He’s dark, dressed in black from his ball cap to his work boots. Even his face has a thin layer of black stubble dotting his chiseled jawline. Not enough to call a beard but enough to make him look tough and swarthy.
“Miss,” I whisper, taking my friend by the arm. “Who’s that?”
Bits rolls his eyes, while a smile splits Marisa’s ruby lips. “That gorgeous hunk of man meat, my dear, would be AJ.”
3
AJ
“AJ!” Marisa’s voice bounces off all the walls in the empty warehouse. This place has excellent acoustics, which isn’t always a good thing. “Get your cute little booty over here!”
I peer across the room in the direction of Marisa’s raspy voice. She’s tried to get an invite back to my house on more than one occasion. She has one hell of a bod and a pretty nice face too, but I know way too much about her extracurricular activities to risk dipping my toe in that water. Babe’s a total man-eater.
Bits, however, is completely in love with her, in spite of her revolving door tendencies. As usual, he’s next to her, leaning against the bar and trying to pretend he’s not salivating at the sight of her tits in that strip of leather she calls a shirt. He slides past her to take up his post at the front door, and like the moon passing the sun in a solar eclipse, he reveals the gorgeous blonde who was completely overshadowed by his rotund ass.
Who the hell is that?
Golden hair falls long and wavy over her bare shoulders. She’s wearing one of Frankie D.’s signature Wreck Me tanks. It’s too big, which explains the T-shirt under it, but I can tell from here that she’s got something good hiding beneath all that black cotton. Normally, I’d just wave at Marisa and go about my business, but this is way too intriguing. I have to see the rest of her.
Blue eyes reel me in as I approach the bar. They aren’t just any blue; they’re the color of the sky on the sunniest summer day. Bright, beautiful, hypnotic.
“Hey, Marisa. What’s up?”
“AJ, meet Casey. Casey, this is AJ, the sound tech.”
Casey smiles as she says hello, but I’m too entranced by the dimples on her cheeks to return the pleasantry. Instead, I offer a tight-lipped grin and a curt nod, like a scared boy who’s afraid of girls. I’ve never been nervous around girls. Even when I was a boy.
I find my voice and finally open my mouth. “So you’re the one replacing Lady Roger, huh?”
“Yeah. I’ll be tendin’ the bar in her place.” This girl has the sweetest voice, with a sexy twang that shoots from my ears to my dick in an instant. She’s definitely not from around here.
“Damn. I was hoping to ask her out.”
She raises her brows for a second, her clear blue eyes landing on Marisa. “Case, he’s kidding.”
Casey’s Betty Rubble giggle hits me right in the chest. Damn! She’s gorgeous and cute. She doesn’t say anything else, just stands there with a little grin on her face as four dudes in leather come strolling in. “It’s show time,” I announce, tipping my hat for effect.
The band comes directly to the bar, as usual. All these guys are the same. The order goes booze, girls, music. No one seems to take their craft seriously anymore. It’s a damn shame.
“Hey, guys! You must be Butchered at Birth.” I offer my hand to leather dude number one.
“Yeah. I’m Droz,” he answers, shaking my hand. “This is Joe, Marc, and Dan.”
“AJ. I’m the sound engineer. You guys need help with your equipment?”
“Nah, we got it.”
“All right, then. Once you’re all set up, we’ll roll through sound check before bodies start filling the joint.”
The band starts getting all their gear set up on stage as I begin running the cables. The Wreck is a great place for a cover band because it has its own sound system. The stage comes equipped with its own speakers and lighting, so the band literally only has to bring their instruments and amps. Talent isn’t even required most nights.
Fifteen minutes later, the band is set up, and I’m running around the stage miking the guys and setting up the monitors so they can hear themselves when they’re playing. Good live sound engineering requires more than plugging in some amplifiers and turning a few volume knobs. It demands knowledge of acoustics and electronics, combined with the skills of the artists, to work with a band and give them the sound they want. Every venue is different, and each brings its own challenges to audio engineering, but it's my job to tame the acoustics and bring the musicians' efforts to the audience.
When there’s one band playing, like tonight, this job is cake. I set the stuff up once, make sure it’s mixed, and leave it alone. It’s when several bands play back to back that it gets a little hectic. I have ten minutes to set up the board, and if the sound isn’t stellar, the band will bitch that they can’t hear themselves. Musicians are so friggin’ testy.
Marc, the drummer, starts banging away at the kick drum, setting up the sound levels. Once he’s happy, I move on to the guitarist, the bassist, and then the singer. If the shit ain’t tight, the guys will whine, the customers will leave, and Frankie D. loses money. My job is as important to the live performance as any guy on this stage. It has to be perfect.
“All right, guys, let’s hear something.”
As the band kicks off their first song, my hands move across the board, turning knobs, moving faders, and making sure the lighting effects pop at the exact moments they’re supposed to. By the time I’m done, everyone’s happy—just in time for Frankie D. to open the front doors.
The hoard of people waiting outside pours into the venue and instinctively congregates around the bar. I love this. The thrill of the show. The adrenaline pumps through my veins as the thundering crack of the snare cuts through the buzzing of the audience. Every thud on the bass drum is a punch to the face—and this guy’s doing double time, stomping his right foot on the pedal while his left foot destroys the high hats in flawless synchronicity. He’s an animal—arms flailing, they crash down on the cymbals and tom-toms with zero remorse.
The crowd flows like water, drifting toward the stage as if heading toward the rapids. They move, and bounce, and bang their heads, screaming and shouting along with the songs they know. Droz doubles over as he shrieks out the next lyric. The bass line booms with evil resonance, vibrating the floor like an earthquake rumbling under my feet, and the guitar screeches from the bleeding bite of fingers flying over the frets at lightning speed. All the while, I’m glued to the board, making sure every note they hit is on key.
This shit gets inside you. Music is a language all its own. Either you know it, or you don’t. Rock ‘n’ roll in its pure animal form strangles the hell out of you until you can’t breathe, yet you still beg for more. Years of study can teach you theory and scales, but it can’t teach you this. This is hunger, need. By the time the set is over, my body is electric, and my brain feels like it’s melting from the sheer volume. It was a damn good show.
The crowd disperses like roaches when the lights go on. As quickly as they came in, they filter out. A handful of stragglers loiter by the bar, and some girls wait for a few moments with the band.
Right about now, I’d be eyeballing the leftover ladies, but as I help the band break down their equipment, I can’t stop glancing at the bar. The neon glow behind the bottles creates a shining halo of blue around Casey’s face, making her eyes pop even from this distance. She’s alone. Either Marisa’s on dish detail, or she met someone. My money’s on the latter.
A split second after returning to my work, a shout, a screech, and a crash bring my attention right back. Casey stands behind the bar in open mouth shock, gaping at a dude swaying on his feet on the other side. I drop the cables and run to the bar. “What the hell?”
“I told him he was cut off. I offered him a water, and he threw it at me!”
Her slight Southern twang turns into a full blown, Deep South drawl as her irate voice goes up an octave. She’s drenched. Her hair hangs wet and lifeless, dripping onto t
he soaked tank top. Now is not the time to be noticing how hot her body is under said tank top, but I’m a guy, and she’s hard not to notice.
“Bits!” I shout, grabbing the drunk by his shirt and locking his arms in a full nelson. “Didn’t your mother teach you manners, asshole? Apologize.”
He jerks, trying to free himself from my grasp, but he’s hammered and sloppy and trips over his own feet instead. I wrench him tighter, and he cries out.
“I said apologize.”
“Sorry.” The smell of booze floats off him as he mumbles out his forced apology.
Bits’s big ass comes waddling through the doors, filling the space as he stands there. “S’up, Morello? Need some help?”
“Yeah, man. Make sure this guy gets out the door. Call him a cab; don’t let him drive.”
Rule number one: never let the drunks drive home. I’ve made enough mistakes in my lifetime. I don’t want that on my conscience as well.
Bits’s bear paw wraps around the drunk’s bicep as he drags him to the door. I turn back toward Casey, who’s shivering in her wet shirt and trying hopelessly to dry off with a bar towel.
“Here.” Grabbing the neck of my tee, I whip it over my head and hand it to her across the bar.
She arches her brow, her eyes dropping to my bare chest for a split second before coming back to my face again. “Nah, I can’t take your shirt. I’ll be fine.”
“You’re soaked. Take the shirt and go change,” I insist.
“Did I miss something?” Marisa saunters through the back doors, followed by a tweaker wearing a Mohawk and an “Anarchy in the UK” tee.
“Yeah, you missed something! You left Casey out here on her first night to fend off the drunks alone! What the hell?”
Marisa’s lips part, but she has no defense. “Sorry, Case. The place was mostly empty. I didn’t think you’d have a problem.”
“It’s all right.” Tiny divots deepen on either side of her cheeks as Casey’s lips press into a thin line. She takes the shirt from my hand and jogs past her friend to the back room to change.
My eyes stay trained on Marisa in a stare down. My body is tense. More than it should be for the tiny infraction. It was just water, but for some reason, I’m furious about it.
“Lookin’ good, Morello!” Marisa waggles her brows with a grin, ignoring my dirty look.
“Keep dreaming.”
I drop onto the stool in front of me as Marisa sets a beer down on the sticky bar top. A peace offering. I inhale a deep breath and let it out, tipping the bottle to my lips. The frosty carbonation dances across my tongue as it slides down my dry throat. First beer of the night is always the best.
My heart's still racing from both my run-in with the drunk and the sight of the very wet and very hot bartender who was standing here just a minute ago. I stay hunched over; crossing my arms on the bar in front of me, I try my best to calm down.
The band loiters by the stage, talking to a couple of girls who are still hanging out. Usually, that’s where I’d be. But for the first time since I started working here, I have zero interest in taking one of them home. I’m not exactly sure why that is, but I have a good suspicion it has something to do with the girl walking out of the backroom wearing my T-shirt.
Holy shit.
The sight is enough to make my mouth water. What is it about this girl? Her blue eyes sparkle as she comes around and sits on the stool next to me. One slender denim-covered leg crosses over the other, but I can't stop looking at her mouth.
Her lips are a plump little heart situated right under her tiny nose. Adrenaline continues to pump through my veins. Her sexy smile only adds to that aggression, making me want to own that sweet little mouth with my lips or my cock. Either will do. The thought not only arouses me, but it also makes me chuckle. Casey is the walking embodiment of The Girl Next Door. I bet those alluring little lips don’t even curse, let alone slide over someone’s hard-on.
She runs her hands through her damp hair, twisting it into a messy bun at the nape of her neck. Silky white wisps fall out around her face. She sweeps them away with her fingertips, closing her eyes for a second. “Thank you. I’ll wash it and return it to you next week,” she says, fidgeting with the collar.
“Keep it. Looks better on you, anyway.” She grins and looks away, but I catch her looking back at me through her light lashes. “Anyone ever told you how pretty your smile is?”
Did I seriously just say that out loud?
“What?” When she giggles, I notice her dimples intensify as her smile widens.
“And don't take this the wrong way, but you have one of those smiles where it can be pretty, it could be cute, and it can be sexy. Not many people can pull off all three.”
Dude. Stop talking.
“Oh, that’s a line. Do you really say things like that to people?”
“Evidently.”
I tip the bottle to my lips again, hoping to keep the word vomit at bay. My inner monologue must have gone on vacation. But if I'm rewarded with a smile like that for every cheesy pickup line, I'll blow out with a different one every night.
She giggles again. Betty Rubble has nothing on that sweet, melodic sound. If it’s the last sound I hear for the rest of my life, I wouldn’t even care.
“Have a beer with me.”
“I think I’ve had enough action for the evenin’. I’m going home.”
The point of her boot grazes my shin as she uncrosses her legs and hops off the stool. You don’t see many cowgirl boots in New Jersey, at least not in this social circle, but Casey rocks them as if she’s wearing Doc Martens.
“Thanks again for the shirt. See you at home, Miss.”
As she walks away, she pulls my gaze along with her. The tee is tied in a knot at her side, leaving the tiniest strip of skin exposed. Heart-shaped rhinestones adorn the pockets of her skintight jeans. Much like her mouth, it’s the perfect metaphor for her ass as a whole—a gorgeous, upside-down heart leading to legs that go on for days. What I wouldn't give to feel those long stems wrapped around me. Casey isn’t just hot; she’s spectacular.
A montage of filthy imagery rolls through my overactive brain. As my dick hardens, I have to consciously remind myself I’m not wearing a shirt to hide behind.
“Hey, Casanova, eyes off the goods.”
Embarrassed at having been caught checking out her friend, I turn back toward Marisa. "What? A guy can look."
"Casey isn't a catch of the day. Don't fuck with her." Her eyes narrow, and her voice gets gruff.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"You and I are the same, AJ. We both like chasing the strange, but Casey's different. She doesn't need another pretty face dragging her down."
"That's insulting. Maybe I’m looking for more than strange this time.”
Her eyes dart toward the door. She props both elbows on the bar, leaning as close to me as she can get. "She’s a special case, A.”
The chick’s a virgin. I knew it. “Special how?”
She rolls her eyes and blows out a strong breath. “She doesn’t date. And she definitely doesn’t date musicians.”
“She doesn’t date musicians,” I mimic. “Why not?”
“Her reasons are hers to tell, not mine. Just tread lightly, okay?”
I nod and drain my beer. Casey’s the first girl I’ve met in a long time who got my blood pumping like this. A few cryptic messages from her friend aren’t enough to make me let that go. In fact, the challenge only makes me want her more.
4
Casey
The piercing beep of my alarm fills my tiny bedroom. I drag myself out of bed and make the trek to the dresser to clear it. Christ, it’s already noon. I set the alarm on purpose to keep from sleeping the entire day away, which is also the reason I leave it on the other side of the room. A bartender’s life is pretty much one long night with a few comatose hours of daylight in between. Sometimes, I feel like my life is nothing but darkness.
Yawning, I cross th
e living room to the kitchen in need of coffee. Calling it a kitchen is being kind. It’s more of a kitchenette, really. A small extension of the living room, it has a banquette of cabinets and a pub table with seating for two. Compared to my apartment in New York, though, this place feels like a palace.
Stepping off that bus the first day in the city, I was in awe of it. A stupid Texas-raised teenager, I’d never seen anything like it. The buildings, the lights, the hustle and bustle. It all seemed so magical. It was a bullshit illusion. New York is the worst, and I’m never going back.
“Coffee.” Marisa zombie walks into the kitchen and plops down at the table. Her hair is half a beehive now, all flat and hanging sadly to the side. Black mascara rings around each eye. She’s so not a morning person. My alarm must have woken her.
“Good mornin’ to you, too,” I reply, setting a mug on the table in front of her. There’s no use in talking to her until the cup is half empty. Her fingers slide across the sleek face of her phone as she takes a sip. Coffee and social media in silence. This is her daily routine.
“So what did you think of your first night at The Wreck?” Marisa asks, after returning to her human form.
“It’s a job.” I shrug.
My first night was interesting, to say the least. Most of it was business as usual, except for being doused in ice water. That kind of sucked.
“AJ’s something to look at, huh?” She sucks in a slow breath, slicing her hands down her lower abdomen in a V formation.
I stir my coffee, averting her gaze. “I didn’t notice.”
I definitely noticed.
He’s only about average height, but what he lacks in “tall” he more than makes up for in “dark and handsome.” The Adonis belt was only part of it. He had it all. Thick biceps, broad shoulders, and abs that I could use to wash my laundry. He’s ripped. Not in a “this guy goes to the gym every day” kind of way. No, he’s more like a tough, blue collar, “you only get these kinds of muscles from hard work and sweat” kind of guy. The kind of sexy you see on the ranch back home. The memory of him ripping his shirt off and handing it to me ran through my mind all night in slow motion. It was like a scene from a movie.
Sweetest Obsessions - Anthology Page 4
