Hot Ride (Summer Lovin’)

Chapter 6

Scarlett

After filling up on the best damn pie I've ever tasted, I can feel my guard slipping around Jett as we hit the road again.

The tension that's been simmering between us feels like it's reached a boiling point, ready to bubble over at any moment. I fidget with the radio, desperate for a distraction, searching for something other than static or country.

“So, I booked us a place to crash for the night,” Jett says, one hand lazily draped over the steering wheel. “Figured we could both use some rest after all this driving.”

My mind immediately starts tallying up the measly contents of my bank account. Unless this place accepts Monopoly money, I can't afford it.

And I'll be damned if I'm letting Jett cover for me.

I open my mouth, ready to protest, but he cuts me off with a knowing look.

“Don't even think about arguing, darlin'. My treat. Call it gas money for the stimulating conversation.”

I want to wipe that smug grin off his too-handsome face, but I'm too tired to muster up a snappy comeback.

I settle for dramatically rolling my eyes as I slump back in my seat, watching the flat expanse of highway stretch on and on into the horizon.

I slide my sunglasses down off my head and onto my nose. “That's nice of you but unnecessary. I can sleep in the car.”

Jett's lips quirk. “My tour bus is luxury compared to the Mustang. Don't worry about it, Scar. I've got us covered.”

Swallowing my pride, I give a reluctant nod. “Fine. But I'm paying you back as soon as my new card arrives, got it?”

The corner of his mouth quirks up in a half-smile that does something funny to my insides. “You got it. I'll even let you cover the snacks for the drive.”

I huff out a breath, folding my arms. “Gee, thanks. You're all heart.”

Jett's half-smile does something funny to my insides. I turn to gaze out the window, a part of me not minding him handling this.

The car slows as he pulls into a gas station. He parks at a pump and kills the engine. “Need to make a call. Be right back.”

I absently watch the numbers tick higher on the pump. Eighty-seven bucks and climbing. A drop in the bucket for him. He strides toward the store, leaving me with my thoughts.

Minutes later, he reemerges, a plastic bag dangling from one hand. And is that...? Oh my god.

Jett's got a trucker hat pulled low over his shaggy hair and aviator shades obscuring his face. I bite my lip not to laugh.

“What the hell is that?” I wheeze out between giggles. “Afraid the paparazzi will catch you pumping your own gas?”

He lifts the brim and flashes me a crooked grin, looking utterly ridiculous yet adorable. Sauntering to my side of the car, he produces an identical hat. “Here, figured you could use one too.”

“Gee, thanks,” I say dryly, slipping the cap onto my head and adjusting it.

“Hey, I gotta lay low. I'm kind of in some deep shit right now and the last thing I need is our pictures plastered all over the tabloids.”

“Scandal? What scandal?”

He starts the engine, pointing us toward the highway. “Nothing I want to burden you with. Just a bunch of media garbage, as usual.”

Famous or not, he's just a guy navigating through the mess of his life. And for some reason, that makes him more real than before.

I smile, trying to lighten the mood. “Truckstop chic suits you.”

He chuckles, the sound easing some of the tension. “Thanks. Let's get back on the road.”

Guess there are worse things than being stuck in a car with Jett Silver. Even if he is annoyingly charming. And gorgeous. Nope, not going there. I'll blame the road trip delirium.

I peer out the window. We're passing through a small town, quaint storefronts and houses flickering by. Finally, Jett eases into a motel parking lot off the beaten path.

The motel looks simple but welcoming, with flower boxes under the windows and a cozy, old-fashioned feel to it. Definitely not the five-star digs I'd expect from a rock star. Color me surprised.

“Didn't peg you for the bed-and-breakfast type,” I reply, raising an eyebrow.

He shrugs, a half-smile playing at his lips. “I'm a simple man, Scarlett. Give me a bed and a shower, I'm good to go.”

We grab our bags and head inside, the bell above the door jingling as we enter. The lobby is cozy, with worn leather couches and a crackling fireplace, like we're in someone's living room.

At the front desk of the modest roadside motel, a middle-aged man looks up, eyes widening in recognition.

“Here we go,” I mumble, adjusting my hat awkwardly.

“Just act normal,” Jett says under his breath, flashing a smile that could charm the socks off a nun.

“Normal? What's that?”

I brace myself for the usual fawning that comes with Jett's celebrity status, but to my surprise, the man simply nods in greeting.

“Welcome back,” the clerk says, voice warm with familiarity. “It’s good to see you.”

I raise an eyebrow, wondering what brings a world-famous rockstar back to this unassuming little hotel.

Jett returns the nod with an easy smile. “Hey, Pete. Thanks for fitting us in at the last minute.”

“Got lucky with a cancelation right before you called,” Pete says, printing out a form for Jett. “Otherwise, I wouldn't have had any vacancies left tonight.”

So that's where he went at the gas station-called ahead to book us a room here, picking someplace budget-friendly. I steal a glance at Jett, my heart swelling.

He tips his head slightly, that subtle gesture dismissing any need for thanks like it's no big deal. But it is to me. A lump forms in my throat at his thoughtfulness, making sure I'm comfortable without making a fuss over it.

“Thanks,” he tells Pete, taking the room keys. “I owe you one.”

The motel owner waves it off. “No need to thank me, I'll always be grateful you hired my kid as your roadie.”

Jett flashes a mischievous grin. “If you ever want to get one over on the kid, just remind him about those tequila shots he downed backstage last year. He'll know exactly what you're talking about.”

Pete lets out a hearty chuckle as he hands Jett the room keys. “Sounds like a story that will haunt him for years.”

Jett pauses when examining the keycard. “Isn't there another key for me?”

The owner furrows his brow, glancing between us uncertainly. “Didn't Dolores mention it's a twin room?”

“Oops, my bad,” Jett says with a light-hearted laugh. “I must've misunderstood. Twice the fun, right, Scar?”

Fun? More like torture.

“Ah, uh, no problem. It’s fine.” I fake-smile through gritted teeth. “There are two beds, right?”

“Of course, of course,” Pete rattles off as he hands me a pamphlet. “Some information about the local attractions.”

“Thanks,” Jett says smoothly. “We'll let you know if we need anything.”

As we walk toward the elevator, the plush carpet muffles our steps. Jett leans closer and whispers, “Sorry about that mix-up. It wasn't on purpose, I assure you.”

I wave a hand to stop him mid-apology. “It's okay, I believe you.”

“Great. I mean, good to know you trust me.”

Heat rushes to my cheeks as Jett's lopsided grin sends butterflies fluttering in my stomach. I glance around, desperate for a distraction. A sign catches my eye. “Which way to our room?”

An older woman and a young boy, maybe ten years old, approach.

“Excuse me, Mr. Silver,” the woman says hesitantly. “Could we trouble you for an autograph? My grandson here is a huge fan.”

“Of course,” Jett replies warmly, crouching down to the kid's level. The boy shoves a napkin forward eagerly. “When I grow up, I wanna be a singer like you!”

Jett scribbles a message on the napkin before handing it back, ruffling his hair afterward. “Stay cool, buddy. And remember, practice makes perfect.”

An infectious grin spreads across the kid's face as he clutches Jett's autograph to his chest. Jett holds out his fist, and the boy eagerly bumps it.

“Thank you so much!” the grandmother gushes, beaming at Jett.

“Thanks for stopping to say hi,” Jett replies warmly, standing back up.

Seeing this sweet, down-to-earth side of him does things to me. I'm lost in a daze until Jett's touch on my elbow startles me back to reality. “Ready to head up?”

I blink, cursing my traitorous insides for turning to mush. “Uh, yeah. Lead the way.”

In the elevator, I steal a glance at him from beneath my lashes. “You're good with kids.”

“It's the least I can do. Those kids are why I do this, you know?”

My heart flips. Damn. He's even hotter when he's being sweet. Stupid, sexy, genuinely good-hearted rock star.

The elevator dings and the doors slide open. I try to ignore the butterflies wreaking havoc in my stomach as I trail behind him.

Jett chuckles, looking far too amused with himself as he unlocks the door. “I bet your brother's gonna be thrilled when he hears about this.”

“You are so dead,” I mutter under my breath.

“Relax, Scar. No one will see us here, and Pete's so far removed from the tabloids, he wouldn't know a scandal if it bit him in the ass.”

Fair point, but still. “It's just one night.”

Jett drops his bag on the floor with a heavy thud and lets out a deep breath, as if releasing the weight of the world from his shoulders, before sinking onto the edge of the bed.

The room is small but clean, the neutral tones and sparse decor giving it an almost impersonal vibe. A flat-screen TV is mounted on the wall, the only real focal point apart from those two nondescript paintings that do little to liven up the space.

My cheeks flush as I take in Jett's form, stretched out on the twin beds pushed together. He has his hands behind his head, eyes closed and head tilted against the headboard.

My gaze lingers on his chest rising and falling, the strong line of his jaw. The thought of sharing this room, this bed, with him tonight makes my heart race.

I try to sound casual, taking in the simple decor. “Feels homey, doesn't it?”

Jett opens his eyes and meets my gaze, something raw and unguarded in his expression. This man—vulnerable and complicated—is so much more than he seems.

“Places like this ground you,” he says, gesturing at the modest surroundings. “Get you back to basics.”

“It must be a nice change for you.” I sink onto my corner of the bed, the old springs groaning beneath me. “Living in a mansion can disconnect you from reality sometimes.”

“You know me too well.” He smiles wryly. “This is real. Reminds me of who I am beneath all the bullshit.”

Memories of Jett spending hours rehearsing with my brother in our basement flood my mind. He was practically a fixture at our house back then.

I smile at the memory of my brother banging on the drums he made out of buckets, and Jett with his dad's old guitar. “For all the hours you practiced, you guys were terrible.”

Jett laughs, the sound warm and familiar. “Man, we were so loud. I'm surprised the neighbors never called the cops.”

“You two would stay up all night talking and laughing. Drove me nuts through those paper-thin walls.”

“Hey, we had important things to discuss,” Jett grins. “Like who'd win in a fight: Batman or Wolverine.”

“Vital conversations,” I nod solemnly, trying to contain my laughter.

Jett's fingers trace over the worn fabric, his gaze distant and nostalgic. “Those nights kept me going.”

It hits me then, how many nights Jett spent at our house, becoming an honorary member of our family. But what about his own home? I furrow my brow, lost in thought.

Sensing my confusion, Jett's hand pauses on the quilt. “What is it?” he asks softly.

“You know, I don't think I ever went to your place. I can't even picture what it looked like,” I muse aloud, shaking my head.

Jett's mouth twists, and he looks down at his hands. “There's a reason for that, Scar.”

The heaviness in his voice makes me pause. “What do you mean?”

He leans against the dresser, eyes narrowing as if weighing his words. “What can I say? There was nothing good happening at my place. Just a lot of yelling, usually. Slamming doors. The usual fun when you've got an old man with a mean temper and a taste for the bottle.”

I remember how Daniel would subtly change topics whenever Jett's issues came up, believing I was too young to understand. Now, all the times Jett stayed for dinner, the weekends he crashed on our couch make sense. It’s no wonder Daniel is so protective of Jett and why his loyalty is unwavering.

“Daniel helped you out, didn't he?”

His voice breaks, each word coming out as a cracked whisper. “Your family was like my safe haven. Your mom, she’d always act like it was no big deal, but I knew she was worried. Without you guys, I might’ve ended up just like him.”

Tears prick my eyes. “I'm sorry. I wish I could've been there more for you.”

Jett blinks rapidly as if chasing away shadows from his eyes. “You never looked at me like I was a lost cause.”

My chest rises and falls with shallow breaths as I drink him in—the familiar angles of his face, the lips I've fantasized about more times than I care to admit.

I reach out instinctively, my hand resting on his arm. “You do matter, Jett. You always have.”

His fingers wrap around mine, grazing with patches of rough skin. I'm acutely aware of every point of contact between us—my hand on his arm, his knee brushing against mine.

Desire courses through my veins like liquid fire, igniting every nerve ending with its scorching heat. The temptation to give in and claim Jett's lips with mine is overwhelming. I meet his smoldering gaze, my eyes silently pleading for answers.

Do you still see me as a starry-eyed girl, Daniel's kid sister? Or someone more—a woman who can match your intensity?

Jett's stare is molten. “I've been running for so damn long, I couldn't see that everything I needed was right here in front of me.” His gruff admission sends shivers racing down my spine.

My lips part with a trembling sigh as he leans in achingly slow. The first brush of his mouth against mine is soft, almost reverent, but there is barely leashed passion thrumming beneath the surface. His tongue flicks over the seam of my lips–a tantalizing promise of pleasure yet to come. It's a tease of a kiss, a sample of the forbidden. A feast I’m dying to savor.

“I mean it, Scar,” Jett rasps, his calloused thumb tenderly brushing my flushed cheek. “No more running from this–from us. It's time I stopped being a chickenshit and faced whatever this is between us.”

I fist the soft fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. Jett's mouth slants over mine. This time there's no hesitation, no holding back when his strong hands splay across my lower back, pulling me flush against the hard planes of his body.

Jett pours all his aching need into the glide of his mouth over mine, the kiss rapidly deepening as I wind my arms around his neck. He swallows my whimpers, my moans of pleasure-pain as desires ignite that I didn't dare let myself feel before now.

I've been kissed before, sure. But never like I'm the only thing in the world that matters. It's utterly intoxicating.

When we finally break apart, I'm dizzy and flushed. Jett's eyes have gone molten, the pupils blown wide. “Tell me to stop,” he rasps hoarsely. “Before I fucking lose control.”

But I can't stop when every part of me is aching, yearning, screaming for more. “Don't you dare,” I breathe, my fingers curling into his hair to pull him back in for another scorching kiss.

Jett's tongue sweeps into my mouth, possessive and demanding, tasting every secret corner like he's determined to unravel me. He's staking his territory, leaving no doubt that I'm his.

This is no sweet, gentle exploration–it's a conquest, a claiming, a branding. And I surrender willingly.