Page 69 of Darcy
‘Morning cariño,
I’m hoping I’ll be back by the time you wake, but if not, thank you for last night. It was the best of my life. I can’t wait for our group date today. Slate x’
Smiling, because the crazy man left me a love note, I shove my way free of the blankets and wrap myself in one of the plush hotel-supplied robes before heading towards the living area of the suite.
I make it three steps outside Slate’s door before I stop dead.
There, on the floor, is Prophet, doing push-ups in the middle of the space. Not just normal push ups either. The show off is doing the fancy one-handed ones.
To make matters worse, he’s not wearing a shirt. I can just make out the dark lines of his band tat over his heart if I look hard enough. Damn. Why does the grumpy one have to be so… drool worthy?
Do not swoon. It’s too early in the morning for attractive men, damn it!
He looks up, spots me, and then looks back down again. “Slate’s at church,” he grunts. “The others are still in bed.”
The suggestion is clear: I should go and bother one of them.
Instead, I make my way over to the coffee machine and make myself a large mug of steaming heaven before returning to the sofa. Prophet freezes and shoots me an inscrutable look.
“Am I interrupting your workout?” I ask, raising a single brow.
“No.”
There’s a pause where he swaps hands, then shifts back to a regular plank position. His arms flex, and I take a swig of coffee to stop myself openly staring.
The two of us lapse into silence as he continues to work out, and I pick up my phone, swiping quickly through Gabrielle’s inbox as I look for more information about the Rosales brothers’ meeting.
Nothing. There are some vague mentions of “the usual spot” and “the villa,” but nothing more definite. If that doesn’t change, I’m going to have to download a tracking app to Gabrielle’s phone and keep an eye on it throughout the night. Easier said than done when I’m responsible for not setting the guys on fire while they perform.
Regardless, I don’t have much of a choice. As a backup, I set the tracker to install using the rootkit, before turning back to watch Prophet.
“You’re not even struggling,” I comment, as he does the thousandth push up.
It’s unfair. He makes it look so easy, but all of my workouts end with me coated in sweat and my hair reduced to a pile of frizz.
“If you want to help, come and sit on my back,” he retorts, swiping a hand across his face. “I could use the challenge.”
Both of my brows must be in my hairline, but I tip-toe over to him anyway, still clutching my coffee. He drops to his knees, keeping his arms in position.
“Try not to move too much,” he orders.
I fumble, almost spilling my coffee as I climb up onto him. God, his back is huge. Roomy, really. I settle, cross-legged, just below his shoulder blades, trying my hardest not to moon over his muscles. As soon as I’m in position, he shifts his legs back to where they were and starts to move.
Jesus, if these guys keep picking me up and lifting me like this, I might actually stop sucking in my belly pooch when I look in the mirror.
I take another sip of coffee, trying to distract myself from the way his body feels bunching and releasing beneath me. My pussy, apparently not satisfied even after last night, perks up, and I know I have to distract myself before the eager bitch does something embarrassing like leaving a damp patch on his back.
“So, Slate said you want to leave the band,” I begin.
Prophet’s pace doesn’t slow. “And he sent you to talk me out of it? Typical.”
“He didn’t, actually.” I pause, sipping my coffee. “But I wanted to hear your side of the story.”
“There is no ‘side’ to this,” Prophet retorts, pushing up from the ground and lowering. “Everything I’ve ever wanted has been shoved aside by this band.” He lifts again. “The endless touring.” Push. “The constant PR stunts.” Push. “Even planning my fucking future.” Push. “Because he’s used his fucking law degree.” Push. “To ensure we’re bound together.” Push. “For what remains of our incredibly short lives.”
Setting aside the fact that Slate has a law degree and didn’t even think to mention it, I take a deep breath and let it out thoughtfully.
Prophet’s anger is barely contained in every word, but it’s not directed at Slate. Not really.
