Coffee.

That seemed to be my only logical thought as I stood, perched against the billiards table, watching the boys prepare to serenade me with their apparently 'God Like' musical abilities.

They had better be god like if they expected me not to murder them for this stunt.

Grey perched himself on a stool, surprisingly bright eyed for someone who had, if their chatter was any indication, only two or three hours of sleep. Apparently, the comedic relief of their group was also the musical composer. It made sense; with Paul and Rob penning the songs –mostly Paul- and Ben providing the required beat, that left Grey on guitar, throwing notes through the air like Music's prodigal son. It just meant that while most of them slept, Grey sat with a guitar and a piece of paper, alone in his room, for hours on end.

I was beginning to understand his obsession with sugary foods. Anything to keep him and his insomnia going.

"Which one do you guys want to start with?" Ben asked, providing a 'rap-a-tap-tap' on his 'beat to the bronze layer beneath the gold' cymbals with a grin, as if he knew he was bringing on the worst kind of headache. Made sense though: having the loud mouth of the group play the most obnoxious of all instruments. I rubbed at the skin above my left eyebrow with a scowl.

"It depends," Paul began, fiddling with some sheets of paper in front of his face. "If we want to soak her panties, we go with Get Down Here. If we want to win her heart, Baby Girl. Which would you prefer Grey?" Ben busted out in a snort filled guffaw, shoulders clad in a tight black tee shaking as he bent forward over the kit.

Grey didn't even bother to respond from where he was hunched over his black electric guitar. He threw the strap across his broad shoulders, and refused to meet my eyes.

Chicken.

"I, for one, would prefer if tried to accomplish neither of those nightmare inducing things," Rob grunts, throwing what could only be considered the king of all death glares at the three buffoons he called friends.

"It's Grey's call."

"Seeing as none of you three are my cup of tea, let's choose a song that isn't going to make me vomit!" I shout with a snide look in Paul's direction. The wide smile on my face was definitely fake, probably bordering on scary, and the line of glee in my tone only added to the serial killer vibe I felt I had going on. It was a look I knew I could rock, especially if they ever tried to wake me like this again. My murderous gaze latched on to Paul's one inclined eyebrow, furthering my hatred towards all things men.

That was a look of disbelief. Paul thought I was lying.

Well, of course I was lying. Have you ever been in a house full of mid twenty aged male rock stars? No? Well, if you ever had the chance, you would know that no level of hatred or disgust could quite mask the teeny tiny bit of attraction they could inspire in your lady bits. It was basic math, psychology, and biology all mixed into one dangerously flammable and disgusting cocktail.

Oh god, now I was thinking about anatomy. My traitorous eyes darted down to the front of Grey's fitted grey sweatpants, then flitted away just as fast.

Oh boy, that ceiling was a pretty colour. Black is definitely the new... black?

I didn't have to look down to know Paul had caught that little exchange. I could hear it in the slightly muted chuckles, and the way he fluttered his fingers along the keyboard at his disposal.

Thankfully, he didn't proclaim his thoughts to the rest of the possy. I don't think I would have survived the embarrassment if he had notified Grey of my pervy eyes. Especially not with my brother present, and especially not with Ben present. I huffed a breath up at my blonde locks, watching as wisps of hair defied gravity and whipped towards the hideously dark ceiling.

"You okay there Hayley? You're looking a little flushed."

Eight words and one conjunction from Grey was evidently all it took to cause Paul to lose it. He slammed his hands on his knees with a roaring laugh, bunching up his own black track pants in his bout. It was a wonder he didn't choke on his own saliva with all of the liquid spewing out of his lips. So much for his coca cola. Who even drinks Coca Cola this early in the morning?

"I'm fine," I mumble, digging my blunt tipped fingernails into the skin of my palm and willing the redness in my cheeks to fade. I could feel everyone's gaze on my face, but there was no way I was meeting anyone's eyes. Not after just blatantly staring at someone's crotch.

Why, oh why, did I have to have that dream?

It's not like Grey is even the most attractive guy I've ever seen. Ben had him beat by miles.

If you ignored the fact that his personality rivalled that of a porcupine/donkey cross.

Prickly, aggressive and just an all-around jackass.

It's not a swearword if it's a real thing with a tail.

Paul was even a close third. Again, if you ignored his incessant dirty jokes, and penchant to embarrass me in the most serious of moments. I was never one to believe in stereotypes; I mean, they could just be so mean. If I were to go out on a limb here (be that one that extended into the world of the extremely judgmental), I would say Paul is the personification of the 'dumb blonde'.

At least he rocked the look.

But alas, of all of the three bandmates –Rob obviously was not in the running- to have a kissy-kissy dream about, it had to be the resident clownfish that was quickly becoming my favourite of them all –again, Rob doesn't count.

(I was slowly reaching a place where my brother was an acceptable waste of space, versus the demonic version he became when he left me alone a gazillion years ago).

This was likely due to the fact that he was the least annoying of the four boys. Surprising, I know.

And he –although slightly unwillingly- promised to lend me his credit card for a day of shopping on him.

Big brother bribery at its finest.

A low whining rumble reverberated throughout the space, sending me spiraling out of my black hole of thoughts and careening back into the present. A present where Grey was currently thumbing a string of two on his guitar with a soft caress that seemed extremely out of place for an up and coming rock band. Or maybe that was just because I wanted him to be thumbing me instead.

Did that even make sense?

No.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

I don't care.

"Are we going to start at any point soon?" Rob asks, setting his heels into the supports of the wooden stool that he precariously perched himself on, the instrument I determined to be otherwise known as a bass, strewn across his lap. Grey ignores him, stepping closer to the mic levelled at his mouth, and strumming the first chord of what I assume to be their first song of this morning performance.

The ringing of strings thankfully quiets Paul's chortling in the background. Or just masks it.

Either way.

A slow, light, steady beat picks up from behind, Ben's relaxed face focusing on the noise makers at his disposal. Rob picks up the groove, fingers plucking at the four stringed instrument with his eyes closed.

Show off.

I'm seconds away from teasing my big brother for his peaceful expression –if only to cause him to mess up- when Grey takes a deep breath and I'm distracted almost immediately.

I'd also be absolutely lying if I didn't feel the shivers start at the skin behind my neck when his raspy voice filled the room.

She calls her best friend

Her mother calls her daughter

And maybe there'll be one day

Where someone will call her mother

He calls crazy, stupid, defenseless

Because to put up with me

She'd have to be a little reckless

I call her every morning

Every night before I sleep

I'd call her every minute

If she'd only let me

You would call her lovely,

When she wears that string of pearls,

But the only thing she likes

To hear from me

Is when I call her

Baby girl

Though it pained me to admit it, Paul wasn't wrong when he said this song would win over a girls heart. I was beginning to understand why they had been able to afford this island; the chiming of the piano keys as they mingled with the lead guitar was like a melody that shouldn't work, but somehow melded perfectly. If I wasn't standing in an oversized hoodie that didn't belong to me, and that made me look practically naked, I probably would have been swaying along to the music. But I was. So I tried to keep the dance moves to a bare minimum.

Even Ben's constant flurry of movements on the drum kit only added to the song - not taking away from it like I would have expected.

We weren't even going to discuss the way Grey's voice hit those low, grumbly notes that likely victimized every poor unsuspecting female who listened to their song on the radio.

I was willing to bet he was the cause of many near car accidents.

Oh baby girl

Ooh, look at all those pretty curls

Do a little twirl

Let me stand here

And thank god

You chose to give me a whirl

Oh baby girl

You're so pretty

When you're looking up at me

With a little colour to your cheeks

Nothin's gonna ever

Keep you from me

Every morning when I wake up

Every night when I go to sleep

I promise all I'm wishing

Is that you'll

Always be here with me

Oh baby girl

Swear to all that is holy, I wouldn't mind looking up at him.  Where did that thought come from, you ask? You stand in front of a sleepy, sexy looking goofball that is -sort of- serenading you, and try to tell me you wouldn't enjoy looking up at all of that.

Oh god, I was losing it.

He calls her missus, or lady, or crazy

'Cuz to keep up with me

She'd have to be a little shady

What happens in the bedroom

Is a business all my own

But little miss freak

Is a nickname she has honed

Even if I could to better

You know I'd never try

'Cuz there ain't many girls out there

Who know how to touch a guy

It's my favourite little love game

She don't want me to play nice

Honey sit back and watch me

Promise I'll play your strings just right

He can play my strings anytime.

Wait, what? No Hayley. Bad Hayley.

Grey started back into the rumbly chorus, and I forced my eyes to the ceiling.  There was absolutely no way that I was going to be caught by him -or anyone else for that matter- oogling at the way his shoulders tightened, and his forearms flexed as he strummed the guitar.  

Or how there was a little tick in his jaw that thrummed like a hummingbird when he growled out the first few lyrics of each verse.

Or just how yummy that jaw looked, all scruffy and angled, and tanned.

Or even just how his hair was just the right type of messy that I would imagine matched how he'd look after taking a tumble between the sheets.

Hypothetically speaking, of course.  With someone else.  Having a tickle fight... or something. 

Paul clearing this throat -rather loudly- sent my totally believable thoughts into a tailspin as I realized I was so busted.

Because I wasn't staring at the ceiling anymore.

Nope, of course not.  Now, my sleepy gaze had been latched on to where Grey's chest stretched the cotton of his shirt.  I ignored the flood of heat to my face about as well as I ignored the smirk I knew Paul would be sporting were I to glance in his direction.

The song Hayley, pay attention to the song.  

I call her my jack

Just my type of whiskey

She's my perfect balance between

Pretty, smart and frisky

She's a goddamn saint

And fallen angel mixed in one

Swear all it takes is one small smile

And I'm coming fucking undone

All of that red hair has got me,

I'm twisted all up,

If you ever need me,

Just follow her trail

of heartbreak

Through the dust

Oh baby girl

Ooh, look at all those pretty curls

Do a little twirl

Let me stand here

And thank god

You chose to give me a whirl

Oh baby girl

You're so pretty

When you're looking up at me

With a little colour to your cheeks

Nothin's gonna ever

Keep you from me

You beat back the fucking stars

I've never had to work so hard

'Cuz to breathe the air I breathe

You'd have to be fucking amazing

Oh baby girl

The boys hit their last note with a sense of practiced perfection, and I allowed myself to take a peek at the tall man in the center.

Big mistake.

Evidently, the boys knew how well they played those instruments. The look in Grey's stoic face; however, spelled out that he knew how well those lyrics had played me.

Not that I could help it; their songs had a desired effect on a female audience.  It was target practice, pure and simple.  And they had more than just a red dot sight- they had infrared vision, heat seeking missile type of targeting software in that music.

Nothing I could have done would have protected me from it, except, maybe, a set of earplugs. Or a bomb shelter.

I made a mental note to buy a few pairs of earplugs -because c'mon, bomb shelter? In this economy? Not likely-, around the same time that I realized I was still matching Grey's stare. And his lips were now tilted up into an amused little smirk.

Even when his smirk is mocking me, he was still uncannily sexy.  

Hold it Hayley. That's just your caffeine deprivation speaking.

I made a second mental note that no boy/girl interactions would occur in this house without prior injection of caffeine.  

I mean, ingestion.  Not injection; as though I would be willing to inject the drug straight into my pretty little veins.  The idea was laughable.  In fact, the mental image of drawing a syringe of coffee and jabbing it into my veins while I huddled in a ball like an over exaggerated addict was pretty funny.  I let loose a soft giggle. 

Then noticed the boys were keying up for a second song.  Grey's eyes weren't trained on me anymore; he was laughing at something Ben had said from his shiny, beat to crap drum kit.  

It lit up his entire face.

It made a little dimple appear in this left cheek.

Heck, it made his eyes sparkle.

I am so screwed.