River James (Rockers Of Steel #3)

by Mj Fields

  When my phone rings, I grab it out of my bag and look at the caller ID. Natasha, otherwise known as the brunette with way too much energy who works the desk part-time at the gym, has now become one of my very best friends.

  “Hey, girl,” I answer.

  “Keanna, I’m behind at the office. Will you pick up—”

  “Jordan from school? Of course. Meet you at the office?”

  Natasha’s ex is doing a stint in the state pen for armed robbery. She had no idea he had a gambling addiction or was capable of something like that. She doesn’t trust his family with her child after they took him to visit his father in prison and failed to tell her. She found out when he woke from a nightmare about the cage Daddy was in. Luckily, she has her family and me. I gladly help out whenever I can.

  “You are the absolute best. I hope you know I—”

  “I know,” I cut her off, knowing she could go on for fifteen minutes about how appreciative she is. “See you soon.”

  My girl has issues.

  Don’t we all, though?

  *****

  Jordan and I walk into Jersey Shore University Medical where Natasha and I ran into each other after I joined the gym. She is a physical therapist, and I am a registered nurse. My attitude about her changed when I got to know her, and I am so glad I did.

  “Can I push the button?” Five-year-old Jordan jumps up and down, his green eyes shining and his mop of brown hair bouncing under his hat.

  “Sure can. Four—”

  “Fourth floor,” he finishes the sentence for me.

  The entire way up to the fourth floor, Jordan giggles as he holds his belly. Then, when it stops and does the little descent elevators do, his big, green eyes widen, and he looks nervous, but only until it stops.

  I take his hand and give it a squeeze. “Ready?”

  He nods, smiles, and steps toward the door that’s opening.

  I look down at him as we walk hand in hand toward the physical therapy center Natasha works in.

  “When I was younger, I used to get so scared of elevators,” he says, as if admitting a deep, dark secret.

  “Wow, I would have never known,” I play along as I push the door open and snatch the hat off his head as we walk in.

  “That’s ’cause I’m a big boy now.” He smiles and looks around for an empty place for us to sit.

  Normally, there are two, maybe three, people in the office this close to closing time. Today, the office is abnormally busy for a Thursday at five-thirty. There is one entire row of people in the back, against the wall. Two men are playing on their phones, both undeniably good-looking. One has dark hair, the other a dark blond color. Two women are next to them. One is a blonde and a redhead sits next to the dark-haired guy.

  Jordan leads me to the row of chairs facing them. We sit, and Jordan grabs his little Superman backpack out of my hand and opens it. He reaches in and grabs his tablet.

  “You wanna play?” he asks.

  “Sure, little man.” I drop my brown Coach purse down next to me. “You’re gonna have to teach me, though.”

  His face lights up. “You wanna watch first?”

  “Sure thing.”

  As he starts talking about his game—Angry Birds—I see a black pair of boots walk past us.

  I glance up to see the owner of said sexy biker boots sit in the only empty seat across from us.

  “See, Keanna? Like this.” Jordan draws his little finger backward on the screen and releases. The bird goes flying.

  “You good?” I hear one of the men ask.

  “No. I don’t wanna be here. No sense in it. Waste of fucking time,” a gruff voice answers, and immediately, I feel its seediness in my core.

  “We’re here for you, man,” another man’s voice chimes in.

  “You’re here because you thought I wouldn’t show,” biker boots replies with some bite.

  I force my eyes to stay trained on Jordan and his game.

  “River,” a woman scolds quietly.

  “I swear to whatever the hell is up in the sky playing master puppeteer of my life, I don’t wanna hear it. It’s a waste of time. It’s not healing and—”

  “My mom will fix you,” Jordan announces, looking up. “She’s the best. Isn’t that right, Keanna?”

  Shit, I mumble in my head. “She sure is, Jordan.”

  “See? You’re gonna be fine,” Jordan assures before looking back down, continuing his game.

  “Let the healing begin then, little man. Send her right on over here and—”

  “River,” the same woman’s voice scolds again.

  “Hey, Momma, your boy says you can heal me. You wanna give it a go here, or you think I can sneak you off—”

  “Enough,” one of the men snarls.

  I look up briefly, and my eyes meet his, hard and angry.

  “What say you, Momma?”

  I point to myself. “Me?”

  “Little man says you can fix me, so how about you—”

  “Please excuse him,” the red-haired woman interrupts.

  “Excuse me?” he huffs.

  I force myself to speak. “Do I look like his momma?” He starts to answer, but I hold my hand up, stopping him. “You are in the wrong office for an eye exam. I will give you a hint, though. This young man here is not my son. Hell, we aren’t even the same color.”

  The dark-haired man smirks. “Don’t stop now; keep it coming. His ass needs to be put in check.”

  “Lust knows no color,” the man they call River says, looking at me as if he may be amused, but hell if I know what’s going on with his crazy ass. “If you have some special healing power, by all means, come on over and let the healing begin. Lay your healing hands—”

  The redhead elbows him, stopping him from finishing his sentence.

  “Crazy.” I shake my head then look at Jordan, who is engrossed in his game. “Didn’t your mother teach you not to talk to strange people?”

  “Strangers,” Jordan corrects me.

  “Well, I’m here to tell you, add strange people to your do-not-speak registry,” I whisper to Jordan.

  I hear a gruff chuckle and look up into the very amused eyes of the man I now know as River. I shake my head, then look away.

  “River, sorry to keep you waiting,” I hear Natasha say, and Jordan jumps up.

  “Mommy.” He runs to hug her.

  “Hey, bud.” She returns his hug and kisses the top of his head. “Can you and Keanna give me half an hour?” She looks up at me, and I nod.

  “Come here, little man. Let’s play.” I hold his tablet up.

  When I hear River chuckle, I look up as he walks by, adjusting himself. He stops and whispers, “Big man wants to play.”

  My jaw comes unhinged. However, I quickly snap it shut, not wanting the inquisitive five-year-old walking toward me to ask the hundred questions I am sure he would if he thought I was even a little off balance. Kids sense it, and they do it all the time.

  “Give my boy your digits. Let’s make it happen.” He winks, then is gone before I can give him one of my infamous quick-witted comebacks.

  “Ready to play?” Jordan asks as he bounces in the seat next to me.

  “Yes, of course, let’s play.”

  I am admittedly frazzled, and he looks at me. I don’t give him the chance to start the questioning. I point to his game.

  “Show me two more rounds. Then I am gonna destroy you.”

  “It’s on, Keeana.” He giggles.

  “Like Donkey Kong,” I remark, snickering.

  “Like who?”

  *****

  I take Jordan to the café across the street for cocoa while Natasha sees her patient.

  The over six-foot-tall, hazel eyes, pillow-lipped, silver-tongued sex god makes me uncomfortable in ways that floor me. He’s crude, has no filter, but the way he looked at me made something inside me shift, and I am not at all okay with it.

  He’s the kind of man I am sure could have any woman he wanted disro
bed in a matter of seconds. The look in his eyes held nothing but confidence, which I can only assume meant he could deliver.

  My phone rings. It’s Natasha.

  “We’re across the street,” I tell her.

  “On my way. Oh, and by the way, the drummer—”

  “Who?”

  “River.” She laughs. “He says, ‘I’m just a drummer.’”

  “You like him?” I ask, because if she says yes, maybe I won’t think about him.

  “Who wouldn’t, but he fucked your name with his mouth right in front of me. He’s into you, girl.”

  “No. Not happening.” I shake my head furiously back and forth, though she can’t see it.

  “He asked for your digits.”

  “You didn’t,” I gasp.

  “Heck no. But I should have. See you in a minute.”

  *****

  Today

  It’s three-thirty in the afternoon on a Friday, and I am walking out of the hospital, feeling like a new woman, and looking forward to my weekend off. As usual, I am heading to the gym. But first, I drive home, drop off the car, grab my gym bag out of the backseat, and wait for a cab. I’m not driving tonight. I’m going to be busy drinking.

  After changing into my workout gear, I hit the elliptical to loosen up my fatigued muscles. Thirty minutes later, I do the circuit. Then I shower at the gym because I promised Natasha I would meet her and a couple of her office friends for happy hour at O’Donnell’s pub.

  My phone sounds off as I am trying to make sense of my makeup. Looking down, I see a message from Natasha.

  Where are you? We’re on round two.

  I message back, Be there in five.

  Which is bull. I won’t be, because I am ten minutes away if traffic is good, and I haven’t even finished with my eyes.

  *****

  I can hear the music from the street as the taxi lets me off in front of O’Donnell’s. A live band is playing, and I immediately freeze, hoping like hell it isn’t the band of Miguel, my ex-boyfriend’s cousin.

  “There you are.” I look left and see Natasha walking up to me. “You’re here!” She dives forward and hugs me, laughing. “I’m a little tipsy.”

  “I’m here.” I fake a laugh as I try to stay present in our conversation while also trying to listen to the music. “Who’s playing?”

  “Not sure. They started as I walked out to go grab some gum from the store next door.” She giggles and repeats, “Store next door. I’m a poet, and I didn’t know it.”

  “You sure are,” I agree because, hell, she’s having fun, and Natasha doesn’t do fun often. “You staying with me tonight?”

  “Mom has Jordan,” she says, opening her wintergreen gum. “I haven’t been out in months. If I don’t find someone to take me home, I am certainly going home with you.”

  “My girl needs to get laid.” I smirk, pointing at her. “Hoochie dress, stripper boots, hair on point—I don’t think you’ll be going home with me.”

  “From your mouth to God’s ears.” She giggles, then covers her mouth. “Oh, that’s bad.”

  “Embrace bad,” I tell her as I open the door to the pub. “You deserve it once in a while.”

  “So do you,” she replies from behind me, loud enough for me to hear over the music. “Follow me; we have a table.”

  She walks around me, her dark hair hanging down her back in loose curls that cover part of her open back, deep red dress that falls just above her knees, nearly touching the black leather boots with the four-inch heels. My girl is looking hot tonight. Her attire conveys confidence, and I am ecstatic for her.

  I look up as I follow her through the crowd of Jersey Shore-like men. I am certain they are all spray-tanned and waxed … everywhere. They are without a doubt fine-looking—mmm-mmm-mmm—but I can guarantee they spend more time in front of a mirror than any man should.

  O’Donnell’s is nice with dark green painted walls, light oak flooring, and a matching light oak bar that spans nearly the entire length of the place. Built in coolers are centered behind the bar and seem to hold every beer imaginable. Plus, there are drafts in all assortments.

  A twenty-ish, blond-haired man, who is hot as hell, is behind the bar with a woman standing nearby who has lighter skin than I, but she is of African-American descent. She is tall, thin, stunning, and clearly with the blond man. The way he looks at her is a little unnerving, like he wants to eat her up or just has. It’s hot as hell. And she looks at him like she’s the canary to his cat.

  “Have a seat,” Natasha offers, drawing my attention away from the couple I would probably ditch my no threesome rule for if they simply asked.

  I sit down, still staring at my surroundings.

  “Keanna, this is Tiffany and Erin. Tiff and Erin, this is Keanna.”

  I smile, looking over at them. “Nice to meet you.”

  I hear one laugh. “Hot, isn’t he?” I glance at the girl. “I’m Tiffany.”

  I shake her outstretched hand and smile. “Hell yes, he’s hot.”

  “My friend Bekah is married to one of his friends. His name is Abe, and the woman with him is his fiancée, Nikolette.”

  “Lucky bitch,” I remark, shaking my head.

  “Yeah, lucky indeed. I’m Erin,” the other girl adds as she takes a shot from the tray in the center of the table, then hands one to me. “We are way ahead of you. Drink up, Keanna. It’s gonna be one hell of a night.”

  As soon as I do the shot, another is handed to me by Tiff. As soon as it’s gone, Natasha hands me yet another.

  “You trying to make me—”

  “Loosen up. It’s girls’ night!” she interrupts with a drunken grin.

  “Cheers to that.” Erin raises her beer, and I tap her glass with my shot.

  Tiffany then disappears to grab another round, and I watch her walk up to the bar. She’s five foot nothing, pushing her way through the crowd with the attitude of a six-foot-three man. She is wearing a short, camo skirt over black leggings; an Army green jacket over a black T-shirt; work boots; and her hair is loosely tied back with waves spilling out from the hair tie. I already know I’m going to like her.

  “The band’s good,” Erin exclaims, drawing my attention back to the table. “Apparently, the owner—aka, blond hottie bartender—is gonna do live shows here once in a while to find talent for a friend of his. These guys”—she points to the small stage—”are local, just starting out and opening for the next band, Inappropriate Thoughts. I love listening to live music.”

  Son of a bitch, I think to myself, looking around and hoping I don’t see Miguel, who periodically travels with the band as their on again, off again manager. His cousin, Anthony Masterson—or “The Master” as he is dubbed—is the frontman of Inappropriate Thoughts.

  I am happy when I don’t see him until I spot Anthony walking onstage, donning his almost obscenely skin tight, black leather pants and his black tank top with a new band logo—one I haven’t seen—with his black hair down and out of the everyday bun it’s usually in.

  “Holy hell,” Natasha mutters, ogling him.

  I understand why. He’s beautiful, and the fact that he is hung like a fucking mule is unmistakable in his pants. Who am I kidding? It’s unmistakable on Sunday afternoons at the Masterson family dinners when he is wearing loose jeans.

  Tiffany returns with four glasses full of a dark tap beer and sets them in front of us. “Hottie bartender says this is the best tap beer. I kind of believed him. How fucked up is that? Just because he looks like a god, I take his word as gospel.”

  They all laugh until Anthony’s voice comes over the microphone.

  “You ready to let me play with you for a while?”

  “I’m ready to let you play with me all night,” Natasha’s voice booms over a crowd that quieted as soon as his voice stimulated their ears.

  When his eyes narrow as he scans the crowd, she covers her mouth, appearing mortified.

  “You just fucked with the wrong guy.” I can’t hel
p giggling.

  “You have no idea what you just got yourself into,” he says, his eyes meeting hers.

  She points to me as her face flushes furiously. Anthony glances at me, gives me a smirk, but looks back at her and shakes his head, pointing directly at her. “I’m gonna own you for one night.”

  Deeds, singer and guitarist, laughs and starts playing “Take me deep.”

  “You better run, little red dressing hood. He’s a freak,” I warn, feeling almost sorry for her.

  “Pft, no man can own me,” she declares with a nervous tremor in her voice, still looking at the stage.

  “He sure could try owning me for the night,” Erin chimes in.

  I hear Sticks begin to beat on the drum and look over, but it’s not Sticks.

  “Oh, my God, is that—”

  “River James,” Natasha interrupts. “He’s healing well. The band’s drummer is playing with Steel Total Destruction until he is cleared to go back,” she shouts over the music.

  “Seems like he should be cleared. He’s better than Sticks,” I say, watching him. His eyes are hazel, head shaved tight, his jaw square and strong, and his lips, dear God his lips are like pillows.

  “You seem to know him,” Erin states. “Tell us all about it.”

  “Long story”—I slam half my beer and look over at her—”one that is not being told here or now.”

  She doesn’t look away, seeming unreceptive to my avoidance.

  “If he can’t play with his band, why is he playing here tonight?” I ask, hoping to take the conversation back to a safe zone.

  “He’s on a journey, I think,” Natasha says, giving me a smirk.

  I look back at the stage and watch him. “A journey,” I mumble as I find myself drawn to the man with the sticks in his hand, intense hazel eyes, and an air of anger surrounding him. He is no good for me.

  When the set I promised Taelyn I would play is finished, I feel anxious, annoyed, and angry. I immediately head out the back and spark up Chilz. Two hits and I’m feeling a little less pissed off and anxious.

  “You did well.” Masterson holds out his hand for Chilz, and I hand it to him.

  “I wasn’t feeling it. I played like shit.” I shake my head, hoping to erase the entire experience.