The Griffin's Secret Page 9

  “Be quiet and I will.” Kev went on. “No one knows for sure what went wrong, but after Jimi died, the other witch was distraught with grief. She blamed Layla’s grandmother for Jimi’s death. Bound her and all her female descendants to the guitar with a curse. The daughter just happened to be born the same day Jimi died.”

  “Layla’s mother was born that day?” Jackson’s breath left him. So the jealous witch had cursed her, and then Layla’s mother had passed the curse down again.

  “Cursed the guitar, too,” Grumbles pitched in.

  “Yes. And the guitar. Mary had to find a new band fast, or die and leave her baby motherless. When her daughter Penelope turned sixteen, the curse passed from Mary to her.”

  Jackson’s gut wrenched. “The same with Layla, right? When she turned sixteen, the curse passed to her.”

  “Brain surgeon.” Kev winked. “I knew you weren’t as dumb as you look.”

  “But how did Mal get his hands on the guitar? Murder?” Jackson laughed, but it died when Kev’s steely gaze didn’t waver.

  “Like I said, you’re not as dumb as you look. So as the prophecy goes, the witch who’s bound to Jimi’s Stratocaster will make a superstar out of anyone who owns the guitar. Until—”

  Rad pointed at Jackson. “Here comes the loophole.”

  Kev waved at Rad. “Shush already. Until a hero breaks the spell.”

  Trying to appear nonchalant, Jackson shrugged. “What’s that have to do with me?”

  Rad looked ready to burst. “Legend says the hero will have a griffin that matches the one on the guitar.”

  Jackson blew raspberries. “I’ve never seen a griffin on that guitar.”

  “No? You sure?” Rad peered at him.

  “Never.” Jackson scowled.

  “No one has,” Kev said. “Mal hid the design somehow.”

  “A spell?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “You must have noticed the tuner key at the tippy-top.” Rad was having way too much fun with this. “The black scorpion?”

  “Haven’t taken notice,” Jackson lied. Of course he had. The tuner stood out by its mismatched shape and black metal rather than plastic like the others.

  “You should.” Kev spoke in all seriousness. “There are two reasons we don’t touch the guitar. One, because Mal said so. Two, because the scorpion has a hell of a sting.”

  “Poison?” A chill went through Jackson. “No way.”

  “Hell yeah, way.” Rad hooted. “The guitar’s killer in more ways than one.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I don’t want the damned thing.” Jackson had enough problems.

  Kev turned an evil eye on him. “But you want the girl.”

  “Doesn’t matter what I want. I already told you.” Did Grundy mean this job when he said Jackson’s destiny lay in the west? Or a higher purpose? Couldn’t be. He was the opposite of a hero—a coward.

  Stubby moaned. “You’re right. Screwed as Layla is with Mal, she’d be worse off with you.”

  Rage burst out of Jackson. “She’ll never be with me. No woman will. Not for long.” He stomped toward his bunk and grabbed the edge. “When’s this fucking crate going to stop?”

  “Should be a refueling stop soon.” Kev settled back in his chair.

  Not soon enough.

  The other roadies followed Kev’s lead, but kept glancing up at him like he was some circus freak. Jackson strode to the restroom at the end of the bus for the sole purpose of getting out of their sight. Now, if he could only get away from himself.

  * * * *

  The driver braked and the bus slowed. Layla’s heartbeat went up a notch with each tick of the turn signal. She slid out of her seat and moved to the front until the bus pulled to a stop, then sprang out the doors before they’d fully opened. Pretending to check her pocket for cash, she waited for the second bus to glide next to the first before meandering inside the convenience store. From behind the aisle shelves, she watched the roadies round the front of the truck and enter the store.

  Jackson, the last one inside, scowled and seemed not to see her. Or want to. She circled behind the aisle and met him head-on. “Hey.”

  Startled, he blanked for a moment, and then his frown returned. “Hey.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  He scanned the items on the shelf. “Nothing.”

  Oh, please. She’d affected that get-the-hell-away-from-me expression so many times, she might have invented it. “Rough trip?”

  He inhaled deeply, and the air seemed to choke him. “You might say that.”

  “Can I do anything?”

  For the first time, he looked at her. She wished he hadn’t. The anger in his eyes seared into her.

  Pointedly, he said, “No.”

  The word punched the oxygen from her. “Sorry I asked.” She headed for the book-and-magazine section.

  Mal sauntered in, the latest groupie tucked under his arm.

  Too bad she wasn’t a permanent fixture. When the door opened, she turned to see Jackson stride outside and out of view. Not an act for the benefit of the other guys. He didn’t want her to follow. What had happened?

  Rad approached and nodded in greeting. “Layla.”

  “Hey, Rad, how’s it going?”

  He reached for a hot-rod magazine. “Good. How about you?”

  She chuckled without humor. “The bus is too crowded.” Mal, his guitar, and the girl made a noisy trio.

  A grunt, and Rad glanced over at them.

  She turned to face him and whispered, “Can I ride with you guys?”

  The roadie paled. “Oh. Well…”

  “Please? If I have to listen to Mal and the girl one more minute, I swear I’ll go insane.”

  “I can’t. The decision’s not up to me.”

  “You’re right. Sorry, Rad. I’d never put you in such an awkward position.”

  The guy looked ready to melt with relief. “I don’t know if Kev could even make that call.”

  “Right again. So I’ll decide. I’m going with you.” Avoid me now, Jackson. She smiled at Rad. “Guess we’ll be talking again soon.”

  He laid a hand on her arm. “Don’t do anything that will put you in danger.”

  “I appreciate your concern.” She truly did. “Mal won’t even realize I’m gone.” The question was, would Jackson notice her on board? Only one way to find out. She paid for the raspberry iced tea, National Geographic Traveler, and dark chocolate bar, then checked to be sure Mal wasn’t watching before hurrying to the second bus.

  A thick, musky scent hit her as she climbed inside. The dim lighting made it hard to see, but no one else seemed to be inside. The others trickled in one by one. Rad nodded at her again and took a seat as far away as possible.

  Jackson was last to enter. The sight of her seemed to stop him in his tracks. “What’s she doing here?”

  Funny how someone could hurt another person so much with so few words. “I needed a change of scenery.”

  He flung a book onto a top bunk. “Mal will pitch a fit.”

  “Mal doesn’t give a rat’s ass.” Neither did Jackson. Unless he acted macho for the benefit of the other guys? She thumbed through the travel magazine, each image of a foreign country beckoning more than usual. Funny, with all the traveling she did, she never saw any of the local sites. Nothing but the inside of the freaking bus. This one didn’t look much different than Mal’s. A little messier. And this bus contained Jackson.

  After a while, the roadies started a card game, which Jackson ignored, propped against the back of his bunk. Earbuds in place, he flipped the pages of his paperback, its faded cover wrinkled. She couldn’t speak to him without going over there and tapping his shoulder, or without the others overhearing. Not once did he glance over. Her line of vision, aimed in his direction, slipped lower and lower until her eyes grew heavy.

  Next she knew, someone tucked a blanket around her. In the dim light, she blin
ked sleep from her eyes. Jackson. His warm male scent reminded her of drowsy coziness. Too bad she couldn’t curl into him. “Thanks.”

  Lips pressed tight, he stared down at her. “You can have my bunk. It’s slightly more comfortable.”

  “Only if you’re in it,” she whispered.

  With a heavy sigh, he slid into the booth beside her and scratched his head. “Hungry? Thirsty?”

  “Confused.” The quick furrow of his brows was question enough. “Are you feeling a bit…malcontent today?” From his wince, he understood her meaning.

  “Sorry for being an asshole earlier.” His dazed expression was part sleepiness, but something else, too.

  She rested her shoulder against his. “I’ll let it slide. This time. If you tell me why.”

  He leaned forward long enough to glance toward the back where the two men still played cards. “Sometime maybe. Not tonight.”

  The promise of an explanation. Almost. “Look, we can forget what happened the other day.” Or he could. She’d never be able to.

  Sharper-eyed, he turned to her. “Why?”

  She traced a finger on the fake wooden tabletop. “We made a mistake. So no harm, no foul.”

  He winced. “I hate sports references.”

  “It’s what happens when you spend too much time around too many men.” Except Mal. He didn’t know a baseball bat from a hockey stick.

  Resting an elbow on the table, he angled toward her. “Where’s your family?”

  A sardonic chuckle slipped out. “There’s only me and my mom. No idea where she is.”

  He made a noise of acknowledgment. Of understanding.

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “You guys were talking about me, weren’t you?”

  “No.” He puckered his lips in a way that made her want to plant hers on him. “Well, a little.”

  She tsked. “Men are worse gossips than women.” Not that she’d spent a lot of time around other females, but she planned to change that, too.

  “Not gossiping. Information sharing.”

  “With a spin, I’m sure. So, it’s the same difference.”

  He mock scowled. “Another expression I hate.”

  “Excuse me. I’ll stop talking. You roadies should find something else to discuss.” She pretended to tease, but her clipped tone conveyed her distaste at being a topic of conversation all too often.

  He leveled a come-on look at her. “I want to help you.”

  “Help’s the last thing I want from you.” Argh, had she said that out loud? Way to play it cool. “Like I said, forget it.”

  “I never said I wanted to forget. But I can’t—” He looked away and hunched his shoulders.

  So he was conflicted. A good sign. But about what? She waited for him to say something more. Anything.

  He stared at the table, then tilted his head back and forth, neck popping loudly. He cracked his knuckles. “Sure I can’t get you something to drink?”

  Anything except that. “Tequila?” She sent him a wry smile.

  He pressed his hands to the table and rose. “Fresh out.”

  “Tea, then?”

  He turned to the fridge beside the table and pulled open the door. “We have bottled.”

  Cold. Suited the temperature of this conversation. “Great.” If he wanted to open up to her, he’d do it in his own time. No use pushing the issue. She’d only end up alienating him.

  She froze when he reached down and the movement raised his T-shirt to reveal the bottom of a tattoo. “No way.”

  “What, changed your mind? The other options are beer and water.”

  “Let me see that.” She scrambled from the seat, grabbed his shirt, and lifted.

  “Whoa, hold on.” He twisted his torso and faced her.

  “Turn around. I need to see your tattoo.” She reached behind him.

  He twisted again. Like a guilty little boy, he shook his head fast. “It’s nothing.”

  “It’s a griffin.” She didn’t need to ask. She was all too familiar with the design. From the little she’d glimpsed, the same one on the guitar.

  A shrug and he leaned away. “Um, I guess.”

  “Don’t deny it.”

  Straightening, he furrowed his brow. “Doesn’t mean anything.”

  Maybe not to him. To her, it meant everything. Like a real-life hero who needed no cape, a freaking knight whose shining armor consisted of a creature with the body of a lion and the head and talons of an eagle. A protector from evil, talentless rock stars. A griffin.

  And, according to the legend that went hand in hand with her curse, her savior. One who wanted nothing to do with her.

  He didn’t need to hit her over the head. Or save her. “No worries. I get it.” She didn’t need someone else to be her savior. She’d save herself. Fists clenched, she stalked off, ready to punch the first thing in her way, disappointed at the roadies slumped over their cards in a chorus of drunken snores.

  * * * *

  “No, you don’t.” Jackson slammed the fridge shut and jammed a fist into his other palm. Let her go. Better she misunderstand and hate him. He would do whatever he needed to, get her safe from Mal and then take off to keep her free of any more trouble.

  The hunch of her shoulders crushed his heart. Resistance vanished in a huff, and he strode after her, lighter on his feet while passing Rad and Kev. Thank God for no-concert nights and enough Jack Daniels to knock them unconscious.

  He caught the restroom door just as she attempted to slam it shut. “Wait, Layla,” he whispered.

  “Go away.” She yanked on the latch. “Like I said, I get it.”

  “You don’t.” He jammed his boot inside the opening, grateful for hard soles when she jerked repeatedly on the door to close it. Why did she have to be even more beautiful when angry? Why did he have to be such a sucker?

  “Let me in, dammit.” He pushed inside.

  He crashed his lips onto hers before he finished locking the door behind him. Palms pushed against his chest, then slid up around his neck. Soft and curved in all the right places, she relaxed her long, lean body into him. The perfect fit.

  His heartbeat thundered in his ears. Her mouth parted when her tongue probed his. Christ, this is so wrong. But such exquisite torture, he couldn’t stop kissing her. He wouldn’t go past the point of no return, he promised himself. He just had to touch her a little bit more. He swung them into the shower and against the wall.

  Through her silky top, her nipples teased his chest. The knit pants she wore hugged her skin, a flimsy barrier to his fingertips. Her breathing, heavy as his, made his head swirl. Her hands glided under his shirt, and it was up and over his head before he could tell himself no, they were moving too fast. Too far.

  Skin to skin. He needed it, and lifted her shirt enough to press his belly against hers. In one move, it fluttered up and over the top of the stall.

  Startled, he drew away. The frosted glass softened the light of the bathroom bulb, but the burning glow in her eyes shone bright. “Layla.” He should tell her they had to stop. Now, before this went…

  She scraped her nails across his belly. Unsnapped his jeans. Found his zipper. The slow drag shot heat to his thickening cock. “I don’t have anything with me.”

  “In the cabinet. I’ll get a few.” In a twist, she switched places with him.

  His back hit the shower wall, and another mind-blowing kiss later, he was woozy. Cold panic struck when she’d disappeared, but in the next moment, she had returned holding a foil square and a sexy smile.

  Not the kind of protection they needed. “I—”

  She touched her fingers to his mouth. “Shh.” She peeled away her yoga pants, only her black bra and panties left to cover her mocha skin. So soft, smooth, creamy.

  The outside world no longer existed. Only her. “You’re amazing.” He couldn’t stop touching her, running his fingers along her curves. Her perfect waist, slender hips, the curve of her d
electable ass.

  “I want you, Jackson.” After tucking the condom into her bra, she tugged his jeans and boxers down.

  He stepped out of them, grabbed her rear, and pressed her against him. A soft moan, and she ground against him. Oh, man. There goes the point of no return. He nuzzled her breasts, found the foil square, and rescued it before he unhooked her bra and let it fall.

  Desire flared up and wrapped its haze around him. Only she existed. Only she had what he needed. Made him feel whole after being shattered for such a long time.

  The small voice screamed in the back of his mind No! again and again. Each time, he held her tighter. Kissed her harder. Penetrated and thrust deeper, wishing he could bury himself inside her forever. The pounding pulse in his ears finally blocked it out. The rush of excitement was a cyclone enveloping them. Blood pumped through his heart, and he was finally alive again. Every part of him screamed for her, and he gave himself over to the wave of thrills, let it drown him.

  Once the ride ended, the crash and burn was inevitable.

  Chapter 8

  The audience still roaring for Malcontent, Layla dragged herself from the stage wings on shaky legs. She’d dreaded this concert like none before, certain Mal would know, that he would somehow sense her excitement of making love to Jackson, still a vibrant buzz, an amazing energy that wrapped her in a cocoon of happiness. Reliving every touch, every kiss, every single moment with him, again and again, brought the thrill back fresh.

  All the amazing energy also increased the danger of exposure. During Mal’s performance, had he somehow divined her secret? Her virginity wasn’t a prize to be won; Mal couldn’t claim ownership. Being with Jackson was the first time in her life that something felt exactly right. No, she hadn’t planned on making love, but if she had the chance, she’d do it again. And again.

  She forced away the smile that had crept across her face. A tête-à-tête with Mal was exactly what she didn’t need, but at his request, she held her head high and entered his dressing room.

  “Kev said you wanted me.” Summoned her, like a harem girl. Now, if Jackson wanted her to belly dance… She schooled the smile off her face.

  Cradling the guitar, Mal stroked the strings. “Sit down, love. Tell me what’s on your mind.”