LUKA (The Rhythm Series, Book 2) Read online

  At least I had use of Sarah’s apartment while she was away, which would save a ton of money on rent. Plus, it got old living in hotels out of two suitcases.

  My laundry arrived, washed and pressed, and I finished packing.

  I was putting off texting Sarah, but then my phone buzzed with an incoming message.

  Why did you let me drink so much? LOL I have a bitching headache. Hope you’re ok. Off to the airport. Here’s my address. Keys are under the flowerpot.

  Sarah x

  She was leaving already. My stomach lurched. She regretted what we’d done last night. Damn it! I didn’t want to lose a friend.

  The sex was good and I’d woken up disappointed that she hadn’t stayed around for seconds, and now she was going to be in Australia. We’d gotten close while we were touring and I’d miss her sarcastic sense of humor. Hell, I’d miss having her being a pain in my ass. But maybe some distance from each other would be good after last night. I suspected it was a mistake—now it seemed as if she was thinking the same way and avoiding me.

  A pang of regret was followed by relief that there’d be no morning-after embarrassment. I hoped it would be cool with Sarah because we were friends first, but you never know when sex will fuck things up.

  I called a cab and lugged my suitcases into the lobby.

  I hadn’t been to Sarah’s place during the two weeks that we’d played in London. I knew she lived somewhere in Camden, a trendy, bohemian part of the city, like Greenwich Village in New York, but that was all.

  After a ten minute ride, the cab dropped me halfway along a row of redbrick attached houses with tiny yards at the front, a square of mowed lawn and miniature flowerbeds.

  I saw a blue flowerpot with a small shrub by the front door and knew that I was at the right place. I lifted it carefully and found the promised keys, opening the door to a hallway, about three feet in either direction.

  Dragging my suitcases behind me, I walked into an open-plan living room-kitchen. It was small, but full of sunshine from windows at both ends.

  The furniture was a mix of modern and older things, giving it a comfortable, homey feel. The kitchen was new and hardly used, with a breakfast bar and two stools, and from the window I could see a small deck and another square of grass.

  And on the breakfast bar, there was a note weighted down by an empty fruit bowl.

  She always made me smile.

  Three months was plenty of time to get over a drunken fuck.

  I texted her to wish her a good trip. She didn’t reply, so she was probably already on a plane heading south.

  There was only one other door leading off the living room.

  I pushed it open and was immediately wrapped in the warm scent of Sarah. For a long moment, I stood there breathing in deeply.

  The room was dominated by a king size bed, with purple duvet and pink pillows. I winced at the clashing colors but it made me smile, too. Very Sarah. It looked damn comfortable, so I was tempted to lie down and sleep off the rest of my hangover.

  I buried my face in the pillows, catching the scent of citrus shampoo that she used. It reminded me of all the times we’d danced together, the long bus rides on tour where we’d sat together talking, or arguing about movies and her appalling taste in 80s glam rock. I thought about last night again, hoping it wouldn’t change things. Then I rolled over and stared up at the ceiling, listening to the sound of cars passing outside, as a wave of loneliness washed over me. I missed Ash and Laney already, I missed my dance family. I even missed Sarah, although that thought now came with a dose of guilt attached.

  I turned my head to look at the small wardrobe, one door partially open, showing that Sarah had left me some hanging space. I should unpack.

  I sat up and rolled off the bed, checking out the tiny attached bathroom: no bath, just a shower, sink and toilet. All so small, they looked as if they belonged in a doll’s house. But it was clean and fairly tidy.

  I wandered back to the kitchen and found that Sarah had left half a pint of milk, a can of coffee, and a small block of cheese in the refrigerator. I really needed to do some grocery shopping.

  But first, I was getting rid of those damn suitcases—six months was long enough to look at them becoming more and more battered.

  I found a drawer that Sarah had left empty, trying to ignore the temptation to look through the underwear she hadn’t taken: she’d have packed all the good stuff to take with her anyway. My groin tightened at the thought, but I ignored it and finished unpacking my suitcases, then stowed them on top of the wardrobe.

  I decided to take a short nap and think about how I was going to spend my first night in London as a single guy with no responsibilities.

  The angle of light had changed when I woke up, sluggish and disoriented. The curtains were thin and I guessed it was twilight. I hadn’t meant to sleep so long. My stomach growled with hunger, but my shoulders slumped at the thought of that antique block of cheese.

  I crawled out of bed, tentatively stretching my muscles, then puttered around the kitchen searching for takeout menus.

  I hit pay dirt on the third drawer, finding Chinese, Indian, pizza and what seemed to be a local deli—lots of healthy shit.

  Pizza. I was in the mood for pizza, and I ordered a large pepperoni with pineapple. Don’t judge.

  I slumped in front of the TV and flicked through a dozen channels before I was back at the start. Great. Sarah didn’t have cable. No late-night porn movies then, unless I streamed it through her wifi. But I checked my phone, cursing not very silently. No wifi either.

  I knew Sarah hadn’t had the apartment very long before we went on tour. I guess she’d never bothered. I foresaw a lot of Starbucks in my future, surfing their free wifi.

  The pizza arrived and I settled with an old scifi movie. But by ten o’clock I was feeling wide awake and restless. I was 27, for fuck’s sake, and I was sitting on my ass all by myself on a Saturday night in London. Pathetic.

  I looked again at the note Sarah had left: Becky’s parties are always amazing.

  Yeah, that would do. If I didn’t like it, I’d go back to the club in Soho and check out the main dance floor.

  I showered quickly, hitting my elbows twice, grumbling over the small space.

  I dried off and pulled on a pair of worn jeans and a dark blue t-shirt that Gary said made my eyes pop. I wasn’t necessarily looking to get laid, but I wouldn’t say no if the opportunity arose.

  The cab driver raised an eyebrow when I told him the address, but it was only when we were cruising down a long, leafy avenue that I began to understand why. These weren’t ordinary London houses—these were mansions. Huge fucking monstrosities, most of them.

  “It’s not nicknamed Millionaire’s Row for nothing, mate,” said the driver as he watched me gawking from the rear view mirror. “You got friends here?”

  “Just a party I was told about.”

  “Lucky bugger.”

  I paid the cab driver and walked up the gravel driveway, hearing music pounding out through the windows.

  The front door was open, with people hanging out on the porch, smoking and drinking.

  “Hi, I’m looking for Becky.”

  Two of the girls turned to look at me, and one of them vaguely flapped her hand, which I took to mean that Becky was inside. Not that it helped as I had no clue what she looked like.

  But it didn’t seem to matter. The place was jammed, people dancing in the massive living room, more spilling out onto the patio at the back, surrounding a large swimming pool. I snagged a glass of champagne from the open bar and headed to the pool.

  The atmosphere was more chill outside, and I watched, bemused, as a gorgeous girl in a tight leather skirt sashayed up to me, drank my champagne, winked, and dove into the pool in all her clothes and five-inch heels.

  A roar of approval went up as she whipped off her top and flung it at me, grinning.

  “I’m well in there, mate!” shouted the man standing next to me, seemi
ng to think the leather basque had been aimed at him.

  He’d managed to get his shirt off and one shoe before he lost balance and fell in. The crowd cheered and several other people jumped in, too.

  I scored another glass of champagne, downed it in one gulp, and decided it was a nice night for a swim.

  I pulled off my shirt and felt a warm hand with sharp nails on my back.

  A woman with honey-blonde hair was stroking my shoulder.

  “I don’t know you,” she said.

  “Are you Becky?”

  She gazed at me with interest. “No, but I could be.”

  Looked like it was going to be a pretty wild night.

  I never did find Becky.

  I WOKE UP, confused. Sunlight flooded through huge picture windows opposite the bed I was laying in. Way, way below, the Thames shimmered in the morning sun, a silver ribbon snaking its way across the city.

  My head pounded and I massaged my temples, sitting up slowly.

  The sheets were soft as I rubbed them between my fingers—Egyptian cotton—very high thread count. But this wasn’t a hotel, or Sarah’s apartment, and it wasn’t the house where I’d started my evening.

  Then I remembered the hook-up. Cute. I think. I scrunched my eyes, wishing I could remember more. I had a vague image of light brown hair, and the sex had been hot.

  I was surprised that I hadn’t been woken and had a cab ordered for me. I didn’t like staying over with a hook-up and was usually gone before daylight, but two nights of non-stop partying coming at the end of a long tour had taken a toll.

  I looked around the room for my clothes, but I couldn’t see them. Sranje! Where the fuck was my phone and wallet?

  But then the sound of a radio somewhere in the apartment reassured me. I heard the distinctive sounds of Coltrane—the hook-up liked jazz.

  The first door I tried turned out to be a massive walk-in closet filled with designer clothes, but the second led to an attached bathroom the size of Sarah’s apartment. I badly needed to take a piss, but it was love at first sight when I saw the enormous shower.

  I’d feel a hell of a lot better facing the morning awkwardness if I’d showered. Right now, my skin reeked of sex and sweat and chlorine.

  It took a minute to work out the complicated row of faucets, but stepping into jets of hot water that massaged my body felt like a little slice of heaven. God, I’d definitely do the hookup again, just for the shower. And whoever it was, they had expensive taste in bodywash: Roger et Gallet.

  I could have stayed in that shower all morning, the hot water never running out. But my stomach was demanding food. I stepped out reluctantly and wrapped myself in a huge bath towel that nearly reached my ankles.

  I hoped that my clothes might have been put in the bedroom while I showered, but no such luck.

  When I walked out into a living room the size of a cathedral, I stared like a yokel. The place was huge with double height ceilings and one wall that was made entirely of glass. Somebody very rich owned this place. It was reassuring to know that I had good taste even while I was drunk off my face.

  I heard the sound of a voice behind another door, so I followed it, still hoping I’d stumble across my clothes at the same time.

  “Hey, handsome. How are you this morning? I’m sorry I didn’t come to see you last night, Michael. I know, I know—first night back home and I leave you all alone. I’m really sorry, but I’ll make it up to you. I promise. We can do something tonight. How about movie night—you, me and a box of popcorn? Maybe some carrot sticks?”

  That kind of sucked, hearing my hook-up apologizing to someone. I guessed the phone call was to the boyfriend. I’d leave right away, if I could just find my damn clothes.

  Suddenly a door opened and a guy stepped out. He was dressed in baggy sweats and a loose t-shirt. I was right about the light brown hair, but I didn’t remember the glasses.

  I smirked when I saw him checking me out as I stood there in my towel. He licked his lips, then reached up to cup the back of his neck, looking embarrassed. The movement shifted the neckline of his t-shirt and I could see a hickey on his lightly tanned skin.

  Yeah, dude. Explain that to your boyfriend.

  His cheeks flushed as he continued to look at me.

  “Hi,” he said softly.

  “If you tell me where my clothes are, I’ll be out of your hair,” I replied coolly.

  His flush deepened and his gaze dropped to the floor as he shuffled his feet.

  “Of course. Sorry.”

  He pointed to a pile of neatly folded clothes, and I gave him a show as I dropped the towel to the floor and pulled on my jeans and t-shirt.

  “You have an amazing body,” he said quietly, admiration in his voice.

  “Thanks.”

  I checked my wallet and keys.

  “You don’t have to go,” he said quickly. “I made breakfast.”

  I turned to look at him and raised one eyebrow.

  “Breakfast?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t know what you liked,” he said with a shy smile, “so I made a fruit salad, but I’ve got fresh croissants, too. Or I could fry bacon and eggs?”

  His voice rose in a question as I pursed my lips. He wanted to cook for me?

  I shook my head and watched his shoulders dip with disappointment.

  “No, gotta run. And I wouldn’t want to bump into your boyfriend.” The quick flash of jealousy surprised me.

  “I . . . what? What boyfriend?”

  “I heard you talking to him,” I said, pushing my feet into my shoes. “Michael.”

  He laughed, his eyes crinkling with amusement.

  “Michael isn’t my boyfriend,” he said with a huge grin.

  “Whatever,” I muttered, picking up my jacket, getting more annoyed.

  Probably the fact that I was slightly hungover didn’t help my short temper.

  “Please wait,” he said, his long fingers wrapping around my wrist.

  I glared at his hand and he released me quickly, stepping back.

  “Michael isn’t my boyfriend,” he said firmly. “Let me show you. He’s through here.”

  He beckoned for me to follow and I wondered what the hell was going on. Was this some weird kind of ménage? I wasn’t averse to threesomes, but not when I was tired and my head throbbed relentlessly.

  The guy pushed the door wide open. Inside was a child’s playpen. He pointed down to a clump of white fur sitting in the middle.

  I blinked.

  “Michael is a rabbit?” My voice was flat, convinced that I was having a hallucination.

  “Yes, isn’t he gorgeous?”

  Lovingly, he bent down to stroke the fur ball, and the rabbit’s long ears twitched and he rubbed his head against the guy’s hand.

  “You named your rabbit ‘Michael’?”

  The guy turned, throwing a surprisingly sweet smile over his shoulder.

  “I know, I know. I named him after an ex-boyfriend, but he’s much cuter. Don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know anything about rabbits. Except that they taste good in a stewpot.”

  The guy was horrified, holding his hands over the rabbit’s ears.

  “Don’t listen to him, Michael! I’d never do that to you.” He frowned at me. “You’ve upset him now.”

  I shook my head, a reluctant smile creeping over my face.

  “Oh, you’re smiling! Thank God! I thought I was going to have a Fatal Attraction moment and I’d have to defend Michael’s honor. And frankly, you look like you could crush my windpipe with one hand.”

  I laughed and bent down to stroke Michael. His fur was so soft. I glanced up and saw the guy checking out my ass.

  He shrugged sheepishly as I stood up.

  “Sorry,” he grinned crookedly. “You have a great arse. I’m Seth, by the way.”

  He held his hand out and we shook briefly.

  “Luka.”

  “I remember.”

  I didn’t.

  W
e stared at each other for a moment, before he looked away.

  “Well, Luka, can I tempt you with some breakfast?”

  I hesitated, then decided that this didn’t feel awkward.

  “Yeah, that would be great. Thank you.”

  Seth led me into yet another enormous room, this one lined with stainless steel appliances that looked as if they belonged in a Michelin-starred restaurant.

  “I know,” he said, catching the direction of my gaze. “Totally OTT. I hardly ever use it. It’s nice to have an excuse to though.”

  He waved his hand at a spread of food that would have fed six adults with healthy appetites.

  “Are you expecting friends?” I asked.

  He blushed.

  “No, just you. Too much?”

  “Can I get some to go?”

  His face fell. “Sure, I’ll wrap it up for you. Take anything you want.”

  I touched his shoulder gently. “I meant after breakfast. Can I take some back after?”

  “Oh,” he said happily. “Of course!”

  He pulled out a stool at the breakfast bar for me, and I sat down, almost drooling at the sensational spread.

  Seth puttered around the kitchen making coffee while I filled my plate with fruit and pastries, then breathed in the aroma of his Colombian Roast blend.

  My ass felt a little tender when I moved on the hard stool, so I must have let him top, which was unusual for me, especially with someone I didn’t know.

  He’d just taken a sip when I spoke.

  “So, I guess we fucked last night?”

  He choked, spitting coffee over the breakfast bar, mopping it up hurriedly with a paper napkin.

  “You . . . you don’t remember?”

  “Not so much,” I admitted. “But I’m assuming we had sex. My ass definitely thinks so.”

  His whole face flushed with embarrassment. The way he was acting, I wondered if I was his first gay hook-up. But no, he’d mentioned an ex-boyfriend. Maybe he was just shy.