Page 22 of Erik

I glance at the makeup lady, and she nods. “You’re good to go, hon. Knock them dead.”

That’s it. Show time.

I unfurl from the black canvas chair, and I don’t get why my step falters. I resort to feigning self-confidence. I’ll lead product launches with over two hundred people in attendance, or spearhead research for breakthrough technologies any day, without hesitation. Why the heck the fine hair on my nape stands on its end now? Why has my stomach turned into a bottomless pit?

With eardrums buzzing from adrenaline rush, I find my mark on the floor by the bed. Although Pat lacks magnetism, or any musical talent, after makeup and hair, he is the spitting image of young Erik Crawford. Up close, the sight of him causes butterflies to flutter inside my belly.

He glances up at me from his spot on the mattress, and I get rooted to the spot. Damn it. It’s exactly like staring into Erik’s eyes. I blink, and the moment is gone. Pat returns his attention to a new guitar someone is handing him. I knit my eyes. No. His stare has nothing on Erik’s. It lacks the hypnotizing intensity of the original.

I shake my head. What has that mesmerizing gaze brought me, except deceit and heartbreak? Nothing. That’s the truthful answer I must not forget. Yesterday I came too close to losing myself in his deep brown eyes. I can’t afford to do that if I want to keep my mental health intact.

The script states that the hot-as-sin front man of Muse of Darkness has his heart set on serenading a slutty groupie out of her panties. I believe in following scripts. Apparently, so does wardrobe.

The costume design team excelled in making me look the part. Whistles fill the air when I wriggle out of the terrycloth robe I have on, revealing a bright-yellow bikini top, and minuscule cutoffs. I fold the robe, hand it to an assistant standing to my right, and sit on my heels at the spot by the bed that the director blocked earlier.

Excited whispers hum around the cavernous movie set in waves. Goosebumps raise the hair on my body, head to toes. Nothing to do with the chilling temperature set by the powerful air conditioner system. The sensations result from a crackling power that fills the space around me. It tugs at my core, enveloping me like a cashmere wrap in a wintry night, before zinging through my muscles.

“Hold up! I’ll show Mr. Major Flop here how this should be done.”

When I whirl to face the origin point of that scornful remark, the studio lights blur my vision, but I’d never mistake that timbre for anyone else’s.

Erik Crawford is here.

I should’ve known it was him, when the first wave of eerie electricity traveled through my body. That’s his signature, the jolt of energy I feel every time he’s near.

My throat dries up, my brain checks out. My resolution to wrap up the scene and forget Erik flies out of the windowless studio at the sight of the man. I don’t know enough mantras to restore my balance right now. Still, I fill my lungs with air, and brace for impact. Although, a long-haul airliner nose diving toward the ground would cause less damage than my current situation.

Deja vu much? The same sensations that overwhelmed me the other day, when he came to me under the tree, threaten to pull me under. I want to show him I’m over the physical attraction after he trampled on my heart in his trailer. Instead, I gawk as he ambles through the set. A gorgeous feline on the prowl comes to mind.

Erik is just as dangerous. I should keep this in mind.

But, when he takes Pat Robertson’s spot on the bed in front of me, the world hushes. Everything becomes white noise, except for the man who checks all the boxes under my ‘sexy rock star’ list. And that honor is not without plenty of reasons.

Ripped torso and legs perpetually sheathed in black leather? Check.

High cheekbones and a square jaw? Check and check.

I shake my head once to dismiss the X-rated scenes invading my mind and squeeze my eyes shut for a beat recalling the director's words during rehearsals.

As scripted, I lean back on my forearms and gape. No acting required here.

He’s got his famous leather pants and jacket on. The dark ensemble makes for a perfect combination with his inky hair that falls in waves across a broad forehead. The tips of my fingers tingle at the memory of the silky touch of his curls when we kissed yesterday.

His sun-kissed fingers strum the guitar straddling his rippling thigh as he plays my favorite workout song, the one he’s tutored me endless times over the past week.

Limelight glow, leather shine

All a show I put out so fine

Everyone fooled, all but me

With deep inhales, and long exhales, I try to ignore the sizzling under my skin. Epic failure. Mesmerized, I scan his expression. He rocks the heck out of his bone structure as it frames his fleshy nose over full lips made for endless nights of sinful pleasure. As I sit at his feet, I curl my fingers into fists, resting them on the floor by my hips. They itch to trace that face that has dominated my fantasies for so long.

Deep-set, chocolate eyes zero in on me, hypnotizing me. His intent stare soothes, entices, and addles my synapses. With this hazardous combination, my heartbeats spike, blood zings through my veins, making me dizzy. I had promised myself I’d resist this power over me that he has. Who was I kidding? His lyrics call to my soul on a primitive level. His melody vibrates through my muscles. He seduces my senses with ease, arousing my body with the expertise of a virtuoso playing his instrument.

They cheer as I sing

Lilting notes mask pain too deep

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