by Cari Quinn
No dude bitched about a woman unless she got under his skin.
Occasional griping was one thing. Kitchen talk was full of it thanks to most of his staff being male. And the one woman—his sous chef, Kendra—was gay. She bitched about women even more than they did.
Regardless, it had been a tell and Tristan had ignored it. Especially since his dick had been engaged from the first time he’d met Juliet Reece. Tonight hadn’t helped one bit. He’d spotted her across the room with that damn costume on and his cock had turned into a friggin’ heat seeking missile.
The incestuous life of the rockstars that were currently in his sphere made things very interesting. He’d known Hunter for what felt like forever, but the minute Kennedy McManus had laid him out on the marble floor of the Ace Hotel everything had changed. Including their friendship. Not necessarily for the bad, just different.
Now Tristan had musicians spilling out of the woodwork. Whether it was at the hotel where he worked as head chef at The Hollow, or the various parties he ended up at, his life had definitely changed. A year ago, he never would have imagined he’d be surrounded by so many celebrities.
Sure, they came into the Ace Hotel, but he was a behind the scenes guy. They didn’t care about the chef who put together the menu. The fame hungry and famous just wanted to be seen at the hotel built from the ashes of old Hollywood.
Retro was the in thing these days and the hotel was filled to the brim with drama. Add in a few mentions in the foodie magazines, and the novelty of his unconventional style in the kitchen—fuck white chef jackets, he loved color—and he got a little more play on social media.
It was all about buzz. His fusion style of California fresh and hints of New York elegance made for an eclectic menu that brought people in as well. He’d worked his ass off to get his own kitchen, but he’d balanced it by playing just as hard.
Juliet Reece was definitely the kind of woman a man played hard with. It really wasn’t surprising that his sometimes roommate and one of his best friends had a similar affliction. Not to mention that Juliet was in Rand’s sphere far more than Tristan’s.
He should be backing off, but he’d never been much for the rules of bro code. Especially when it came to a woman like Juliet. It was truly every man for himself.
“Tell me, were you ever going to make a move?”
Randy’s mouth firmed.
“Not an answer.” Tristan folded his arms over his chest.
His friend’s eerie green eyes snapped to Tristan’s.
“You can give me the death glare all you like, but I don’t see you nutting up to go get her.”
“I’ll leave the nutting to you.”
He couldn’t deny that he was all about the physical when it came to Juliet, but he wasn’t a fucking animal. At least not completely.
Tristan leaned forward and clamped a hand on Randy’s arm before his buddy could swirl off like the black knight he was dressed as. “Sit down, asshat.”
Randy jerked his arm away. “I’m over this scene, man. Do what you want with Juliet.”
Tristan stood. “Seriously, you expect me to believe that?”
“I don’t fucking care.”
He invaded his space. “Liar.”
“Why the fuck do you care? Not like it’s going to change anything. She’s not for me. Never will be.”
Tristan frowned. “What’s that mean?”
“Which part?”
His eyebrows snapped down. “All of it. It’s not like she’s royalty.”
“May as well be. Let’s look at it like a kitchen hierarchy so you can figure it out.”
Tristan tried to push his hair back, but it was so damn shellacked it was like threading his fingers through caramel. “You’re nuts.”
“Do you go after the waitstaff at The Hollow?”
“What? No. You don’t—” Shit where you eat. Hell.
“Hello lightbulb. There it is. That’s right, you don’t mess with the talent. And the talent doesn’t look at a roadie. Period.”
“You’re not exactly a roadie.”
“Once a crew member, always a crew member. Just because I give the orders these days doesn’t make me any different.” Randy tugged at the material along the back of his neck. The tear of velcro echoed through the half-empty room. “Christ, I’m dying in this outfit.”
“More like Jules is killing you.”
“It doesn’t fucking matter, man.”
“That’s archaic. Not to mention stupid. Your sister is married to Deacon McCoy, for fuck’s sake. This isn’t a new thing.”
“Rarity.” Randy sliced the air before Tristan could speak. “And the difference there is Harper wasn’t staff. She was food.”
“Semantics, man.”
“It’s not done. That’s the end of it.”
Tristan made a clucking sound.
Randy took a step forward. “Don’t go there.”
Tristan tipped his head to the side. He glanced down to his friend’s fisted hands. “What are you going to do? Deck me?”
“You fucking deserve it.”
He shrugged. “Maybe, but it doesn’t negate the fact that you’re into her.”
“She’s into you. Obviously.”
“She’s a strong-willed woman. She goes for a guy that’s willing to go in for the kill shot, not stand on the sidelines.”
“Sidelines is where I’m best,” Rand snarled. “No competition for you there anyway, right?”
He smirked. “I don’t need you to hang back, man, but I’m not going to let someone as fine and interesting as Juliet go find someone else if you’re going to go cry into your beer in the corner.”
Rand picked up the guitar again and dropped back on the couch. Tristan recognized the action for what it was. His buddy really was more ruffled than he wanted to let on. Not like he could blame the guy.
Juliet wound up arenas of men and women just with a purr of her throaty voice. Add in her fuck-me-boots and the unconscious sexuality that burned under her skin and most men were toast.
He knew he was.
Divining rod meet pussy of glory.
Rand strummed the same opening chords to “Best of You” again and again. Tristan gotten used to his friend’s incessant need to mess around on a guitar. Well, at least when he was in a mood. Rand wasn’t the singing type, but he seemed to need the rhythmic sounds when he didn’t want to talk.
Usually a game of Hitman and a beer dislodged whatever hamster was spinning inside his busy brain. No such luck with this one. Though if Tristan tried hard enough, he’d probably be able to find a game room in this mansion.
The problem was, right now he didn’t want to play babysitter. He wanted to go find Juliet and play a whole different kind of game. One that just might include her lasso of truth from her costume.
Tristan perched on the edge of the couch next to his friend. “Look, man, I’m just as on edge as you are.”
“She has that effect.” Rand didn’t look up from the strings.
“Yeah, she does. I can’t say I’m not wound tight about her.” When Rand’s shoulders stiffened again, Tristan almost shut his goddamn mouth. “She’s just a girl.”
Not just any chick. Even as he tried to play it off, he knew it wasn’t true.
She was light and heat and the smoky hint of salted caramel in a rich coffee. A man wanted to savor her for a whole night.
This man wanted to fuck her blind and make her breakfast in the morning.
It wasn’t smart, and he sure as shit shouldn’t get involved with her. She had all the addictive characteristics of caffeine. Only instead of a migraine from withdrawal, he’d have a permanent hard-on for months. He really didn’t need that kind of trouble, but he wouldn’t step back.
Actually, he was pretty sure he couldn’t.
That should have had him running in the opposite direction. Yet there he was, sitting with his buddy out of loyalty and longing for a woman in the next room.
Fuck all sideways.
>
He had to get her out of his system. A simple goal. One that he could absolutely handle.
Once that itch was scratched, he and Rand could get back on track.
Chapter Three
Juliet toyed with the lasso of truth at her hip. She was tempted to use it on Tristan.
When she finally found him anyway.
Do you want me?
As if she had to ask the question, but he was a damn tease. All night, he’d been making himself seen, then disappearing into the crowd. Until he’d come up behind her at the dessert table. His explanation of how ganache was made and just how well the fudgy concoction stuck to skin had left her in a haze.
He’d taken advantage of her momentary loss of voice to drag her onto the dance floor. The crush of people, the heat, the dim lights, and the laughter had pushed her further down the blurry path of destruction. Half a bottle of champagne certainly hadn’t helped.
She’d felt it in the press of his body and the rigid length of his cock against her belly throughout Ariana Grande’s “Bad Decisions”. Who knew Superman was such a good dancer? And that his super suit was so…accommodating.
Then he’d ghosted again, dammit.
She didn’t chase men.
Period.
And yet here she was hauling ass away from the crush of people. Had there been something in the fucking bubbly? She needed to rename it Happy Horny Juice and patent it. That was seriously the only explanation why she’d been searching him out.
And the only reason her very firm, very not cheap Wonder Woman breast plate had to prove just how bulletproof it was. Christ, her fucking nipples were throbbing. Hell, everything was throbbing.
What the hell was in that champagne?
Better yet, where the hell was he?
She stalked through the large room outfitted with bats in every damn corner. There were couples smashed together whichever way she turned. Some drunkenly, some just high on lust. She understood the latter. Her blood was still on fire. Stupid man had her dead to rights and just up and disappeared.
She had half a mind to let him hold his dick.
Except she really wanted to be the one to hold it, dammit. And that was rare enough for her to play bloodhound. She honestly couldn’t remember the last time a man got her riled up enough to even contemplate getting naked.
Messing around at a party was one thing, but this? Fuck.
She stalked through the large entryway and upstairs to the small study. She wasn’t sure where she was headed, or even why she was headed that way. But she thought she’d seen Tristan escaping up the stairs, so she’d followed.
A flash of red and blue dragged her farther into the room. Hushed voices were muffled by the strumming of an acoustic guitar.
Hunter?
She frowned as a Batman costume came into view. Not Hunter Jordan—nope, he was dressed as Vlad the Impaler tonight. He was the lead singer of Hammered, and one of the groomsmen for the Halloween wedding reception. All the Hammered guys had played with the vampire theme for their costumes thanks to the bride’s affinity for bats.
She’d expected Hunter since he was Tristan’s best friend. At least he’d been in the top spot until recently. Married life and the ever-present band drama afflicting Hammered kept Hunter busy these days. And it was much more likely for Hunter to fool around on an acoustic.
But the guy wielding the guitar right now was someone else entirely.
She didn’t know Randy—aka Sparks, at least to her— even knew how to hold one, let alone how to play the opening notes to “Best of You” by the Foo Fighters. Over and over again.
Hell, she was almost tempted to start tapping her red leather boot.
Carefully, she brushed her hand over the stiff seems of her costume top. She’d bought this particular Wonder Woman costume because the top was built like a corset and could actually control her runaway boobs. Unfortunately, that also meant it wasn’t all that comfortable to breathe. Worth it for the boobage effect though.
And the hot looks she’d been getting from Tris tonight.
Okay, so the hot moves didn’t hurt either. She could still feel the outline of his hand on her outer thigh. Was it wrong that she’d rather have the same phantom touch between her thighs?
Or even less phantom and more like right now?
But first she had to woman up and go over there and drag him away from Sparks.
Tris gravitated to Sparks more and more these days. Well, that was the name she’d christened him with. His real name was Randy Pruitt, and he was the sometimes bane of her professional existence. The guy had it out for her, she was fairly sure of it. From the night at the Blue Rhino where she’d nearly bought it from a falling light fixture—oh, and couldn’t forget the subsequent fire. No, definitely couldn’t forget the fact that he’d accidentally shorted out the entire place. The show had been brought to a screeching halt and had started Warning Sign’s temporary downward spiral.
Though in all honesty, the band had plenty of those. Part and parcel of having six such volatile personalities all on one small stage.
Then again, if Sparks hadn’t been in her sphere maybe Tristan wouldn’t be either. Tristan had been showing up to a lot of their shows thanks to their friendship. Something was actually working out in her favor for once.
So said her suddenly interested girl parts. And it was a rarity for her to follow her currently star-spangled bloomers into the fray these days. Between her own band drama and the bad luck following them around like a specter, she’d lost count of the days that she’d opted to crawl into her lonely bed rather than deal with reality.
Tonight, she might actually crawl into someone else’s bed for a change. If only she could get Tris away from the Foo Fighters-playing-Batman.
She shook her hair back and tried not to let the song sway her from her main objective. Tristan in a room alone. Or maybe out on the veranda to see if his whisky-laced lips tasted just as good as she imagined.
Taking a step toward the men, then another, she stopped when Sparks spoke, glancing away. “It’s fine.”
She took that as her cue to move forward.
“Why, yes, it is,” she breathed into Tristan’s ear. “Or are we not talking about your very fine patriotic ass?” She smoothed her fingers up his arm to the sinewy muscle between his shoulder and neck.
Tristan gave her a lazy grin, but she could feel the tension in his Superman costume-worthy shoulders. “You found me.”
“It’s rude to leave a woman on the dance floor.” She lowered her voice to a purr. It usually helped her to get exactly what she wanted. In this case? She wanted Tristan in her room.
She swallowed down the flutter of nerves and gave both men her sexy siren smile. It worked on stage, it should certainly work here.
Sparks averted his eyes and flattened his palm across the strings of the guitar. The sweet tones of the song immediately ceased and the ambient noises of the party just outside the open door came back into sharp focus. Loud laughter and clinking silverware, lilting voices and playful ones.
But in the study, everything was so very tense. She had no clue why.
Tristan looped his arm around her waist, his fingers playing with her lasso. Those long fingers so close to the stretchy fabric covering her far too active lady playground.
She glanced down at her boobs. Corset, don’t fail me now.
Right before she’d entered the room, Tris had risen from a long leather sofa to loom over Sparks. Now he sat back down and tugged her until she had no choice but to perch on the arm of the couch beside him. Handily, that put his face dangerously close to her chest.
No good could come of that. Then again, good was boring, wasn’t it?
“Sorry, Jules. My buddy gave me sad cow-eyes and I had to come and make sure he wasn’t ready to hang himself by his utility belt.”
“Fuck off,” Sparks muttered.
She fiddled with Tristan’s cape until she had access to the back of his neck. The whorls of hair at h
is nape buzzed under her fingertips. Everything about him was touch-worthy. Soft skin stretched over firm muscles, short strands that urged her deeper into the dense swirls of his longer hair on top. Instead of his usual faux hawk, his blue hair was styled more like Superman with tightly coiled curls. He’d tried to fashion the curl in the front like the iconic super hero, but he’d pushed it off his forehead early in the night.
She didn’t mind. She preferred it away from his sharply-featured face. Only the ridge of his brows hid his gorgeous steel-blue eyes. Intense and lazy at the same time. Ever watchful.
Sometimes she thought they should be golden like a lion. His gaze seemed to skim over her body and face with equal lazy thoroughness.
She swallowed hard when his focus drifted to her lips, then her neck and breasts. Yeah, just like that look. His thumb slid back and forth along her hip bone as he dragged the end of her lasso along her inner thigh.
Beyond wrong. How was she supposed to concentrate when he did that?
Her gaze drifted to Sparks. The intense green of his eyes blazed as he pointedly watched Tristan touch her. His Adam’s apple bounced and his fingers firmed around the fret of the Taylor he held.
Strong, long fingers. Capable of doing many interesting things.
Her breath caught. What the hell?
Heart racing, she clutched at Tristan’s cape. He glanced up at her curiously “Easy babe, you’re going to tear the costume. Thought you might want to use it later.”
She felt the heat rush up her neck and bloom across her face. “Sorry,” she murmured. When the end of the lasso trailed up her inner thigh again, she had to swallow back a groan.
Sparks averted his gaze this time and stood.
Tristan straightened. “Where are you going?”
Sparks trained his gaze over their shoulders. She actually glanced back to make sure no one else was coming their way. It would be just her luck that someone would come looking for her.
“I gotta go. I have a million and one things to do tomorrow.”
Juliet tipped her head. “We’re off tomorrow.”
“Not all of us,” Sparks said, effortlessly twisting the guitar away from him as he stood.
