“I can picture that.” He smiles, turning left at a stop sign, heading to the tiny downtown district where all the bars are.
“What’s the name of the band again?” I squeak out, sounding so unpolished and un-Lucy-like, it’s positively absurd.
“Scotty’s Tone Deaf.”
“Oh. That…has a nice ring to it.”
Dash laughs, pitching his head back, filling the interior of the car with his delicious baritone voice. “That’s one way of putting it. We’re basically going to listen to a garage band. There’s a kid named Scotty who lives at the end of Jock Row with his parents,” he offers by way of explanation as he pulls into the parking lot of The Warehouse, the city’s only concert venue. “He’s in high school and has a rock band, has this idol worship of the guys in the house.”
“Including you?”
He bows his head, embarrassed. “Sí.” Yes.
“That’s sweet.” Pause. “Did you already tell me this?”
Jesus, I sound like a complete idiot; if Lucy finds out, she’s going to kill me. Seriously, I need to stop talking before I make the whole thing worse.
I run down the facts Lucy gave me about Dash:
Twenty-two.
Six foot one.
Catcher on the baseball team.
Reserved.
Polite.
Lives on Jock Row in the baseball house.
That’s it, the entire catalog of seven things I know about him, and most likely the only seven things my sister will ever know.
“You sure you’re okay with listening to Scotty’s band? I figured you’d be cool with it.” He shoots me a perfect smile, his white teeth set off by his beautiful olive skin. “I wouldn’t call this a concert, I’d call it a set. They’re letting Scotty’s band play a few songs before the battle begins, nothing major. He’s the opening act before an opening act.”
“I love that.”
“Scott’s in high school,” he goes on. “I have no idea how he conned the manager of this place into letting him play, but I’m the only one from the house who promised to come listen.”
“That is so nice of you. I’m looking forward to it.”
I realize that I actually am. Dash has been a real gentleman so far, and I’m gradually beginning to ease up and enjoy his company.
He pulls into a parking space, puts the car in park, cuts the engine.
“I’d feel like a dick not showing up—the kid is only seventeen—but just so you know, there’s a chance his band is going to seriously suck.”
I grin at him, unable to stop myself. “Or he might surprise us?”
He’s not convinced, yanking the keys from the ignition. “Maybe, but I doubt it.”
Still.
He brought me to watch his kid neighbor’s band play—how sweet is that? My heart dips, and not because of the guilt I feel about deceiving this guy. Quite the opposite.
Dash Amado is not only amazingly hot.
He’s amazing.
3
Dante
I put my hand on the small of Lucy’s back, guiding her through the front entry of The Warehouse after standing in line and buying two tickets. I lead her toward the stage; there’s plenty of room near the front.
Or there are a few tables near the back.
I point to one as we pass it. “Should we go up front, or do you want a table?”
“We should definitely stand up front so he can see you.” Lucy gives me a nudge with her elbow. “You want him to know you’re here, don’t you?”
I nod.
Steering her forward, my hand still lingering on the small of her spine, my restless fingers find that sweet spot on the curving slope down to her ass. The fabric of her shirt is soft; I allow myself the luxury of letting it run liquid along my palm before pulling my entire arm away.
She glances at me over her shoulder, long hair swinging.
It’s definitely darker than the last time I saw her, and thicker?
When she smiles at me, I notice a small divot at the corner of her mouth I hadn’t noticed before, a tiny indentation near her full bottom lip.
I want to put the tip of my finger there and press it.
She catches me gaping at the dimple and touches it—covering it—offering me a wary, shy smile. Lucy, shy? No, that can’t be right; this chick is a man-eater. She’s the one who asked me out. She’s the one who’s always hanging all over me and my teammates at house parties, not the other way around.
She’s aggressive.
Way more aggressive than I’m attracted to.
I don’t know if I’m hallucinating, but the Lucy Ryan that showed up tonight? She’s been acting uncharacteristically reserved since I found her loitering outside her house.
Once more, my eyes roam to the tiny indent near her mouth, lingering there.
Nope. That definitely wasn’t there before.
Was it?
It’s adorable—I’d definitely remember.
Wouldn’t I?
Jesus Christ, estoy perdiendo la cabeza. I’m losing my damn mind.
We weave our way to position ourselves near the stage, early enough to score a great spot—dead center, right in the middle. Far enough up that Scotty will see me, far enough back that we can leave when the other bands play.
Unfortunately, we have to stand around for fifteen fucking more minutes waiting for this battle to begin, and Lucy doesn’t strike me as the type who can engage in conversation stimulating enough to keep me interested for long, let alone a whole quarter of an hour.
I can suffer through small talk until the band starts.
It’s our third date.
And our last.
After tonight, I doubt I’ll ever take her out again. Girls like Lucy lack the refinement I want in a girlfriend—she’s good for a quick fuck, maybe a few casual dates, but she won’t conocer a mi familia—meet my family.
Mi madre would be fucking pissed if I brought a girl like her home.
Estaría muerto. I’d be dead.
Still…there’s something about her tonight that has me second-guessing my first impressions, something I can’t put my finger on.
Tonight she seems aloof. Conservative.
Pretty and polite.
Classy.
It’s weird.
A good weird.
My lips curl into a smile as I look down at the crown of her head, the light hitting her hair, emphasizing the rich, chocolate brown color. Was it this color over the weekend? She must have gotten it dyed or whatever.
“Want anything to drink from the bar?” I lean into her, dipping my shoulders to get close, though she’s tall enough with those high heels on.
“Hmm.” She hesitates, worrying her lower lip. “Do I?”
I chuckle so low she couldn’t possibly hear me over the noise. “I don’t know, do you?”
“Are you drinking?”
What kind of a question is that? It’s a weekend—of course I was planning on drinking. Unless…does she not want me to drink?
“I was gonna do a beer.”
A firm nod. “Okay, that’s what I’ll have.”
“Beer?” I feel my mouth twitch. “What kind?”
“Whatever kind you’re having?”
“Are you sure?” She had white wine the last time we went out—four glasses of it, to be exact—and got shit-faced drunk. “I’m sure they have wine if you want it.”
Her mouth moves, forming the words, “Shit, that’s right. I drink wine, don’t I?” The venue is loud and echoes, but her words are clear, perfectly formed on her lips. Lucy pauses indecisively. “I guess I’ll have wine if they have it.”
She looks less than thrilled, pouty even.
“Tell me what you want, and I’ll grab it.”
“Let’s do wine.” A curt nod. “I’m a wine drinker that happens to also love beer, but tonight I’ll do wine, please.”
My face, of its own free will, twists into a would you make up your damn mind expression, and I figh
t off an impatient groan and an irritable sigh. “You want to hold our spots while I head to the bar or come with me?”
“No, no, you go! I mean, sure—yes, I’ll hold our spots,” she enthuses, practically shooing me toward the bar, but not physically touching me. “Yup, you go. I’ll wait here, right here in this spot. I won’t go anywhere.”
She flashes me a smile that’s just a little too cheerful; if I didn’t know any better, I’d think she was trying to get rid of me.
“All right,” I say slowly. “Give me a minute. Be right back.”
It takes me a solid five minutes to ease my way through the congested crowd to the bar, another five to hit the front of the line, and several more to get service.
One bottle of beer for me and one plastic cup of cheap white for her and I’m back at her side. When I sidle up, my date is furiously texting someone, head snapping up when she catches sight of me out of her periph. Shoves the phone in the back pocket of her jeans.
“Hey! I missed you!”
Plucking the cup of wine out of my hand, Lucy peers into it, squinting with one eye squeezed shut.
“Thanks.” When she sips it, her lips pucker. “Bottoms up!”
I don’t know why the hell she’d order it if she so obviously hates it, but I gave up trying to figure women out years ago.
“Good stuff?” I want to fucking laugh.
“Really good. Thank you.” Lucy takes another labored sip, demonstrating just how tasty she finds it. “Mmm.”
“If you don’t want it, don’t drink it.”
“No! It’s good. See?” Another gulp, another set of sour lips she’s terrible at hiding.
“Lucy, why the hell would you order wine if you don’t like it?” I pause, hold out my cup. “Do you want to chase it with some beer?”
She hesitates, glances behind us at the bar, which is now completely swarming with people. If I go back for another beer, it’ll take another half hour and I’ll miss Scotty’s entire gig.
“Don’t worry about it. This is fine.”
I take a chug of my bottle of amber, offer it to her. “Want a drink of mine?”
Her hand goes up, waving in protest. “No, no, that’s okay—don’t worry about it.”
“I’m not worried about it, but if you want a beer, I can share. It’s not like we haven’t swapped spit before.”
The lighting in here is shit, but I swear to God, Lucy is blushing. Has to be by the way her head dips, unable to meet my eyes.
On stage, Scotty’s band begins to saunter out, taking their places, running a sound check. The drummer inspects his kit; guitarists tune their strings. Lead singer taps the mic, raising and lowering it, tightening the screw to hold it at his preferred height.
As he’s doing that, my neighbor kid looks up, catches sight of me, throws a peace sign at the same time he swings his black bass guitar strap around his neck like he’s done it hundreds of times.
He probably has.
Well practiced, moving with ease, Scotty doesn’t look nervous at all. In fact, the teenage shit gives me a cocky wink when they begin a warm-up, exercising their fretting hands.
Wearing the well-worn t-shirt of another popular band and torn jeans, Scott bends his knees, strumming, hair gelled into tiny spikes.
Their first cords are upbeat.
First words, in tune.
Fluid.
Soon, I find my head bobbing to the beat. Lucy and I pass the beer back and forth between us, tipping it back. It goes down cold and smooth, but it’s not enough for two.
I grasp for it again, prepared to take another swig.
“Wait! Does this not taste so damn good? God I love it when they’re cold.”
Her eyes close when she swallows.
Her hips sway when the music begins.
It’s pretty fucking great.
AMELIA
I’m not expecting the next song to be slow, just like I’m not expecting my body to sway, hips gently rocking to the music.
I haven’t had much to drink, but it’s enough to loosen me up and forget myself, if only for a few moments. Enough for me to enjoy the company and the big, warm palms that slide around my waist.
It’s a full house tonight, stuffy.
“¿Está bien?” Is this okay? “Sorry I keep bumping into you, but the dickhead behind us keeps knocking into me.” His smooth voice speaks into my ear, the rich sound of his Spanish hitting all the nerves in my spine. “Te sientes diferente—una diferencia buena.”
You feel different, he says, rolling his tongue. A good different.
Since I’m pretending to be my twin sister—who doesn’t know a lick of Spanish—I don’t acknowledge the words, giving a feeble little nod without betraying myself.
In reality? My entire body is in complete and utter chaos.
I can understand him—perfectly.
I don’t want Dash speaking Spanish in my ear, whispering words meant for someone else. I don’t want Dash touching me—not because he repulses me.
But because he doesn’t.
He’s the antithesis of everything I thought he’d be. For the sake of my sanity, and to get me through this farce of a fake date, I desperately hoped the guy walking through my sister’s door would be a jerk.
A jockhole.
I prayed he’d be a stereotype, a caricature of what I perceive the average student athlete on our college campus to be. My sister is the jersey chaser, not me.
Pompous.
Boorish.
Egotistical asshole.
Dante Amado is none of those things.
He’s easygoing. Kind. Personable.
Every gentlemanly gesture out of Dash Amado has been sincere. His nice-guy routine is not an act; it’s who he is.
His mama raised him right.
And I’m so confused by it.
I wasn’t prepared for him to be like this.
Dammit! I’m not supposed to be attracted to my sister’s boyfriend— the guy my sister is dating—no matter how serious it isn’t, no matter how good-looking he is.
Honestly? I kind of hate myself right now.
A knot of guilt twists inside my stomach at the same time Dash’s hands ease around my waist, sliding over my rib cage, giving me a little squeeze. If I had to speak, there’s no way I’d be able to form a cohesive sentence.
The knot gets heavier, tighter, weighing me down. I’m the world’s worst twin.
The world’s worst sister.
“Having fun?” His baritone vocals hit my cerebellum, shockwaves finding their way down to all my best girly parts. “I really thought they were going to sound like complete shit—thank God they don’t.”
My throat is tight, and I have to clear it before I can speak. “I’m really impressed—I can’t believe they’re in high school.”
As many times as I’ve told myself I would try to fill Lucy’s high-heeled shoes on this date, I’m failing—so miserably. I want so desperately to be myself. I want my damn body to stop responding to Dash Amado. I want my damn heart to stop beating so wildly it feels like it’s about to burst out of my chest.
If only my cheeks weren’t so flushed, my palms so sweaty.
I’m a complete mess.
Dash’s giant catcher’s paws grip my body, loosely resting on my hips, thumbs hooking inside the front pockets of Lucy’s jeans.
He lowers his head, gently resting his chin on my shoulder, lips intermittently brushing against the exposed skin of my jawline as he stares straight ahead, watching Scotty.
I let my lids flutter closed, allowing my lashes to rest on my cheekbones for the briefest of seconds, giving myself this one moment.
This is how it would feel if we were a couple.
It feels too good.
He feels good.
So good. “Tan bueno,” I say, forgetting myself, muttering out loud. “Tan bueno.”
Dash goes still.
“¿Que es tan bueno?” His mouth is right there, lips grazing my neck. What’s so
good? he wants to know.
Jesus, it’s driving me absolutely freaking crazy—the Spanish, his cologne and his breath and the heat from his body. Even the hair on his arms is giving me goose bumps, the baby fine strands tickling the skin of my forearms as his thumbs dig gently into my hips.
“Huh?” I ask in a daze.
“You said so good.”
“Mmm, nope. Don’t think so.”
“Yes you did.” His lips skim the shell of my ear, speaking in a foreign language I spent years mastering. “I heard you, and you said it in Spanish.”
“I did?”
“¿Hablas español, Lucy?” Do you speak Spanish?
What the hell am I supposed to say to that? My sister doesn’t speak a word of it. “Um…?”
“¿Qué más no me estás diciendo?” What else aren’t you telling me? “Be honest.”
“Nothing.” Shit, I just answered him again.
He pulls back, turns me to face him, lightly setting those massive palms on my bare shoulders, fingers spreading over my skin, guaranteed to leave scorch marks in their wake.
His fingers brush the hair off my collarbone.
“¿Puedes entenderme?” You can understand me?
Crappers.
“Sí.” I cast my eyes away, chastised.
His are too intense.
Something changes in his expression then; he studies me under the lights of the stage, the red, blue, and green flickering strobes casting a glow across his skin.
Across mine.
Dash can’t quite figure me out, and I don’t blame him; I’m acting like I have multiple personalities. How could I let that Spanish slip out? Lucy is guaranteed to be pissed about that once she finds out.
Lucy, who could barely do her own English papers in high school.
I’m not my sister.
Not even close.
And call me crazy, but for a fleeting moment while Dash stands watching me—learning my tells—his brows lower and rise, concentrating on my face, reading every line imprinted there, eyes traveling over my chest, hair, and face.
Team Player: A Sports Romance Anthology Page 57
