Page 44 of Four on the Floor: A Menage Romance

There it is. This is the hotel’s ballroom, a huge space with tall windows covered by thick red drapes, cowboy murals along one wall, and a polished wooden floor overhung by chandeliers.

At the other end, facing right, is a mahogany concert grand piano. Slate’s behind the keys, totally and utterly focused, his fingers dancing over it lightly and effortlessly, as if playing this complicated song is the easiest thing in the world.

He doesn’t look up, even when I slip in and close the door behind me, just keeps playing. After a moment he pauses, his long fingers lingering on the keys, then launches into another section of the song.

I stand there, entranced. I know Slate the least well of all the guys. He comes to meals, and he even played Trivial Pursuit with us once, but otherwise, he seems to prefer being alone. I think fame has been even harder on him than it’s been on the other guys, since he’s the face of the band, so he’s just been seeking out solitude since we got here.

I can’t blame him. I can’t imagine people with cameras following me all over the place, trying to shout questions about my next album while I shop for groceries or whatever. Honestly, it sounds like hell.

But this is gorgeous, and I’m enthralled, just listening to him play. There’s something wonderfully strange about the scene: Slate’s tall and powerfully built, just like the rest of the guys, with wide shoulders and biceps that threaten to burst out of any shirt he puts on. He’s got big, rough hands, calloused from playing guitar, but the way they dance over the keys like birds seems at odds with his powerful, rough appearance.

Add to that dark curly hair that falls to his square jaw and ice blue eyes the color of the clear sky in travel posters, and Slate is gorgeous. He’s a total hunk, and there’s absolutely no questionwhythe tabloids are all over him.

Not to mention his stage presence. Right now he’s ignoring me and playing the piano, but I’m still enthralled. If he were onstage, playing guitar and singing one of the songs he wrote, I can’t imagine being anything but putty in his hands.

Hell, I bet every single girl at a Wreckers concert feels that way.

After another minute, the song comes to an end. His fingers linger on the keys for a long moment, and then he lifts his hands and drops them casually in his lap, glancing over at me.

Busted.

“Hey,” he says, his deep, smooth voice carrying across the ballroom.

“Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, I just heard you from down the hall, and I wasn’t sure what it was so I decided to come see.”

He waves one hand, smiling at me.

“No worries,” he says. “I’m used to audiences.”

“I didn’t know you played piano.”

“I’m classically trained,” he says, that smile still on his face. “For a little while I thought about becoming a concert pianist, but that seemed too hard.”

As if having the biggest rock album of the last ten years isn’t?

His eyes crinkle, like he’s laughing.

“My piano teacher nearly killed me when I started learning Joplin tunes,” he goes on. “She told me that ragtime was too ungraceful, that it was just fast and loud and meant for saloons and other places of ill-repute.”

Now it’s my turn to laugh, walking toward the piano and Slate.

“Did she really say ill-repute?”

“She did,” he confirms. “Mrs. Putnam had to be at least eighty when she was teaching me, though it wouldn’t have surprised me to find out that she was twice that and born during Victorian times. She also called Beethoventempestuous and unsuitable.”

“What’s she think of your current career choice?” I ask, coming up to him. I lean against the huge, heavy piano, the shining wood cool against my hip.

“I haven’t asked her,” he says. “I’m pretty sure she’s still teaching piano lessons in my hometown, making kids playHot Cross Bunswith coins balanced on their wrists. If they fall off, you’re not holding your hands right.”

I lean over the piano, examining the long, thick strings at the other end, the short tight ones closer to me. As I’m looking, Slate hits a key, and a felt-tipped hammer strikes a note. I put one finger on the string, dampening it, and we both laugh.

I’ve never exactly been at ease with Slate. I barely saw him for the first few weeks that we were all here, because he seemed to sleep most of the day and then prowl The Centennial at night. Then, I started sleeping with all three of his bandmates, and it doesn’t take a lot of creativity to imagine that something like that could make a guy look at you weird.

Not that he ever has. Slate is just quiet, but he’s warm and funny and a nice guy, just like the rest of the band. He’s also every bit as attractive as the other three, all brooding looks and serious eyes, and I’ll admit that the thought of getting dirty with him has crossed my mind a time or two.

Okay, maybe three or four times. Honestly, it’s embarrassing how much Istillthink about sex, given that there’s absolutely no shortage of it in my life. I mean, last night I wound up having a threesome with Gavin and Dalton in the sauna, and then this morning before I got to work, Cash snagged me and pulled me into a janitor’s closet for some one-on-one time up against the shelves of cleaning products.

Really, it’s a miracle that Istillfind time to fantasize about quiet, brooding Slate.

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