Page 16 of Four on the Floor: A Menage Romance

I don’t know what it is. Nine times out of ten I’m a champion sleeper. A gold medalist, but that tenth time I don’t know what happens. I just lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, sleep unwilling to come.

After an hour or two of that, I get up. Reading usually helps, but I can’t find a book in my suite.

Did I forget to bring a book? Seriously?

The last year’s been a whirlwind. When we releasedDownslide, our first album, we were hoping it would be a modest success. That’s all anyone can ever hope for, right?

It washuge. It blew up way, way beyond where any of us were expecting — constant radio play, #1 on the Billboard charts. I could barely walk down the street in Los Angeles without hearing someone blastingLet You Go, our first single, for a solid month.

The tour we had planned immediately got scrapped and we did a massive stadium tour instead of the small clubs we’d thought we’d be doing. The whole thing was completely sold out. We were mobbed everywhere we went, followed by paparazzi if we tried to leave the house.

And, of course, the stories got out. Any rock band has stories about them — you know the one about Led Zeppelin and the shark, right? Everyone does — but the stories really got to Slate, who’s always needed his alone time and privacy more than anyone else.

Slate’s not a rock star. Sure, he plays one on stage, but he’d be just as happy playing tiny venues with just his guitar, so long as he got to play.

Anyway, we decided to do this artists’ retreat about forty-eight hours before we showed up at The Centennial, and I forgot to bring a book. Blame the rock star lifestyle.

I head downstairs, because I’m pretty sure I remember seeing a bookshelf in the lounge on the East Wing, the wing where all our suites are. I head down the elevator, through a hallway, past a few nooks and crannies that have windows and chairs.

Slate’s sitting in one of them, his feet on the chair opposite. He’s reading a book, too, and he looks up at me and waves.

Seems like he’s feeling better. Good. The poor guy nearly punched a paparazzo a few weeks ago, he needed some time out of the limelight.

I was right. There’s a bookshelf in the lounge, filled with leather-bound books that may or may not have ever been read, and I frown as I read the spines:The Prince, The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire, The Economic Disparities of the Great War. Not exactly light reading.

I glance around, and my eye falls on a paperback, just sitting on a side table.

The Hobbit.

Perfect. I grab it, crank the gas fireplace up, and get comfy on the couch.

* * *

Two hours later,Bilbo is just about to leave Bag-End and I’m lying on the bearskin rug in front of the fire, the book splayed open in front of me. For some reason, I prefer this position when reading at night — it feels better, somehow.

I’m way too hot, though, so I reach over my head and pull off the t-shirt I’m wearing, leaving me in nothing but flannel pajama pants. I wouldn’t normally just hang out shirtless for no reason, but it’s nearly two in the morning and I can’t sleep.

Plus, no one but Slate is awake right now, and he definitely doesn’t care if I’m shirtless.

I roll over, stretch, then get back into position. I’m so absorbed in this book that I don’t hear her come in until she’s practically standing over me.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Larkin’s voice asks.

I nearly jump out of my skin and look up to see her laughing.

“Sorry,” she says, leaning against one arm of the couch. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

“I didn’t realize anyone else was awake right now,” I say, once I’ve recovered.

Larkin cocks her head, her hair gleaming in the firelight as I drink her in. I don’t think she thought anyone would be awake right now, either, because she’s wearing absolutely tiny sleep shorts and a tank top with no bra.

I’m glad I’m lying on my stomach, because I’m instantly hard as a rock. It’s chilly, and her nipples are fully at attention, poking against the fabric like they’re straining to get out, the swell of her breasts underneath the fabric almost ludicrously tempting.

Not to mention the way her legs look in the firelight, the curve of her ass, or the way her hair falls against her shoulders. I’ve wanted Larkin since the moment I saw her through the window while I was in the hot springs, but I’ve never wanted hermorethan I want her right now.

Damn Cash. Damn Gavin. I’m happy to share her with them — more’s the merrier, right?

Just so long as I get her, I’ll be happy.

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