Chasing Casey

by Jane Anthony

  “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.

  CHAPTER 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 the 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 an
ything 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.

  So valiant.

  So considerate.

  So . . . hot.

  Marisa laughs. “Yeah, sure you didn’t. And you’re not still wearing his T-shirt either.”

  “What? I like it. It’s a nice shirt.”

  She quirks an eyebrow. “It says Orgasm Donor on it.”

  Unwilling to cave, I casually sip my coffee. The clean, masculine scent of this shirt is blowing my mind a little bit. It’s been so long since I’ve been wrapped in something that smells this delicious that I’m in no rush to take it off. I may be celibate, but I’m not dead.

  I jump off the stool to pour myself a second cup of coffee, although I don’t need it. For some reason, I’m wired. My pulse is racing so fast it feels like I just ran a marathon. “You guys never . . . you know . . . did you?”

  “No, we never hooked up.”

  Still facing the countertop, the breath I was holding slowly trickles out. Why do I care if they hooked up? I’m not planning to date him. It’s not as if I dreamed about licking the sweat off his pecs all night. Nope. Not once did I imagine how his scruff would tickle my skin as his lips roamed my body. Nuh-uh. And by no means did I wake up thinking about his smoldering gray eyes and wide, sexy grin, either. Absolutely not.

  Marisa saunters up next to me and leans on the countertop; her mug dangles from the crook of her index finger, waiting for a refill. “It’s not from lack of trying, though. Believe me.”

  An unexpected pang of jealousy stabs me in the stomach. “He asked you out?”

  “No.” She snorts. “I’ve made a few innuendos; he turned me down, so I stopped. No use pumping a dry well, right? Besides, I think you’re more his type.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Honey, you’re everybody’s type. Besides, I caught him checking out your back end last night.”

  A flush creeps up my face so fast I feel it in my ears. As much as I’d love to deny it, AJ’s gotten in my head. Something about the brooding, musical type sets my thighs on fire, but there’s more to him than that. I can feel it. Unfortunately, the guys I’m into only end up breaking my heart. Sometimes worse.

  ***

  I lean over the bar, wrenching my neck, trying to hear the guy in front of me shout out his order. Bar lights glint off the metal in his face, making it hard to concentrate on what he’s saying. The distortion blasting from the stage is giving me a headache. It’s so angry. How do people listen to this crap without completely losing their minds?

  He shouts his order again, never taking his eyes off my breasts as he does so. My hand travels to the barely there neckline on my Wreck Me tank. Frankie D. presented me with a couple of new ones at the start of my shift. As far as this thing goes, I have two options: either pull the strings on the front super tight, which pushes my chest up and out, or leave them loose and expose more cleavage than I’m interested in showing at this stage of my life. Either way, I’m showing off the goods, and the metal heads are noticing.

  The Wreck is slammed. Sweaty bodies press up against each other, writhing and smashing with wild delirium. I never realized how animated a rock crowd was. I grew up listening to country greats like Johnny Cash and Waylon Jennings with my gran. They crooned into their microphones, strumming their guitars and telling a story. Music shouldn’t make you want to bang your head. It should uplift your soul.

  “Thank you! Good night!” shouts the singer. He looks old and tired. As if he wasted his entire youth living the rock star fantasy only to end up in a crappy tribute band on a bar stage in New Jersey. Dressed in head-to-toe leather and studs, he looks like he belongs in a biker gang more than a rock group. Tonight’s headliner called themselves Painkiller. I’m told they’re a Judas Priest Tribute band. Whoever that is.

  When the lights go on, everyone winces and shields their faces, dispersing into the dark night like vampires escaping the dawn. AJ rises from the board, scratching under his hat as he goes, leaving it slightly off kilter. He takes the seat behind the drum kit. Counting out beats with the shafts of his sticks . . . one, two, three, four . . . he crashes them down on the set around him. Even from here, in the dim light of the bar, I can see his eyes are closed. Sweat flies all over; biceps bulge under his skin with each slam of the sticks.

  My knowledge of rock music isn’t much, but what I do know is AJ commands that stage. He wails, fast and angry, not only controlling the band, but my heartbeat as well. I pause with an empty tray of glasses in my hands, body tingling as I watch. I’m stuck. Fixated on the beast beating the hell out of the kit and holding me hostage with his talent.

  By the time he’s finished, I can barely breathe. I’m supposed to hate musicians. The whole institution of show business is built on nothing but bullshit, but something about him captivates me. So much is hiding beneath the surface. He’s shown me a little taste of what’s deep inside, and now, I’m hungry for more.

  A smile stretches across his face when he catches me watching. I drop my gaze and begin wiping the counter, but it’s pointless. I’ve been caught. He moves from the drum kit and goes back to his work. His arms move fluidly, stretching out the power cables and then wrapping them into neat coils with his hands. It’s a small, subtle movement, hardly one worth noticing. Something about the way they glide through his hands, like he takes so much pride in the littlest task. It’s a rare trait for men these days.

  A handful of women loiters about. Their over-the-top giggling bounces off the wooden walls and ceiling. They’re trying like hell to get his attention, but his eyes focus on me. I don’t have to look up to know. I can feel it. The weight of his stare gets heavier as he comes closer, and the air in the bar thickens.

  “Can I get a beer?”

  A tiny bead of sweat travels down his neck, and for a split second, I wonder what it would taste like on my tongue. His damp shirt clings to his frame just enough to remind me what’s underneath and jack my pulse. This week, a cave man graces the front with the words ‘I Swing Big Wood’ written across his broad chest. I’m starting to notice a pattern.

  “Nice shirt,” I say, continuing to run the towel over the bar top. The corners of my mouth twist up in defiance of my brain. His vulgar collection of tees doesn’t r
epulse me the way it should. It’s almost as if he’s overcompensating. Beneath that cocky attitude, something else is lurking. I see it inside his soulful eyes.

  “You too. You look good dry.”

  He raises his hand to grab the bill of his ball cap with his thumb and pointer then uses the remaining fingers to scratch his scalp. A small jagged scar disappears into the thick mop of raven hair he’d been hiding underneath.

  Dropping the hat back in place, he plops on the barstool at his feet. I set a beer down in front of him and try not to notice how utterly kissable his lips are as he brings the bottle to his mouth. “So what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”

  I arch a brow, waiting for the punch line. Did he seriously hit me with another cheesy pickup line? “You think you’re pretty smooth, don’t you?”

  “Lil’ bit.” When he grins, I actually feel it slithering up the backs of my knees.

  Do not let this guy under your skin, Case.

  “What kind of girl am I?”

  He leans over the bar and peers down at my feet. “The kind of girl who wears cowgirl boots and rhinestone jeans to a heavy metal club. You’re too damn sweet to be around so much debauchery.”

  “Maybe I’m not as sweet as you think,” I reply, re-wiping the already clean bar top. In addition to the black ball cap, he’s still wearing the same perfect stubble as last weekend. Surrounded by all that darkness, his gray eyes stand out, capturing me like a fly in a web.

  His fingers close around my wrist, bringing my incessant wiping to a halt. I’m certain he felt the jump in my pulse. “You’re gonna clean a hole right through the counter, cowgirl.”

  I swallow hard. The intense beating of my heart could headline the next show. A burning tingle shoots up my bicep and spreads throughout my body, starting at the exact spot his rough hand remains clutching my arm. Whether it’s from my attraction to him, or the fact that I haven’t felt a man’s touch in over five years, I can’t say, but I suddenly have the same dizzy feeling you get when you stand up too fast after sitting for a while.