I jerked one shoulder in a pseudo-shrug. "We all are. All three of us, I mean. Mickey and Marsh have been doing it a bit longer than me, but we all, at one point or another, decided to follow in our dad's footsteps."
"You guys must not see each other often if all three of you are on the road all the time."
"Not nearly as often as we'd like," I confirmed. I missed my brothers something fierce a lot of the time, but it usually only took ten or fifteen minutes in their presence to assuage that feeling. By then, we were picking at each other like scabs we couldn't leave well enough alone. We loved each other, but we were far too much alike not to repel each other after very long.
"What about your parents? You must not see them much either."
"True." I nodded. "But Dad was a trucker, so he gets it. And Mom was a truck stop waitress fresh out of high school when she met my dad, so she's used to the lifestyle after nearly forty years with him." I caught the small smile playing at Brick's lips and fought (and failed) the flush that the mysterious expression induced in my body. I cleared my throat. "What about you? You must not see your family much being on tour as much as you guys are."
Wasted Breath has had some seriously popular albums over the past several years, but they weren't a band who relied solely on studio recordings for their success. Live performances were where they generated the lion's share of revenue, plus, I knew from talking to Tristan and Donal, playing live was what the band was all about. They lived and breathed being in front of a live audience. The day they had to stop touring would probably be the day the world had to say goodbye to its favorite group of rock gods. And wouldn't that be a day of mourning.
"Nah." His gaze shifted to the side window. "Dad's been gone since I was eight, so it's just my mom."
"No siblings?" I asked when he didn't share any more.
"Only child."
I smirked. "That explains so much."
His eyes flicked back to me, and he matched my smirk, only his was better. "I guess my mom figured she couldn't top perfection."
My giggle erupted, surprising us both. All my prior annoyance with Brick evaporated in the face of his trademark self-assuredness. He was completely ridiculous and utterly adorable. I wanted to be annoyed with him, but he was making it impossible.
I was starting to think my plan to keep my distance was about to blow up in my face. Leave it to me to stumble into the line of fire, distracted by boyish charm and tripping over my own feet like a school girl with her first crush. I'd be lucky if, in the end, all I had to show for it was a scar in the shape of Brick's name on my heart.
"You should probably change your shirt."
Brick looked down like he'd forgotten about the squirrel shit on his shoulder and curled his lip. "Good idea."
Every ounce of moisture in my mouth dried up at the flash of perfectly formed abdominal muscles. The ratty cotton was wadded up into a ball and tossed over his shoulder before he refastened his seatbelt and picked through the rapidly cooling fast food as his feet, choosing a burger and unwrapping it.
"Umm. Are you going to put a clean shirt on?" I asked, my voice embarrassingly husky.
"Nah. It's a beautiful, sunny day. Don't need one." He used one finger to absently push his aviators up on his nose.
I spied my reflection in the mirrored surface and realized almost too late that I was in danger of drooling. "You really need to put a shirt on," I snapped.
Brick chewed an enormous bite of cheeseburger and tilted his head as he looked at me. I couldn't see his eyes behind his shades, but I imagined he was amused based on the height of his left eyebrow. It nearly reached his hairline.
I forced myself to keep my eyes on the asphalt ahead of me and not on Brick's solid chest. But that didn't stop my traitorous brain from imagining running my hands over his muscles, rubbing oil into his skin, making him slick, and sliding my unhindered hands into the waistband of his jeans.
"Whatcha thinkin' about?" Brick sing-songed, his smug satisfaction evident.
I squeezed my thighs together to ease the ache, but the pressure only made it worse and reminded me of the way I'd woken up pressed against Brick's thigh the other morning. Heat rushed over me, and I couldn't get fresh air in my lungs fast enough. I jabbed the button to crack the window.
"You okay, Marni? You're looking a little...overheated." Brick's faux concern was laced with humor. I could hear it, and I wanted to smack him for it.
"Shut it, Brick." And for the love of God, put on a shirt!
"Whatever you want, sweet lips," he murmured, relaxing back in his seat, not a care in the world.
Nine
Brick
I knew it.
She totally wanted me.
With her dark curls piled up high on her head, it was easy to see the flush that stained her pale skin from her face, down her neck, and over the hint of decolletage I could see courtesy of the scoop neck style of her shirt. If we weren't traveling down the highway at sixty-five miles per hour, I'd have gotten up and done a victory dance. Plus, the seats in Marni's truck were surprisingly lush. My butt felt like it was cradled by the hands of angels.
I stretched my legs out in front of me as far as I could, lifting my hips and allowing the waist of my jeans to dip dangerously low. Peering at Marni out of the corner of my eye, I wondered how long it would take her to notice the happy trail I'd so thoughtfully displayed for her.
I'd always thought my arms were the most lethal weapon in my arsenal, but the way Marni's eyes devoured my bare chest and abs, I was willing to give up shirts for all eternity. I'd be Topless Brick from now on.
We spent the next hour fighting over the radio, finally coming to an agreement when I dialed into a Motown station. Turned out my girl and I had a mutual love for Smokey Robinson.
"Okay, but 'Tears of a Clown' or 'You Really Got a Hold On Me?'"
"'Tears of a Clown,' obviously," she retorted, looking at me like I was a fool before softening her expression and adding, "Though, I wouldn't change the station if any Smokey song was playing."
"Fair enough. And I agree, by the way. 'Tears of a Clown' is the superior tune."
Marni was quiet for a moment, flexing her lean fingers on the steering wheel, seeming to work out something I couldn't see. "I wouldn't have pegged you for a Motown fan at all, to be honest," she admitted quietly, her eyes slightly downcast like she was ashamed of having such a preconceived notion.
"Because rock gods aren't supposed to have varied tastes, right?" I teased.
Her eyes flashed. "I didn't mean--" she blurted, shaking her head.
"I was only messing with you."
"Oh," she muttered. "Right." Another beat went by. "'Rock god?'" she asked, dryly, twisting her neck to shoot me a wry glance.
I laughed because I loved it when she gave me shit. "Truth be told, my mom's a huge fan, so Motown's what I grew up listening to. Isley Brothers, The Supremes, Jackson 5. I bet I could still sing Marvin Gaye's What's Going On album from start to finish and not miss a lyric," I shamelessly boasted, wiggling my brows at her.