Leather & Lark (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #2) (77)

Lark’s smile fades. “What do you think will?”

“Time.”

“How much time?”

“That’s not up to me.” Before I truly realize what I’m doing, my hand is out of my pocket. Lark doesn’t break her gaze away from mine when I let my knuckles graze her bare arm, a slow sweep that goes from her shoulder, past her elbow, all the way to the edge of her hand, where it’s wrapped tight around the box. “It’s up to you. But I don’t want you to ever think I’m pushing you into it because of the way I feel.”

Lark swallows, her pulse a steady hum in her neck. “And how do you feel?”

“You don’t know?” I let my hand fall away from hers. She shakes her head. “Probably not the same as you. Let’s just leave it at that.”

“You sure about that?” Lark holds my gaze for a long moment before she drops her attention to the box in her hand. When she extends it in my direction, there’s very little I can tease from her expression. Her voice comes out quiet and a bit breathless when she says, “This is for you. But you can’t open it until I’m on stage, not until I give you a signal.”

“What kind of signal?”

Lark rolls her eyes and grins. “The bat signal. Duh.”

“Christ Jesus.”

“But the budget version. I’ll use a cheap flashlight with a half-dead battery.”

“You’re almost as big of a pain in the arse as Fionn, you know.”

“Oh stop. You love him and his teasing.”

I bite down on my tongue and taste blood.

When Lark rattles the box, I finally take it from her hands. There’s a small envelope fixed to the glittery black ribbon that secures the lid. The moment my fingers begin to tug the card free, she lays a hand over mine to stop me, just like I hoped she would. “I said no. Not until the gig.” She might appear annoyed, but I notice it takes her a moment longer than necessary to pull her hand away from mine.

“All right, I promise,” I say as I slide the box into my jacket pocket and raise my hands in surrender. “Whatever my duchess wants.”

Lark turns away to gather her coat, bag, guitar, and cello, but I pick up the instruments before she can sling the cases over her shoulders.

And then we’re off, leaving Bentley on the couch, where he faces the door to guard this space, one that feels more like ours with every day that passes.

When we pull up to the venue, there’s already a line out the door despite the shitty weather. People in the queue burrow into their coats and bounce on their heels to keep warm. A sense of pride floods my chest when I steal a glance at Lark. She looks out at the crowd with no evidence of worry or stage fright.

“You sure you don’t want me to drop you off while I find a place to park?” I ask as I slow the old Charger to a crawl, earning some appreciative glances as we roll down the street.

“No, you might have trouble getting in. I’ll take you in the back.”

My mind immediately empties of rational thoughts and refills with vivid images. “Take me in the back …”

“Yeah,” Lark says, giving me a confused, sidelong glance before I resolve to keep my eyes glued to the road. “The back entrance.”

I swallow.

“You know …? The back door …?”

I nod and shift in my seat.

“Are you okay? Do you have a thing about back doors?” Her hand shifts in my periphery and I snatch my arm away, narrowly avoiding her attempt at a reassuring squeeze. If she touches me, I’m damn well sure I’ll feckin’ combust. “Are they like, triggering for you or something?”

“No, Christ,” I hiss. I’m squinting. Why am I bloody squinting? I can see the road perfectly fine. I shake my head, trying to reset my senses. My clarity lasts just long enough to zip into a spot along the curb right after another vehicle pulls away.

“You could have parked it in the back,” Lark says, her tone quiet and innocent as I cut the engine and drape us in stark silence.

I drag a hand down my face but it does fuck-all to wipe my blush away. Lark opens her door with a creak of old steel. Since I don’t trust any words to reliably roll off my tongue, my only response is to shake my head.

A long, loud, dramatic sigh leaves Lark’s lips. “Lachlan Kane is an ass man. Good to know.”

With a snicker, all Lark’s innocence is swept away. She shuts the door behind her.

Fucksakes.

My forehead thunks down on the cold, unforgiving steering wheel. I’d melt into the footwell if I could, maybe ooze out onto the road or better yet, into some other dimension. But Lark, of course, has other plans, and whips my door open. “Let’s go, Batman. The back door awaits,” she declares as she skips away to wait on the sidewalk.

When I grab the instruments, slinging their straps over my shoulders before I join her, I’m pretty sure my skin is melting from the raging blush that heats my flesh.

“What? Nothing to be ashamed about, liking a bit of butt stuff,” Lark chimes as we walk toward Amigos Cantina, dipping down an alley to our left toward a metal stage door. “Anal is great. I like anal. This one time, I was on the road touring, and—”

Before I even realized what I’m doing, I’ve grabbed Lark’s waist and caged her against the brick wall of the building. A spike of fear hits my veins that I could have hurt her, but it’s washed away by the look she gives me as I loom over her. Even with the blur at this distance, I can still see it. Flushed skin. Blown pupils. A pulse that pounds in her neck.