Page 38 of The Omega Verse

I nod, burrowing back into his neck and filling my lungs with his scent. Silva is so alive, so restless, it’s strange to feel his unmoving weight under me. He’s not even stroking my back anymore. He’s just sitting, like he said, and giving me time to find the words that always elude me.

“I don’t know where to go,” I murmur against the curve of his ear, my fingers digging into his nape. He twitches and sighs as I rub the tight muscles, but it’s a comforting sound, and I brush my cheeks across his hair. It’s as soft as dandelion fluff, even after Tom’s budget body wash. “Do I stay here for work, or do I go back to Tom’s place? Do I drop you on The Hill with the rest of the band, and wave you away? Or do I… ask you to stay? Because the thought of you getting back on that bus and driving off makes my chest hurt.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, pressing his cheek against mine. I shiver at the rasp of his soft bristles, and I can feel his face stretching into a smile. “And I’m pretty mobile, if that makes a difference.”

“But you have a base in LA, right? That’s where you live most of the time?”

“Who’s the stalker now?” he asks with a wicked grin.

I sniff and pluck the front of his hoodie. “I figured I should learn a little about the guy whose clothes I keep borrowing.”

“Sure, sugar,” he chuckles, his grin growing. “And yes, I co-own an apartment with a guy from the Scare Crew, but it’s an investment more than anything.”

I don’t bring up the possibility of him joining the Sundowners full time, since that’s too close to all the churning stress in my belly. I’m not naïve enough to think the band will stay much longer now my heat has broken, and when they leave, Silva and Kobi will likely go with them. I should be happy that I’ll have Tom, and maybe some answers about Steven. That was way more than I ever hoped for when I approached that arena in the pouring rain.

“You’re thinking pretty hard,” Silva murmurs, tugging the ends of my scarf. “Why don’t we just go have a feed and a chat? And then we can work on the sleeping arrangements, and anything else that’s worrying you.” He runs his hands down my arms and winds our fingers together. “Sound good?”

I nod, leaning into his heat and scent. He hums under his breath – a song I should probably know – but even though I don’t know the words, I can hear the smile in his voice. Which makes me smile right back, and I lift his wrist, kissing the weird little palm tree tattoo. “So, you were a palm tree farmer?”

He snorts. “Nope, but you’re not far off.”

“Really? Well, it must have been corn, then. You know, because of all your corny jokes.”

He huffs a laugh. “Nope, again. It was sugarcane.” He flutters his lashes at me in a completely filthy way. “You’ve been riding this country boy’s cane train for the past three days.”

I sit back and eye him distrustfully. “Bullshit.”

But he just gives me a smug wink and leans in to nibble on my neck. “That's why I’m so crazy about you, sugar. Your blood is even sweeter than mine.”

Kobi

I’m peering in the refrigerator, trying to magic up the concept of dinner, when the dulcet tone of wind chimes plays throughout the house. The rental retreat has great views, but it’s so damn big it needs one of those brass gongs to announce visitors. It’s not my style at all – I’m more of a log cabin or farmhouse kind of guy – and the only thing it really has going for it is the numerous, luxury bathrooms. Not that watching Cass and Silva shower out in the elements didn’t heat my blood all the way up.

“Hey, Hoover.” I tuck my beach shack memories aside and step back to let the band’s manager in, nodding at the other guy on the doorstep. From the way he’s staring at me, the introductions are obviously going to be one-sided.

“This is Mark O’Shay,” Hoover says, shoving his glasses up his nose as he looks around the sleek foyer. “He’s the band’s lawyer.”

“Nice to meet you, Mark.” I shake his hand, which is limp and slightly damp as he gapes at me.

“I’m such a huge fan, Mr Grace,” he gulps, almost tripping as he comes inside. Based on his age, I’m thinking he’s probably more into my dad’s music than mine, but I murmur something polite as I lead them both into the main living area.

“How’s the place?” Hoover asks in his abrupt way as I circle back towards the kitchen. He’s not a bad guy, just tightly wired, and the strain of Steven’s death – and the band’s uncertain future – is written plainly on his face. “Everything okay? Jett and River are happy with things?”

I nod, even though we haven’t exactly chatted about the accommodations. “Can I get you guys a drink?”

Dinner might be beyond my meagre talents, but I can pop a cork or mix a martini with the best of them. “Just water for now, thanks,” Hoover says, striding out to the middle of the room and looking around. “I’m assuming the guys are here somewhere?”

“River is taking a nap, and Jett’s just hopped in the shower after a surf.”

Hoover gives a restless nod. “And the others?”

I’m surprised by his tone. He still sounds high-strung, but there’s a hint of alpha bark in his voice that makes my hackles rise. Last time I checked, Cass wasn’t any of his business, and as far as I know, Silva is still a free agent. “They went to check on Cass’ place, but she said she'd be back for dinner.”

Hoover and Mark exchange a glance, then head over to the sectional sofa. “Maybe we’ll take a drink then. Got any of that Kentucky whiskey you’re always drinking?”

He’s talking about Old Forester Birthday Bourbon that goes for about a grand a bottle. The blend changes every year, but the quality is always top-notch, with notes of almonds, dark cherry, and vanilla. Pretty much exactly how Silva smells when he’s covered in our girl’s slick...

I stop that thought in its tracks and nod at Hoover, taking the bottle from the cabinet next to the fridge and digging out three glasses. When we’ve all clinked and sipped, I carry my glass in the direction of the bathroom. “I’ll go let Jett know you’re here.”

---