Some Kind of Magic Read online

  My head spun with how quickly I mentally unticked the “lives with parents” checkbox.

  The apartment did in fact look like a family lived there, not a single man, not a musician. Or more like nobody lived there. It was a mausoleum. The heavy solid mahogany of the dining-room table and the thick red fabric on the upholstery reminded me of a funeral parlor. Gold-framed paintings graced the walls. A Wedgwood vase stood on an end table noticeably absent of clutter or dust.

  The whole place was too clean by half.

  “When was the last time you were here?” I asked.

  His head swung around, “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing. I expected to find—”

  “Trash on the floor? Dirty clothes on the furniture? Well, you might, normally. But you guessed right. I’ve been out of town for a little while. If you want evidence I was here this morning, you should see my bedroom.”

  I blushed. He caught my embarrassment and coughed into his fist. By the way his eyes crinkled, I suspected he was hiding his laughter.

  While Micah and I loitered in his sitting room, Adam rummaged through a cupboard that had ornate frosted-glass doors. “I’m going to make you my special island drink.”

  His mom might take a dim view of him storing his booze in what appeared to be the family china hutch.

  Micah dropped heavily into a gold-velvet wing chair, leaving me the outdated and uncomfortable purple divan. If it had been stuffed with phone books, it would’ve been softer.

  “Oh, hey, I’ve got some cookies.” Micah reached into his khaki canvas messenger bag and retrieved the round canister his fan had given him. He popped off the lid and held it out to me, offering me a chocolate cookie. It did look appetizing, but I couldn’t overcome my revulsion.

  “Nah. I’m good.”

  He stretched and stifled a yawn, which caused me to yawn as well. I hadn’t realized until then that I was wiped out. “Why are you so tired? You can’t have been up twelve hours.”

  “Man, I was up all night arguing with Shane about what songs we’re going to use on the next CD. Then Rick called around eleven asking for help building some IKEA crib thing. I got maybe five hours of sleep.”

  Before I could ask him why he’d agreed to stay out under those circumstances, Adam carried over three highball glasses, precariously balanced, and distributed them. He sat next to me and held his glass out for a toast. “To new friends.”

  We all took a swig. I was expecting the harsh kick of hard alcohol, but the pale yellow drink was smooth and hardly tasted like booze at all. Micah finished his in three gulps and set the empty glass down beside the Wedgwood vase.

  I reached over and moved his glass onto a coaster, tsking. I held my own glass up to the light, as though it might illuminate the recipe. “This is delicious. What’s in it?”

  “It’s a drink I learned to make when I was in Jamaica. It’s got some spiced rum, vodka, peach schnapps, banana liqueur . . .”

  As Adam rattled off the laundry list of alcohols in the cocktail, I tried to make sense of him. I’d originally misjudged him based solely on his unkempt appearance. I looked around the well-appointed, albeit disturbingly antiquated, sitting room. Adam might be struggling as a musician, but poor and homeless he clearly was not.

  The hypocrisy of my preconceived opinions made me snort, and Adam stopped talking midsentence. I bit my lip. “Sorry, I just thought of something.”

  Micah snorted, too. I glanced over at him to find he’d fallen asleep in the chair. He was slumping toward the floor. “Oh, no. He’s such a lightweight.” I placed my drink on the glass coffee table. “We should be going.”

  Adam jumped up. “No, it’s okay. There’s plenty of room here. Let’s help him to a bed.”

  We heaved Micah up and walked him down the hall to a kind of office with stark white walls and no furniture except two filing cabinets, a cherrywood desk, and a black metal day bed against the wall. I had the uncanny feeling we’d broken into someone else’s house. There was nothing to indicate a young musician lived there. Micah sighed when we rolled him onto his side and covered him with a crocheted multicolored afghan.

  Adam whispered, “This was my bedroom when I was a kid.”

  I ran my eyes around the room. Not even a boot scuff marred the walls. “This?”

  “My parents converted it. But come here. Let me show you something.” He slid open a closet and dragged out a box. “Promise not to laugh.”

  He lifted the lid to reveal a decade of teenage fandom. I dropped to my knees and rifled through concert ticket stubs and other memorabilia.

  I clapped my hand over my mouth, laughing despite the promise. “You kept all this stuff?”

  “Technically, my parents did. They didn’t know what to keep or what to throw away, so they boxed it all up. Now I find it pretty funny and nostalgic and can’t bring myself to toss it out.”

  A frame peeked out behind the boxes, and I dragged it out to find a replica gold record. It had an inlaid photo of the At Budokan album cover below it.

  I poked him. “Cheap Trick?”

  “Hell, yeah.” He said it too loud, and Micah grunted. Adam winced. “Cheap Trick rules,” he whispered.

  Keeping my voice low, too, I confessed, “I had one of their songs stuck in my head all morning.” I held a finger up. “And there it is again.”

  “Which one?”

  It occurred to me how awkward it would be to say that song title to him, so I lied. “‘Surrender.’”

  “Good song.” He shoved the boxes back in, and the room regained its immaculate appearance.

  “It’s hard to picture anyone living in here.” I stood up. “This is going to sound forward, but can I see proof you still live here? I wouldn’t want to be charged with breaking and entering.”

  He led me down the hall to another bedroom. As he opened the door, he said, “This used to be my parents’ room, but I’ve redecorated and made it my own.”

  I’d expected more of the nineteenth-century museum furniture, but there was no hint of grandmom anywhere. A king-size bed dominated the space, unmade. A suitcase lay on the floor, spilling out socks and jeans, giving truth to his claim that he’d recently returned from somewhere.

  I scanned the rest of the room. I wasn’t surprised to see he had a turntable. Micah had been buying vinyl for years. An entertainment unit held a wide-screen TV and a stack of DVDs. I walked over to check out his movie collection. A Netflix envelope sat on top, and I read the address. The name rang a bell.

  “Adam Copeland?”

  Then I remembered. Stacy and Kelly had crushed on a rock singer with the same name for a few weeks last summer, another impossibly hot guy with red hair. No, wait, that was a different band. I could never keep their celebrity crushes straight.

  My eyes went wide. What if this was that same guy? They would die. He was a musician, after all. A wave of nausea crested as I took in my surroundings. The guy certainly had money.

  Adam glanced up from a stack of records and caught me staring at him. “What?”

  “Your name is Adam Copeland?” My mind raced. The apartment was his parents’, so the money was probably his parents’, too. If he was a rock star, wouldn’t he have some lavish penthouse overlooking Central Park?

  He went back to flipping through albums, nonplussed. “Oh, yeah.”

  I narrowed my eyes. If I asked him straight up, he’d think I was crazy, so I casually sauntered over to the side of his bed and leaned back, facing him. I picked at the hem of my shirt, and then, as though I was teasing, I tested the waters. “So, does everyone ask you if you’re any relation to that guy from that band?”

  “Huh?” He pulled out a Van Morrison album and then dropped it back down, still on the search for whatever he was looking for.

  Then it hit me. “Oh, God. I’m sorry. It must be an incredibly common name.”

  He froze in place like a deer caught in the headlights, like he had no idea what I was talking about.

  This was e
mbarrassing. Awkwardly, I fumbled for an explanation, rambling. “You know that band? They have a song that gets played about a million times an hour.” On the spot, I couldn’t even remember the band’s name. I scraped my brain, tapping my fingers on the bedpost. It came to me out of nowhere. “Walking Disaster!”

  Adam rolled his eyes. “Riiiight.” He settled on an album and slid the vinyl record from the sleeve.

  I hoped I hadn’t offended him somehow. Maybe it was an irritating comparison. If someone famous had my name, I’d find it annoying.

  What was I thinking? As if some famous musician would just hang out at a club and buy me beers. And flirt. He’d definitely been flirting with me. Guys within my limited reach rarely bought me beers and flirted. How much chance would I have with a freaking rock star? I laughed at myself for losing my head temporarily.

  Unfazed, Adam dropped an album onto the turntable. I smiled as a dead sexy Arctic Monkeys song started. “I love this song!”

  He sidled up next to me and bumped me with his shoulder. “So you like that band, Walking Disaster?”

  Was this a litmus-test question? Like asking someone if they like Nickelback? What if he had a checklist, too? What if he only liked girls who listened to the “right” music and immediately disdained girls who listened to whatever he found uncool? And why did I suddenly care what kind of girls he might like?

  I shrugged, reaching for a safe nonchalant answer. “I don’t normally listen to them unless they come on the radio. I don’t intentionally listen to much current rock music, except for Micah’s. But my coworkers gush about that band. They tried to drag me out to see them just recently.”

  “But you didn’t want to go?”

  “No, I would’ve gone. But it was at the Meadowlands, and it was a weeknight. I had to get up early the next day.”

  “To make perfume, right?” He leaned closer and breathed in. “What’s the name of this one?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.”

  “Mmm. You should call it ‘Irresistible.’ It smells nice.” He lifted my hand and laid a kiss against my wrist. My brain told me I should leave. I barely knew him.

  But I didn’t want to leave. Adam’s lips felt so good against my skin. His dark eyes sought mine, looking for permission, maybe. The naked desire etched on his face sent a tingle through me. I wanted to feel his lips on mine, but he held back, so I bent toward him. He kissed me soft, and I tasted the hint of Jamaican spiced rum.

  He broke away and drew back, so close but too far away. His eyes pierced mine, and his breathing hitched, but he hesitated. I felt tethered there, unable to move back, wanting to move forward. I reached up to touch the stubble on his cheek, then that cord on his neck I’d wanted to touch earlier. Without another thought, I twisted my fingers in his hair and pulled him back to me.

  As soon as our mouths touched, he knocked me onto the bed, holding my wrists loosely above my head. He ran his other hand down my shirt until he reached the hem. His fingers roamed uncontested under the elastic of my bra while he kissed me deep, sucking on my lips, brushing his tongue against mine, breaking apart reluctantly. He pressed his body against mine, and I could feel his arousal through his tight jeans.

  He released my hands and tugged at my shirt, pausing again, watching me for signs of reluctance. I sat up and let him pull it up over my head. I lightly grazed his abdomen before slipping his shirt up and off. When he unhooked my bra, we sat a moment on our knees, facing each other. Complete strangers.

  And for the first time, I saw the inky black tattoos etched across both shoulders and his chest.

  The anticipated disgust never registered, but for five solid seconds, I told myself I should stop this. Nothing good could come of it. I couldn’t even tear my eyes away from him, let alone get up and leave.

  I ran my finger along the star tattooed on his right shoulder. His eyes closed, and his nipples became tiny hard points. I touched one. His movements mirrored mine. My mind kept trying to interject, to make me behave sensibly, but I could no more respond to reason at this point than I could’ve stopped breathing. My need for him was overwhelming.

  Whatever was happening, I let him reach down, unsnap my jeans, and slide them off, along with my panties. He stood to peel off his own jeans, and we stared at one another, brazenly.

  He exhaled. “You’re so beautiful.”

  And while he was skinny, he was all tight muscle. Built would be the wrong word, but he was sculpted and cut in ways that did funny things to my insides.

  “Come here.” I held out my hand and led him onto the bed next to me.

  He grasped my shoulders, and when we kissed again, he leaned into me so that we fell sideways together.

  He traced my cheek before he let his hands explore farther south. “I swear I didn’t have this in mind when I invited you here, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t attracted to you from the moment I saw you.”

  “From the first moment?” My heart raced as I touched the muscles leading down to his hip. It had been a long time since I’d been with a man like this, and it felt forbidden and dangerous.

  “The very first.” His hand had reached as far as my inner thigh before turning back. He gently knocked my legs apart so he could slide a finger against me. I let out a soft moan.

  He pushed me onto my back, still kissing me, and threw his leg over. My breathing intensified when his erection made contact with my skin.

  I whispered, “Adam?” My voice sounded husky. “Do you have a condom?”

  He stopped. “I—”

  “A condom? In a drawer maybe?”

  “No, I—”

  “No? How don’t you—?”

  He rolled slightly away. “I just don’t. Can we just—?” He ran his hand down my torso. But third base would’ve been a huge letdown when we were about to steal home.

  I sat up. “Hold on.”

  My dad always told me ingenuity was the key to success. I doubted he was talking about pickpocketing my brother for protection, but I was sure in theory he’d approve of me slipping down the hall to Micah’s canvas bag and stealing not one but two condoms. Micah would never miss them.

  I came back to the bedroom, hoping all the heat hadn’t vanished. But Adam met me at the door and wrapped his fingers into my hair, drawing me in for an intoxicating kiss. My knees nearly buckled. He caught me and lifted me onto the bed. Our legs twined together, lips inseparable.

  He worked the condom without even looking at it, so my fears that he didn’t use them were allayed. Once he was set, he nudged me over and sucked on my lower lip as he guided himself into me. I gasped.

  My legs wrapped around his back as he thrust and withdrew with urgency. Pleasure exploded throughout my entire body. At the frenetic pace we hit, I knew the whole thing would be over before we’d even begun, but then Adam slowed it down, stopping altogether to touch and kiss. I untangled my legs from him, and he caressed my skin. He reached down between us to run his thumb against me, and I arched my back. When he rocked his hips again, I went over the edge with a hard shudder. His breathing came ragged, broken up by short grunts until he let out one sharp groan and collapsed on me. I could feel his heart thudding in his chest before he fell to one side.

  His breathing slowed, and he propped on one elbow, still kissing me gingerly on my arms and shoulders, humming a little tune. Lying beside this total stranger, naked and postcoital, I waited for the awkward slut shame to rush in. In all my life, I’d never had a one-night stand, and I wondered if I was supposed to leave now. But leaving was the last thing I wanted to do. The room hung in suspended animation, cocooned, quiet and still, like the beginning of time.

  There was nobody else but him.

  He looked into my eyes and then up at my forehead. “Your hair is the midnight sky.” He traced my cheek. “Your skin is the light of the moon.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek, trying not to laugh. “You’re calling me pale?”

  He placed his finger on my mouth. “Your lips are rose pe
tals on a snow-covered field.” He leaned in and kissed me once. He half smiled, playful. “Eden, it’s safe to say you are the fairest of them all.”

  My laugh stopped in my throat. I caught his hand in mine and intertwined our fingers. Words failed me.

  But he didn’t seem to expect a response. He wrapped his arm around my waist. “Sleep here with me?”

  A peace settled over me, and I slipped off, listening to Adam’s quiet breathing. It sounded just like music.

  Chapter 4

  As my eyes adjusted to the morning light, I focused on the clothes hanging in the closet. Where had my wardrobe gone? Disoriented and not quite awake, I inventoried the men’s button-up shirts, heavy leather jacket, leather pants . . .

  Leather pants?

  Movement behind me brought my mind fully awake, and a jolt of alarm shot through me. Oh, God. I’d most certainly had too much to drink the night before, but I didn’t think I was drunk at the moment I’d decided to consummate my new friendship with Adam.

  Out in the hall, Micah called out for Adam. I threw the covers over my face in case he went around opening doors.

  Adam rolled over and kissed the top of my head. Then he slung out of bed, yelling, “Micah? I’m in my bedroom. I’ll be right out.”

  I folded the covers down and watched him pull on his boxers. He looked back at me and flashed that wicked grin. “Stay right there.”

  My heart thudded in my chest, whether from nerves or residual attraction I couldn’t be sure.

  As soon as Adam left the room, I followed and put my ear to the door. I needed to know Micah’s version of events so I could successfully lie to him as needed.

  Micah asked, “Do you know if my sister went to my place or if she headed home? I can’t reach her.”

  My phone! I’d left it in the green room at the club after all. That was going to complicate my day. But at least it hadn’t rung in Adam’s sitting room when Micah called. That would’ve taken some explanation.

  “I didn’t see her leave this morning.” Adam bullshitted extremely well.

  “Okay. I guess I’ll check my place then. I’ll call her friend Stacy later if I don’t hear from her. Thanks for the bed. And call me later about the gig, either way, okay?”