Page 2 of Echoes of a Muted Song

Why the hell wasn’t I getting in the RV with my band and telling the driver to floor it until I was no longer even considering the notion of going on vacation with him?

“Johnny?”

Draven’s voice by my ear was a low, rough, ragged reminder of the incident that had taken away his ability to front his band. Sometimes I wondered if it was the loss of what he loved that made him start to question other parts of his life enough to want to explore whatever itwas between us. That’s how he referred to it, aswhatever this is, because even he didn’t know, and he’d been the one to propose this whole thing.

The wind whipped Rebel’s wild blond hair into his eyes as he stepped off the bus and stalked my way. My band’s guitarist had one of the fiercest scowls of anyone I’d ever known and right now he was directing it at my bike.

“There better not be a god damned thing wrong with that machine,” Rebel growled as he passed me and Draven to get to my bike. “I told them guys to take it easy when we were pulling in here. The rain left the roads rutted to hell.”

“There isn’t,” I admitted.

“Then why aren’t you halfway down the highway by now?” he growled as he knelt beside it like he hadn’t gone over every inch of the machine before we’d loaded it on the trailer.

Wasn’t that the million-dollar question?

Draven touched my shoulder, and I turned to see a questioning, beseeching look in his eyes as he typed something on his text to speech device.

“Anything you’ve forgotten to pack we can pick up in Palm Springs.”

It usually made me smile to hear the Boston accent of the voice that came out of the device, especially with how difficult it had been to get Draven to agree to use it, but today he couldn’t manage one.

“Yeah, I guess so,” I said, getting on the bike when I caught sight of Jagger stepping awayfrom his men.

If I told him where my head was at right now, I wouldn’t be going anywhere, which might have been the smart thing to do. So my dumbass said nothing, fired up my baby, and cued up my playlist as I connected my phone to the bike’s Bluetooth. My eyes met Jagger’s as Draven’s hand landed on my shoulder, then the bike dipped as he got on behind me. Jagger waved, so I waved back, then off we went, racing the sunset to Palm Springs and the fabulous resort hotel that awaited us.

With one bed.

Another of his ideas.

Why hadn’t I spoken up and suggested a suite? At least then we’d have options.

The answer to that was both simple and complex.

I wanted to experience every one of those ten nights curled up in his arms, doing my best to pretend that they were the first of many to come. The problem was that evenIdidn’t believe the lie I was trying to feed myself, which was why I felt like I was choking as we raced off down the highway.

And what song was more fitting for the start of this journey besides “Highway to Hell.”

Chapter 2

(Draven)

Something felt off. Traffic was light and the view of the desert on the drive was one of red haze and a ragged landscape dotted with tall cacti and scrubby brushes that looked like they’d hurt if you fell in one. Johnny had done a killer job on the playlist, blending classic rock with 90s grunge and the hits of several of our contemporaries, yet there was a tension in the way he carried himself that was nothing like the Johnny Amaral I’d come to fantasize over every time I saw him up on stage. Okay, so to be fair, I fantasized about him off it, too, especially kicked back in an easy chair barefoot in boy shorts and nothing else, a devil may care grin on his face whenever he caught me looking at him.

Only when he’d looked at me tonight, I hadn’t seen the promise of wicked things in his gaze, instead there had been a hint of fear and that wasn’t a good look on him. I’d only ever seen itwhen he’d been discussing his impending court case, a topic he’d only broached when we’d been setting up the dates for the tour. It wasn’t ideal, but Jagger had volunteered to cover for him if the need arose, which we all hoped it wouldn’t. The closer we crept toward the trial day the harder it was to accept that the other person who’d been on the road that night still hadn’t come forward to tell the authorities what they’d seen.

Johnny claimed he hadn’t caused that wreck, that he’d just gotten caught up in the middle of it when he’d veered to avoid being struck by another vehicle. Unfortunately, the concussion he’d gotten when he’d cracked his head on the steering wheel meant that his memories of the accident were hazy. With a lack of additional evidence and mounting pressure from an irate community intent on not seeing another celebrity get away with murder, they’d charged Johnny with vehicular manslaughter. If convicted, he was facing serious jail time, something I tried not to think about because anytime I did, my chest ached and my eyes started stinging with unshed tears.

We hadn’t even figured out what we were to one another yet and already there was a sort of finality hanging over our heads, making everything feel frantic. There was an urgency prickling along my skin as we pulled up to a stoplight and I glided my hand up his thigh. I caressed his abs at the next light and listened tothe GPS interrupt the song and tell him to take a left at the next stop sign. For a moment, he covered my hand with his, the press of leather over the hands I’d shoved inside his jacket served as a reminder that I needed to pick up gloves before we met up with the rest of the band. Nights in the desert got a little chilly this time of year. Nothing like the cold of Maine, but still enough that I’d kept my hands pressed against his t-shirt since we left the rest stop two hours back.

The moment he pulled into the parking lot and turned off the bike, I pressed a kiss to his neck and slipped my hands out from beneath his jacket, but only after I’d glided them up his chest and lightly stroked his peck just to feel his breath hitch and his body melt beneath his hands. When he tipped his head back, I nipped the juncture where his neck met his shoulder, licking the spot to ease the sting when I felt him shudder.

“Just bury me here and be done with it,” he growled.

“In the parking lot?” I rumbled, hating how low my voice was, despite not having used it for hours. “I doubt you want people parking on your grave for all eternity.”

“Wasn’t a parking lot a hundred years ago,” he replied. “Doubt it will still be one in a hundred more.”

“Well, I doubt it will be a cemetery, so bringyour ass on!” I said with all the force and inflection I could muster.

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