Love Song Page 3

  I didn’t have to worry about my commute to UCLA, since I was no longer enrolled.

  Plus, Rafe’s apartment was walking distance to some very nice restaurants and boutiques, so if I focused my job search efforts along the Strip, I could walk to work.

  There. Bright side. Two of them.

  I looked up at the recent construction. The front door of his apartment building was at the top of one of West Hollywood’s notorious hills. I took a breath and began my assent.

  The doorman hesitated before opening the large glass entry that led into a minimalist chrome-and-glass lobby. His counterpart, standing at an imposing steel desk, gave me a stern look. My face was beet red from exertion, and sweat trickled down my spine as I weaved myself and my bulky belongings around two low-slung white couches unmarred by human ass. What the hell was with the white furniture? I made it to the desk and placed the two guitar cases plus duffle on the poured cement floor. Then I extracted myself from my rucksack, balancing it on top of the guitars.

  “May I help you?” he sniffed. It wasn’t a question. His tone matched the disapproving sneer that spread across his face.

  I blew a stray piece of kinked up hair out of my face. “I’m here to see Rafe Davis.”

  He looked me up and down. “And Mr. Davis is expecting you?”

  I shifted my feet and fidgeted with the damp waistband of my jeans, my face hot. He had reduced me to the tiny eleven-year-old kid hiding behind my mom as she tried to con her way into some fancy LA hotel to party with the rock stars. Sometimes she’d shove us kids front and center, as if her gaggle of baby girls proved she wasn’t up to anything nefarious. Nine times out of ten, they allowed us up. Ten times out of ten, we ended up stuffed in a spare bedroom with a tray from room service and the TV for company.

  I opened my mouth to respond, but the elevator chimed and Rafe stepped out of the gleaming car.

  “That took a while,” he said.

  “Good thing too,” I mumbled, watching the waitress from this morning trail out of the elevator behind him.

  “Mr. Davis, I wasn’t aware you were expecting more”—the doorman cleared his throat—“company.”

  “Jett isn’t company,” Rafe said with a laugh. “She’s my new roomie.”

  The hopeful look on the waitress’s face faded as he turned his back on her fully.

  “Yes, sir,” the man responded. “Welcome to the Londonderry, miss.”

  Right. His tone didn’t sound all that welcoming.

  “Ah, don’t mind Jeeves,” Rafe said. “He’s sour, but he’ll grow on you.”

  “Indeed, sir,” the man replied.

  “How about, for starters, you call the man Karl?” I said, glancing at the doorman’s tag. No wonder the guy was rude. Hell, I’d be pissy too if people were too damn lazy to learn my name. Off my name tag.

  Karl’s eyes went wide. “It’s all right, miss.”

  “No, Karl, it’s not all right,” I said, balling my hands into fists. “You have a name, and he should use it.”

  “Whoa, easy,” Rafe said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I know his name is Karl. Jeeves is just a joke.”

  “No one else was laughing,” I pointed out.

  “Damn, no wonder Pamela kicked your ass out of the house,” he said. “Are you on your period or something?”

  “I am not—” I started, my voice pitching up an octave in frustration. Rafe wiggled his eyebrows and gave me a lopsided smile. I crossed my arms and blew out my frustration.

  The waitress cleared her throat. “So, uh, Rafe, you seem to have your hands full here,” she said, digging in her purse and pulling out a pen. “I guess I’ll be going.”

  Rafe whirled around. “You’re still here?”

  She blinked at him, then put on a confident smile. She took his hand and pulled it to her, writing a number down on his palm. “I thought you might want to, you know, give me a call sometime. Hang out again maybe.” She tipped her head up, clearly looking for a kiss.

  “Right, I’ll call you sometime,” he said, turning his back on her again. Then he rubbed his palm along the side of his faded jeans. She stared at his back, blinking away tears before scurrying through the revolving doors, shoulders slumped. Was it still a walk of shame if it was late afternoon?

  “She leave?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  His posture eased in relief. “Jeeves, man, if that chick shows up here again, tell her I’ve moved.”

  “Of course, Mr. Davis,” he said.

  I shuddered. “You are unbelievable.”

  “And you’re shacking up with me, doll,” he said, his charming gap-toothed smile in full effect.

  “And I have a feeling I am going to regret it,” I returned.

  That made him grin wider. “Come on, I’ll help you with your bags.” He picked up my rucksack, leaving me to wrestle with the enormous duffle plus my two guitar cases. I glared at his perfect ass as it marched toward the elevator. Some help he was.

  “Hurry up, Jett, we can’t hold the elevator all day,” he called. “That’s rude.”

  I hoisted the enormous bag onto my shoulder and snatched up the cases. Teeth gritted, I dragged myself across the lobby toward Rafe, who was tapping his foot with impatience.

  “One month,” I muttered under my breath like a mantra. Enough time to get on my feet. “One. Month.”

  4

  Rafe unlocked the apartment door. “Welcome to Shangri-la,” he said rather grandly, and he pushed open the door.

  I stood in the threshold, mouth agape. My stuff landed on the floor with a thud, and I walked into his apartment, surveying the destruction.

  “What the hell happened here?” I asked, wrinkling my nose. “And what is that smell?”

  Rafe breezed in past me, sniffing the air. “Champagne? Rum? Ah, tequila!”

  “More like eau de skank,” I said, pulling the neck of my T-shirt up over my mouth. I walked past the open kitchen and deeper into the living room. Using my thumb and index finger, I plucked up a pair of lace thongs from the arm of the couch and held them out to Rafe. “These belong to you?”

  “Nope,” he said, taking them from me. He balled them up and made a basketball shot over the breakfast bar toward the overflowing garbage bin in the kitchen. He missed by a lot, and the thongs hung obscenely from one of the knobs on the stove.

  I ignored what appeared to be a bralette dangling from the handle of the sliding glass door leading to the balcony. “So, what happened here?”

  “I threw a party.”

  “When? Last night?” I asked. The coffee table was littered with Chinese takeout containers piled on top of pizza boxes. Beer bottles covered the entire span of the kitchen countertops. Magnum bottles of champagne were tucked into the couch cushions. It seemed impossible that this mess had occurred in one night.

  “Over the weekend,” he said, pushing aside some bottles to clear a spot for my bag.

  “Okay, so you had a party on Saturday night. It’s now Tuesday. You couldn’t pick up a little every day?”

  “The party was not Saturday night,” he said, leaning his hip into the counter.

  “Friday, even better,” I said with a roll of my eyes. “That gave you an extra day.”

  “No, not Friday. The weekend,” he said.

  “As in the entire weekend?”

  His grin was lopsided. “Place didn’t clear out until sometime Monday.”

  “Oh,” I said, biting my lip. I knew about the rock star life. I had lived it when I was a kid, my mom dragging us to party after party. It was a life Mom had forced us to accept, but we’d been desperate to escape. No way would I live that way as an adult, no matter how desperate my situation. “Look, Rafe. I appreciate your offer, but maybe this wasn’t the best idea.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “Look at this place, how you live,” I said, sweeping both my arms out as if embracing the disaster. “A three-day bender, women’s underwear all over the pla
ce.”

  Opening a pizza box, I plucked up a pair of cotton boy shorts wedged between old slices with hardened cheese. I tried to toss them toward him, but they were sticky and remained attached to my fingers.

  Rafe shook his head and cast his eyes toward his feet, his body shaking with laughter.

  I shook the underwear from my fingers and stepped around the debris on the floor to get to the kitchen, turning on the faucet and plunging my hand under the lukewarm water to get the ick off.

  “So?” he asked.

  “So…” I said, turning toward him, hands dripping. I came face-to-face with his broad, bare chest. He had removed his T-shirt and slung it around his neck. I stared at the dragon tattoo that covered his skin from shoulder to well-developed chest, and swallowed.

  “So?” he repeated.

  I averted my eyes fast and shook the water off my hands. Little droplets flicked onto his front. A bead of water dripped a path down the washboard that made up his abs. Crap.

  I finished drying my hands on the thighs of my pants. “So maybe I don’t belong here.”

  “And where are you going to go?” he asked. I didn’t answer. “Exactly. If I throw a rager, you can crash in my room, okay? My room is always off-limits.”

  “Then where will you—” I decided not to finish my question about where he’d nail his conquests. I didn’t want to know. Did I?

  Rafe snorted. “No one has access to my bedroom.”

  I let out a loud sigh. “Great. So I’m sleeping on the sex couch?”

  “It’s sturdy,” he said, chuckling. He turned, and I scowled at his perfectly molded ass as he walked into his dark bedroom. “This is my inner sanctum,” he called back to me. “My private place.”

  I took a tentative step toward his room and heard plastic bags rustling. I peeked into his chamber. The blackout blinds were closed, so it was dark, but the room was almost monastic in its simplicity. The enormous, comfortable-looking bed was made up with a thick duvet and piles of pillows. There was a dresser with a mirror against the nearest wall, and a chaise in the corner. Rafe’s guitar rested in a stand by the chaise, positioned in front of what I assumed was a wall of windows that, if my sense of direction was right, overlooked downtown Los Angeles. The view was probably spectacular at night. The difference between the hedonistic mess in the living room and this sanctuary was extraordinary.

  I turned toward a doorway where light spilled out. It had to be a huge walk-in closet. Rafe was rustling around in there.

  “Hey, Rafe?” I called out toward the light.

  He popped his head out and looked down at my feet. “Remove the shoes, please.” Then he disappeared back into the closet.

  I bit my lip and looked down at my dingy Converse, which stood out in sharp relief against the ecru carpeting. I tiptoed out of the room and stood in the doorway.

  “What are you looking for?” I called to him, making sure my feet stayed on the hardwood side of the threshold.

  He came out of the closet carrying a pile of something. With the light behind him and his torso bare, he looked every inch the rock star he was. He walked toward me, his hips loose and his body languid. My heart skipped, and I took a shallow breath. He stood in front of me, the flecks of gold in his eyes a contrast to their deep brown. His full lips opened slightly, and his tongue moved along his lower lip. I bit down on my own and stood ramrod straight, unable to move.

  He shoved the pile into my arms. “Sheets, blankets, and pillows. Thought you might need them.”

  I grasped the linens as he pushed past me and into the kitchen. My legs felt like jelly, and I urged them to move me toward the couch. I pushed some discarded clothes to the side and set the pile of bedding on the cushion. They were nice sheets. Soft. I tried not to think about how they’d feel against my skin. In Rafe’s enormous bed.

  I felt his heat on my back and turned. He was close. Super close. Close enough that I tried to take a step back, but my calf hit the couch, so I had nowhere to move.

  “So, uh, thanks for coming to my rescue,” I said, and immediately regretted it when his grin went lopsided. I rushed out the rest. “I’ll just crash here a few days, until I get myself sorted. Don’t want to cramp your style.”

  His head cocked to the side. “You can stay as long as you need to. No rush there.”

  “I’ll be in the way. Really don’t want to cramp your style,” I repeated. I waved my hand around the gross apartment. His style being wild parties and loads of babes.

  “I don’t think you get my style,” he said.

  I pushed my way around him. “Oh, I think I do.”

  Rafe cocked his eyebrow. “You seem so sure of that.”

  He plucked a probably not clean T-shirt from the couch and yanked it over his head in one swift move.

  “Later,” he said. He grabbed his keys off the counter.

  “Where are—” I bit back my words when I realized I was henpecking.

  “Band practice,” he said. “I’ll be back around nine. Don’t eat. We’ll order in.”

  He was out the door before I could argue.

  5

  It took the better part of the afternoon and evening to finish the deep clean of the apartment after the rank mess left behind by Rafe’s three-day bacchanalia.

  But by 9:05 p.m., I was sprawled on Rafe’s sheet-covered couch, my bare feet tucked under me. My nose was in a book, notebook beside me, pen at the ready, knee-deep in my Renaissance Poetry course. I’d keep up with the syllabus even for no credit. I had plenty of time to fill. It wasn’t like I had anything else going on. As I yawned, my stomach rumbled. If I waited for Rafe, I’d die from starvation.

  I grabbed my laptop, stretched out my legs, and made a beeline for the kitchen. Plopping the computer on the counter, I started my hunt. There was nothing resembling food in his booze-stuffed fridge—although his selection of craft beers was impressive—so I dug through his pantry and unearthed an unopened bag of chips. When I poked through his wine fridge, I found an impressive selection of whites. I opted for a Riesling, then rooted around in his drawers for a corkscrew and got busy opening the bottle.

  Wine bottle in one hand, glass in the other, I padded to a stool at the breakfast bar and deposited myself in front of my laptop.

  Without Rafe at home, the apartment was lovely. He was insufferable the five years or so I lived with him at Vince’s place in Bel Air, but there were plenty of spare rooms to disappear into at the mansion. A two-bedroom flat, one of those bedrooms overstuffed with musical instruments, didn’t give us a lot of alone space.

  I topped off my wineglass and fired up my web browser. It was time to look for a job.

  I took a sip of wine—oh, that goes down smooth—and proceeded to one-finger peck at the keyboard with my free hand. Administration jobs. Los Angeles area. I kept it to a three-mile radius, since I was carless at the moment. I clicked submit and waited for the results. Sipping at my wine, I scanned the slew of job listings that popped up on my screen.

  It only took a few minutes of clicking to realize that I wasn’t qualified for any of them.

  I heaved a tired sigh and took another slug from my wineglass. Opening up a new tab, I tried a new job site, giving myself a wider search radius. Same problem. I refilled my wineglass and shoved more chips in my mouth to tame my growling stomach. Where the hell was Rafe anyway?

  Slumping against the back of the stool, I considered the list before me. I was woefully unprepared for any sort of work. In the real world, songwriting, guitar playing, and backup singing skills were not in tremendous demand. The car situation meant that I was geographically challenged, so that didn’t help. Plus, no four-year degree. So many jobs whose duties included nothing more than directing a phone call or creating a PDF required one. And for minimum wage, no less.

  After seventy-six job postings, and a third refill of my wine, I concluded that I was unemployable.

  The sound of Rafe’s key in the door turned my attention to the clock. Nine forty-five
p.m. So much for dinner at nine.

  “Hey,” he said, pushing the door open. He was juggling two brown paper bags as he angled the key out of the lock, then he kicked the door closed and his eyes made an appreciative sweep of the apartment. “Damn, babe, the place looks as good as when I moved in.”

  “Yeah, I’m an old pro at cleaning up other people’s messes,” I said, watching him dump the paper bags onto the newly cleared counter. I was usually the one who’d cleaned up after Pamela’s epic parties. In some ways, Rafe’s apartment was a breeze. I wasn’t picking up around passed out people in various stages of undress.

  He dug into the bags, and the scent of garlic slammed into me. My stomach growled. “Ordered from Parma.”

  “Parma?”

  “Yeah, Parma. It’s Italian. You love Italian.”

  I did love Italian. I just didn’t think Rafe knew that I loved Italian.

  “See you found the wine fridge,” he said. He picked up the almost empty bottle, and his eyebrow lifted. “And I also see you have expensive taste.”

  “What?” I asked, before taking a large, defiant swallow.

  “The wine?” he asked, his lips tugging into a smirk. “That was a six-hundred-dollar bottle.”

  I nearly spit it out, but given that information, I thought it best to swallow what was in my mouth. “You’re joking.”

  He pulled out his own glass and poured the remaining wine in it. “Nope. Not a rare vintage, but almost.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Babe, it’s not a thing. Did you enjoy it?” he asked. I nodded. “That’s all that matters. But I’ll choose the next bottle, yeah?”

  I let out my breath. “Yeah.”

  He took a sip. “It goes down easy. No wonder you had nearly the entire damn bottle.”

  “Sorry,” I muttered.

  “Kidding,” he said, walking out of the kitchen. “You mind grabbing some plates? We can’t eat Parma out of the containers. They’d kick us out of Hollywood.”

  I dragged myself around the breakfast bar and into the kitchen, where I grabbed plates, forks, and knives.