Chapter 8: The Forbidden Note: Chapter 8

I lean against the wall facing the parking lot, eyes on the street. Dusk is settling on the city and the moon is bright, yet it’s drowned out by the lights from nearby skyscrapers.

My fingers expertly flip around my drumstick, causing it to spin like a pinwheel.

Two girls saunter past, their hair flying in the breeze. They do a double-take when they see me and giggle, whispering to each other.

Uninterested, I take out my phone.

Two minutes.

I sent Miss Jamieson the location an hour ago. She didn’t respond, but that doesn’t bother me. After the turn things took in the classroom today, I don’t expect her to be cheerful and cooperative.

But I do expect her to be here.

I wasn’t joking when I told her I was tired of this game we’re playing.

She’s been running around in my head since the night we spent together. Because of that, I’ve been holding back.

And where did that lead me?

She called me a freaking child.

Big mistake.

I’m tired of fawning over her.

If she wants to be treated like every other woman I’ve screwed, so be it.

We’ll do it her way.

“Excuse me. You seem so familiar.”

I look up and see the girls from before. One is a cute brunette. She’s wearing a tube top that looks like a bra with hooks at the front. My eyes linger on her tits before moving up to her face.

Hand sliding into her back pocket, she thrusts her chest forward and gives me a flirty smile. “Are you… the lead singer of that band?”

“What band?” I play dumb.

“The Kings.”

Her friend elbows her in the side. “He’s not the lead. He’s the drummer.” She juts her chin at my stick. “Obviously.”

“Oh.” Eyebrows hiking, the brunette flushes. “I’m sorry. You guys look so much alike.”

“We’re twins,” I say.

It doesn’t bother me that people mistake me for Dutch. I have dark hair and blue eyes compared to his blonde hair and hazel eyes, but that’s about the only difference between us.

Back in the day, I used to change my hair and wear contacts just to mess with the girls my twin was hooking up with. I stopped right before he met Cadence.

A good thing.

I’ve never seen Dutch more possessive over a girl.

“Can we take a picture with you?”

I nod and stoop a little so I’m in the shot. Anything for the fans.

“And an autograph?” The friend shoves a marker at me.

I accept it and scribble on the paper.

Distractedly, I check my phone again.

Miss Jamieson is late.

Damn it.

Does she really want to mess with me?

“Can I have one too?” the brunette asks.

“Sure,” I grumble.

“Here.” She pushes her shirt up and points to the underside of her tits. Eyes dripping with invitation, she says, “You can write your number too.”

I accept the marker from her.

Just then, I hear the familiar rumble of an engine.

My attention snaps away.

Miss Jamieson’s rusty car speeds into a parking spot, wheels burning rubber. She’s going so fast, she almost rams into the yellow parking block.

A grin spreads on my face. Carelessly, I toss the pen over my shoulder. I was aiming for the brunette’s hand, but it hits the ground instead, clattering loudly.

“Hey!” the girls protest.

I ignore them and start moving, eating the distance between me and Miss Jamieson’s vehicle.

The door pops open.

One sexy red stiletto is joined by another. I slide my gaze up her pasted-on jeans and simple flowery blouse.

Damn.

It annoys me that my skin gets hotter watching Miss Jamieson fully clothed than it did when that brunette lifted her shirt to flash me.

“I’m here,” she growls. Her eyes spit flames hotter than Hades, and my body goes hard instantly.

Hell, I must be out of my freaking mind.

Forget the fact that we’re step-siblings, I’m not the kind of guy who goes for a challenge. Not like Dutch.

I like easy.

Which those girls were.

The brunette, especially, seemed down to suck, lick, and swallow anything I dished out. On the other hand, Miss Jamieson goes out of her way to draw the line between us.

Yet here I am, fighting a wild, dangerous tension with the only woman I can’t have. The only woman who’d rather jump off a cliff than admit she wants me back.

Dammit.

I curl my fingers into fists, forcing a crap-eating grin.

For now, this is my game.

I won’t let her take over.

“You’re late,” I say, leaning an elbow against her door.

“You’re lucky I came at all,” she snaps. Her hair is bigger than usual, the curls expanding all around her face and down her shoulders. The breeze throws soft black coils in front of her cheeks, teasing me with a coconut fragrance.

Miss Jamieson’s hair is one of the things that makes her so freaking irresistible. The curls seem to have their own damn personality—weighed down and shiny against her scalp on some days and big, textured and gravity-defying on others.

I remember sinking my fingers into that mane and yanking her head back while I pounded into her from behind. The memory is visceral. As clear as day. My heart beats so fast I feel dizzy.

“You better have a good reason for dragging me down here, Zane,” she hisses. “Or else…” Her eyes catch on the door of the shop and she makes a startled sound. “Is that a funeral parlor?”

I grin and slam her door closed. “This way.”

We get inside and the funeral director greets us with an enthusiastic smile. For someone who’s in the business of death, he seems rather cheerful.

“Dutch and Cadey Cross?” He points.

“Zane, actually.” I gesture to Miss Jamison. “We’re here in their place.”

“Ah.” His eyes glitter. “You’re a couple?”

Miss Jamieson stiffens.

I briefly consider saying yes, but I decide not to for her sake. “Family friends.”

Relief loosens the tense line of her shoulders.

The director nods. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

I almost snort. Tina Cooper dying is many things but a ‘loss’ is not one of them. From what I’ve observed, the only good thing she did was give birth to two healthy babies. Everything from that point on is a ledger of red.

“Come on, let me show you our best,” he says.

Miss Jamieson leans toward me. “What are we doing here?”

“Dutch didn’t trust me to plan the funeral alone.”

“Why not?”

“I suggested strippers.”

She says nothing. Just spears me with two accusing pinpricks for eyes.

The funeral director leads us into another room. This one has coffins in all shapes, sizes and stains.

“Walnut is the most popular.” He shows it off. “But it’s also the most common. For your loved one, I’m thinking we go with polished hazelnut.” He slides a finger over a gold-plated handle.

I point to the giant, gleaming white caskets in the front. “What are those?”

“These are our top-of-the-line caskets. Softest lining in the world.”

That’s a weird flex.

“Your loved one will rest in peace with memory foam linings and fragrance pockets.” He gestures proudly. “Patent pending.”

“How comfortable is it?” Miss Jamieson asks.

The director smiles. “Test it and see.”

She curls back, looking disgusted.

“How about you, sir?”

I push my hand into the coffin. “It is soft.”

“This is our deluxe casket for obese adults. It’s our fastest growing line.” He sees our intrigued faces and adds, “You can lie in it if you’d like.”

I grimace. It’s one thing to be here, planning a funeral.

It’s another to climb into a casket while I’m alive and kicking.

Miss Jamieson sees my resistance and a mischievous grin teases her full mouth. “I would love to see you in a coffin, Zane.”

“You first.”

She shrugs and faces the funeral director. “He’s a coward, so I don’t think he’ll do it.”

I scoff.

“That’s okay. You don’t have to get in.” The director laughs.

“Screw it.” I climb the table and step into the casket. The lining is surprisingly plush. “It’s not that bad if you don’t think about it.”

The director’s phone rings.

“Excuse me,” he says, walking out of the show room.

I motion to Miss Jamieson. “Your turn.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Come on.” I spread my arm out on either side of the coffin, getting comfortable. “Let’s see if you’re a coward or not.”

She arches an eyebrow.

I lean forward, sliding my arms over the locked bottom half. “Scared?”

Annoyance glitters in her eyes. “Scoot over.”

Grinning, I roll across and extend a hand.

She doesn’t take it and climbs in on her own.

Her bottom lip trembles. She sinks one leg in the coffin like a swimmer testing the temperature of the pool.

“Just get in,” I grumble.

Miss Jamieson ignores me, holding onto both sides of the coffin and lowering herself slowly.

My eyes swing behind her and I gasp. “Is that a ghost?”

“Ah!” She screams, flinging herself down. Her flailing hands dismantle the stand holding the casket open. The lid thuds shut as she crashes into my chest.

We’re thrown into darkness.

I wrap an arm around her instinctively, absorbing her fall. My head slams into the back of the coffin, knocking against the metal flooring. A pained grunt fills my throat and shoots past my lips.

Miss Jamieson is panting hard, her head buried in the hollow between my neck and shoulder. Her body is soft and supple. My pulse picks up, muscles tensing as the urge to hold her takes over.

Before I can really enjoy having her sprawled on top of me, she shoots her arms out on either side and scrambles to sit up.

The sound of her head thumping against the top of the casket rings out.

“Ow!”

I peer at her through the darkness. “You okay?”

“I…” Thumps sound. I can’t see what she’s doing, but I can see the faint outline of her arms.

She’s still sitting on top of me, temporarily distracted by whatever she’s doing. The way she’s squirming over my hips whips my blood to a hot boil. I want to thrust up, easing into the friction.

“Zane,” her worried voice snaps me out of my lust-filled haze, “I can’t open it.”

“What?”

Her breath hits my chest in panicked spurts and she whimpers, “I think the coffin’s locked.”