Depending on how the music went.
Or my level of tired. I’d hit it hard today and eventually my body would just give out whether I wanted it to or not. Much as I loved hanging with Jamie, if the night was lame, I was going to bail.
A cool dance beat pumped through the empty club with the echoing trill of James Arthur’s voice. I wasn’t normally into British pop artists, but I liked his voice. As usual…there was no defining what I liked. I tapped to the beat and craned my neck for a waitress.
When a seriously delicious man-child came up to the table, I grinned. “Aren’t you a sight.”
Lindz rubbed her forehead. “Be nice.”
“Of course I’ll be nice, right…Levi?” I looked up from the name tag that was hooked to his suspenders. Of course, the little bit of delicious was a Levi. He wore electric purple suspenders to match the twirling lights over black pants and a nipple-outlining tight black shirt.
“Are you…” He trailed off, thinking pretty hard. “Irish?”
“British.”
“Ah, right. That’s hot.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. My accent was very inconvenient most of the time. I’d managed to beat most of it to submission. A few years in the States had helped that, but it was still pretty apparent. He was pretty enough to play it up a bit. “Would you be a love and grab us a bottle of tequila?”
I watched his eyes glaze over and expected him to be sporting a stiffy on his travels back to the bar.
“Did you have to?”
I grinned at Lindz. “Of course I did. He’ll be very attentive.”
“He’ll be salivating all over you.”
“Let him. As long as I have limes and a bottle, I don’t really care.”
“Works for me,” Jamie said.
Suspender Boy came back with my bottle and a trio of shot glasses. He set the bottle in front of me then seemed to notice our resident beauty queen and my posh accent was a thing of the past. I couldn’t compete with Lindsey’s bluebell eyes and rack of glory.
She batted her long lashes and our waiter went from eager puppy to drooling sod. Fabulous.
Jamie poured a round and held up her glass. “To a fun filled evening with a side of Johnny delicious.”
Lindz held up her glass. “I’ll drink to that. Bad boy with a temper is our kryptonite.”
I frowned. “I’m supposed to know this dude?”
Before either of them could answer a herd of people came into the room. A rainbow selection of women decked out in much finer clothes than my own tumbled into the reserved booth beside us. A bottle of champagne was waiting for them and a note.
“Do I want to know?”
Jamie, being her usual nosy self, turned around. “Someone’s birthday?”
A stunning redhead laughed. “No. We won a fan club trip.” She waved. “I’m Theresa. I dragged my friends to go with me.” She pointed to a girl with caramel-streaked dark hair. “This is Jeannette, and Rachael with the short hair.”
“Hi.”
“I’m Ana.” Another brunette with crazy-perfect hair smiled at our table.
“I’m Becky,” said a girl with wispy blonde hair and smudgy blue eyes. “We’re so excited to see Johnny Cage tonight. We can’t believe we won.”
Seriously, why did I not know who this dude was?
“Oh my God, you’re Lindsey York!” The redhead’s eyes bugged out.
Lindz held up a finger to her lips. “We’re big fans too.”
“How cool is this? We’re partying with real rock stars tonight.” Becky slid out of her booth and into ours. “Oh, tequila?”
My eyebrows shot up as I met Jamie’s gaze.
She snorted. “Make yourself at home, darlin’.”
“Oh, wow. I’m sorry. I just—wow. Rude, much?” Becky’s cheeks flushed.
Jamie shook her head and laughed. “I like a girl that just jumps in there.”
“Then you’ll love me.” Becky waved at the waiter. “Margarita on the rocks, please.”
The room steadily filled as the girls switched from one table to the next in a revolving fashion that I neither cared to understand or pay attention to. I clinked glasses with whomever sat next to me and methodically stayed two shots away from drunk. Just the right amount of buzz that made girl conversation tolerable and the opening act enjoyable.
Ana sat next to me with her pink concoction, her pretty cheeks flushed with booze and her eyes bright with excitement. “I can barely stand this Jewel wannabe.”
“Yes! That’s exactly who she sounds like. I couldn’t figure it out.” I twirled my shot glass in the little puddle of lime juice and Cabo. “So you’re big in the Cage camp too?”
Ana nodded. “Oh, yeah. I saw him in Georgia—that’s where I’m from. And you couldn’t even explain what he did on stage. It’s just an experience.”
“Huh. That’s interesting. Seems like tonight is going to be pretty tame.”
“Yeah. His new stuff is really different. I’m not sure I like it, but he’s pretty and my girls were worth the frequent flyer miles.”
I grinned and held up my glass. “To hot rock stars.”
“Damn right.” She clinked her impossibly pink-liquid filled martini glass against mine.
Jewel—minus the adorable snaggletooth—got up and the crowd clapped politely for her. She wasn’t bad, per se, just really…not awesome.
“Ana! We’re popping the cork on the champagne.”
“Oh, guess I gotta go.” She slurped off an inch from her glass and stood.
Jamie dropped into the vacated seat. “Those girls can drink. I think I’m actually drunk.”
I grabbed her chin and turned her to face me. “Wow. I think you are. I don’t think I’ve actually seen you get all the way into your cups this early…well, ever.”
“I know. They kept making me do shots of Grey Goose. Not right. High octane vodka isn’t good for me.”
“You’re not going to boot, are you?”
Jamie snorted. “Takes a lot more than that to make me yak up my guts. I do need to pee though.”
“Why didn’t you do that before the opening snooze finished?”
“I only had to pee when I got up.”
I rolled my eyes. “All right. C’mon, slut. Let’s do this.”
“We should have plenty of time between set-ups.”
I wasn’t really worried about it, but they all seemed to have a hard-on for this bloke. I steered her toward the posh bathrooms at the back of the club and of course, there was a line. A pair of clomping heels came up behind us.
“Hi. Can I go with you girls?”
“Teresa!” Jamie made shooter fingers. “You are the reason I’m on the way to the bathroom. No more vodka!”
The redhead laughed. “I don’t even want to know what our bar tab is going to be tonight. I started with Mojitos. I don’t know how it became vodka.”
“Becky’s fault.” Jamie turned to me. “That little angle-faced bitch is secretly sporting an extra liver.”
I laughed. The more fuel that entered Jamie’s bloodstream, the funnier she was.
“Actually, Rachael is the instigator. She can drink us all under the table,” Theresa said.
Yeah, there were way too many women involved with my evening. I was used to guys and beer. Not all these fancy drinks. I would be sweating out tequila for the next three days. I prayed for the line to move, because now I needed the toilet too.
Goddamn Jamie.
THREE
While in the stall, three different women squealed and then came the stampede.
What the fuck kind of magic light saber was this guy sporting that women would actually turn around from waiting in a twenty-minute-line to pee?
I don’t know if these women were like me, but I usually waited until the last minute to actually take a piss. Did they wear those stupid special undergarments or something? Or did hormones reduce the need to pee?
I came out and even Jamie was gone. I shook my head
and cinched my belt, leisurely washed my hands and dried them, and walked out to chaos. People who had been in the booths suddenly were crowding the stage. They were actually four people deep and someone was standing on our table.
What in the flying fuck?
Okay, at least it was Lindsey standing on the table, but still.
Honestly. Was the dude spraying his pheromones across the land? I stopped at the pillar at the edge of the booths and finally got a look at him. It was a profile shot, so I only got the lines of a nose that had definitely been broken more than once and a strong jawline. Full lips brushed the large cylindrical microphone in the hinged stand.
The base was out of his way so he could play his guitar from the short, wide leather chair he was in. He dwarfed the chair. He was lean in the middle, but not a swimmer kind of lean. No, he was a solid mass of muscle. I knew the look. A brawler body that could take a punch and keep on coming.
He was a fighter.
Obviously, not a real fighter, but he held himself like one. Assessing and still as he took in the room. His shoulders were broad and his arms were delicious.
I was a sucker for arms. I admit it. One of the reasons why I’d tumbled more than one fighter in my life. I liked them strong. Not gym strong—no, I didn’t like the pansy boys who wanted to flex in the mirror. I liked them to actually work for their body, but I wanted them to use it too.
Just a glance, and I knew those scarred hands held more than just a guitar. And I understood the visceral response that these women seemed to have. It echoed in my belly and arrowed straight to my clit with a pounding that matched his powerful strumming.
Music didn’t normally affect me like this, but I was pretty sure eighty percent of my reaction had more to do with those solid forearms.
Hell, the dress shirt and vest he was sporting barely contained all the tanned skin and muscles. A lick of ink peeked from his rolled back cuffs and inched down his forearms. Another bit climbed out of the buttons opened at his neck.
Those little teases made me want to rip his shirt open and feast on him. Lips, eyes, teeth.
Fuck.
Magic hoodoo voodoo indeed.
Good goddamn.
I got closer to our booth and the suited douches dispersed the horde of women back to their booths. This wasn’t that sort of establishment.
That’s right, darlings, take your hormones back to your overpriced tables, and let me get a better look at this bit of man candy.
I peered up at the stage and his hooded eyes locked on mine.
Full-on pussy ablation right there. I couldn’t see the color, but it didn’t much matter to me. Blue eyes, brown, green, what-the-fuck-ever—all I saw was heat and then it was gone as something shifted his attention away.
Lindsey grabbed my hand and hauled me into the booth. “Where were you?” she said into my ear.
“Fighting my way through the obnoxious crush of females screaming like it’s Bieber.”
She laughed and pushed a huge glass of water my way.
I took a grateful gulp. The quarter bottle of tequila I’d imbibed required a little hydration chaser if I was going to last the rest of the night.
Jamie’s attention was riveted on the stage, her dark eyes assessing the man in the leather chair. There was a bit of swirling lust there, but she was mostly fixated on the music. His lyrics and strumming reminded me of Frank Turner minus the Briticisms.
The lyrics were clever and wound around a story of the dark side of the soul and the elusive definition of redemption. It made me lean in for more, because his caramel-dipped, rough voice was strangely familiar.
I felt like I should know him.
From this angle, his face seemed far more familiar. He had scraped-clean cheeks and a jawline that made all the parts of me that had been in stasis come alive like a peat fire. Where most of the men were sporting beards and scruff, he was completely smooth. Was it because he didn’t have a lot of facial hair or was he just fastidious?
I sort of didn’t care, but wanted to rub my cheek against his.
Which was ridiculous. Fucking, I understood. I knew within moments if a man was fuck-worthy or not. And this guy was on the leaderboard for the majority of the people in the room—male and female, I’d bet.
And if my initial reaction to him was any indication, he was also leading the charge to the removal of my panties.
That, I understood.
The need to rub up against him…yeah, no. That wasn’t how I played the game. Fuck, get it out of my system, then get back to my life. That had served me for the last twenty-four years.
The second song ended and he cleared his throat. “Thanks for coming tonight. This is a pretty cool place. Kinda like an angel had an unholy union with the devil and had a kid. A bit slick, a bit classy, but you can still find people banging behind the bar.”
A few people laughed, especially the men.
And me. Irreverent would always win the pussy-clench award for me.
Lindsey smirked and Jamie cupped her hands around her mouth to make a howling sound.
He grinned down and shielded his eyes. “That’s what I’m talking about.” He settled into his seat and kicked out one long leg. His jeans were dark and worn in all sorts of interesting places, but it was his boots that made me smile. They looked like they’d gone a thousand miles in dirt and mud.
Oh, they were clean, but you couldn’t take the wear out of them. Nor the size.
Good goddamn, that boy had some big feet.
My toes curled into my borrowed boots. I knew from experience that big feet did not equal a big cock, but sometimes a five-inch dick with a powerful set apart pair of feet against a wall was better than a nine-incher that didn’t know what the fuck he was doing.
I’d been with both.
And I’d choose the powerful five over a fumbling nine every goddamn time, but I had a feeling that wouldn’t be an issue. Not with how he shifted in the chair and the bulge behind his fly.
Another bit of interesting wear right there.
I licked my lips and poured another tequila.
“The next song is ‘All My Scars’. I wrote it a few years ago and buried it in a box. I dug up the box a few months ago when I moved back into the city. LA just wasn’t for me, never has been. The song’s a bit about that.”
The strumming was harsher than the acoustic coffeehouse style of the last few songs. Three reckless strums and a thump of his thumb against the body of the guitar hit me low. He followed it up with a deep, lost voice that spoke of glory days tied up in money, drowning in his own madness.
I had a sudden urge to get out of my seat and leave.
The song was too honest, too painful.
I downed another shot and tried to let the background noise drown him out. Too many people were talking around his music. I only noticed because I wanted to escape it. All the people who had been excited were now practically talking over him—treating him like an opening act.
I frowned and glanced at Jamie. Her fingers were drumming on the table and she had her fingers curled tight around her stein of beer. Her knuckles were white, her short burgundy-polished nails dark against the straining blood loss.
“Fuckin’ rude!” she shouted over her shoulder to the booth behind us.
My neck swiveled to the stage. Johnny Cage’s eyes were shut and his shoulders were hunched over his guitar. He kept on playing, but he had to know he was losing the crowd.
I wanted more.
Longed for the dramatic whiskey-rich voice, even as I wanted to shut my ears to the words. They were too close to home for me, but these people seemed like they wanted them gone for a whole different reason.
“Play ‘Wheels Up’!” Someone shouted from the back.
He slapped his palm over the strings and silenced the song even though I knew there was more. I didn’t know shit about songs, but I knew it wasn’t the end. He’d paused mid-verse.
“You got the invite because you wanted acoustic stuff, you r
ealize that, right?”
My mouth dropped open at the active aggression in his voice.
“Here we go,” Jamie muttered.
“What’s happening?” I asked.
“Johnny will either throw a tantrum or he’s going to hand this guy his ass.”
Suddenly even more interested in the man on the stage, I slid closer to Lindsey so I could watch him head-on.
“Acoustic sucks.”
Johnny leaned into his mic. “Then get the fuck out, buddy.” He looked around the room. “Who else wants to hear ‘Wheels Up’?”
Half the crowd hesitantly raised their hands.
He shook his head and sat back, his guitar loose on his lap as he stretched both legs. He tipped back his head, resting it on the low-backed seat. I saw his mouth form the word “fuck”.
His demeanor changed. It was fascinating. He sat up, his shoulders widened, and his chest puffed out. He’d gone from quietly confident to cocky in the space of a breath. Even his face seemed to morph into something completely different. A smirk chased away the harsh lines and turned his face boyish.
Realization slapped me. Holy fuck. He was the singer of Rebel Rage.
I whipped my head toward Jamie. “This is the Rebel Rage dude?”
“Who the fuck did you think it was?” she asked.
“I don’t fucking know.” But in that moment I didn’t want the cocky rock star that I knew. That everyone in the goddamn universe knew.
Rebel Rage had been one of the largest rock bands in the world for well over ten years. They’d fallen off some in the wake of the newer, younger bands that were always sprouting out of some obscure corner of the world. “Wheels Up” was one of those songs that karaoke bars destroyed with well-meaning fans and drunk women after work.
I hadn’t put two and two together because the man on the stage a moment ago had been far more interesting.
A shield of douche came down like a fucking curtain.
“All right, if that’s what you want.” The familiar chords of the song made my spine shift and bunch until my shoulders were as tight and straight as his were cocky.
The lyrics tumbled off his tongue, and the acoustic gave the rock song a little bit of a country flavor, but it was safe. The room knew the lyrics and didn’t notice that he didn’t sing with them.
BANGED: Rock Stars, Bad Boys & Dirty Deeds Page 52
