“And Alisha,” Lucas says.
“Tell Alisha to meet us at Michael’s place,” Dex snaps, his voice carrying over everyone else’s. “I’m not a fucking Uber.”
“Dude, what’s up with you today?” Lucas doesn’t wait for a response before going back to texting. “You need to chill.”
“And you all need to get out of this studio,” Naomi says, putting a hand on her hip. “Go on, out.” She waves the guys away, then gives me a sideways smile. “I’ll have to come see you at the orchestra. You’re mad talented.”
“Thanks,” I say quietly, grabbing my violin case as my cheeks heat up.
“Maybe we’ll get to work together again.” She shrugs. “It’d be sweet to get more strings on these tracks.”
A bit of excitement blooms in my chest at the idea, though I know the chances of that happening are slim.
The guys head out of the studio, and I follow in their wake.
I’m about to go celebrate with rock stars.
chapter 8
OUTSIDE, IT’S STARTED TO RAIN, and I pull up the hood of my jacket to keep my hair dry. I parked in the far corner of the lot again, and when I start heading that way, Dex says, “You can ride with us.” He spins a key fob around his finger and catches it in his hand, then does it again, still looking right at me.
“Okay. Let me just put this away.” I hold up my violin, and he nods.
Hurrying to my car, I put my violin in the trunk, then lock the doors. I catch sight of my reflection in the rear window—hair in a braid, no makeup, rainwater dripping from my hood—and immediately regret saying I’d go out. Unless they wanna head to a casual coffee shop, I am not dressed for a night out. But it’s too late for that now.
Once I’ve rejoined them, Dex turns and leads the way toward a cluster of expensive-looking cars at the front of the building.
“Can I drive?” Sebastian asks, slinging a muscular arm around Dex’s shoulders.
Dex shrugs him off. “No.”
“You should know the answer to that by now,” Michael says. “Dex doesn’t let anyone drive the Rover.”
As soon as he says it, Dex hits the fob, and the lights flash on a shiny black Range Rover. The wheels are glossy black, and the windows are so dark I can’t see inside. Looking at it, I’m pretty sure it cost more than my college tuition.
“Shotgun!” Sebastian says.
“Nora gets shotgun,” Dex replies without hesitation, and my insides twist into pretzels. “You’re in the back.”
Sebastian pouts, but he doesn’t argue.
Lucas is already waiting by one of the back doors, texting and looking completely disinterested in us. He climbs in, and then Sebastian slides in after him as Michael and I go around to the other side.
I reach for the door handle, but it’s sleek and perfectly flush with the car door; there’s no way for me to grab it. A burst of panic goes through me. I’m going to look like an idiot who can’t open a luxury car door.
How the hell do I—
Michael reaches over and pushes a little button on the thin black handle, and it pops out. I cast him a grateful look, then pull the door open and slip inside.
It smells like leather with a hint of soap. The interior is matte black, and the display screen on the dash is about as big as my laptop. Everywhere I look, all I see is wealth—and a lot of it.
This is easily the nicest vehicle I’ve ever been in. I’m almost afraid to touch anything for fear of leaving a fingerprint or a smudge of dirt from my boots.
Dex tosses his cell into the cup holder and puts his sunglasses back on. As soon as he starts the Range Rover, the stereo comes blasting on, and he reaches over to turn it down when I flinch.
The guys fuss around in the back, seeming perfectly at ease squished together like they are. I keep quiet, arms by my sides, as Dex pulls out of the studio lot.
While we drive through LA, other drivers and passengers stare over at us, likely curious about who’s behind the tinted windows, and I realize why they’re so dark in the first place. I wonder if people would chase Dex down if they saw him driving in the lane next to theirs. Probably.
The traffic is terrible, as usual. While we sit at another light, I steal a glance over at Dex.
He’s got one hand on the wheel, the other propped up next to the window, and this close up, I can see the individual tattoos on each finger of his right hand: a sword, an axe, a skull, a mace, and a goblet. My eyes follow his fingers up, and there’s a dragon curling across the back of his hand, its tail disappearing into the sleeve of his long-sleeve shirt.
He must notice me staring, because he reaches over and pulls his sleeve back so I can see the rest of the dragon. It’s a detailed piece, and the long tail curls all the way around his forearm, where more tattoos ink his pale skin.
“You have any tattoos?” he asks.
“Yeah. Just one.” I push my coat away from my left wrist, where I’ve got a violin and a few notes. I got it when I was eighteen, but it hurt so bad that I haven’t wanted to get another one. “How many do you have?”
He looks at me—or I think he does, but his shades obscure his eyes—then down at his hand. His tendons strain under his skin when he flexes his fingers. “No idea.” A smile flashes across his mouth. “Maybe you could count ’em for me.”
Heat curls in my stomach and between my legs, and I tear my gaze away from him to stare out the window.
Stop, I tell myself. Do not get turned on by him.
He laughs under his breath, and the light finally turns green.
