Call On Me - Roni Loren

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Pike. Tight gray jeans, combat boots, and a black sleeveless T-shirt that showed off his ink. All swagger and sex and guyliner. Pike waltzed onto the stage like it’d been built just for him. He lifted his hand in greeting, earning screams from the audience, then hopped behind his drum kit. He put in his earpiece, raised his drumstick, and leaned over to his mic with a cocky smile. “Y’all ready for us, Dallas?”

      The crowd erupted. Sound exploded from his drums.

      And Oakley forgot to breathe.

      Good. God.

      The rest of the band ran onto the stage, adding guitars and vocals to Pike’s heavy rhythm, but Oakley barely heard the words.

      All she could do was stare. Pike took command of the drums like he had a personal vendetta against them, banging hard and violent but with a sharp-edged grace that made it look like moving art. Every part of his body worked in perfect rhythm—muscles flexing, tattoos dancing, sweat flying—and the expression on his face wasn’t far from what she’d imagined he looked like in the throes of sex. He was taking the songs in his fists and making them his with every swing of his drumsticks.

      Oakley swayed on her feet, the pounding beat taking on an erotic edge, vibrating through her and invading her like a drug.

      He looked possessed.

      He sounded amazing.

      And she was toast.

      She felt the urge ride up her throat and she couldn’t stop it. Her hands went up with the rest of the crowd and she screamed Pike’s name like a goddamned groupie.

      Fucking. Toast.

       ELEVEN

      Pike tugged off his shirt and used it to wipe the sweat off his face. His heart was still pounding and the adrenaline pumping hard after the set. Boom. Boom. Boom. His body felt ready to fight or fuck. They hadn’t played for that big of a crowd in a while, and the effect was potent. He’d missed that kind of energy blasting his way; made him feel like he could fly.

      He snagged a bottle of water off one of the tables backstage, trying to cool down, and exchanged high fives with the guys along the way. Then he thumped Braxton, Darkfall’s lead singer, on the back. “You fucking killed today, man.”

      Brax tapped his throat. “Felt good. Almost like the old days.”

      “Glad to hear it.”

      Braxton had gone through vocal cord surgery after their second album, which had screwed up a major tour and the publicity for the record. Nobody’s fault, but it had halted their ride to the top they’d been on after the first album. Then Geoffrey, their lead guitarist, had fallen off the wagon and ended up back in rehab, which had delayed things further. Now they were on the hunt for a big-time band to pick them up for an opening act—something that would give them a shot at arenas again. The local shows and festival circuit were cool, but if they wanted to break through to the next level, they needed more exposure than what they were getting here.

      They had a few feelers out and their manager was hopeful. But if nothing else, at least all the guys were getting back into some sort of groove on stage. Things were gelling together again.

      Pike moved through the crowded backstage tent, letting his eyes scan over the area. They had the usual suspects milling around—other bands who’d performed today, crew, spouses and girlfriends, promoters, and of course, the women they’d let backstage. Well, women and dudes. One of the other groups performing this afternoon was The Boys Club, which was an all-female band. They had their own groupies.

      But Pike wasn’t looking for any of the people he saw. He’d given Oakley backstage passes with her tickets and was hoping she’d use them, but he had no idea if she’d made it to the show at all. After last night, he may have scared her off with the gift. The only hope he held on to was that Oakley would want to give her daughter a fun night, so would come even if she hadn’t wanted to see him.

      “Hey there, gorgeous,” a redhead said, putting her hand on his arm as he passed through the crowd. “Where are you off to so fast? I wanted to tell you how much I liked the show.”

      An automatic smile jumped to his lips—the politician face, the face for fans. His eyes flicked over her. Model pretty. Enhanced rack. Edgy look. Vaguely familiar.

      “Hey, thanks. Glad you liked it …”

      “Holly,” she provided, conspiratorial smile touching her glossed lips. “We met at a Houston show a few years ago. I hung out with you and Eddie Duff.”

      By hung out, she probably meant slept with. He scanned his memory bank. Eddie was the lead guitarist in Crucial Madness and they’d done a show out there together. But memories of what had happened afterward were vague. Back then, Pike and pretty much everyone he surrounded himself with had been on a rotation of trying out every illegal substance known to man.

      “Right, yeah. Good to see you. You look great.”

      She gave him an of-course-I-do smile and gave his arm a squeeze. “So do you.”

      He moved out from beneath her touch. “Thanks. And I’d love to catch up, but I need to find someone.”

      “Maybe you’ve already found her.”

      Fuck. Normally he liked a forward girl. No use wasting time playing coy games when both people knew what the end result would be. And all the adrenaline coursing through him had his dick on a hair trigger. He could tug her in a back room, hike up her skirt, and be inside her in five minutes. But he couldn’t muster up any real interest. He knew he should tell her he wasn’t feeling it. But he didn’t have time for any drama, so he pulled a douche move instead. He leaned over and kissed her cheek then whispered, “Maybe later, sweetheart.”

      She smiled. “I’ll hold you to it.”

      He moved past her and continued his search of the crowd, but after twenty minutes passed, he’d given up. Oakley either hadn’t come to the show or she’d skipped the backstage tour.

      He was disappointed. And pissed at himself. Why did he give a fuck if she showed up or not? He sank onto one of the couches and grabbed a beer. This was so not his style. If Oakley wasn’t interested, then that was her prerogative. He didn’t chase women. They chased him. He could have two back at his place before he finished this beer if he put the barest amount of effort into it.

      This whole thing had been ridiculous from the start anyway. He had no business messing around with some soccer-mom type—even if she did have an X-rated job at night. What the hell had he been thinking? He leaned back and rubbed his hands over his face.

      “This seat taken?”

      His eyelids snapped open. He’d know that voice anywhere. He lifted his head to find Oakley staring down at him, looking altogether uncomfortable … and altogether lickable. She’d donned a pink tank top, a white pair of shorts, and her hair was pulled high into a ponytail. The glisten of sweat and the rosy glow from a day outdoors clung to her. No sign of the buttoned-up work outfits or oversized T-shirts. Just lovely, luscious curves and sure-to-be-salty skin.

      “I was saving it for you,” he said, forcing the flirt out past his suddenly dry throat and patting the couch cushion.

      “Liar.” She sat on the chair catty-corner to the couch instead of taking the spot by him.

      “I didn’t think you were coming. Where’s Reagan?”

      “I sent her home with my brother. She had a great time, but I wasn’t sure if backstage would be kid-friendly.”

      He shrugged. “Things will be pretty tame back here since it’s a daytime all-ages show. A few guys brought their kids. Any debauchery will happen in the buses or hotel rooms.”

      She glanced toward the rows of tour buses parked behind the tent then back to him, her

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