“Where’s his dad?” My stomach dropped at the thought of his demonic father.
“His dad works in New York City. He commutes in his own private jet. Crazy, huh? I don’t know how hard it’ll be to get into the band’s practice, but I can take you, just to see.”
That sounded horribly awkward, but it was all I had to work with.
“Okay,” I told him.
There were people pouring out of the front doors. Jay had gotten us through the Rowes’ private gate by telling the man on the speaker we were friends of Kaidan’s. Judging by the number of cars, a lot of people came to watch them practice. It looked like they’d had a miniconcert or a party. Jay stopped his car on the side of the circular driveway lined with vehicles. There was a fountain in the middle of the circle, directly in front of an enormous house made of gray stone, with hundreds of rose vines lining the giant arched doorway and windows. It was as close to a castle as I had ever seen, only there was no Prince Charming waiting inside.
“Want me to come in with you?” Jay asked.
“It might be better if I talk to him alone.”
“That’s cool. There’s this instrument store out here I’ve been wanting to see anyway. Just call me when you’re ready for me to pick you up.”
“’Kay, thanks.”
I got out and walked up to the door, passing people who were leaving. When I lifted my hand to knock, the door swung open. The lead singer of Lascivious, Michael, stood there in tight black jeans with a swanky girl under his arm.
“Practice is over,” he said, brushing past me.
“I just need to talk to Kaidan,” I said. He shrugged, walking away.
“Suit yourself,” he said over his shoulder. “He’s downstairs. Probably busy by now.”
I walked into the wide-open foyer filled with gleaming hardwoods and a grand staircase. I felt like an intruder as I followed the sound of voices through a dining room with elaborate china place settings, to an open doorway with carpeted stairs leading down. Two girls in miniskirts came up the steps, one of them stomping her feet and cussing as she went. Sounds of percussion began in the basement, following the girls upward.
“If you’re here to see Kaidan,” the angry one said, “don’t bother.” She pushed past me and continued a tirade against him as they walked away. “I am never calling him again.”
“Whatever,” her friend said. “You’ll be calling him tonight.”
I stopped, contemplating turning around and running from the house. The bang of each drumbeat coming up from the basement matched the deafening thud of my heart in my ears. I forced myself to move forward, and then down the steps one at a time. I stopped at the bottom and surveyed a basement that put Gene’s to shame. It was bigger than my whole apartment. I stepped into the massive room and closed the door behind me.
Part of the room to the right looked like a miniature movie theater, complete with three rows of leather stadium seating and a giant screen. Right in front of me in the middle was a tiki bar area with tall tables and stools straight out of a Hawaiian scene. To the far left were two long couches in front of a stage with speakers, microphones, and drums in the center. The drums were currently being used. And used very well, I might add.
He had headphones on. The straight lines of his face were stern with concentration as his arms flexed underneath the bright red T-shirt with each jarring crash of the drumsticks. The beat he created was impeccable. I was amazed by his ability to think just far enough ahead of the sounds in order to place each stick at the exact right place at the right time, all while moving his leg up and down on the pedal in synchronization. It all happened too fast for my eyes to keep up. I was overcome by the beauty of it. I’d never felt such longing. I wanted to... to envelop him, wrap him up. Make him mine.
It was a frightful, shameful desire.
With a final crash, the ting of cymbals was the only sound. He took the headphones off and dropped them at his side, standing up and looking at me.
“Well, if it isn’t little orphan Annie.”
He went behind the bar and took a bottle of water from a large fridge. He drank half of it in one gulp, while I stood there unmoving, then tossed the bottle onto the bar and pulled a silver item from the pocket of his jeans. With a fast flick of his wrist, it opened into a blade. My heart stammered. He watched me watching him, twirling the open knife between his fingers. Who played with knives?
In a few easy strides, he closed the distance between us and was in front of me, very close, with his head cocked to the side. I seemed to amuse him, for some reason. But then his face went cruel, and his empty hand rested against the wall above my shoulder. Our faces were inches apart. His eyes held me frozen in place. I was very aware of the knife at his side, held in his other hand. Coming here had been a massive mistake.
“What do you want?” he growled.
“I just want to talk.” I tried to keep my voice steady. “You don’t have to try to scare me.”
He kept a straight face, and his tone was seductively low. “There’s hardly any room for fear when you’re so bloody turned-on.”
A flash of shock hit me at his audacity. His eyes lowered to my body, but he never moved away.
“Ah, there’s anger now,” he said coolly, “and a bit of embarrassment.”
He was reading me—reading my colors! And I couldn’t see his at all. I felt stripped bare before him, vulnerable. I concentrated on why I’d gone there to begin with.