by Denise Wells
We walk into the room, and four guys stand, surround us, and start talking at once.
“There he is.”
“Took you long enough, fucker.”
“Dibs on the babe.”
“You still owe me twenty bucks, asshole.”
Chance man-hugs them all individually, and then introduces me.
“Remi Vargas, meet the Night Moves. This is Chad on the drums, Taylor on guitar, Carter on keyboards, and Trace is the singer and also plays guitar.”
“Gentlemen, I’ve heard a lot about you. It’s nice to meet you.”
Chad looks around the room. “Who’s she talking to? There ain’t no gentlemen here, sweetheart.” We all laugh.
Trace hands a beer to both Chance and me, and we sit back into couches too deep and worn to be comfortable. The guys take turns sharing stories about when Chance was with the band.
They make it easy to join in the conversation, or sit back and listen, so I do both. Chance has his arm around my shoulders and is lightly caressing the skin of my upper arms. Every so often the couch shakes with his laughter. Being with him like this is so effortless, so natural. I think I could sit here all night and have a great time.
I finish my second beer and belch a little too loudly. Then cover my mouth. “Excuse me. Sorry about that.” My cheeks redden slightly.
“Beautiful and has manners, I like it,” Taylor says.
“And spoken for,” Chance says as he pulls me into him and kisses my temple. I try to ignore the little fire that lights in my belly when he does that. But I can’t. And I have this horrible feeling that even if I win this bet. I’m going to lose in the end. Because I’m developing feelings for Chance Bauer, and everybody knows that she who cares the most is never the one who wins.
Chapter 21
Chance
I’m enjoying the hell out of being with the guys again. It was pure luck that they were playing here in town tonight when I had a date with Remi. But more than just seeing them, is watching them with her. She fits right in with the crude jokes and coarse language. She may be the girliest, most high maintenance female I’ve ever met. But she can hang in the back of the bar trenches with the best of them. I am proud as fuck of her.
A loud knock sounds on the wall by the door. “Ten minutes, Night Moves.”
“That’s our cue.” Carter stands up and says, “Gotta go be famous and adored.”
Remi stands and walks toward the door, and I move to follow her. She pats Carter on the chest as she passes him and says, “Pretty sure you are zero for two there, son.”
And right there, with one line, she gets him back for all the things he’s teased her about throughout the night. The band and I all bust out laughing. Carter is the jokester of the group, and to see him speechless, with his mouth hanging open, is priceless.
I grab Remi’s hand and kiss the back of it. “That’s my girl,” I say with a wink. She blushes ever so slightly. It’s a good look on her.
I turn back to the guys and give them a small salute as a goodbye. “Gentlemen.”
“Aw, what’d we tell you about calling us that,” Carter says. “Not nice, man.”
“She’s a keeper,” Trace yells.
I raise a hand over my head and keep walking. I have to smile when I hear Chad say, “She’s a sassy one for sure, but did you see that ass? Dayum.”
*
We get to the main floor and I see the guys have reserved two stools for us at the end of the bar closest to the stage. We get situated and I pull Remi’s stool up close to the front of mine so she is sitting between my legs and can lean back against my chest if she wants. Hopefully she does, because that’s what I want.
“Do you want a martini or stick with beer?” I ask, my mouth close enough to her ear to nuzzle it lightly. I’m rewarded by the slight shiver that runs through her body. She puts her hand on my thigh and turns slightly in her stool to face me, our noses almost touching. Her tongue slips out of her mouth and she licks my lips lightly.
“Mmmm,” she says. “You taste good. I’ll stick with beer.” My cock hardens. My reactions to her are so quick and visceral. She pulls her head back and turns toward the stage before I have a chance to kiss her. But her hand stays resting on my thigh. I order two beers as the guys take the stage.
They open with “The Fire Down Below,” which always gives Taylor a chance to show off his skills on the strings. Remi sways against me in time to the beat and taps it out on my thigh. I feel good sitting like this with her.
“Rock and Roll Never Forgets” is next in the set list. When they transition from one song to the next, Remi goes a little crazy in her stool, screaming, whistling and clapping. She’s in rare form tonight. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so loose and unrestrained.
Except when we kissed.
She turns back to me. “Let’s do shots!”
“Beautiful, I’ve got to drive us home.”
“We’ll Uber,” she says. “Have fun with me.”
“I am having fun with you.”
“Have MORE fun with me.” She places a small kiss on my lips. “Please.”
I caress her cheek with the back of my fingers, enjoying when she leans into it. Then I turn back to the bartender, and when I catch his eye, tell him, “Two tequila shots, please.”
Two songs later we’ve had two shots each and a beer chaser, and we’re standing in front of our stools. I’ve got my arms around Remi from behind, with her pulled tight against me. She’s holding my hands with hers at her waist. I can’t get over how good she feels. How good she smells. How hard she makes me.
I nuzzle her neck and she leans her head to the side to give me better access. I bite her collarbone, a little harder than necessary, but instead of getting mad, she reaches back and puts her arms around my neck, pulling my mouth to hers. The kiss is brief, due to the awkward angle, but she initiated it, and that gives me hope.
Bet or no bet, I don’t want to give this girl up at the end of the month. And the more I can convince her that it’s good between us, the better my chances are of saving this when she finds out.
Because she will find out that she was a bet. And no matter how many times I’ll try to convince her that it only started that way, it’s going to take a miracle to get her to forgive me.
Chapter 22
Remi
I have never felt this good.
I mean, I know I’m buzzed, but I’ve drunk a lot before and not felt like this. I should have set up a code word with Kat to come get me. But even if I had, I wouldn’t want to use it. I like it here. With him.
The band is finishing up the song “Main Street,” and yes, I brushed up on all my Bob Seger songs since finding out Chance was in a cover band. Most of the songs Chance hums or sings softly in my ear, his chin resting on my shoulder. His voice does things to my girly parts. Really good things. Kat calls them vagina butterflies, and right now I couldn’t agree more.
Trace waits for the applause after the song to die down, and then he starts talking, “Any long-time fans in the audience tonight?”
I’m surprised by the amount of applause and cheering at that.
“So, y’all may remember a time when I just played bass guitar and didn’t sing,” Trace says. More cheering erupts.
“The Night Moves used to be a five-man band. Until our singer left us to further a career in, gasp, law enforcement. It doesn’t get any worse than going from rock star to cop, am I right?” The roar of the crowd is near deafening.
I turn back to Chance. “He’s talking about you, isn’t he?”
Chance smiles and nods. “I told you I’d sing you a song, beautiful.”
Holy Shit. I thought he was kidding.
A second spotlight searches the crowd and lands on Chance and me.
“So, let’s say we give the cop a chance, no pun intended buddy, to relive his rock star fantasies and let him sing one. Whaddya say?”
Chance kisses my cheek and slips out from behind me. I st
art clapping and screaming with the rest of the crowd. Stomping my feet on the floor for good measure.
Because my date is about to get up on stage and sing a song.
To me.
Chance takes the microphone from Trace, and says, “That’s detective to you, pretty boy.” I put my fingers in my mouth and whistle, then stomp my feet some more because I like the sound.
Trace starts strumming the guitar softly, and the crowd quiets. The music gets a little louder.
“This one’s for you, beautiful,” Chance says, and the spotlight finds me again. But I’m too keyed up to be embarrassed.
Then he starts singing, and he’s looking right at me.
“A gypsy wind is blowing warm tonight.”
His voice is low and husky. And sexy.
Really fucking sexy.
I can see exactly why rock stars are always getting laid. He’s like lady crack up there, all addictive and desirable. The lights shine on his hair, making it look even lighter, and his eyes are mesmerizing, even from this far away.
He sounds good. He looks amazing. His t-shirt tight, showing off his biceps as he holds the microphone. His foot tapping in motorcycle boots, jeans molded to his hips and legs. The slight scruff on his face, which I can still feel the scratch from on my neck, just lend to the overall sex appeal that is Chance Bauer on stage. His movements are slow and mesmerizing, I imagine that’s how he would make love to me, with movements slow and mesmerizing. Oh God, did I just think that? I am getting sucked the fuck in.
Then he gets to the chorus and I start to tear up just a little bit.
“Someday lady you’ll accompany me.”
I don’t know if it’s the beer, or the shots, or the adrenaline. Maybe I’m PMS’ing. But this shit is making me seriously emotional.
Goddamnit.
This has got to be the sexiest fucking song I’ve ever heard.
With the sexiest fucking guy singing it.
To me.
Holy shit balls. I’m all in. I don’t care if I lose the bet. I don’t care if I get hurt. I’m going to tell him I want to do this. I get what Kat’s been saying all along about relationships. And it’s going to be totally worth it.
I smile big at him, not sure if he can see me or not. I can tell he’s nearing the end of the song.
His eyes close when he gets to a high point, he looks beautiful with his head thrown back as he loses himself in the song. I’m so caught up in the moment, I don’t even notice the woman next to me.
Until she speaks.
“I remember when he used to sing this song to me,” she says.
And it’s like a needle scratching across an old vinyl record, everything stops.
“Excuse me?”
“Chance.” She nods her chin toward the stage. “He used to sing this song to me all the time.”
I look up at the stage, the song is finished, and Chance is leaning down to shake hands and high-five some of the people near the front of the stage. The applause is crazy.
The spotlight has since left me and is back on Trace and the band as they start up another song. I watch as Chance jumps down from the stage and talks to a few people.
I turn toward the woman. “I’m sure, as the lead singer, he would sing this song a lot.”
“Yes, but as his wife, I knew it was for me,” she says, her tone superior.
If I thought the first time she said something to me was jarring. Then hearing the word ‘wife’ was like a system shut down. My ass hit the stool seat with a thud.
“Did you say, wife?” I don’t believe what I’m hearing.
“He didn’t tell you?” she smirks. “Guess it isn’t that serious between you two, is it honey?”
I feel the ground drop out from under me. He’s married? I look back at the woman, out at Chance, then back at her. She looks like Sylvester right after he got Tweety Bird to fly in his mouth.
Oh fuck no.
I turn back toward the bar. “Can I get another shot? Make it a double,” I ask the bartender once I catch his eye.
The benefit of being friends with the band, you always get served quickly. I polish off both shots quickly, hoping she’ll leave in the meantime. If I ignore her, she’ll go away. ‘Cause no way in hell is this really happening. I glance to the side.
She’s still there.
Fuck.
Her attention is on Chance, who is still near the stage, so I take a minute to really look at her.
His wife.
He’s fucking married?
She’s exquisite looking. Not that I would expect anything less from a guy as good-looking as Chance. She has long, slightly wavy, light brown hair with blonde highlights, and big brown eyes. She looks a lot like Keira Knightley in the pirate movies. Sun-kissed, wind-blown, tan, and healthy. The opposite of my pale skin and carefully coiffed hair.
I know that I’m attractive, but it does not just come out of the box that way, I work at it. I accentuate only my best features and go with a look that I know works for me. Is it high maintenance? Yeah, probably.
I’m not one of those natural beauties that can throw on sunscreen and Chapstick and look amazing. I require spackle and a coat of paint. Or two.
But this woman, she needs nothing.
She’s beautiful and she’s his wife.
He’s fucking married.
How could I be so stupid?
How did this not come up before? I swear Kat told me he was single. Maybe he’s separated? Or divorced? Either way, he’s never mentioned it.
Not that it matters, because this is a bet. And right now, I love my pride more than I love my Louboutins. So, fuck this. I slap my hand on the bar for emphasis.
I feel Chance’s arm slide around me from behind and stiffen. “Shots without me, beautiful?” He nuzzles my neck, something that not five minutes ago would have made my knees buckle.
“Anything to drown out the ruckus of you singing,” I say.
He straightens and pulls away from me, laughing slightly. “Wow, was I that bad?”
He spins my stool around so I’m facing him. But I refuse to look him in the eye. He tries to tilt my chin up, so I avert my eyes, but he keeps moving his head around and crouching down until his gaze catches mine.
“Hey, what happened? Are you okay?”
“Fine.”
“Okay,” he says, drawing the word out slightly.
“Hello, darling.” My head shoots up when I hear her voice and the top of my head clips Chance in the chin.
“Ow, fuck,” he says. “What the hell Remi, that…”
I can tell the minute it sinks in that someone was talking to him, and when he realizes who was talking.
He looks slowly in her direction.
“Your hair is different,” Chance says after a minute.
“Aw, you noticed,” the wife says.
“Wait, what the fuck are you doing here?” He shakes his head slightly.
“Free country.” The wife shrugs her shoulders, looking nonchalant.
“Well, leave,” he says. “This is my thing, not yours.”
“Clearly this is many peoples’ thing, not just yours.” She gestures to the crowd.
Chance takes a deep breath and lets it back out slowly, muttering something I don’t understand. It must suck to get caught red-handed.
“Look,” Chance says. “We’re on a date, so if you don’t mind.” He makes a hand motion as if to say ‘scurry along.’
“Oh, don’t go on my account,” I say. “I was just leaving.”
“I thought you were on a date?” the wife asks with a smirk.
“We are,” Chance says at the same time I say, “Not anymore.” I hop off my stool and turn to leave. Chance grabs my upper arm to stop me. I turn back to him. “Let go of me.”
His grip lightens. “Remi, will you just listen for a second? It’s not—”
“Let go,” I say again, my voice rising.
He hesitates, then lets go of my arm, and I work my way through
the crowd as best I can. I need to get away. I can’t stand to look at him another minute. Or maybe it’s that I can’t stand to have him see me for another minute.
Either way.
The line at the women’s bathroom is at least twenty deep.
Fuck.
Then I remember a small unisex bathroom backstage near the room where we’d met the band, so I head toward the back. My chest grows tight.
Holy fuck, am I going to cry?
Jesus Christ.
You’re so weak, Remi.
The guy guarding the hallway remembers me from earlier and lets me by with hardly a second glance.
Again, the perks of knowing the band. I turn back, but don’t see Chance behind me.
Of course.
I mean, why would he follow me when his wife is here. My gaze blurs and I can’t quite catch my breath.
Fuck.
I look around, trying to find the fucking door before I lose it completely.
Ohmigod.
So. Fucking. Stupid.
Never trust anyone.
I find the door, lock myself in the bathroom, and prepare to cry for the first time in over twenty-five years.
Chapter 23
Chance
I watch as Remi weaves her way through the crowd toward the back of the bar, and away from me.
What in the actual fuck is happening?
Helen, my ex, puts her hand on my arm from behind me and leans up against my back to whisper in my ear. “That’s too bad, she was cute.”
I turn around to face her. “Fuck you, Helen.”
“Is that any way to talk to your wife?” Helen asks.
“Wife? Are you fucking crazy?” My stomach tightens, I feel nauseous. “Ha. I can’t believe I almost forgot. You are fucking crazy. I could have you arrested just for being here.”
“You wouldn’t arrest me,” Helen says. “We were practically married.”
“We were never practically married. You were barely even a fiancée. A manipulative nut-job of a fiancée at that.”
“I made a mistake,” Helen says.
