Page 27 of Worth Your Wild

“You call that proper?”

His laugh is whiskey soaked and husky. So masculine that the sound of it rolls down my spine and makes me shiver happily. “I do fuck you quite improperly, don’t I?”

“In highly inappropriate ways, yes, but I’m not complaining.”

His forehead rolls right to left against mine, his big hands sliding up my skirt to knead my bottom. “Good. I don’t plan to stop.”

“You have no idea what I’d let you do to me, if you played ‘Worth Your Wild’ on stage tonight.”

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I know I’ve made a mistake. Every muscle in Deke’s body is instantly riddled with tension and he’s pulling back to look at me, his gaze shuttering. “I don’t play that song anymore.” He releases me, plowing a hand through his hair. “I’ll never play it. Don’t ever ask me that again.”

I should apologize for poking a sore spot.

But that’s not who I am. I’m not a girl who backs down from fights.

“Why won’t you play it? That song is a classic. It’s everyone’s favorite. People miss hearing you sing it. I know I do.”

He storms off the bus, his tread heavy on the steps. “That’s too fucking bad, ain’t it?”

I follow right behind him, running to stay on his heels while everyone stops walking toward the venue to watch us argue. “Tell me why you refuse to sing it.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

He rounds on me, leaning down to get in my face, his upper lip in a snarl. “Because I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“You owe one to everyone!”

“It’s my song. I wrote it. I decide what to do with it.”

“I’m sorry, but the first time you sang Worth Your Wild, it started belonging to everyone.”

There’s a brief shift in his expression, as if he never considered what I’m saying, but it’s gone in a flash, replaced by irritation. “I’m not listening to this fanciful bullshit,” he scoffs, storming away from me again.

I start to let him go, but he glances back at me and I catch it. A tiny thread of vulnerability and I have no choice but to pull it. I catch the door through which he enters on the way backstage, following him into the space where roadies are already milling around and preparing for the sound check. “Talk to me, Deke.”

“Let it go, June Bug.”

“I can’t. I’m speaking on behalf of millions of fans.”

“Because that’s what you are, right? At the end of the day, you’re just a fan.”

A needle stabs me in the center of my chest and hot liquid pools in my eyes, but I lift my chin and refuse to back off. “Does it make you feel better to hurt my feelings?”

“God, no.” He reaches for my face but curls his fingers into a fist and lets it drop before he can touch me. “Look, baby, I wrote that song when I was a different man. I don’t like to sing it because I’m reminded how much I’ve changed. For the worse. It hurts to sing a song I wrote when I was so fucking green. And idealistic. And I had no idea that everyone around me would bail as soon as I failed to write a hit album.”

Sympathy and grief hit me in the chest, knocking me sideways.

The pain in his voice. The betrayal.

I always assumed he stopped singing Worth Your Wild because of a copyright issue or a disagreement with his label. This is personal, though. This is a pain he’s been carrying around and keeping all to himself.

“I’m sorry people turned out to be unworthy of you, Deke. But I didn’t bail. A lot of people didn’t bail. You just can’t see them, because they’re a blur of faces in a crowd or listening to you in their truck a thousand miles away. But they’re there.”

He grinds his jaw for several seconds, once again considering my words. Taking me seriously, even though I’m only half his age. Oh, he’s exactly the good and decent man I always hoped he’d be, even if he’s buried under a lot of baggage and self-pity right now.

“The song is retired,” Deke says, finally, accepting a fresh bottle of Jack from one of the roadies. He uncaps it with his teeth, taking a long gulp. “And that’s the end of it.”