While We Waited (The Reed Brothers #8) Read Free Page B

not. I’m desperate.
    A key jangles on the other side of the door and I lift my head, swipe beneath my eyes, and try to pretend like my emotions aren’t slapping me in the face like lightning in a summer storm. I’m probably failing at it, but I do try.
    The door opens and Fin comes in. She’s wearing a pair of black jeans that hug her ass and a black leather jacket. She’s bad-ass. And beautiful. And I’m a little bit drunk.
    She trips over the doormat and grabs hold of the wall. She giggles. Oh, hell. She’s tipsy too.
    “Hey,” she says as she tosses her keys onto the counter with a clatter.
    “Hey,” I mutter back. I roll the bank book in my hand, trying to figure out if I can take it.
    “Where is everybody?”
    I nod toward Wren’s room. “Wren just went to bed. Lark’s not home yet. And Star is at Josh’s apartment, still.”
    She nods and shrugs out of her leather jacket. She’s wearing a thin camisole and no bra. Her nipples press hard against the sheer fabric and I have to force myself not to look. She bends over and looks into the fridge. “What happened to all the beer?”
    I pick up my can and drain the last of it. “Drank it,” I murmur.
    She gets a bottle of water and sits down across from me. “Bad night?”
    I shake my head. “Good night. You?” I arch an eyebrow at her.
    She shrugs. “Good as any other. I’m a little bit drunk.” She holds up her thumb and forefinger about an inch apart.
    I laugh. “Oh, good. Me too.”
    She goes into her room and comes back with a guitar. I watch her as she goes to the couch and plops down on it. She settles the acoustic guitar in her lap so that it’s facing up and she starts to pluck at the strings. A melody jumps into the air and dances in front of me.
    “That’s really good,” I say. I’m drawn to the music almost as much as I’m drawn to the girl. I get up and go into the living room. “Can I sit?”
    She shrugs. I plop down on the other end of the couch and watch her. She plucks and hums and plucks some more and then she stops and writes something down.
    “Are you writing music?” I ask.
    “Something like that,” she murmurs.
    “It’s really good. Does it have words?”
    “Yeah,” she says, as she chews on the tip of her pen. A lock of dark hair falls into her face and she blows it to the side. I reach over and brush it back when it falls again. She startles, jerked out of her musical trance, and she stares at me. “You want to hear the words?” she asks, her voice quiet, almost fearful.
    “Yes.” I can’t think of anything I’d like more.
    She starts to sing. It’s tentative and wary and so fucking beautiful that she steals my breath. She sings about heartbreak and shame and lust and love and hurt, and under it all…there’s beauty. Just…sheer beauty.
    When she stops playing, I realize that I haven’t even breathed, so I take in a breath and fill my aching lungs. “That was amazing.” I sigh.
    “How drunk are you?”
    I shake my head. “Not very .”
    “You should drink another.” She nods her head toward the kitchen.
    “Why?”
    She stares hard at me. “Because I want to find out what makes you tick.”
    I’m not even sure I do tick. I kind of just exist. Ever since I got the call from Julia that she didn’t want our baby, that she wanted out, I’ve felt like someone pushed the pause button on my life.
    “What makes you tick, Finny?” I ask.
    She snorts. But it’s an adorable sound and I find myself grinning. And it’s not just because I’m drunk. “Sex,” she says. “Sex makes me tick.”
    I choke on my own spittle. “Beg your pardon?”
    She laughs. “I like to have sex, Tag. Lots of sex.”
    “Okay…” I say slowly.
    “You’re going to go all gospel on me and tell me that good girls don’t have sex with random strangers, right?” She shakes her head and points her finger at me. “But I have news for you. I can do whatever I want with my body. I can fuck anybody I want.”
    I cringe