Zoe lowered the camera and shook her head. “I think I’ll get this party started.” She excused herself and joined the sound technician at the singing area, making a quick escape from the cheeseball.
The sound technician was decked out in old, oil-stained overalls, which contrasted with his new neon yellow sneakers and backward baseball cap. He jammed his finger up his nostril and hooked it right in there as if digging for dollar notes to feed strippers.
“Let’s get the party started, as they say. So how does one host karaoke?” she asked the man, who was still picking for boogers.
“Dunno. I play the songs, and that’s it, innit, love.” His accent was the strongest she’d heard yet, and she barely made out his words. Dylan had been right when he’d told Rhiannon not to use slang. The language short cut of “innit” did make him seem a lot less educated. He wiped his nose across his sleeve.
“You should take something for that,” she offered, trying not to cringe.
“Allergies,” he confirmed, and sniffed up hard and hocked up a nasty. “Nothing helps, innit.”
”Antihistamines?” What in tarnation had Betty gotten her into?
“Nah, don’t work.” He snorted back mucus. “So how do you wanna do this?”
“Have you got a list of songs?” she asked, scared he’d say yes and pass it to her with the grubby fingers he’d used to search his nose.
“Ia, Flo has been circulating them. Last I heard she had a list of what folk wanna sing, innit.”
“Good. Lists are good.”
She called Flo over, and they went over the game plan. And the list.
“Are these really the only songs we have to work with?” Zoe re-scanned the long row of song titles, searching for something modern. Nada. The newest songs were from the early 90s. Of course, this was common for karaoke. Most of the more popular tunes were older ones. The classics, as they say.
“It’s the same one we use every year. Got all the favorites on it, see.” The woman pointed to several songs that, although they were old, were the most popular karaoke songs to her knowledge.
“It’ll have to do.” Zoe spotted a couple of power ballads that she knew well.
“You should hear Dylan sing Bon Jovi.” Flo sighed. “Dreamy.”
“I look forward to it.”
They had ten guests ready to sing their hearts out.
David was up first. Of course.
He squalled out his rendition of “Living on a Prayer.” If she glanced away, he reminded her of the American rock star. He had the gritty voice down pretty well.
Betty waved her back to the bar, and she scurried to her, happy to rejoin her beer.
David winked toward Zoe and ran his tongue over his lips and thrust hard. Like he needed to draw attention to his big dick?
And that’s where he lost the little sexy points he had earned before. What a douche.
“This is totally going in my article,” Zoe said.
Dylan’s voice boomed from behind her. “He’s winking at you, Chantilly. At least, I think he’s winking at you. It could be his own reflection in the window that he’s flirting with. I don’t blame him, though.”
Zoe’s pulse quickened. “Why, Dylan, did you just compliment me?”
“Na, I complimented David.”
She craned her neck to pass a scowl his way, but she melted at first sight. Dylan, the dirty farmer with a sharp tongue and a mop for hair, cleaned up nicely. Crisp white shirt, smart slacks, and he’d trimmed his beard into a stubble that made his strong jaw line more noticeable.
This was not good. This was not good at all.
Chapter Eight
“You look nice,” she cooed, trying to be easy-breezy while inside she was steaming up like a coyote in heat and was ready to howl.
She readjusted her butt on the bar stool before taking a sip of her now lukewarm beer.
“Yeah, well.” Gripping her shoulders, he continued, “I throw on a tidy shirt from time to time.” He tightened his grasp and pushed so the spinning stool turned, and she faced him. She caught a waft of his boozy breath. “Now, warm up your mouth.” He tilted her chin so her gaze would meet his.
She knocked his hand away and spluttered her drink. “Excuse me?”
“Throat. I meant throat. Warm up your throat for singing.”
“Oh, okay.”
“You and me, we’re up next with ‘Summer Loving.’” He gave a thumbs-up.
She reached for her camera.
He grinned for the shot and stuck his thumbs-up by his face.
Clicking to take the photo, she said, “Needed to capture a smile on Moody Mostyn.”
“Here, take another.” He flexed his muscles to show off his guns.
“Who are you, and what have you done with Dylan?”
“Me? I’m Danny Zuko. Nice to meet you, Sandy. Come on, we’re up.” He dragged her toward the platform for singing. She didn’t even have time to put down her beer.
“How many drinks have you had, Dylan?”
“Maybe a few shots of whiskey. Jealous?” He winked.
“Erm, not really. Hey, there’s only one microphone. How will we duet?”
“We’ll make it work. Trust me, I’m a karaoke king.”
“Dylan Mostyn, has anyone ever told you that you are full of surprises?”
“Just about everyone who knows me.” He grinned and whispered into her ear, “And I’ve only had two shots of whiskey in case you were actually wondering. All this happiness is just me simply being glad to have a night free from work.”
Darn it, he was a hottie and she was one hundred percent drawn to him whether she wanted to be or not.
There was no escape. Sooner or later, they’d fuck.
It was inevitable.
The opening measures of their song played. Dylan held the microphone so she had to lean into him to reach.
He sang the first line, so raw and full of grit and so completely unaware of how sensuous his vibe was. His rasps trickled into her ears and caressed her, enveloped her like smooth velvet chocolate with hints of decadent caramel melting in her mouth. Oh, my, this Leo sang well. Knicker-throwing good, as Betty would say.
She belted out her notes, the memorized lyrics flowing on autopilot. She boogied, and she smiled. Inside, she swooned and counted down the words until the end of the song so she could…argh, the possibility of this guy killed her, squeezed at her insides, and pounded at her common sense.
The chance that her break from men would refocus her life seemed more and more unlikely the longer she spent with Dylan. All she wanted to do was drag him into the restrooms and make like bunnies.
When they finished, he took her hand in his and squeezed, forcing her to join in his bow to the applauding audience.
“Thank you, thank you very much,” he boasted. Then he side-eyed her and whispered, “Are you all right? You’re pale.”
“I could use fresh air.” She snapped free and started toward the bar.
David waved to her and patted a seat beside him, his grin as slick as they came.
“Go on, get yourself off outside, catch your breath. I’ve got this.” Dylan thwacked her ass.
She jerked and yelped, “Hey.”
Throwing his arms up as if to say “it wasn’t me,” he instead said, “By the way, your singing isn’t too bad.”
“Thanks.” Rubbing her butt to make like he’d hurt her, she added, “I think.”
She reeled outside. The brisk night air hit her, and she sucked oxygen deep into her lungs. Coolness breezed through her outfit, and shivers attacked. But she reveled in the freeze. Finally, she was able to cool her desires down a notch. One more second with Dylan and she was destined to throw herself at him. And he’d spanked her. Actually spanked her. Oh, lordy. She prayed for restraint and reminded herself why she was avoiding men. Why she was avoiding him.
Dylan’s baritone voice thrummed through the oak door. Her nipples
tightened. Perhaps a reaction to the cold night? She blamed her prince not-so-charming, or rather prince farming.
“Let’s get this done.” Shoulders pinned back and a pasted-on smile, she rejoined the warmth of the pub.
He sang “Never Met a Girl Like You Before.”
“Oh dear, this won’t do. This won’t do at all.” Betty pushed her back out of his line of sight behind a group playing darts. “No. No. No.” She wagged her finger. “Didn’t I warn you away from Dylan? What’s the matter with you, girl? You’re gonna break his heart when you leave at the end of your stay.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I see it, girl. Don’t be acting coy. Close your mouth. You’re drooling.”
She slammed her lips tight. No, I’m not. Am I?
“Look at you, practically dripping for the guy.”
Zoe shook her head. “Honestly, Betty, your nephew is safe with me. Where is all this coming from?”
“I thought you were after David,” she snarled. “What are you, a slapper?”
“Whoa.” Zoe threw her arms up, not sure what slapper meant, but it had to mean something bad. Whore or some such. “I think our wires have gotten crossed. I’ve never wanted to date David.”
Betty narrowed her glare and pressed her lips together, much like she had when they’d first met. She pushed a breath through her nose, nostrils pulling wide, and she stormed away with her hands tucked into her pockets and shoulders taut. And now the Welsh Dragon likeness Flo had tagged her with made sense.
Wow. Unexpected.
Zoe started after her, to make sense of the hatred, but she caught sight of Dylan rocking out a number on the stage. He switched songs, and the theme to the movie Dirty Dancing began.
That was a duet, yet he sang it alone.
Mesmerized by his swagger, she slammed to a halt. Bangs hanging over his eyes, and his shirt-sleeves rolled to the elbow, he seemed confident and oh-so-off-limits.
He pulled the microphone off the holder and leapt the ten-inch platform as though it were a waist-high stage, knees tucked in and arms high. He knew his stuff, and, by God, he was strutting the heck out of it.
Singing his lines and gyrating like a pro, he headed right for her and crooked his finger to draw her in.
Their gazes caught. Her heart flipped and her sex heated.
Yup. She was hot for the guy.
David tapped her on the shoulder. “Can I buy you a drink?”
She dismissed him with a nudge of the shoulder, her gaze glued to Dylan. “No, I’m covered.” No doubt David had a certain “something” that would be quite enjoyable, and at least getting laid would be simpler with him.
“Since when do you do simple?” Zoe chastised herself.
“Sorry?” David asked with a shrug.
“Talk later.”
Zoe moved through the crowd, her stare locked in Dylan’s, and met him halfway. She leaned into the microphone and sang the female part in the song.
He took her hand, and together they made their way to the stage while playing the parts of Johnny and Baby from the movie. She could totally see him playing Johnny, if he shaved. He moved just as well as any professional dancer she’d ever seen.
The further they got into the song, the more the lyrics seemed like a horny confessional. So inappropriate considering their history of discontent, and yet, somehow, the ironic cheesiness of it all seemed right.
They blasted out about having the time of their life, and she fought to keep from smiling too wide. The long musical moment without lyrics shot in, and he spun her into his embrace and pulled a Dirty Dancing number on her. Knees bent, hips rotating, back arching.
Oh, wow, this guy really can dance.
Yes, very much so, yes. He drew her closer still so they stood crotch to crotch and circled his hips, throwing in random thrusts. She was as turned on as she was embarrassed by the public display of full-on dry humping. Crashing her hands against his chest, she pulled her hips from his and passed him a we’re-on-stage glare.
He smirked and reeled her back in. One hand on the small of her back, he put the other on her shoulder and eased her back into a dip. They moved into a deeper, slower rhythm, and it soon became apparent by his hardness jabbing her that he, too, was turned on by the dance.
Fucking hellfire. I’m melting.
He stared, so hard and so intense, deep into her soul, and sang for her. Heat rose to her cheeks and descended to her sex. She burned for him, ached for him.
The music faded.
And, as if they’d just sung any old song about sunshine and fairies and unicorns or whatever, he ditched the microphone with her and stuck his hands in his pockets. He sauntered toward the bar, leaving her frustrated and so gosh-darn turned on.
“Guess I’m on my own for the next one,” she murmured. “Well, that’s the way I like it.”
The sound technician glanced up from a copy of The Sun, the British newspaper steeped in the tradition of the topless page-three girl. “Eh?”
“Never mind, just play ‘Black Velvet.’”
“Take it away,” he sang out and hit play.
The deep thrums of her chosen song blasted out. Still aching for Dylan, her innards throbbing to feel him inside of her, she found herself scanning for him in the audience. She didn’t need to look far. He was to her left, pint in hand, a perfect smile crinkling the corners of his eyes and offering a hint of the dimples hiding behind the facial hair.
The dark throngs of the guitar belted out the second-rate speakers, and the rhythm took hold. Eyes closed, hips undulating, she became one with the song dripping of the Deep South. Pulling her hair up into a tousled bun, she rasped out the words with a huskiness that surprised her, and she dragged her hands down her face, imagining Dylan’s touch. Prickles broke down her back and tingled at her toes. Enraptured in the moment, she narrowed her gaze on him and traveled her touch down to her waist, so slow and controlled. If he didn’t know the effect he’d had on her before, he did now. He had to.
The sexual undertones lingering in her every syllable were unbidden. She was possessed with the idea of Dylan thrumming deep inside of her, his strong arms holding her as he worked her toward climax.
The song ended. Hushed whispers spread throughout, and mostly everyone gawked at her.
She shifted her weight from foot to foot and side-eyed the sound technician.
He licked his lips, all slobbering and wet, and closed the paper. With the publication under his arm, he scurried to the bathroom.
Dylan tipped his head back and roared, then, still laughing, he bent and clutched his stomach.
Surely her performance hadn’t been that risqué?
Tightening her hands around the microphone, she puffed at tendrils of hair that had fallen over her face and giggled. “Wow, I guess I enjoyed that song a little too much.” Inside, she flushed with embarrassment.
David stood and whistled, and mostly everyone else cheered. Betty, she noted, sat in the corner with Thomas and did her best dragon impression with her giant nostrils.
Dylan gathered his laughter and stood straight before tipping his glass in her direction.
Lust fever had hold of her and wasn’t letting up anytime soon. Her performance made it pretty darn clear. She had to have him. Screw the man-free sabbatical.
Flo tugged the microphone from her grasp. “Where’s the sound guy gone?”
“He’ll be back in….” She tried to estimate how long it took a man to pound one out, then shrugged. “About, say, ten minutes?”
“Oh, here he comes.” Flo beamed, pointing across to the men’s restrooms.
Sure enough, the guy headed back to duty. He took his position back at the karaoke machine and sat, wiping a hand on his overalls.
Wondering what might be smeared on his clothes, she nearly gagged.
“‘Shout,’” Flo demanded. “I’m singing ‘Shout.’ Chop-chop.”
Zoe left
the stage for Flo to take over and swirled to the bar. She grabbed her beer, which seemed fuller than when she’d left it.
“Is this even mine?”
Steve nodded. “On the house, love.” He leaned over the bar and tipped his chin. “You ever thought about singing for clubs and that? We could use you in ’ere on Saturday nights. Regular gig. Interested?”
“Sorry, Steve, singing is just a hobby now, and I’m here just for a short time. But thanks for the compliment.”
He nodded with a gesture for her to glance over her shoulder. “He liked your performance, too. Look at him. All smitten.”
She turned, hoping for Dylan to be standing yonder. But alas, no. David waved in their direction from a few tables behind them with Betty and Thomas, and he mouthed, “Come join us.”
She downed the drink, pulled out a note from her pocket, and waved it at the bartender. “Another, Steve. Make it something stronger.”
“Drinks are on the house tonight, love. Keep singing like that and you can have a lifetime tab.” Steve poured her the shot and placed it on the counter. She drank it and slammed the glass on the counter. “Another.”
Steve grinned. “Sure. I’ll keep ’em coming, how’s about that?”
“Sounds good.”
Flo finished her rendition of Lulu’s “Shout,” all screech and boobs.
Dylan hopped on the stage and introduced the next singer in waiting. “Here’s the yoga king again himself, singing a totally apt song for him. So put your hands, and your tips, yes, I said TIPS not tits, together for David wondering if we think he’s sexy.”
David strutted about singing “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy?” He wiggled his hips, he blew kisses, and he made it ever so obvious he was into Zoe.
Dylan stormed up to her, his mouth clenched and his stare unnerving. He stole her drink and gave it back to Steve.
“Hey, I was drinking that.”
“You be careful with that one. He’s after getting you drunk so you’ll kiss him.”
“No, he liked my singing.”
“You mean that bump and grind session? Yes, every man here enjoyed your performance.”
Steve cleared his throat and diverted his gaze to the floor. “It’s true. I was hoping for some action.”
Before the Rain Page 6
