Page 13 of Wild Stars (Rock His World #2)

CHAPTER 13

Mateo

Walking through my house always feels empty, but at least a perk of living with my sister has been that there is always someone here. Well, most of the time, anyway.

But even with a quiet house, I can’t concentrate enough to meditate properly.

“You can do this,” I say aloud as I crack my neck, straightening my spine. I close my eyes, trying to find my center, but it’s no use. My stomach growls, and I sigh in exasperation.

“Guess my chi will have to wait,” I mumble to the air as I get up from my mat, slip on my shoes, and head downstairs. Though, even upon opening my fridge, I have no desire to cook anything.

I know I could easily hire a chef like Hailee, but I actually enjoy cooking and baking. There’s a sort of comfort in taking all the pieces, all the ingredients, and following the directions that gets me out of my head, even if it’s only for a little bit. Plus, I do my best song writing in my brain while I’m cooking.

I suppose I’m irritated because my entire day has been nothing but chaos.

This morning, with Dare... this afternoon... again, with Dare.

And not to mention, my sister was acting weird as fuck all day, and I didn’t get as much studio time as I like, not to mention I slept like shit last night.

I take a glance out the kitchen window at the setting sun, making a decision. Stop and grab something comforting from Mila for dinner, and head to the studio to get some music therapy. That’s just what I need to get my head right.

I don’t even bother calling my driver, and decide, for once, to take out my “Fancy Car” as Hailee calls it.

Though I don’t think a jet black 1957 corvette is all that fancy, but I digress.

The cool LA air against my skin is refreshing as I drive down the winding road that leads from my house to the studio. I turn on the radio, channel surfing until I land on a station that is more ambient than anything, but I figure that’s just fine. The less distractions, the better.

When I finally pull up to the studio with my dinner, it’s nearing nine and there isn’t a car in sight.

That’s one of the things I love about going into the studio late. When it’s just me, my guitar, and my thoughts.

Thankfully, the big wigs and the employees at the studio are accommodating and don’t bitch too much about my after hours visits. As long as I am making them money, anyway.

I swipe my card and enter the studio, the low lights casting an almost seductive glow on the hallway. I take the elevator up, and as soon as I open the door, I can hear music.

A guitar, acoustic.

No one else is supposed to be here...

I can’t help but investigate.

When I finally come to the center of the sound, I sigh in defeat.

He doesn’t even see me. He’s got his headphones on as he strums away, stopping every couple of seconds to write on a sheet of paper.

He’s surrounded by crumpled up paper and a box of half-eaten pizza, still wearing the clothes I gave him.

His dark hair falls in his eyes as he hums out a melody, completely oblivious to anything.

And for a moment, all I can do is watch him process his music, watch as he works.

And then he looks up, and I’m caught once again.

Fuck.

Dare removes his headphones. “I didn’t think anyone else was still here,” he says quickly.

“They’re not. I just got here,” I reply carefully.

“What are you doing here?” His eyebrows furrow with confusion as his gaze settles on my brown paper bag full of dinner.

“Sometimes I like to work late,” I state firmly.

When I can’t focus at home.

“Oh,” he says as he absentmindedly strums his guitar.

I should leave. I should turn my ass around and head down the hall, to my studio, and forget about Dare and his puppy dog eyes.

But I find myself unable to resist Dare Wylde, yet again.

“Working on writing your next big hit?” I ask smoothly.

Dare grins, and it’s somehow both cheesy and endearing.

“Trying to. I know what I want to write, but it’s like my brain goblins have taken a siesta.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Your what?”

Dare blushes, shaking his head. “Uh... nothing.”

“God, you are certifiable, Dare.”

I don’t miss the way his eyes light up.

“I think that’s a compliment,” he says proudly.

And for a moment, I feel relaxed.

Until my damn stomach growls.

“I, uh... guess I’ll leave you to it, then,” I say as I push off the doorframe.

“Wait...” Dare says, his voice soft.

I hate that I stop dead in my tracks. That just one word can command my attention like that.

That he can command my attention.

I turn around to look at him. “What?”

“Maybe you could... um...” I watch as his eyebrows knit together, as he struggles with his words.

“English, Dare,” I remind him, imploring his gaze with mine. “Take a breath. Use your words.”

Dare looks me straight in my eyes, his perfect, pouty lips parted just slightly as he licks his lips with his tongue.

“Maybe you could help me? I mean, sometimes it helps when I play what I have for someone else to hear. Usually, it’s Richie, but he’s out with the guys, so...”

“You didn’t want to go out with your band?” I ask as I enter the doorway, setting my bag down on a table.

I brush off the torn up pieces of paper, sitting on the couch in the corner.

Dare shrugs. “Kinda don’t want to end up with a hangover for the third day in a row, you know.” He flashes me with a sheepish grin.

I sigh as I open my bag, pulling out the containers containing my meal, a bowl of Korean pork bibimbap and a side order of dumplings with chili crisp.

“Ah, so you can make good decisions,” I say, noting the shift in my tone. I hadn’t meant to sound so... taunting.

Dare lets out a chuckle as he leans back on his palms, his guitar in his lap. He eyeballs my food with interest.

“What is that?” he asks.

“Spicy as hell,” I reply with a shrug of my own. “You probably wouldn’t like it.”

“I like spicy,” he says, sniffing the air, licking his luscious lips. The sight makes my heart beat a little faster and I clear my throat.

“You have your pizza,” I nip as I protect my food.

Dare frowns, animatedly.

Like a sad puppy begging for a bite.

Something about the playfulness of his antics, the light in his voice, cuts me deep. I sigh in defeat once more as I hand him the container of dumplings.

“You may have one,” I say with sternness

Dare grins as he grabs the container from me. His smile is wicked as he makes direct eye contact while plucking one dumpling from the container.

Little brat.

“What seems to be the problem?” I ask.

He devours his prize nearly instantly and hands me back my container, his sticky fingers brushing the edge of mine.

I watch as he licks them clean and proceeds to chew on his fingernails.

“I’m stuck on the chorus,” he says, and I toss him a pile of napkins.

“Thanks,” he says with a sheepish grin.

When he’s done, he strums some chords.

“It’s the hook, it just isn’t gelling, but I’m not sure what?—”

“Play,” I command.

To my surprise, he doesn’t fight me, just does as I say.

He obeys.

“Okay, so... this is what I got...”

The sounds of his acoustic guitar fill the room again as he sings.

“I’m gonna shoot across the sky like a beam of light

Gonna ricochet off the walls of the night

I can’t subdue this beating, beating heart

Because I’m not meant to be tamed, honey

I’m meant to be wild, I’m a... a wild star.”

Against the acoustics, his voice is beautiful, and I am drawn in once again to Dare’s magnetism like he truly is a celestial anomaly.

A bright, shimmering ball of light that can be seen for miles in the darkness.

The way his fingers dance with the chords and frets, the way his shoulders scrunch, the way his dark hair contrasts with his pale complexion.

The emotion behind his voice as he sings.

He’s going to blow up one day, I just know it. Heart Killer is only his beginning.

“Good start,” I say, and it’s true. The first verse in its completion sounds pretty good.

“Really?” he asks, his eyes widening.

I twirl some noodles and pork in my chopsticks, nodding. “Yeah,” I say, and I slurp them down.

Dare whistles. “Wow, I thought for sure you were going to tell me that it’s utter trash,” he says as he gestures to his sea of papers.

“Are you the one who writes all your songs?” I ask, genuinely curious.

Dare nods. “Yeah. That’s kinda my thing. The band was my creation, which is why Richie said I needed to front it. I mean, I love performing, but?—”

“You like writing,” I say, understanding falling between us.

“Yeah. I do.” Dare nods. “Oh! Shit, I’m sorry, you said you needed to rehearse too, right?” He scrambles up off the floor.

I notice he’s barefoot, and I can see a small tattoo peeking out from beneath the edge of the sweatpants, on his ankle, across his foot. It looks like... tentacles?

Just how many tattoos has he acquired?

I clear my throat. “Yes, I do, actually. I?—”

Dare grabs an electric guitar from the corner. It’s neon green with a pink stitched up heart airbrushed on it.

He offers his guitar to me.

“We can take turns,” he says, flashing me with a smile that could melt ice.

I look at the guitar, at his fingers curled around the neck.

Somehow, it feels like he’s offering me more than just a guitar.

I swallow harshly, my insides swirling again like a cyclone, all the alarm bells in my head starting to sound.

Danger, Mateo! Danger! The sun is too close!

I don’t usually play with anyone but Hailee. But I’ve always wondered what it would be like to collaborate, to let someone else into my world of music.

Perhaps, I accept his offer because I am curious; perhaps, it is because I am a glutton for punishment.

Perhaps, it is because I don’t want to lose the feeling I have right now, where I feel... content and not alone.

I set my chopsticks and my bowl down on the table in front of me and take the guitar from him.

“I don’t have anything new I’m working on, unfortunately. Just the same old shit.” I strum out the first few notes of Satellites.

“Don’t you know your songs by heart at this point?” he asks as he sits down next to me.

I shrug. “Of course I do. But I haven’t performed in a while. I want to make sure that this performance, this tour... I need it to be perfect.” I say the words with unwavering clarity because it’s true. It’s what my fans deserve, but also I just want to feel like I am powerful again.

Like I know who I am and what I am good at.

Like I am not astral debris.

Because for the last year, I have felt like a damn fool, and that I’ve fallen too far from where I once existed.

Stepping away from music for so long... I missed it.

I didn’t realize how much I missed it until this moment, as I expertly tickle the chords of Satellites, humming along to the melody.

It’s part muscle memory, sure. But for me, it’s more than that.

Music is my language. I can express how I feel without having to put it into words.

Words are Hailee’s talent, mostly. I learned after we released our third album, Control , that even though I loved writing, my tastes were not as commercially palatable. Hailee writes good hits. She’s been writing for top acts for the last five years while I’ve been on hiatus, though she rarely gets any actual credit, but she tells me she prefers it that way.

I segway from Satellites into one of my favorite songs absentmindedly.

Control.

I whisper-sing the words, as my fingers remember just how to dance along the frets.

“Here I sit in supplication, careening for your touch

Begging for your forgiveness would never be enough

Strike me, guide me, cleanse my fucking soul

Quiet the chaos baby, give me control”

Dare twists his lips, and a sense of relief floods me as I let the words come easy, getting lost in them once again.

“I don’t think you could fuck it up if you tried, Matty,” he says, his voice soft and kind.

It’s the most genuine I’ve heard him.

Something about the tone of his voice makes me feel warm, flushed. I fight to look at him as I go into the bridge.

I haven’t played this song in ages. Mostly because the label has tried hard to erase the failure of the Control album.

“I mean, your playing has always been second to none, and personally, I think you’re better than Felix.” He flashes me with a smirk. “And your voice is way better. Gravellier.” He coughs. “Sexier.”

I can’t fight the blush that threatens its way onto my cheeks.

I turn away, clearing my throat as I continue to play Control ’s melody. It sounds so much different on an acoustic. Softer, but darker somehow.

“Thanks,” I reply, but the word is uncomfortable on my tongue.

I’m more than aware of my voice, especially when I perform, both on the stage and behind locked doors.

I learned early on in my career that a voice carries. So, I worked very hard to make mine the kind of voice people would listen to.

But as I sit here, strumming away on Dare’s guitar, a part of me recognizes that I am not the same person anymore.

I lost my voice, or perhaps, I left it in the valley with Edward and my broken heart.

And I’ve been struggling to find it ever since.

Dare leans forward, bracing his tattooed arms on his knees. The couch creaks as I continue to play.

“Your Control album got me through some rough days, you know. It’s actually what made me want to pursue music more.”

I stop at his words, turning to look at him.

He glances at me, and I am stunned.

“You’re kidding. No one likes that album. The record execs hated it.”

Dare shakes his head. “That’s cause it’s fucking fire. Yeah, it’s different from your other stuff, sure. But musicians are meant to explore sound, right? We’re supposed to evolve?”

I swallow his compliment along with the sweet, innocent look in his gaze.

“You... know my music?” I don’t know why I am so stunned, but something about Dare’s admission makes me feel naked and vulnerable. Like with one blow, I could crumble to pieces.

“I mean, yeah. Mage Of Mercy was my favorite band in high school.” His cheeks flush once more. “You’re... kinda the reason I wanted to make music. You and Hailee... you never sounded like anyone else. You were always evolving, changing. Trying new things.”

“Yeah. Evolution is inevitable. We grow, and our music grows with us.”

I finish off the last notes of Control , and nod to Dare. My heart thuds so loudly in my chest, I think he can probably hear it.

“Your turn,” I say calmly.

Dare lets out a sigh as he gets up, heading for his guitar once more.

* * *

When it’s nearing one am, we both decide to call it a night.

The hours flew by like sands in an hourglass. Slowly, but then all at once, poof. It was over.

We both stand in the foyer as I twirl my keys in my hand.

I look at Dare, yawning as he taps away on his phone.

I know I’m walking a tightrope with my own sanity, but damn it.

The need to care , to give, is so damn strong for this man who rips me apart and exposes me.

“I can give you a ride home,” I offer firmly. It isn’t a demand, or a command. Even though it should be.

No, instead, it is a suggestion.

Dare twists his lips as he looks up from his phone.

“Oh, it’s all good. I called an Uber.”

Panic floods me, along with anxiety, and Dare must sense it because his expression softens as he reaches out, running his fingers along my forearm soothingly.

“I can assure you, Matty, I have survived plenty of Ubers in LA before you came along,” he says with a smirk.

Maybe it’s because it’s one in the morning and I am tired, or maybe it’s because the overindulgence of pizza, dumplings, and spicy pork has affected my brain chemistry.

“You will text me when you get home,” I demand.

Dare haughtily grins, as he bites, “I don’t think I have your number.”

Little shit.

Is he fucking flirting with me?

My jaw tenses and I grit through my teeth, “Phone. Now.”

Dare giggles.

Fucking giggles.

“Yes, sir, Batman,” he chirps.

I scowl at his sarcasm, but I don’t miss the way his touch lingers as he hands me his phone. It takes me all of two seconds to transfer my number to his phone, and when I hand it back, I, too, hold on longer than I should.

His fingertips against my skin make my blood rush, and his cocky little grin makes my palm twitch.

A blue sedan pulls up, and Dare smiles. “Well, Matty, this is where I leave you,” he says softly.

“The minute you get home,” I growl.

Dare waves me off as he climbs into the car, and I am truly alone.

In the parking lot at one am.

I sigh in defeat as I leave the building, heading for my car.

By the time I get home, it’s nearing two thirty, and I groan because I know I’ll have to be up in four hours to get ready to head out for Karen Ingram’s morning show.

Usually, I’m much more aware of my time, but the hours went by so easily, so fast, at the studio.

A part of me actually enjoyed playing my music with Dare, and helping him with his song. Though, I know he’s not one hundred percent happy with the chorus, at least we were able to get something down that I think sounds pretty good.

I remove my shirt and pants, letting the cool air of my room kiss my skin. The trees sway in the wind, and I stretch along with their movement.

It’s been years since I sat on that God awful couch in studio twelve, and my back is bitching.

It takes me no time to climb into bed, and just as I do, my phone chimes.

I reach to the nightstand, the light from my phone like a beacon.

I was abducted by aliens.

I smirk at Dare’s text and his string of alien emojis, and let out a laugh.

Curling under the covers, I debate how to respond. I know I could just say ‘k’, or I could send a thumbs up, because I know he is safe and home.

But a part of me, one I haven’t known for quite some time, rises from the ashes and decides to engage.

To play along.

Hopefully, they didn’t probe you too hard.

I let out a giggle of my own, but Dare texts back quickly.

Not hard enough, I’m afraid. His emojis of winks and tongues sticking out, combined with his words make me blush, and my cock twitches.

Little shit.

I text him back an eye roll emoji.

Dare only texts me a bunch of alien faces and eggplant and peach emojis with a Y ou’re just jealous.

Yeah, he’s most definitely flirting.

I might not be up on all the emoji definitions, but I’m pretty sure eggplants and peaches are the very definition of flirting. Or is it... sexting?

I stare at the light of my screen, thinking about his words, about the other night when I watched the blond man trail his hands all over Dare’s hips and thighs.

I want to say yes. That I am jealous, though I don’t know why. Why the thought of anyone else’s hands on his body makes my blood heat, why the thought of anyone probing his fine ass makes my jaw tense.

I close my eyes for a minute, if only to dispel the sudden rush of anger and anxiety that his words bring.

My cock throbs as I try to imagine anything but the thought of him being probed.

By my fingers, my tongue, my cock.

I groan in defeat as I sink my face into my pillow. My phone chimes, and I realize I’ve left him on read.

Did you fall asleep already or did the aliens get you, too?

I lick my lips as I respond.

Go to sleep, Dare.

I wait with bated breath for his bratty response, or perhaps, another thinly veiled innuendo about dicks.

But Dare does no such thing. He only sends a Yes, sir .

My jaw tenses and my cock throbs as I imagine those words escaping his lips, knowing how they sound.

Yes, sir.

I set my alarm, setting the phone on the nightstand, but I know it’s no use.

Dare does not respond again, but his presence lingers in this space, in my brain.

There will be no sleeping unless I can cleanse him from my soul.

I let my hand travel down my abdomen, noting the hardness of my muscles beneath my touch.

My cock strains against my briefs, and I shimmy out of them with ease.

The velvet-like covers against my sensitive cockhead feel good, despite the guilt forming in my brain.

I know I shouldn’t think about Dare, especially not like this.

But I can’t help myself, not when I know the things I do.

What his hair feels like in my grasp, tight and smooth.

What his hand wrapped around my wrist feels like, warm and soft.

God, I can only imagine what it would feel like wrapped around my cock, squeezing me, stroking me.

I know the way the shadows fall across his skin when he’s tied up in ribbon, I know what his lips feel and taste like.

I can only imagine how beautiful he would look in my ropes, those perfect lips parted, waiting for a taste of me.

I know the deep, sexy sound of his voice when he’s fucked up and the sweet, rambling energy that is the real Dare, and I know the beauty of his voice with nothing to dilute it.

I know his scent, the depth of his gaze, and the way he has somehow destroyed me and my fucking resolve.

I cannot deny Dare Wylde is truly a heart killer, and I am bleeding out.

I need a medic, stat.

I fight the urge to come, remembering the last time I came so close to release, with Dare grinding his cock against me, telling me he was going to make me beg for it.

For him.

But the fantasy is too hard to ignore when I bury my face into my pillow, and smell cheap cologne.

He was in this bed.

My bed.

The realization that he was so close, yet so far away, mingles with the ache in my soul, in my damn balls.

I roll over onto my knees, fucking my fist with steady rhythm as thoughts of Dare Wylde pull me underneath dark, undulating waves.

Not hard enough.

Yes, sir.

I’m going to fucking make you beg for it.

His words circle my brain, and I can’t fight anymore.

Warm, thick release fills my fist as I curse his name, and I groan in ecstasy and collapse against my satin sheets.

Every muscle in my body goes numb. My hips echo their dying thrusts as I come hard against the smooth sheets, breathing in his lingering scent like a blissful toxin. When I am finished, I groan as I roll over to open my nightstand drawer, snagging a couple of tissues, if only to clean up myself and the wicked wet spot that screams with the repercussions of my guilt.

My heart beats so loud in my chest, it is like a drum. When I am clean, I toss the tissues into the garbage can beside the table, then I curl my arms around the pillow that smells like Dare, and I whisper the words that come so easily as I drift off to sleep.

“Burning like a supernova

Burning bright, but so far,

Devour me, covet me

And I will bring you the moon, my wild star...”