Shake, Rattle and Roll: The Baxter Boys #4 (The Baxter Boys ~ Rattled) Read online

  “My friend, Kelly, says Portland is awesome, you might like it.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Two weeks isn’t so bad. It’s not like he’s disappearing for good or for a six month or year-long tour. Of course, that doesn’t mean I’ll see him after tonight, which means I have a decision to make. I want him, there is no doubt about that, but I’m not a groupie and don’t make a habit out of taking guys home right after I’ve meet them. In fact, I’ve never taken a guy home. Not once since I moved to New York.

  This is crazy, my mind screams. The whole thing about the health fair today was to be smart, make smart decisions, and be careful, and here I am with a guy I barely know, headed to my apartment.

  “Where else are you playing?” At least he’s willing to talk about the touring now. At first I thought he was going to shut me down when I mentioned Oregon. I still don’t get why he was so defensive. Was his tour supposed to be a secret or something?

  “We start in Las Vegas, then head up to Boise, and then into Washington where we’ll play in Spokane and Seattle before heading down to Portland and then home.”

  “What spot did they add?”

  “Boise, since we’d basically be passing through, kind of.”

  “It doesn’t mess up the schedule.”

  “Nah, we had free time between Las Vegas and Spokane, so it makes sense.” He shakes his head then pushes his straight dark hair out of his face. “They just better not add anything else, or it will screw the schedule.”

  “You think they will?” This is the most Christian has talked about himself since we met this afternoon. He only wanted to know about me. Of course, he isn’t exactly sharing anything personal though.

  “A few of the guys keep mentioning that we should head down to California and see about getting real producers to listen to our music.”

  “You don’t want that.”

  He spears me a look. “I don’t want to tour. Ever. This is just a special case.”

  “Why?” He clearly doesn’t want to go, but is making himself.

  He turns from me and looks out the window. “It just is.”

  Okay, so that subject is closed, but I can’t help wonder why he is going when he’d rather not.

  I glance out my window and realize we are already in my neighborhood. “You can drop us at the corner.”

  The driver looks in the mirror. “You sure?”

  “Yeah. No good place to stop in front of the door.”

  The driver just nods and a moment later he turns and stops at the corner.

  8

  This doesn’t look much like the neighborhood Bethany described. Other than graffiti on the walls across the street. Except, I can’t really see it too well in the dark. On the opposite side of the road from where the car is stopping, is a tall, five story brick building that looks like it could have been a warehouse at one time, or brewery, or old apartment building.

  I’d heard about warehouse lofts but had never been in one.

  “Which way?” I ask after we get out of the car.

  She points east then pulls keys out of her small bag as we cross the narrow street and start walking. Nobody is out and I’m glad she isn’t alone out here. Hopefully she would have had the driver drop her at the door if she would have come back alone.

  When we are about half way down the block, two guys come around the opposite corner. They’ve got hoodies up, hands shoved in pockets and their heads are down.

  Shit!

  Bethany stops at a door in the middle of the block and fumbles with her keys.

  The two guys slow as they approach.

  I do a quick check of the area. Nobody else is around. There are lights in the lobby but it looks empty.

  I glance back at the two who are slowly approaching, sizing them up. Not too big, lean and if necessary, I could probably take them. I was scrappy back in the day and could be scrappy again if I needed to be.

  “Need help?” I finally ask Bethany.

  “Got it,” she says waving a card under a hidden reader. I hadn’t even noticed it at first.

  A moment later there’s a click and she opens the door. I hold it so she can go in before me. As I’m pulling it shut, one of the guys who had been coming from the opposite direction grabs it and my pulse speeds up.

  Did Bethany just lead me into a shit storm or did I need to protect her from one?

  Bethany stops at the second set of doors, which apparently is locked as well, and is waving a card over a reader. Between the two doors are a bunch of mailboxes with apartment numbers on them, but no names.

  “Dammit!”

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  The two guys close in on us and the door closes. Being stuck in this small entrance between the street and the foyer could really suck for me or me and Bethany.

  “It’s not reading.”

  “I thought you were going to get a new one,” one of the guys who came in says.

  Bethany’s head pops up and looks over her shoulder, then smiles. “It hasn’t come in yet.”

  The guy who spoke reaches around Bethany and waves his card over the reader and there’s an audible click from the inside door.

  I grab it and open the door, ready to get out of this claustrophobic space.

  “Thanks, Ben,” Bethany says as she steps into the foyer.

  “Get a new card, Bethany,” he retorts. “Not the best time of the night to be stuck here, or out on the street.”

  She just rolls her eyes at him then heads left.

  My pulse hasn’t exactly gotten back to normal, but it’s slowed some.

  It may be ten years since I lived on the streets, but that inner fight or flight is still alive and well deep down inside, and apparently I’m just as paranoid as I was back then, looking for danger everywhere. But I needed to when I was twelve. Lack of awareness got you killed.

  It’s strange, I haven’t experienced that same fear and anxiety since right before the cops picked me up. Once I was in college and out in the world, it never occurred to me to be worried whenever I was out, so what is the deal with tonight? Strange area? Time of night, or morning? Is it because Bethany is with me?

  We head to the elevator, the two guys trailing behind. I can feel their eyes boring holes into my back.

  What is up with them?

  “Have you talked to your uncle lately?” the other guy asks when we step into the elevator.

  “Nope. You?”

  He’s is staring at me as he answers. “I will on Monday. Teleconference.”

  These two are summing me up and deciding if I should be there or not. Or, maybe they are memorizing my features in case something happens to Bethany. We reach their floor first and the two guys step out.

  “So, that’s what it’s like to meet the parents,” I say as soon as the doors close again.

  “They are hardly my parents.” Bethany snorts. “Friends of my uncle.”

  “Didn’t feel like it to me.”

  Her head jerks up and looks at me through the reflection in the mirrored elevator. I wink and pull her close. “It’s never a bad thing to have people looking out for you, even if it can be annoying at times.”

  Bethany stops at the end unit and unlocks the door and flips on a switch just on the inside as we enter. To my left is a brick wall with windows. To my right is a wall, with one door. I peek in as we pass. It’s the bathroom. Right past it is a little alcove, I guess, where a desk and bookcases are, along with a sewing machine and fabric beneath the overhang of a loft.

  She stops and kicks off her shoes and I do the same since I’m not certain if she just wants to be comfortable or she doesn’t wear shoes on her floors. If we were back at the brownstone, the shoes would be off at the door, per Dylan’s rules.

  Directly ahead is the kitchen, with all of the appliances lined up along the wall: fridge, counter, sink, counter then stove with a long, narrow island opposite. The living area is to the right of that and looks comfy with an overstuffed couch and
a couple of chairs and the television mounted on the wall. Next to it are wooden, open stairs, leading up to the loft. I turn and take it in. She’s got an old fashioned, big bed up there.

  What are the chances of me seeing how comfortable it is? It does look damn comfortable.

  No! I will not be sleeping with her. Bethany isn’t a groupie and I didn’t invite her to the Poison Apple just so I could fuck her as soon as we were done playing. Not that I don’t want to fuck her, because I do, but that’s not what this is about. I want to know her. Know all about her. Do this right, if that’s even possible.

  Sean would love this place. Even though all the guys I live with at the brownstone have helped renovate the five story building, it’s Sean who is the designer. He works construction for another company, but his dream is to design and renovate old, turn of the century buildings. He hates to see former brownstones be cut up into apartments, and it really pisses him off when the original character of the space is gutted to make the space more modern.

  Bethany’s place still has the original windows, or at least they are designed to resemble the original windows, and they kept the brick walls. The wood floors look old too, as if they’d endured decades of feet, and the same theme continued onto the stairs. I don’t know what the loft looks like, since it’s not well lit at the moment, but I assume it’s the same. The only thing really modern in this place is the kitchen and what I could see of the bathroom. Sean would definitely approve.

  Bethany drops her purse on the counter next to a big, open box and flips on another light over the kitchen, brightening up the place.

  “You lied to me,” she says as she opens the fridge.

  I straighten. It’s been a really long time since someone called me a liar and it kind of pisses me off. “When?”

  “Today.” She takes a big pot out and puts it on the counter. “I play sax and piano, badly,” she repeats the words I said to her earlier.

  “So?”

  “You failed to mention the trumpet.”

  I play more instruments than that, but I didn’t want to talk about me or come off as if I’m bragging or something. “It’s no big deal.”

  Her mouth pops open. “No big deal?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I had no idea, but man, that trumpet solo was awesome.”

  My face is heating and this is the reason I don’t like to talk about me playing music. I love to talk about music and instruments and sounds, just not about me doing it. “I just like to play and there are a lot more guys, and girls, out there who play a hell of a lot better than I do.”

  Bethany shakes her head, then takes a smaller pot out from beneath the island. “Can you put that box on the floor?”

  I grab it and set it aside, then glance down. My dick thickens. “Do you usually keep a case of condoms on your kitchen counter?”

  “They were left over from today, but I didn’t notice they’d been left out until we had everything else locked up, so I just brought them home.” She shrugs. “There are some suckers in there too. Your friend seemed to like them if you want to take them home.”

  I snort. “The last thing I want to look at is Zach walking around the place sucking on a dick, even if they are candy.”

  Bethany chuckles as she starts spooning what looks like a stew into the smaller pan. “What’s that?”

  “Burgoo.”

  That’s something I’ve never heard of before and I pretty much have tasted everything, or at least it seems that way. Dylan is always concocting recipes for me and the guys. Not that I mind since if I had to cook for myself it would be cans of soup for lunch and dinner, and cinnamon toast with a bowl of cereal for breakfast.

  “The best stew ever!” Then she looks up. “You don’t have any kind of food allergies do you?”

  “Not that I’ve discovered yet.”

  “Good, because practically everything is in this.”

  I peer down into the pot. There does seem to be a lot of meat and veggies. “What’s in it?”

  “Pork, beef, chicken, peppers, onion, carrots, celery, garlic, tomatoes, corn and lima beans.”

  “Three meats?” Usually when Dylan cooks a stew its either beef or chicken, never both and I’m pretty sure he hasn’t made a pork dish like this.

  “Yep. My mamma’s recipe, though I’m pretty sure everyone in Kentucky has their own version of Burgoo.”

  She puts the pot on the stove and sets a low flame.

  “No microwaving?” That’s how I usually reheat stuff.

  “Slow, and even,” she says in a low tone that goes straight to my dick. I can think of a few things I’d like to do slow, and fast.

  Hell, all Bethany has to do is stand there and I’m turned on. It doesn’t help that there are more condoms than I could probably use in a year right at my feet either.

  No girl has ever done this to me before, instantly. Sure, there are girls that made me hot and I’m no stranger to sex, but it’s different with Bethany and I can’t quite place my finger on why.

  She takes two bowls out of the cupboard, along with spoons then gets muffins out. “Corn bread,” she explains, as if you can’t have Burgoo without it. Maybe you can’t.

  “I thought you weren’t hungry,” I say, nodding to the two bowls.

  “I’m always hungry for this.” She opens the fridge again. “Beer, water, wine?”

  “Water. Thanks.” A beer does sound good, but I don’t really want to be drinking while I’m getting to know Bethany.

  She takes two bottles out and hands one to me. “Have a seat. You don’t have to stand there all night.”

  I look around and then grab a stool that is in front of the island. I don’t exactly want to go sit in a chair or on the couch while she’s cooking, not that I’d be far away or in a different room. Lofts, for the most part, aren’t exactly roomy, except this one is. It’s larger than the average apartment in New York. At least from what I’ve seen. The rent on this place has got to be at least three grand, maybe even more, and her uncle is only making her pay utilities.

  She unhooks the belt at her waist and tosses it onto the counter, then stretches. The billowy top she’s wearing is loose and it would be so easy to slip my hands underneath.

  Clearing my throat I look away, at anything but her as I try and get my dick back under control.

  Christian is really quiet, but my back is to him since I’m stirring the Burgoo so it heats evenly. Once it’s to the temperature it needs to be, I fill the bowls and then grab the hot sauce out of the fridge and set it on the counter.

  Christian stares at the bottle. “That goes in the Burgoo?”

  “Only if you want it to.” I add a few drops to mine and then sink my spoon into the heavenly goodness.

  Christian is still eyeing the contents of his bowl suspiciously.

  “It’s not scary.”

  “I know.”

  Yet, he still isn’t eating. Maybe he doesn’t like stews or meats. Oh crap. “Are you a vegetarian?”

  He snorts. “Hardly.”

  “Then why aren’t you eating?” It really is good. “Would you rather have something else? I can make cinnamon toast.”

  “I was enjoying the aroma, if you must know. Eating with my eyes and nose before taste.”

  “Really?”

  “That’s what happens when you live with a food critic.” Christian laughs. “Dylan should probably just open his own restaurant instead of critiquing them.”

  Christian slips his spoon into the Burgoo, then puts a heaping amount into this mouth. He closes his eyes as he tastes, and then moans.

  Inwardly I sigh because I don’t know what I would have done if he’d hated it.

  “Damn, that is good.”

  Thank God he likes it because even though I offered cinnamon toast, I’m not sure I have any bread.

  “So, tell me more about yourself. Siblings, school, friends, hobbies.”

  “Nope.” I set my spoon aside and look at him. “You already know enough about
me and I’m not sharing anything else until I know more about you.” I smirk. “Besides, what you did tell me, was kind of a lie, so you really need to talk about yourself or I might just take the Burgoo away.”

  He grabs the bowl and pulls it closer. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Try me.”

  9

  Shit! I so don’t want to talk about me. I don’t want to tell her a damn thing. Once I do, she’ll be leading me to the door with a very polite, It was nice meeting you.

  Hell, not only did she grow up on a horse farm and knows her parents, but she lives in a fucking amazing loft. I’m not sure two people can be any more opposite.

  “Come on, it can’t be that hard,” she coaxes. “What about your parents?”

  And my appetite practically disappears with that one question. “Don’t know them.”

  Bethany sucks in a breath. “Oh, God, sorry.”

  I shrug it off as if it’s no big deal, but it is. It’s huge.

  “Adopted?”

  “Foster.”

  With that, Bethany goes silent. Most people do. Some don’t want to pry, others would rather not know, and others like to pretend that everybody has a wonderful family and life and they don’t want their comfortable beliefs upset. I wish I knew where Bethany fell.

  Nobody wants to really know how a kid got into foster care since none of those stories start with great parents.

  Well, except maybe for parents who are killed and there are no living relatives, but they are like 1%, if that, of the parents whose kids ended up in the system.

  She continues to eat in silence, and I do too. I’m sure as hell not going to elaborate on my past. Instead, I’ll enjoy this awesome stew and cornbread, thank her and then be on my way.

  Bethany scraps what little is left in her bowl and then sits it in the sink and fills it with water, then picks up a bottle of pills that are sitting there, takes one out and brings it over to where her water is and takes it. Do I ask?

  I can’t not ask. “You okay?”

  “Just antibiotics.”