Page 94 of Cherry Beats

I needed to sleep for a week without interruption.

After Youth Gone Wild had performed a few tracks for the people of VINYL! things had got messy. Rhett seemed on another planet. Big D slumped into a corner, snoring like a lion with a full bottle of beer in each hand. Hawk was tripping on some form of beer pong where he was the only player, getting snappy about anyone else trying to interrupt him. Coops looked pissed off, as though his hangover had already set in as he sat on a stool by the bar, drawing patterns with his fingers on the counter top.

We’d partied too long, and it had slipped quickly from euphoria to exhaustion. Even Dicky had left without so much as a goodbye.

Waiting outside for us was the ever-reliable Uncle Dex and a beautiful Range Rover I hadn’t seen him driving before. He didn’t say anything when we crawled into the back seats. He just offered us both a warm, knowing smile, and that was it. Although I did see the way his eyes kept drifting to us in the rearview mirror—my head resting against Presley’s chest, and his head rolled back on the seat as sleep threatened to steal him from me for a while.

When Presley and I eventually stumbled into the hotel room, I walked straight into the bathroom to strip out of my clothes. I needed a shower and a few minutes to freshen up. There was a spare toothbrush handy, so I brushed my teeth, scrubbed my whole body, including my hair, and I walked back out with nothing more than a towel wrapped around me.

Presley was out cold.

His body was thrown across the king-size bed. He hadn’t even found the energy to get under the sheets. Not that I was complaining. He was naked, his skin tanned, taunting me to play. I moved closer, taking quiet steps to be near him, not wanting to wake him up from his peaceful sleep.

The kid looks tired.

I know, Uncle Dex. I know,I thought to myself.

The sight of Presley standing at my apartment door floated through my mind.

Hewastired now. He was tired then. How couldn’t he be? I was so lost with my days and nights at this point—this life was insane—and I’d only been a part of it for a few days. He’d had it for years, and it was forever his future, too.

I stepped beside the bed and ran a single finger up his toned leg, riding it over his firm arse, before I trailed it over his back and to his neck. Leaning down, I pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek and ran my finger over his parted lips, feeling the heavy, quiet breaths falling from him.

“Sleep, little rock star,” I whispered.

“Cherry?” he mumbled; eyes closed.

I smiled and sighed, bending down so our faces were level. Presley cracked one eye open, his face squished against the bed. He tried to reach for me as much as his lazy, limp limbs could allow him.

“You smell amazing,” he breathed out. “Stay with me.”

“Sleep,” I ordered softly, unable to hide my smile.

His eyes fluttered closed again, and his arm dropped to the side of the bed with a heavy thud. Drying off as quickly as I could, I made my way around to the other side of the bed and ran my fingers through my damp hair. I wanted to be as naked as possible with him, and I hoped with all my heart that one day soon, he’d be naked with me. Not just in body, but in soul.

There were things I needed to know about him.

Things I wanted to understand.

Right then, wanting him was enough, so I wrapped my arms around him and held on tight.

My heartbeat pounding against his back.

My love pouring into him.

“I’m right where I want to be,” I sighed.

* * *

A ringing phone woke me up from a groggy sleep, the sting of the most insane headache striking me right between the eyes.

I wasseriouslyhungover, and the light pouring into the room hurt.

The ringing stopped only to start again soon after, and that’s when I realised it was my phone making all the damn noise. Rolling onto my back, a groan slipped free, just in time to see a fresh-faced Presley West walking towards my jeans hanging over the chair and pulling my phone out from the back pocket.

He looked… incredible. His face was fresh, his hair damp and scraped back, and he wore nothing but a perfectly fitted pair of black Calvin Klein boxer shorts as he accepted the call and pressed my phone to his ear, holding a cup of hot coffee in his other hand.

“Tessa Lisbon’s phone,” he answered, sounding way too chirpy, when I felt, and no doubt looked like death. Presley’s eyes were trained on me now, a small smile curling the corner of his mouth. “Oh, hey, Bourbon. Yeah. She’s here.”

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