Before & After - Nazarea Andrews Page 0,26
his smirk deepens as he nods.
“Take these,” he says, handing me the coffees and scooting around me. I catch the smell of him—crisp and soapy, with a hint of lead and smoke.
“Do you smoke?” I blurt as he pushes me out of the room.
He laughs softly, but doesn’t answer my question until we’re at the elevator and he can look at me. “No. I used to. But now it’s mostly just the smell of it in my clothes from gigs.”
I frown. “Gigs?”
He hesitates. “I’ll show you, in the truck.”
Curiosity mingles with nerves, and I nod, ducking and sniffing the coffee. It smell amazing and I make a tiny noise, almost a whimper.
“It’s for you, Peyton. Although. Next time I hear that noise, I’d like to be balls deep inside you.” I flush and Rike laughs. “God, that’s new.”
The little admission overrides my embarrassment, and my gaze snaps to his. “Is it?”
His gaze brightens, and he leans down as the door opens. Murmurs, “The first time I made you come, it was against my fingers on stage at Barrie’s.”
I bite my lip, trying very hard to stay still as that mental image works over me. “I find that highly unlikely,” I say finally and he laughs at the unsteady note in my voice. Bastard.
“Sweetheart, you were always a dirty girl with an exhibitionist streak. It’s one of the things I loved about you.”
I flinch at that word. And he catches it. It seems like he catches everything.
Tommy is at the check-in counter, and he grins when he sees Rike pushing me through. “He gonna bring you home, Pey?”
I nod, and he waves amicably as we exit the hotel. There’s a giant, hulking red truck, all shiny lines and clean leather interior, and Rike pushes me up to it. Eyes the truck and me. “I’m going to lift you in. Is that ok?”
When I'm settled and he's got my wheelchair in the back, he climbs in and reclaims his coffee. I'm quiet while he drives, watching him and taking in the truck.
It's clean, almost obsessively so. There is a notebook in the back, with two drum sticks and an open guitar case. I swivel to look at him, lifting my eyebrows.
He grins. "We play. Scott more than me—his record label hooked him up with a band, so he doesn't really need me the way he used to. But I still practice with him and do the occasional gig, especially for charity events. And I write all his songs, so I work closely with the band. It's how we met."
"I fell for a tattooed wannabe rock star?" I demand, disbelief thick in my tone. He laughs, a burst of surprise. Grins at me, and I shake my head. “You do realize that this is unlikely—I’m not that type of girl.”
“I used to think that. It’s why it took me three months to talk to you. Because I was pretty sure you weren’t the type to fall for a tattooed boy with a shit past and a guitar. But you were always full of surprises. I think this one surprised you as much as it did me. Because that’s exactly what you did. Fall for a bad boy with ink and a song.”
I stare at him, and I shake my head. “No.” His face tightens and I let out my breath. “I think you were always more than that. You’re a songwriter. You’re an artist. And the tattooed guitar might have caught my eye for a moment, but it would be who you are, not the pretty face you wear, that kept my interest.”
He glances at me, and there’s something new in his gaze. Wild hope that makes my chest tighten in a way that is almost painful. “That might be the most you thing you’ve said since you woke up, Fish.”
That nickname again. I open my mouth to ask about it, but we’re pulling up to the hospital, and he pulls us to a stop, sliding out of the truck almost before it fully stops. I see the grin on his lips when he does.
Slippery fucker likes his games.
***
Dr. Nedleman is fidgeting across from me. It’s the first time we’ve met in the neurologist’ office, and I come in on crutches, leg in a big black boot. It feels lighter than my cast, freeing, and still ungainly. I’ve knocked it on the wall three times already.
Rike sets my purse down next to me, and his blue eyes dart from the doctor to me