told him I wanted to wait three months, I didn’t mean foreverything, but he’s made zero moves to go any further than kissing. Maybe I am trying to tempt him, see how far I can push before he breaks and slips a hand up my shirt.
His eyes search mine. I run my hands along his arms, sliding them underneath his hoodie so I can touch his bare skin. He’s as hot as I feel. He sucks in a breath. His jaw is tight, and when I graze my nails over his abs, he shivers, eyes fluttering.
“Can I see your tattoos?” I have yet to see them up close.
He yanks his hoodie over his head and tosses it aside, leaving him in a loose cut-off T-shirt. He resumes his position above me, and I trail my fingers along the ink that starts on his neck. A set of wings—which I assume are for his dad. His left arm has a few sporadic tattoos, but his whole right arm is covered. There’s so much it’s hard to make out every single detail, but I see music notes, a snake, some kind of fancy script in another language, and few of his lyrics.
“Do you have more?”
He nods, and I lift his shirt in search, finding one right over his heart. The sight makes my nose sting and my throat burn. Covering his chest is a broken heart. It’s been torn in half and stitched back together with what appears to be guitar strings.
