Taming the Storm

His fingers press into my skin. Heat infuses me.

I’m pissed at his question, knowing the reason he gave for asking is complete bullshit, but I’m getting more than turned-on by his touch.

It’s seriously confusing wanting to punch a guy and fuck his brains out at the same time.

“Have you asked the guys this same question?”

He gives me a slow smile. “Not yet.”

“You know, I don’t recall Dina asking us this question when she was managing us.”

“Yeah, well, Dina’s not thorough. I am.”

Something tells me Tom is very thorough in all he does.

The drinks appear on the bar. Grabbing mine, I toss it back. I wince from the burn, my lips tingling. I place the glass down on the bar and look up at Tom.

“Not that it’s your business, but no, I’m not fucking Cale. He’s my best friend. End of.” I turn from him and start to walk away.

Destination—hide in the restroom.

“So, you’re not screwing Cale. Are you fucking anyone else?” he calls from behind me.

Mortified, I spin around, my face flaming, and I stare at him in shock. I feel like all eyes in the bar are on me when most people probably didn’t hear Tom over the loud music. But that doesn’t stop me from feeling even more pissed off.

I give him a death stare and start to walk away again.

“Answer the question, Firecracker.”

I look back at him over my shoulder. “Here’s an answer for you.” I lift my fist in the air and shoot my middle finger up at him.

I hear his rumbling laughter from behind me.

Asshole!

I stomp across the club to Cale, who is sitting on a bar stool at a table with a redhead situated between his thighs.

“Your beer is at the bar with Tom,” I toss the words at him in my angry stomp-by.

Cale catches my arm, stopping me. He moves the redhead aside and slides off the stool before coming to stand in front of me. “What’s up?”

“Nothing.”

He examines my face in that way he does.

I know I look annoyed. I’m frowning, so I relax my features. “Really, nothing’s wrong. I’m just going to the restroom. Get back to your”—I look over his shoulder at the redhead, who is now throwing daggers at me—“fun.” I bring my eyes back to his.

“Am I missing something here?” he asks.

Yes! Tom is being an ass, and he’s asking inappropriate questions.

And I’m attracted to him and turned-on pretty much twenty-four/seven because I have to live on the same bus as him. For a woman who is on a sex ban, that’s like sticking a dieter in the middle of a chocolate factory!

But of course, I say none of that because I don’t want Cale to get all pissy with Tom and end up getting his ass kicked over me.

So, I paste on my breezy smile. “You’re not missing anything. Get back to your redhead. I’ll be back soon.” I turn my eyes away from him.

He tugs on my arm, forcing me to look back to him. “No one is more important to me than you, Ly. You know that, right?”

“I know.” I smile, for real this time. “And the same goes for you. But if you don’t attend to your redhead, you’ll be flying solo tonight.”

“I never fly solo, not when I’ve got my girl right here.” He cups my cheek and presses a kiss to my forehead. “Restroom, and come straight back to me.”

“Yes, boss.” I salute.

The stalls are empty when I go in, which allows me the opportunity to give myself a good mirror talking-to.

No more letting Tom Carter get to me. And no more sexy feelings while I’m around him.

I’m getting back to kick ass, Lyla, who doesn’t let a man get to her.

So, screw you Tom Carter.

Feeling pumped I wash up and head back out into the club.

Glancing around, I see a few women surrounding Tom. Sonny is with him, enjoying the attention that Tom always brings.

One of the women hands Tom a pen. Then, she shimmies up close to him, shoving aside the other women, and she pulls her top down, revealing her chest to him. Tom grins and starts to write on her chest.

I roll my eyes.

Getting your tits signed by a celebrity. Classy.

“Breast-signing is so last season,” a male voice says from behind me.

Laughing, I turn to see Robbi Kraft, lead singer of The Turnstiles. I’m a fan of their music, but I haven’t officially met anyone from the band.

Robbi is very good-looking. The dangerous kind of good-looking. Dirty-blond hair. Inky blue eyes. Eyebrow pierced. Tattoos covering his arms and one on the side of his neck.

“Yeah, I hear it’s all about ass-signings nowadays.” I smirk.

Robbi laughs. He has a great laugh. It’s not deep and manly like Tom’s. It’s a happy, contagious sound.

I watch Robbi’s eyes work their way down my body before they land back on my face.

“Robbi.” He holds a hand out to me.

“I know who you are.” I smile shyly as I slide my hand into his. “Lyla—”

“Summers,” he finishes for me. “I know who you are.”

Blushing, I take my hand back.

“You sounded great before,” Robbi says. “I really like your music.”

“Thanks.” I smile, pleased by his compliment. “I’m really looking forward to hearing you guys perform tonight. I’ve been following you since your Vegas days.”

The Turnstiles started off by recording their live shows in Vegas and uploading them to YouTube. They quickly got a big following. On the heels of that came a record deal with none other than Rally Records.