by Jennifer Ann
His full lips bend with a grin. “Good to finally meet you, Evelyn. I look forward to having you on my payroll.”
As I take his smooth hand and my lungs fill with his manly scent, my traitorous cheeks warm. “Thanks for giving me the job. If you hadn’t, I probably wouldn't have had the chance to move out here.”
“Are you sure you aren’t yanking my chain with this farm girl business?” Nolan asks Sharlo while still holding my hand. Eyes hitting mine, his smile grows. “She’s not what I was expecting after everything you told me.”
I squint Sharlo’s way. “What exactly did you tell him?”
One of her hands raises at her side in a defensive move. “I merely requested that he keep an eye on you since you’re new to the big city life. Don’t need you winding up in the emergency room because some bloke slipped something into your drink.” She tilts her head in Nolan’s direction. “Don’t let the suit fool you. This one was a Marine and trained with the SEALs in Pearl Harbor. Now he dabbles in jujutsu. You ought to feel safe when he’s around.”
“I’ll make sure you’re well taken care of,” Nolan promises, seeming embarrassed by her praise.
Again I feel a flush rise in my cheeks and want to hide. One minute with my new boss and I’m already acting like a young school girl with a crush. It doesn’t help that Sharlo’s doing her best to play matchmaker.
I slip my hand from Nolan’s and twist my fingers together in front of me. Never fails to make me uncomfortable when talking to a good-looking guy. It’s just one of many reasons I’ve been single for so many years.
“My brother Braden is a Marine,” I tell him. “He’s stationed in Japan.”
Nolan’s eyebrows raise. “How long’s he been in?”
“Almost three years. I think he’s going to sign up for another tour.”
“Oorah.”
When Nolan crosses his arms over his chest, I can’t stop watching the way his generous muscles strain beneath his clothes. Ugh, everything he does comes off as being sexy. If he’s such good friends with Sharlo, why hasn’t she snagged him up by now? Maybe my hormones are just in overdrive now that I realize I finally have the freedom to date whomever I want.
Nolan eyes Sharlo thoughtfully. “Do you mind saving a place for Evelyn up by the stage while I show her around?”
“Not at all,” Sharlo answers brightly. Taking my drink from my hands, she whispers in my ear, “Enjoy the private tour, love.”
My stomach tightens into a giant knot. Though it feels like a blatant set-up on her part, I suppose it makes sense for him to familiarize me with the place. Nolan tilts his head for me to follow him through the crowd in the opposite direction of the stage.
Three women and a guy all around my age take orders and pour drinks behind the massive mahogany bar, moving around each other like a choreographed dance. Nolan grabs their attention one-by-one to let them know I’ll be starting on Monday. Despite being stressed by the demanding crowd, they each stop long enough to flash a welcoming smile and mutter some kind of greeting.
Nerves swell in my gut when I picture my first time working behind the bar on a busy night. Thank God my brother James isn’t around to keep an eye on me like he often did when I was waitressing back home. I figured he’d blow a nut when I told him about this job, but for some reason he didn’t protest. He’d probably feel differently if he saw this crowd.
“You’ll be fine,” Nolan promises, as if sensing my unease. “We’re starting you out on a slow night. C’mon, I’ll show you the rest of the bar.”
Several patrons shout out enthusiastic greetings to Nolan as we make our way to a set of heavy doors in the far back. We slip into a quiet, comfortable room filled with a collection of rich leather furniture. Nolan makes his way over to a well-stocked wet-bar.
“This is where everyone hangs out on their breaks,” he says with his back to me as he pours something. “Sometimes the bands will come back here after they’re done and have a few drinks. A few times we’ve ended up ordering carry-out and staying until late morning.”
A jealous swell comes over me when I picture the other waitresses hanging out later tonight with Charlie Walker. “I noticed you get some pretty famous acts to perform. How long have you owned this place?”
“A few years. I basically grew up here. Believe it or not, I inherited it from my grandma. She was a total hippie back in her day. Even now in her eighties she still likes to dye her hair in outrageous colors and the live-in nurse we hired is always complaining her music’s too loud.”
I laugh. “Your grandma sounds awesome.”
“She is.” He returns to hand me one of two low-ball glasses with a shot of something dark. “Here’s to your new adventure in the city.”
We clink glasses, and I take a drink, sputtering as the burn of a spicy whiskey slips down my throat.
Nolan touches my arm, eyebrows stitched with concern. “Are you alright?”
“Whoa, that’s strong,” I say, holding it away from my body. “Jameson?”
“Middleton.”
The smile he flashes is brilliant, making the burn of whiskey in my gut even stronger. Though he’s gorgeous and acting like a complete gentleman, I suddenly feel a need to get away from him before I start flirting. It wouldn’t be too smart to cross the employee/employer line on a job I haven’t even started yet. I set the glass on an end-table and take a step back. “Thanks for the tour, Mr. Zi—”
“It’s Nolan,” he insists. “I hope I’m not making you uncomfortable.”
“No, I just feel like I’m ditching Shar.” I continue toward the doors, smiling politely. “I’ll see you on Monday.”
I leave the room and push my way through the mob of scantily dressed women until I find Sharlo leaning up against the stage, chatting it up with a middle-aged, bleached blonde with large breasts barely contained by a camisole. The woman flashes a freakishly white smile, though I get the feeling it’s not sincere and more of a territorial thing. Intimidated by her striking features, I can hardly return the smile. When she turns away, my eyes catch on her impossibly high designer heels. They’re the kind my brother James calls “fuck me shoes” and once forbade me to wear.
“Anything on the tour tickle your fancy?” Sharlo asks.
“Why do I get the feeling you really want me to hit it off with my new boss?”
Laughing, she links her arm with mine. “Nolan’s a kind man who’s desperate to find someone to properly spoil with all his millions. He only works here because this bar means the world to him. I’m waiting for the right woman to come along and drag him away from his work.”
“Why don’t you go out with him?”
“Because that would be ridiculous. He’s like a brother. Took me under his wing when I moved into the neighborhood and always has my back.”
When I’m elbowed from behind, I move closer to Sharlo. “This place is dripping with pheromones.”
“You think it’s nutters now, just wait until Charlie takes the stage.”
Before long the small bar erupts with screams, whistles, and applause. Nolan appears on the stage, adjusting the microphone to his height and waiting as the noise dies down. “Thank you all for coming here tonight!” Sweat beads at his hairline as he brushes his fingers over the sides of his jeans. “It gives me great pleasure to bring to you one of Brooklyn’s own, a man who needs no introduction, the one and only Charlie Walker!”
A man even bigger than Nolan with unruly dark hair swaggers across the small stage, black acoustic guitar in hand, and claps Nolan on the back. The decibel level increases until I worry I’ve popped an eardrum.
In person, Charlie Walker is ten times more handsome—and built—than he appeared in the “Coney Island Kid” video, possessing the charisma of a movie star. There’s a golden glow to his skin like there was in the video, though his face doesn’t appear as flawless, mostly due in large part to a light stubble growing along his jawline and a small scar nestled inside one of his eyebrows. With his extraordin
arily good looks and the sculpted body of a gym rat, he makes holey jeans, flip-flops, and a faded T-shirt look like something right off a runway.
A confident flare ignites Charlie’s beautiful eyes, adding to the laid-back ease of his movements that must come with stardom. There’s a hint of something else to his dazzling smile that I can’t quite decipher, though it makes him all the more intriguing. I get the feeling that deep down, there’s something dangerous about him. He’s the worst kind of bad boy all wrapped up in a smoking hot body.
My heart races when I recall the way he flirted with the camera and his deep voice rumbled from my computer’s speakers while I brought myself to a blissful climax. If he had been the one touching me, I would’ve combusted on the spot. Just the thought of tasting his pouting bottom lip has me suddenly wet.
After casually settling on the wooden stool in the center, he sets the guitar in his lap and adjusts the microphone. When the women continue to holler like they’ve lost their minds, his full lips bend with a slow smile and his icy blue eyes spark to life. Laughing, he combs a hand through his hair, giving it that tousled look that only his type can perfect, before continuing to flash the crowd his million dollar smile.
When the older blonde at my side blows him a kiss, Charlie answers with a wink that jars me from my fantasies. Then, as if drawn by a magnet, his icy blue eyes catch with mine and his smile slowly fades. Something deep inside my chest clicks into place as we stare at each other. Holy hell, the man is certifiably gorgeous. But why is he staring at me like he’s going to be sick?
“Someone's made an impression,” Sharlo teases, elbowing me in the ribs. “Be careful or you’ll become one of his groupies. Before you know it you’ll be preggers with his love child and following him on tour.”
Charlie’s eyes close and he shakes his head before his dazzling smile returns. His eyes avert away from me to the general crowd as he takes the microphone in his thick fingers. “Hello, Brooklyn!” he calls out in the same low, rumbling sound that brought me to orgasm when watching his video.
Hello Brooklyn is right. The screaming resumes until there’s a dull ringing in my ears. Charlie knows the effect he has on every woman in the room, and he’s soaking it up. It’s a turn-off when I consider he’s probably slept with hundreds of groupies. Still, I can’t deny that I wouldn’t be able to turn down someone like him. My mouth waters as I envision my tongue licking the intricate design swirling down his monster-sized arms—some of which appears to involve a rosary and a woman praying.
Amidst the obnoxious racket of women, I pretend to check my phone for messages. In reality, I’m completely unnerved by Charlie Walker. It’s ridiculous for me to think he showed any real interest in me, even if I wasn’t turned off by his smug attitude. If anything, maybe he was staring at me because he’s shocked that I didn’t dress up for him like all the other women. That would make perfect sense.
As he starts strumming the guitar and crooning an easy-going, beautiful melody, I lose myself in the music, forgetting about the strange interaction between us. Damn, the guy can really sing. In “Coney Island Kid” there was so much background noise from the electric instruments that I wasn’t able to appreciate the deep, raw roll of his voice.
Sharlo shimmies up into my side and I laugh, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and shaking my body along to the beat. A couple of months ago, I never would’ve pictured myself standing here instead of busting my butt for minimum wage in a town I despised for most of my life. I’m in New York with a friend I’ve been dying to meet for years, free to do whatever the hell I want. Things are stellar enough on their own. Who needs a gorgeous rockstar?
Chapter 5
CHARLIE
Every single fucking time I sneak a look at the sexy brunette with intense eyebrows, my dick stirs inside my jeans, begging for permission to play. I do my best to ignore it, instead using the energy to make this my best performance. Yet I can’t shake the intense moment when our eyes met. With that one heated look, she completely unmanned me. Beneath those curved, dark eyebrows are the most alluring honey colored eyes that make me want to tangle my fingers in her long dark hair and break one of my most coveted rules of not kissing groupies.
What in the hell am I doing? Women are nothing more to me than a casual good time. Something to keep me busy and satiate my needs. Beyond that, they’re not worth any serious kind of investment. Danny always said that we didn’t need chicks getting dragged into our crazy shit and messing with our heads. So what is it about this one—who is so far from my normal type it’s like she’s in a different zip code—that made me want something more than a casual fuck?
For starters, she’s not dressed desperate like 99% of the others, and she bobs her head along to the beat like concerts are her thing. Like it comes natural and she doesn’t give a shit about putting on a show to impress anyone. And she makes the reporter I invited look fake as shit. Damn it, I shouldn’t have made that Gwen chick think she’d be getting a private show after the interview.
Unlike the groupies that come after me, the brunette seems genuine in every way. Braided hair, collection of dark freckles that spill from her little nose down onto her cheeks, she’s fucking cute. Both her eyelashes and tits appear to be the real deal. Most of all I appreciate the fact that she isn’t falling all over herself for a chance to touch me like everyone else by the stage. For a heart-stopping moment I wonder if she’s into women the way she’s touchy-feely with the chick on her other side.
With every glance, I find myself fantasizing in different ways. I want to fist her dark, silky hair. I want to kiss every last one of her freckles. I want to cup her tits beneath her shirt that make a sweet curve beneath her top. I want to make her come with my mouth and find out what her voice sounds like as she cries my name. But above everything, I want to run my tongue over every inch of her sun-kissed skin and sink my teeth into her ripe bottom lip.
Jesus, Walker. Focus.
Though the crowd continues yelling like crazy, I could play the theme song from Law & Order and they’d probably still lose their fucking minds. How am I supposed to gauge my talent as a solo artist on a crowd driven by hormones? Stacking the audience with women was one of Lorenzo’s least brilliant ideas. I nearly bust a gut laughing when I catch him cozying up off stage to a set of blonde twins that could work for Hooters. The guy is more driven by pussy than I’ve ever been, which is saying a lot.
I catch the brunette’s interested gaze a second time when my set’s nearly over. Her pouting lips part slightly with a silent sigh and she stops moving as I watch her. Those big brown eyes fill me with the kind of warmth I haven’t felt since I was a kid that got off on campfires and hot cocoa instead of women. When I imagine her lips all over my skin, sliding up and down my cock, it throbs painfully and I lose my place in the song. The brunette’s body jerks and she snickers inside her hands.
She laughed at me.
Goddamn she’s really something special.
After bullshitting my way through the rest of the melody, I announce that I’m going to take a small break before playing the last two songs. I dart from the stage, hooking Lorenzo by the arm and pulling him away from the blondes.
His eyes widen. “Why a break now when you’re almost done?”
“There’s someone in the crowd I have to meet. If I go down there we both know it’ll create a giant cluster-fuck. You need to get me her name and number.”
“Listen. I told you it’s time to cut back,” he reminds me in a dark tone. “You don’t need any more random hook-ups messing with your reputation. Your focus should be on finishing this set with a bang. You want to give them something they can’t stop talking about.”
“I’m not interested in a hook-up,” I answer, peering through the heavy curtains. “I just want to meet her.” The brunette and the hippie chick she was hanging on are both gone. Hopefully they're just getting more drinks and haven’t left. There’s a tight pinch in my chest when I consider that I may never see her aga
in.
I turn back to Lorenzo. “Short brunette with freckles and a braid thing in her long hair, lacy white shirt, decent set of tits. You’ll know her when you see her—she’s fucking hot as hell. Nothing like the other women here tonight. Not like any woman I’ve met in the city. She’s…pure or some shit. I don’t know what her story is. She was standing in the front row next to that reporter Gwen Whats-Her-Name.”
“If you’re considering another three way, you better check yourself.” Lorenzo shakes his head. “You really are losing it, brother.”
I glare back at him. “Would you shut up already and get her info?”
“On it, boss,” he answers smartly, saluting me.
As he leaves, a heavily tattooed and pierced blonde wearing a shirt with the bar’s logo hands me a shot glass filled with dark liquid. I appreciate how she doesn’t treat me like I’m a big thing. “I was asked to give you this in preparation for your post-interview activities. The lady said you’d know what that means.” She shrugs, then turns away.
Christ. I have to find a way to ditch the reporter. The only chick I want to see tonight is the brunette with the cocky smirk. Bringing the glass to my lips, I tip my head back and down the shot of whiskey in one gulp. At least she got my drink right this time.
I catch my reflection on the hallway mirror and scowl. Since when do I get all worked up over a chick? I’m Charlie Fucking Walker and could have any woman I want. You want the brunette, a persistent voice answers in my head.
Shaking it off, I return to the stage and wait for the drunk women to stop yelling in slurred voices. The brunette and her friend still haven’t returned, so I grab the microphone. “We’re not done rocking this place just yet,” I announce, hoping to entice them to return.
I start the opening chords to a ballad my record label insists needs more work if I want it to become mainstream instead of being considered indie rock. The crowd seems receptive, but there’s still no sign of the brunette. Frustrated, I strum the guitar strings a little harder than necessary on the refrain. I should’ve jumped off the stage during my break and introduced myself to her when I had the chance.
