The Songbird Sisters Page 15

  Taft folded his arms across his chest. She could see that chest in her mind’s eye, shirtless, the way it had been when he’d been working on the roof of room six earlier in the day. Her palms grew damp.

  “Both you girls are biters. You have a guard dog.”

  Lana snorted. “I totally do.”

  “Congratulations. You must be so happy.”

  Happy? Her emotions were in a tangle. More than anything, she was turned on – more than anything, she wanted to kiss him again, deeper and harder and longer.

  But yeah. She was a little happy. This tiny animal wanted to protect her.

  That was kind of nice.

  “Bad girl,” she said to the dog. Her heart wasn’t in it.

  “You’re sunk.”

  “I might be.”

  “You’re in love.”

  It was a bolt of light, sent into her midsection. It was three parts fear and one part joy. “What?”

  He pointed at her lap. “That mongrel seems to feel the same way.”

  Obviously, that’s what he’d meant. “Maybe so.”

  “Sometimes love strikes fast. At first sight, right?”

  Was he still talking about the dog? “Sometimes. It happened to my mom and dad.”

  Taft ate a piece of bread crust. “Was it real?”

  “Yeah.” Lana stroked the dog’s head and remembered the look her mother had sometimes sent her father over the dining-room table. It had been a private look, one that Lana had never understood, not until she’d grown up. By then it had been too late to ask either of her parents what it had felt like. “It was. What about your parents?”

  Taft looked at her. “I can’t think about them. I was just kissing you.”

  He had been. Kissing the hell out of her, to be precise. Lana’s stomach flipped. “Yeah.”

  “Gotta get my bearings back.” He rubbed his face. “My parents. No. They weren’t like that.”

  “They looked so happy in photos.”

  “My dad loved the hell out of her. He was happy.”

  “Not your mom?”

  “Davina doesn’t really do happy, I don’t think.”

  Lana shook her head. “The day you were born?”

  “Her two epidurals failed and labor lasted forty hours. I’ve never heard the end of it.”

  “I’m sorry. She’s still alive?”

  “Yep. She can be charming as hell—that’s how she gets people to fall for her. Afterward, she goes back to being miserable. She’s that way now, miserable with her second husband. Maybe even more miserable than she was with my dad.”

  Sometimes Lana had felt cut off from her mother, like they didn’t really understand each other, but she’d always felt loved. “That sucks.”

  “Yeah.” Taft ran his hands through his hair. “Honestly, Birdie, I’m too overheated to talk about my mother anymore.”

  Lana understood. She was having a hard time remembering to breathe, herself. “We should write.”

  “God. Writing. Yeah.”

  She pointed at her notebook on the table. “What are we writing about?”

  “Not mothers.”

  “Not family in general,” said Lana.

  “Home towns?”

  “No.” Maybe someday she’d write about Darling Bay, but that day wasn’t this one.

  “The dog.” Taft reached out a finger, and the dog snarled. “You can’t keep that thing.”

  Lana pulled the dog’s ear. “Oh, now I can’t keep her.”

  “Yeah, I thought she was cute. But she’s a terror.” Taft’s eyes softened again.

  It shouldn’t be legal for a man to have eyes that were so expressive.

  Lana’s insides melted.

  He said, “Now you’re in her thrall.”

  “And she’s in mine.”

  “What are you going to name her?”

  “I don’t know.” Lana looked into the dog’s teddy-bear-like face. Her nose looked like a button, and her dark eyes shone bright. “She was a loner out there. She should have a loner’s name.”

  “Ranger.”

  Lana shook her head. “Cliché. Plus, not very girly.”

  “Emily.”

  “Why?”

  Taft nodded. “Emily Dickinson. She hid in her house and growled at anyone who came by.”

  “She did hide in her house, but …”

  “I’m pretty sure she was known for biting other poets.”

  Joy bubbled up in her chest. “I think I heard that. She was a vampire, right?”

  Taft nodded. “Not many people knew.”

  “It explains so much. How does a guy like you know about poetry?”

  “Not as dumb as I look, huh? English. High school. I loved the poetry sections. I thought she would have made a good songwriter, actually.” Taft put out his hand again, much slower this time. Incrementally, he got closer to the dog without looking at her.

  He kept his eyes on Lana’s. Her heart rate galloped. “Be careful,” she said.

  “I know how to treat a girl who’s scared.”

  Boom.

  The thunk of his words juddered in her chest.

  She was a wounded, growling dog to Taft? Who exactly was he hoping to touch with that slow hand?

  She stood, Emily Dickinson held tightly to her chest. “I should go.”

  “Lana –”

  “We can write another night. I just realized how tired I am.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  Yes, he had. He was good at it, at getting damaged women to give up their secrets, to tell him their pain. His newest hit song (her song!) was making him even better at it.

  Lana didn’t want to be just another girl.

  She wasn’t going to fall for it. She wasn’t going to fall for him.

  “I’ll see you in the morning.” She turned and walked through the house, ignoring the fact that Taft stayed at her heels.

  “Let me drive you.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “It’s dark now. Being on the highway has to be dangerous.”

  She paused. It was true. Pedestrians had been hit out there. Years ago, one had died. “Fine.”

  The short ride to town was quiet. Lana was furious at herself, but she didn’t quite know why. She couldn’t be mad at him – he hadn’t done anything wrong.

  She wanted to be angry with him, though. It would make everything so much easier.

  When they pulled up, Lana jumped out, the dog still in her arms. “Thanks.” She shut the door before he could speak. She hurried up the walkway through the garden. Emily Dickinson peed under a trellis. Then they both went into the hotel room.

  Taft hadn’t followed her.

  Good. She and Emily Dickinson just needed to be alone for a bit. A good night’s sleep. “We’re fine just the way we are, aren’t we?” Emily Dickinson pushed her small head into Lana’s hand and gave her a deep look Lana couldn’t quite decipher. Then the dog jumped up onto the small sofa under the window and curled up, as if she’d slept there a million times before. The dog skipped light sleep and went right into snoring, almost immediately. The poor thing must have been exhausted.

  It was hard to run all the time.

  Twenty minutes later, after she’d washed her face and brushed her teeth (getting rid of the perfect taste of him), there was a soft knock at the door. Emily Dickinson didn’t stir.

  Please let it be Molly with a late milkshake. Or Adele with a criticism about the way Lana was fixing something.

  Anyone but Taft.

  Please let it be Taft, said her traitorous heart.

  She opened the door.

  Taft held up her notebook. “You forgot this.”

  She stepped onto the porch and pulled the door shut behind her, before Emily Dickinson woke up and went after him. “Thanks.”

  “And,” Taft’s gaze was smoky, “you forgot this.”

  He cupped her face and kissed her.

  The kiss was mutual, damn it, and it was searing.
It went from hot to molten lava in less than ten seconds. Lana lost the ability to breathe, but it didn’t matter – his mouth would keep her alive. His tongue found hers, and he tasted like peppermint and sin.

  He pulled her against the length of his body, and she felt how hard he was. He made a sound in her ear that was pitched low, full of need and lust. Just like she was.

  Lana wanted him.

  Goddamn it, there was nothing wrong with that.

  “Hey,” she said against his mouth. “Move.”

  He kissed her harder in response but kept up with her as she walked backward. Luckily, she knew every broken board and warped piece of wood between them and room five. Since they’d patched the roof, it was the room closest to being habitable now. In a freak rainstorm the week before, the crew had eaten lunch together inside, seated on blankets Lana had found in the laundry room.

  The blankets were still on the floor.

  They’d make a fine place to get naked.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “Wait.” Taft wanted to make goddamn sure he got this right. This was too important to screw up. This was Lana. Everything in his body wanted her, but his mind screamed at him (a lonely sound, coming from miles away) not to scare her. Again.

  “No.” Lana bit Taft’s lower lip. “Don’t want to wait.”

  “I want this to be right.”

  “Oh, it’s right.” She nuzzled under his neck, her lips nibbling until he thought he might die from the electricity of it.

  He grabbed her by her belt buckle, pulling her farther into the room. He turned with her in his arms and kicked the door closed. Her mouth was greedy and her hands were more so. She’d unbuckled his jeans without his noticing, but he sure as hell was noticing the way her palm slipped into the front of his briefs. She wrapped her fingers around him, and he groaned low in his throat.

  “You’re trying to kill me.”

  “Yes.”

  Though it hurt every cell of Taft’s body to slow her down, he tugged her forearm so that she let go of his cock. “You first. Take off your clothes.”

  Lana grinned and ripped her shirt over her head. Low light filtered past the ancient curtains from the garden lights. She stood in front of him in her black bra. No lace, not for Lana. She wore a good old plain cotton bra, and she looked like a goddess in it, her breasts high and firm. Taft had spent a lot of time remembering what she’d looked like with fewer clothes on, but he’d gotten it wrong. She looked even better.

  She undid her belt buckle and then her fly. A heartbeat later, she’d stripped off her boots and jeans and stood there in her matching black bra and cotton panties.

  Taft decided he didn’t need to breathe. It was overrated anyway. “You’re incredible.”

  “Come on.” She pulled at his shirt. “Hurry up.”

  No. Damn it, he’d scared her last time. They’d gone too fast and it had gone bad. That had been his fault. He wasn’t going to let it happen again. He stripped off his shirt, with her help. “Tell me what you need.”

  She frowned. “Too much talking already. Less talk. More naked.”

  Taft lifted her hands away from his fly and held them still. “Your guard dog’s asleep in the other room. I’m the only protection you have right now, and I want to make sure I get it right.”

  Lana narrowed her eyes in what looked like honest anger. “Seriously, Hill. Snap out of it. I want you to fuck me.”

  The words were an explosion in his head, in his body, a blast that would normally set off a chain reaction leading to sex – hard, fast, fulfilling every need.

  But Lana was important. So very much so.

  “Tell me what not to do.”

  She crossed her arms over her breasts. “Talk.”

  “I blew it somehow last time, and I’m not doing it again. You were hurt in the past. I know that.”

  “You know nothing.” She changed it up on him, pressing herself against his body. “I’m fine. I’m strong. And I’m really, really wet.” She took his hand and dipped it into her panties. Yeah, well, fuck. She was wet.

  He was at his absolute limit. “You’re not to blame for what went wrong.”

  Tears filled her eyes, and he almost regretted quoting their song.

  Almost but not quite.

  She stepped back, leaving coldness where there had been heat.

  “Not fair.”

  Trusting his gut, he said it again. “You’re not to blame for what went wrong.”

  “I know that,” she said. She wrapped her arms around her stomach and sat on the blanket. He followed her down, keeping one hand on her bare knee.

  “I’m here.”

  “Whatever.” She bit her lip and looked away from him. “I’m fine.”

  But she was shivering – he could feel the small tremors rocking her, and it was more than just lust. “I don’t think you are.”

  “This is bullshit.”

  “You’re angry.”

  “Damn straight I am.” She glared at him.

  “Not with me.”

  “Like hell.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  This was a nightmare. Taft Hill, shirtless, jeans open, sitting on the floor, being kind to her.

  Feeling sorry for her. Quoting her own song to her!

  She needed to pull her clothes on. Or screw it. As soon as she got the strength back in her legs, she’d just streak to her room in her underwear. The chances that anyone saw her were next to none, and she didn’t give a crap anyway.

  “Want to tell me about it?” He paused. “You don’t have to. It’s totally your choice.”

  She did not want to tell him.

  Lana took a breath. She would just ignore the fact that his eyes were soft, that his body language was open, that he looked like he was listening with every fiber of his being.

  She still wouldn’t tell him.

  Lana met his gaze, hoping to scowl him out of the room.

  Instead, he just looked at her. As if she was someone important.

  As if he had all the time in the world.

  As if he was content to just be here with her.

  “I was sexually assaulted.” The words were acid in her mouth, sour and painful.

  Taft nodded, as if it didn’t surprise him. He kept his gaze on her, as if she didn’t disgust him.

  “I was drunk.”

  His voice was soft. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Yeah.” Lana gave a laugh she didn’t feel. “That’s what the song’s about, obviously. But it didn’t work.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I wrote it because I was trying to talk myself into believing it, that it wasn’t my fault, that it was his.”

  “Why do you think it didn’t work?”

  Frustration filled her like too much air in a balloon. Soon she’d pop and it would be like she was never here at all. “I get it. I’m not stupid. I’ve read about victim psychology. I know what my brain is doing. I’m trying to reframe the situation in a way that makes me less culpable, but it’s just not the truth.”

  “So what is true?”

  Her hands shook so much she tucked them under her armpits. “I’d had a shitty day. Maybe the worst day ever.”

  “How so?”

  “My dad died. We were in New York, getting ready to go on tour, and he went down during sound check. You might have heard about it. It was big news back then.”

  He nodded.

  “Adele made us go on stage anyway. The show must go on and all that crap. I took something, I don’t even remember what, but I blacked out on stage. That night, after they bandaged me up, we had a huge fight. All three of us. I said some awful things and so did Adele. I left the hotel and found a dive just off Times Square. I got drunk as hell and when I woke up, I was having sex in an alley. The guy said I’d asked for it, that I’d begged him for it.” Lana’s voice broke and she hated herself for it, for showing weakness in front of him.

  Taft just nodded. He was so goddamn good at listening.
It wasn’t fair.

  “I just kind of believed him. I tried to say no, but it was pretty much too late. If he said I wanted it, I probably had. It messed me up pretty badly. I didn’t recover for years.”

  The implicit lie – that she’d recovered – hung in the air between them.

  Taft’s voice was steady. “It shouldn’t have happened to you. I’m so sorry it did. You didn’t deserve that.”

  That was the whole point, though. Lana knew she hadn’t deserved it on a global level. All human beings deserved to be treated well, with compassion and care. But she had gone into the bar with an attitude and the intention to get fucked up. She’d told a man she’d wanted it (she was sure she’d done that). If anyone deserved to be sexually assaulted, it was her. “Yeah, I know.”

  Taft moved slowly. He took her hand in his. He didn’t try to touch any other part of her. He just held her hand and looked at her. His dark-blue eyes were the color of wet beach glass. “Do you? Really?”

  “Of course.” Lana felt sick. She didn’t know a damn thing.

  “You didn’t deserve that. It wasn’t fair.”

  “Can we just –”

  “Did you report the rape?”

  It was like he’d dumped her into a bucket of ice-water. “Not rape. I just told you. Assault. I put myself there. He was rough.” She choked. “I’m sure it was true I’d asked him for it. I just don’t remember doing it.”

  “Were you drunk?”

  “So drunk.” And high. And in the worst grief spiral she’d ever been in. She’d lost her father and her sisters.

  “It was rape.”

  Lana laughed. The sound rattled – brittle – in her throat. “That would mean lots of women are raped.”

  “True. Seriously, Lana. Listen to me. If you can’t give consent, it’s rape. People who are mentally altered by substances can’t give consent. They are literally considered unable to do so, even if they think they can.”

  The muscles in her neck went rigid. “Really?”

  “Think about college girls. You think when they drink so much they can’t remember what happened the next morning that they gave consent? They might have had their eyes open, they might have been speaking and even saying yes, but when they see themselves later on tape having sex with guys they don’t remember meeting, that’s rape. They teach that now. I’ve been part of the frat awareness meetings in Nashville. We’re training guys to know that if a girl says she wants to have sex with them but she’s blasted out of her mind, it’s legally considered rape if they go ahead with it.”