Forbidden Intent (EBOOK)

Miles

My leg bounces in my chair while I sit listening to Trent record the same lyrics he’s been working on for the last three hours. My head rests in my hand as I lean my elbow on the arm of the chair and try not to fall asleep. We’ve been working our asses off on this new album, and the long hours and lack of sleep are finally catching up with me. 

Ned, our sound tech, stops recording and turns to Decker Cross—the biggest producer in Los Angeles and the man who’s about to make this album our best yet—and asks about making a minor adjustment. My eyelids feel like they weigh five tons while I listen to them drone on about tone inflections on certain words. 

When Robbie told us Decker had shown an interest in working with us, we all thought he was fucking with us. Decker only works with Grammy-award-winning and Billboard chart-topping artists. And while we hit one of those milestones, we have yet to get a Grammy. 

But that might all change with Decker in our corner. 

I thought we’d made it big before, but we’ve reached another level if we’re working with the elite of the LA music scene. It’s a humbling experience. If only I was getting better sleep and could actually keep my damn eyes open today, then it would be even better. 

Turning to Robbie, I whisper, “Dude, I gotta get some caffeine in me or I’m gonna fade fast.”

He glances at Ned and Decker discussing the vocals. “There’s a coffee shop halfway down the block.” He hands me a ten-dollar bill and says, “Be back in twenty minutes, or I can’t guarantee that Decker won’t try to replace you.”

I’m pretty sure he’s only half kidding. 

But my eyes feel like sandpaper, and if the weight of my eyelids gets any heavier I’m going to turn into one of those cartoon characters who prop their eyes open with toothpicks. We’re not even halfway through this session, so I snatch the ten from his hand and make my escape. The walk is fairly quick, and the fresh air helps wake me up a bit. But then the aroma of coffee beans hits my nose the second I walk in the door, and it’s like I can already feel the caffeine jolt. Whoever invented coffee is my god. It’s the life-sustaining force that keeps me going. 

Making my way to the counter, I stand behind a woman with wavy, light-brown hair, wearing a black tank top that downplays her breasts but teases a hint of cleavage and purple skinny jeans that mold to her pert ass. However, it’s not her outfit that initially catches my attention, but the half-sleeve tattoo covering her shoulder and upper arm. I can’t completely make out the image, but the giant moon with a face in front of navy blue clouds intrigues me. She places her order, and it’s her voice that hits me next. The melodic rhythm of the way she talks combined with the huskiness made popular by Old Hollywood actresses make me want to listen to her for hours. 

I’ve always had a weird thing about voices. Just add it to the long list of “weird” things I’m into. But weird is subjective. It’s all normal to me. 

She finishes placing her order, pays, and then walks over to the pickup counter. I covertly watch her walk away, but the idea of her catching me and thinking I’m a creep forces my gaze away from her and back to the barista at the register. I step forward and place my own order, reminding myself that I’m on a time crunch.

She’s still waiting for her drink—or drinks as it appears—when I make my way over to the pickup counter to wait on my own drink. I’m grateful I’ve never liked drip coffee because it gives me more time to find an in with her.  

Unlike other people, she doesn’t stare at her phone to waste time while she waits. Instead, her hands are in her back pockets, her elbows bent, her body language open and relaxed. I’m intrigued, but I’ve learned from personal experience never to judge a book by its cover. Too many times, people see my long hair and laid-back personality and assume I am some stoner drummer. 

While I do occasionally smoke weed, that’s not my drug of choice. No, it’s always been the high I get from a sexual release that I’ve sought after. 

“A vanilla latte and cappuccino,” the barista calls out, and the brunette walks forward and grabs the two drinks. 

“Thanks so much,” she says in that sweet voice that makes my gut clench and my dick start to harden. Thank God for tight pants and a long shirt that hides any hint of what her voice is already doing to me. I can only imagine what she can do with that rockin’ body.  

She walks over to the condiment bar to add cream and sugar to one of her drinks, and I fight the urge to bounce on my feet to dispel the nervous energy suddenly coursing through me. I want an excuse to talk to her, but I can see my window of opportunity closing fast. I just need one chance. 

“A six shot Americano,” the barista calls out, and I pounce on the chance to grab my drink and make my way over to where the brunette is still fixing her coffee.

I normally know what to say or what move to make when I’m about to flirt with a woman, but this one has me all kinds of twisted, and I can’t figure out why. 

“Excuse me,” I say as I step next to her and grab a sugar packet from the holder in front of her. I don’t usually put sugar in my drink, but I know this is my last chance to make something happen here, and adding sugar seems like the best way to extend my time at this counter and gives me an excuse to be in her space. 

“Oh sorry, I’m totally hogging the space,” she says as she moves a step away from me, making room for me to put my drink on the counter while I doctor it with cream and sugar. She places the lid back on her coffee, and I know I’m about to lose my chance. 

“I’m Miles,” I say, brushing my hair back and smiling at her with my most winning grin. 

Her hazel eyes sparkle with what looks like amusement, which is not the reaction I was expecting. “I know,” she says before walking away. 

She’s out the door before my brain catches up with her movements. She knew who I was? How is that possible? She didn’t steal glances at me—I would’ve known since I was stealing plenty of glances at her. She didn’t look at me with recognition or like she was a fan. What the hell just happened here?

Thrown off and uncharacteristically disappointed, I put the lid back on my coffee and power walk back to the studio since I’m dangerously close to hitting that twenty-minute mark. I make my way to our recording booth, still processing my interaction with coffee girl and why I was so thrown off my game. 

When I step into the studio, I freeze, my eyes not convinced what I’m seeing isn’t a figment of my imagination. But no, coffee girl is standing next to Decker, the second coffee she got at the shop now in his hand. 

“Miles, glad you could make it back in time. If I’d known where you were off to, I could’ve told you to save yourself some time. Tamsin was picking up my usual for me.”

“Tamsin?” I ask, my eyes bouncing back and forth between him and the woman who has captured my attention since the moment I saw her. 

“My daughter,” Decker says, taking a sip of his coffee and turning back to the board. 

His…what now?

Fuck me.