Read Online Only for the Night (If Only Book 2) by Ella Sheridan - Free Book Online Page B

Hank found himself picking their rhythm, twisting it, playing with it. At least his creativity hadn’t been as reluctant to play as his new roomie. That throbbing rhythm made his fingers itch for his guitar, for paper and pencil, for more of the melody that sang through his mind. The new song wasn’t anything like what he wrote for Weekend, which was probably what had him excited about it. Worry over the band was taking almost as much of a toll as Hank’s sexual frustration. V. hadn’t heard a word from Chad, who’d been silent on social media as well. Probably hadn’t stopped fucking long enough to surface. Hank wished Ron’s little blue pills or whatever it was would run out so they could yank Chad’s chain back into reality. Wasn’t like it would happen, but they could hope.
    The endurance run got Hank good and dirty, sweat and sand caking his legs and even his bare chest by the time they returned to the cliffside path an hour later. Knight’s black fur was an equal mess. About two hundred yards out Hank slowed the shepherd to a walk, allowing them both to cool down. That was when he noticed the man just stepping onto the sand—suit and tie, fancy shoes, definitely not a tourist or local. Hank glanced at Knight, taking in the laid-flat posture of the dog’s ears and suddenly tense muscles. When a deep growl rumbled in the shepherd’s chest, Hank swore—only one man in a tie got that reaction from Knight right off the bat. He adjusted his grip on Knight’s leash and slowed them even more.
    The man lifted a hand in greeting. “Mr. Nash!”
    Yep. Hank felt a growl rumble through him too. “What are you doing here, Reynolds?”
    The man was sweating and gasping for breath like he’d run a marathon instead of coming down a few steps. He bent, fists on his knees, struggling to get in air. One hand waved at Hank to hang on a minute. Hank stopped several yards away and rolled his eyes.
    Reynolds finally straightened, his face no longer the color of a tomato, and hurried forward. “Hank, hello! Long time, no see.”
    Knight lunged to the end of his leash, or at least as far as Hank’s grip would allow. His teeth snapped the air mere inches from the reporter’s extended hand.
    A yelp escaped as Reynolds jerked backward away from Knight, landing on his suited ass. Satisfaction at seeing the man humbled mixed with a wince of apology at what the sand was going to do to that fine cloth. Too bad the cloth was on Reynolds’s skinny body.
    Hank commanded Knight to sit. “Not long enough in my opinion.”
    Reynolds scrambled to his feet, hands moving automatically to his backside to try and remove the sand ground into his suit from his hard landing. “He almost bit me!”
    “Nah. He was just playing.” Which was true; if Knight had wanted to snap off the reporter’s fingers, even Hank’s hold on the leash wouldn’t have stopped him. Knight had just been sending a warning shot over the reporter’s bow. He sat now as Hank had commanded him to, though he still strained toward their visitor as if ready to eat the man alive, even baring his teeth, just for good measure. Hank hid a smile. When Knight took a dislike to someone, it stuck and stuck hard. He’d always disliked Reynolds, and he was making sure the man knew it.
    Hank had never liked the reporter either. When Chad had come out two years ago as one of the few gay rock-and-roll lead singers, Reynolds had done his best to make all their lives miserable. The uproar had soon died down when Weekend refused to withdraw their latest single or their support of Chad. Still, Reynolds had been particularly persistent. “What do you want?”
    Reynolds straightened his tie with a sharp tug. “Just to ask you some questions.”
    “Like?”
    “I heard your manager has put studio time on hold for Washout’s next album. Care to comment?”
    You little fucker. Someone at the studio must be on the guy’s payroll. No way had he gotten that information from V. Hank