by Ava Lore
Tilting his head and leaning forward again, Manny scoped him out. “Oh,” he said. “That’s just Steve.”
What were the odds?
“Don’t worry about him too much,” Manny continued, but then he made a face. “His wife cheated on him while we were on the road. He’s been pretty much tanked since the middle of May.”
“Oh,” I said. Dammit, now I was back to feeling sorry for him, like a sucker. He’d wrecked my shoes—the last pair of nice shoes that I owned—and still I felt bad. I glanced down at him, my brow furrowed with worry. How was I going to get him to a toilet?
“Don’t feel sorry for him,” Manny said suddenly. “He was cheating on her the whole time we were on the road, too. He deserved it.”
I blinked. “Oh,” I said again. Sympathy: off.
For a moment neither of us said anything, staring down at the hapless Steve. The sounds of music and revelry filtered in through the door, filling the silence between us. “So what are you doing hauling his dumb ass around?” Manny asked after a second.
My mouth turned down. “He threw up on my shoes,” I told him. “My good shoes.”
“Aww,” he said. “That why you’re not wearing them?”
I nodded. “They were really nice shoes,” I said, apropos of nothing. My headache was returning with a vengeance, and I couldn’t help but lean back against the wall and press my palms into my closed eyes, willing it to fade away. The dance beat out in the bar proper pounded through the wall and into my back, and I was suddenly very, very tired.
“Are you feeling okay?” Manny’s voice sounded as though it was coming from very far away, and I realized that I was falling asleep on my feet. Forcing my eyes open I smiled at him. “I’ll be fine after I get home and have a nap or something,” I told him.
The smile he gave me in return was heart-stoppingly beautiful. “You sound like you need to take a little break,” he said. “Why don’t you let me handle dragging this drunk skunk to a stall?”
Gratitude washed over me. “Would you?” I asked. “That is so nice of you.”
He chuckled. “I guess so,” he said, though he sounded dubious, as if he doubted his own motives. He pointed at me, and my heart skipped a beat. “Why don’t you come over here,” he said, gesturing to the line of sinks, “and I’ll see what I can do with this guy.”
Swallowing around my dry tongue, I nodded and started for the sinks. Manny, for his part, straightened up, stretched—a distracting motion—then walked past me.
My nostrils flared as I caught a faint whiff of his scent. Smoke and beer. Something comfortingly spicy—cloves—and the sharp, sweet smell of cinnamon gum.
I wanted to stop him so I could properly identify the sweet, spicy scent, but that would have been weird. Hey, can I snort your skin? It’s for a project I’m working on. I let him pass without incident, though I couldn’t help the wistful sigh that escaped my lips. Oh well. There were plenty of fish in the sea, and not all of them smelled like mackerel.
Manny started to circle Steve, tilting his head this way and that as though looking for the proper direction from which to attack the problem. I decided my time was best spent making sure I wasn’t covered in puke. With trepidation, I leaned over and looked at my legs.
I was.
...Okay, fine. Not covered, but my pumps had only protected my toes. Bile rose in my throat when I realized there were spots of puke spattered up and down my pantyhose. Nothing too egregious or it would have registered on my alcohol-numbed skin, but still. It was there, and my whole body shuddered with revulsion. I’d never been good at dealing with gross stuff. That was more Rebecca’s style.
From the corner of my eye I saw Manny crouch down and slip his hands underneath Steve’s arms. I snuck a peek and watched as he hauled Steve into something resembling a sitting position and then dragged him over the tiles toward the stalls. For a second I was distracted by the way his muscles bulged and slid under his skin, the way his biceps hardened, the way his back flexed, and I had to forcibly shut my eyes to bring myself back into line.
Boys are not a part of The Plan right now, I reminded myself. Getting all hot and bothered over a guy at this point in my life was just a distraction that I didn’t need. Besides, I had no chance with a guy like Manny Reyes, so reining in my ridiculous attraction was just sense. Unfortunately my vagina didn’t listen to sense.
I opened my eyes in time to see Manny dragging Steve around the corner to the stalls. Good. That was great. A perfect chance for me to shimmy out of these pantyhose without making a fool of myself. I waited until they were out of sight before gritting my teeth, bending over, and shoving my hands up my skirt.
This was probably destined to be a bad idea, but I had to get that puke off of me as soon as possible. Wiggling, I found the waistband, lamented my lack of panties, remembered that I should have locked the bathroom door, debated for three frantic seconds about running over and correcting my oversight, and then, realizing that time was slipping away while I dithered, yanked my pantyhose down my legs.
Too late to turn back now, I thought. Now that they were most of the way down my legs, my urgency to get them off right fucking now doubled, tripled, quadrupled.
Ewwwwwwww! I squealed in my head as I rolled them down my shins, touching them as little as possible so as not to get vomit on my hands. Ew, ew, ew, ew, EW!
At last they reached my ankles and I steadied myself against the sinks as I ripped them off my feet and tossed them to the floor. I was breathing hard, and even though there was nobody watching me I felt completely ridiculous for overreacting.
I still hated puke, though. Crouching down I picked up the tainted pantyhose between thumb and forefinger. My feet were now entirely on the disgusting restroom floor, so I stood on my tiptoes and minced across the tiles—studiously avoiding more vomit—and shoved the offending stockings in the trash with a deep sigh of relief. Then I turned around to see Manny leaning casually against the wall in front of the stalls, watching me.
Oh god. How much had he seen? Judging by the smirk on his face, too much. Any of it was too much.
I dropped my eyes. My gaze fell on the puke on the floor and my stomach flopped.
“There was, um. Puke on my pantyhose,” I said.
“That’s pretty gross,” Manny replied.
He might as well have said I was gross, the way my blush thundered over my face. I was certain my ears were bright red. I couldn’t bring myself to raise my eyes.
How on earth had this happened? I had so much more dignity than this.
Had.
Past tense.
Miserably I minced back to the sinks, grabbed a handful of paper towels, pumped out a palmful of soap, and proceeded to scrub my hands, legs, and feet. The activity kept me busy until my blush had subsided, and when I was done at last I put a few paper towels down on the floor and transferred my slightly cleaner feet to them rather than put them back on the tile. Taking a deep breath, I looked back at Manny.
He was still watching me. He still looked amused.
I felt a spike of irritation. “Well?” I asked. “Was that a fun floor show?”
He nodded. “I enjoyed it very much,” he said. “One of the sexier strip-teases I’ve seen in a long time.”
My brain did a flip-flop. Striptease? Sexy? Me?
Manny noted my sudden stupor. “Are you sure you’re all right, Rose?”
I bit my lip. No. No, I was not all right. Not at all. “I’m fine,” I lied.
To my surprise, Manny didn’t let the lie slide. Instead he raised one of his exquisitely hewn eyebrows and tilted his head. “You are?” he asked. “Because it seems to me you are tired, feeling sick, and in the middle of a dance party with no shoes on. That’s doesn’t seem like, ‘okay.’”
I scowled at him. “So what?” I snapped, the words coming out rude and sharp, and I immediately wanted to melt into the ground. He didn’t deserve my anger just because my pride was hurting.
Manny, however, was mu
ch more forgiving of me than I was. Instead of snapping back he just grinned at me. “I was just going to suggest you bounce if you’re not feeling well. I’ll tell Rebecca you went home.”
My stomach lurched again, this time for an entirely different reason, but with a valiant effort I managed to keep my fear in check. “Oh,” I said, waving a hand breezily, “I can’t go home now. Rebecca’s my ride.” Actually I had plans to crash at her house. Rebecca just didn’t know about it yet.
Manny pursed his lips and tilted his head to the side, studying me. “In that case, would you like a ride home? I was thinking of going home early, too.”
I blinked, stunned.
At any other time in my life, I would have enjoyed the prospect of an attractive man driving me home and I would have grabbed the opportunity with both hands. Time alone with a sinfully hot guy that smelled like cloves and beer? Get a little innocent flirting out of my system so I didn’t have to think about sex for the next six months? Yes, please.
Except there was a problem. A big problem. A problem that no one else knew about, and I aimed to keep it that way.
Then again, I’d been clever enough to keep people from suspecting said problem so far. I could pull it off...right? And I was tired, and ready to leave. I needed some sleep, badly.
Slowly I nodded. “Yeah,” I said. “Sure. That would be wonderful.” I managed to shove away the fear of discovery and give him a wide, beaming smile. “Thank you.”
“De nada,” he said. He looked down at my bare feet, then down at the puddle of vomit on the floor. He nodded as though he had reached a conclusion and walked over to me, studiously avoiding soiling his expensive hipster boots.
I held my breath as he approached. What was he doing? Weren’t we supposed to be walking out of the bathroom?
He drew closer, and seemed to get taller and taller, and I got smaller and smaller, petite and feminine next to his undeniably masculine build—and, to my shock, it was turning me on.
I frowned. I wasn’t used to not being able to control my libido. After the initial jolt of an attractive man speaking to me, I was usually able to rally and ignore his charms. So why wasn’t I sinking back into my comfortable asexuality?
Maybe because he called you sexy?
When he reached my side, he smiled. “Ready to go?” he asked.
Confusion reigned. “Um,” I said. “Yes? I think so?”
“Great.” And he swept me up into his arms.
Chapter Two
It seemed to happen in slow motion.
Omigod, I thought as he put an arm around my shoulders.
Omigod, I thought as he leaned down and placed his other arm along the backs of my thighs.
Omigod omigod OMIGOD! my head shrieked as he lifted me effortlessly into the air. I felt everything then, his warm arms, his firm chest, the cotton of his t-shirt, the burning of his skin beneath it as I instinctively hooked my own arms around his neck to keep from falling. Wherever we touched, my body informed me, on no uncertain terms, that this was a very sexy, very hot guy pressed up against me, and that I should be licking his ear, the ear just in front of my face, the one with all the gold jewelry in it, that one, the one right there, right fucking there—
A squeak escaped me and I heard Manny laugh. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Never been swept off your feet before?”
I gulped. “I can’t say I have,” I admitted. At least, not like this.
Manny smiled at me—so close, god, those teeth are so white—then turned his gaze to the floor and picked his way around the terrible mess. It was some damn 21st century chivalry going on, I realized. How romantic, a man lifting a woman over a puddle of vomit in the men’s room of a seedy rocker bar...
I had a magnificent view of his profile. Long straight nose, delicious cheekbones, golden skin to match his eyes, and just the faintest hint of laugh lines crinkling over his temples. His thick, lustrous dark hair was the sort that you wanted to run your fingers through, or hold on to as the two of you tangled up the sheets in the dark, as sweet, full lips and...and was that the glimmer of a piercing inside his mouth? As an, oh god, as a pierced tongue, perhaps, licked and teased between your thighs and your fingers fastened in cool, thick locks...
My face flooded with color and I was suddenly, intensely, embarrassingly aware of how very large his hands were. I could feel the calluses on his palm—born of years of holding drumsticks, no doubt—scratching over the tender skin at the back of my knee. If we held hands, his would swallow mine whole. My breath seemed to be trapped somewhere below my voice box at the thought. God, what was wrong with me?
Then Manny slanted a glance in my direction, his golden eyes peeking from beneath his thick, dark lashes.
“I’m glad I’m the first to sweep you off your feet, then,” he said, and a smile—small and wicked—touched his lips. Then he turned his attention back to navigating the perilous floor of the restroom.
My brain was shorting out. Did...did he just flirt with me? I thought. Or am I just so drunk and horny I imagined he was flirting? It was possible. Very possible. Too possible. Even in my teenage years I’d never felt an attraction so immediate.
What the fuck is going on? I wondered. Oh god, please don’t let this be a sign that I’m approaching middle age. Please. I was only twenty-eight. I still had time to be sexless and career-driven before my biological clock started pushing me around, right? Right?
It was probably just stress. And five glasses of champagne on an empty stomach. Yeah. That was probably it. I mean, I’d met Manny before and I’d duly noted his insane hotness, but I’d been able to suppress my attraction to him.
But things had been different back then. At the time I’d still been a lawyer. I’d still had prospects. I still had a future.
I’d had a lover back then.
In retrospect, of course, that lover had been anything but a lover. A user. An asshole. A terrible shithead of the highest order. But back when I’d met Manny Reyes for the first time, I had noted his incredible hotness and then, with the surety of a woman who has a powerful man in her life, put that budding attraction in a little box and shoved into a corner of my brain to be forgotten. He was hot. I was taken. Besides, he wasn’t anything like what I wanted in life.
Now I really wanted him to put those calloused palms on my breasts and work me like a milking machine.
Or not. I wasn’t really thinking straight. That hand on my thigh was sending signals to my brain that clanged like klaxon bells over the sensible lecturing of my normal inner monologue.
Manny looked over at me.
Christ. Those eyes. Those golden eyes. God. They were like...like wolf eyes. Incredible. El Lobo. God, how drunk was I?
“Would you mind getting the door?” he asked me.
I blinked. “Uh,” I said. Then I realized we had navigated the minefield, but the door opened inward. Swallowing hard, I nodded and unengaged one hand from his shoulder.
With apparent ease he tipped me down and I reached out, grabbing the door handle and pulling. The door came away from the frame and with a sudden, graceful movement Manny pivoted, using my grip and his strength to open the door. Then he stuck a foot out and tugged it back, allowing just enough room for us to squeeze through. We did, and then we were back out in the dim, pounding bar.
My headache, up until now subsumed under the insanity of my hormones suddenly deciding to wake up after years of slumber, came roaring back. Without thinking I turned my head and buried my face in Manny’s shoulder, trying to hide my eyes. Only after I’d done it did I realize how gauche and forward I was acting. I stiffened in Manny’s strong grip.
I felt his chest rumble, just a bit—not sharp enough to be laughter. More like...a chuckle? Or a groan? Oh crap, I’d shown my hand and now it was awkward, argh why did I have to be so dumb?
But then his arms around me tightened, holding me closer. His skin beneath the thin cotton of his t-shirt seemed to grow warmer as he navigated the gyrating bodies and overturne
d chairs and various drinks held high in the air. Like a dancer he moved through the obstacles around us with grace and ease, and I relaxed. There was something very nice about being held, about being carried, about letting someone else take charge for a while.
Well, not too long, I told myself. I mean, let’s not get carried away here. Haha.
Then, as Manny dipped and wove through the people to the back of the club, I realized we were headed for the VIP section.
Rebecca.
Of course. He had to tell her where we were going. Whether or not she would remember was another thing entirely. I’d have to text her when we were in the car. What was she going to say about this, though?
About time, Rose, is what she would say. She’d been after me to get a social life for a year now. Two years. Possibly more. Like...ten? Maybe?
We arrived at the VIP section intact. My blood still thundered in my ears, but I had managed to shove my stomach back down to where it belonged and steadied myself. Manny lightly mounted the half-staircase onto the deck that was the bar’s tiny section for special guests.
It was slightly quieter here, the sound muffled by the raised floor, and for the first time I felt myself relaxing just a little bit. I should have been up here this whole time, I realized. No, I didn’t really know the band, but my sister had been dating the bassist and manager, Kent Hudson, for just over a year now, so it was beyond time to get to know them, right? I should have taken the awkward lumps and come up here at the beginning of the night.
Besides, it was nicer here. It was dim here, too, but a more soothing sort of dim, lit by small table lamps instead of by flashing lights and neon signs. People were crammed in at every table, laughing, drinking, yelling at each other over the noise.
We found Rebecca sitting on Kent’s lap, drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon.
I sighed. Of course she was. Boyfriend so rich he could buy the finest champagne and she still drank crap beer.
As Manny pulled up alongside their table, Rebecca looked up and her eyes widened. I tried not to think of what a mess I was.
