“So, I shouldn’t call the cops?” she asked.
“On me? Definitely not. On him?” I flicked my head back toward the alley. “Absolutely.”
“I think he learned his lesson.” She shrugged. “Besides, if the police were involved, you might get in trouble, too.” She had a point but not a good enough one. “I doubt he’d tell them very many nice things about you.”
“I never claimed to be nice.”
She laughed. “You’re totally nice.”
Doug would’ve flipped if he heard that. After everything he and his team had done to make me seem one hundred percent bad boy.
I held my stomach as if she’d slugged me. “Again with the painful jabs—first you tell me you’re not going to give me your number, and now you say I’m nice.”
“You are nice. A lot nicer than that asshole is.”
“That’s not exactly a high bar. Please tell me you didn’t give Cal your number either.”
“Unfortunately, I’ve known him since I was in high school, so he already had my old one. Back in the days before I was smart enough to never give it out.” She didn’t offer more.
But I had to know. “Is he your dealer?”
Her face squished up in disgust. “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t buy Nutella from that prick, even if he had the last jar on earth. Besides, I don’t do drugs.”
I let out a sigh of relief. If I had a real problem with people doing drugs my best friend wouldn’t be my best friend, and I’d never speak to my bandmates or almost anyone in the music and club industries ever again. But I’d tried dating an addict once. It’d worked for a day and a half. A day and a half of constantly thinking that there was nothing worse than having to stop what we were doing because her buzz was wearing off and she needed a top-off.
Of course, that was before I’d experienced something worse. Specifically, not knowing if the woman was with me because she was attracted to me, or if she’d just popped some Ecstasy and would’ve jumped on a seventy-year-old politician if she’d seen him first. Yep, that was actually the worst…that I’d encountered so far anyway.
“What about you?” she asked, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Do you do drugs?”
“Never really saw the point of taking something illegal to make me stupider. That’s what booze is for. Just as effective, and legal in more places.”
“Amen,” she said, laughing. “Speaking of… Something about Cal always makes me need a drink. Can I buy you one as a thank-you for”—she flicked her head in the direction of the alley—“saving me from that highly unpleasant situation?”
“Absolutely not. But I’ll buy you one. As a you’re-welcome for doing my civic duty.”
She studied my face for a moment. “It’s just a drink, you know? Nothing else.”
“Thanks for the clarification, but I actually know what a drink is,” I said. “And I also know that, unless it’s clearly stated on the menu, it doesn’t automatically come with sex. You’re welcome to add that on as a side at any time if you’d like, though. It’d be on the house.”
She smiled. “Thanks, but I’m not hungry tonight.”
“That’s too bad. Because I’m famished.”
* * *
I didn’t touch her as I followed her back into the bar, even though my hand twitched, longing to feel her, hold on to her a little while. But I kept my hands to myself and my face tilted down as we made our way through the crowd, hoping no one would recognize me, including Trevor. Being recognized was never fun, but being spotted with a woman meant people would talk, rumors would get started, and something casual could turn into a problem.
Plus, this woman was different. I wasn’t sure casual would be enough. No, that’s not right. I knew casual wasn’t enough. I wanted to get to know her, figure her out, understand why I couldn’t get her out of my head.
I’ve been lucky in my life—not too many rejections from women, jobs, venues, fans. Maybe that was it. Maybe I liked her because she’d rejected me. Because she rejected me for who I was, not who people thought I was. How’s that for fucked up? I was actively looking for a chance to fail and rub my own face in it. Shit.
Since the barstools were all taken, I used my body to make some room for her, then waved the bartender over. He wasn’t the same guy who’d served me earlier. His eyes widened briefly when he saw me—either gay or a music lover. Or both. Whatever got us our drinks faster worked for me.
He slid a napkin in front of me, frowning and adding another when he nodded toward Sara. Definitely gay. No straight man would frown when he saw her face—beautiful, pure, but with a little wickedness in it somehow. Smooth skin. Long, blond hair spilling down her back, messy as if she’d just come from the beach…or had an argument with an ex-boyfriend in the alley.
“What are you drinking?” I asked her.
“Vodka tonic.”
Would’ve thought she’d go for something sweeter, something with more mix than booze since she was so small. But I let it go. Stupid to assume I knew anything about her.
I ordered her drink and a ginger ale for myself.
“You don’t drink?”
“Not tonight. For some reason, when I’m around you, it feels like a good idea to keep my wits about me.”
She laughed lightly, a lock of hair falling over her eyes. Before she could brush it back, I did. I had to touch her, any way I could. When she flicked her head, I wasn’t sure if it was to avoid my touch or to move her hair.
When someone pounded my back, I spun around, expecting it to be the asshole from the alley again. Nope, different asshole.
“Hey, Trev,” I grumbled.
Damn it. That had happened fast. Between when I’d said goodbye and now, Trevor had found the time to empty one too many glasses—I could see it in the gloss of his eyes and the way he leaned on me for support. Along with the way he leered at Sara.
“You look familiar,” he said to her. “Who are you?”
With a look of doubt, she answered, “Who are you?”
“Declan’s best friend, ally, and wingman.”
Her brow lifted when she glanced at me. “You need a wingman?”
I shook my head slowly. “This is Trevor, who won’t be my friend much longer if he keeps embarrassing me in front of beautiful women.”
“Why not?” She smiled. “You look cute when you’re embarrassed. I think you should keep him around just for that.” She held out her hand out to Trevor. “Nice to meet you. I’m Sara.”
Trevor gasped and turned to me. “The Sara?”
I shut my eyes. “How cute do I look now?”
“Yep,” she said. “The Sara. I’m surprised you didn’t recognize me, considering what a rare name I have.” She’d meant it as a joke, but I couldn’t even fake a laugh. It just reminded me that since my name was pretty rare in the States, people did recognize me by my name, at least people who followed music. And they thought they knew me—the real me, not just the guy they saw onstage. The person I pretended to be.
“Wow, Dec, you weren’t kidding. She’s gorgeous. She’s got a really great body, too.”
“Dude!” I smacked him in the arm. “Apologize.”
“You know what else she has?” she said. “A brain. And a severe dislike of people who talk about her like she’s a horse at auction.”
“You’re right,” he said. “Sorry. That was me getting a little too excited and forgetting to use my brain.” Leaning toward her, Trev cupped his hand and put it on one side of his mouth. The wrong side of his mouth if he’d actually been trying not to let me hear what he was about to say. “This is the first time in years that Declan has introduced me to a woman he likes.”
“I heard that,” I grumbled.
She mirrored his position exactly. “Maybe he was worried they’d all be overwhelmed by your excellent manners and intense sexuality.”
I shifted uncomfortably. “Heard that, too.”
“I was thinking the same thing. Poor guy. So, the Sara, are you overwhel
med yet?”
She tilted her head side to side. “I’m about fifty percent there.”
“Let me know when you hit seventy-five percent, so I know when to leave.”
“Now, Trev.” I grabbed him by his shoulder and pulled him away from her a step. “How ‘bout you and your intense sexuality leave now?”
“I like this one.” Trevor caught his mistake. “I like you, the Sara. I like you a lot. And I don’t want you to hate me. So, can we start over?”
After a brief pause, she nodded. “What do you have in mind?”
“Hi.” He stuck out his hand again. “I’m Trevor, Declan’s friend. He’s told me a lot about you—but nothing too graphic. And all of it was good stuff.”
Not sure that was any better, I pushed him into the crowd. “Go somewhere else, Trev. I’ll see you later.”
With a nod, he turned and left me to do damage control.
“Sorry,” I said once he was absorbed by the crowd. “He’s not normally like that.”
“An idiot?” At least she was smiling.
“No, he’s always an idiot. But he’s usually less of an asshole. When he celebrates something, he really celebrates.”
“No worries. The friend I came here with tonight is a sociology major and would find him fascinating.” She took a quick look around the place, probably looking for her friend. “Wherever she is.” Hearing that pronoun was a relief.
“We may have to get our friends together sometime then. Trevor loves anyone who thinks he’s fascinating.”
“What’s he celebrating, anyway?”
I didn’t want to tell her about the promised contract, or being done with the tour, or anything else about the band. If I brought her into that side of my life, she wouldn’t be mine anymore. Not that she was actually mine now. But I liked having a little normalcy in my life, someone who wasn’t trying to use me for something.
“Trevor and I work together. We just got some good news about a potential new project.”
“Congrats. So, why aren’t you celebrating with him?”
“Because I’d rather celebrate with you.”
“That’s sweet. Thanks.” She held up her drink for a toast. “And congratulations on your good news, whatever it is.”
Anyone else would’ve probed for more information, but not her. Like she didn’t want to know or didn’t care. Or maybe she still wanted to keep her distance. After everything we’d done to each other.
I couldn’t really fault her for it—I was doing the same thing. Could I have it both ways? Could I keep her away from the music and share everything else? Was that even possible?
11
Declan
“So, you told your wingman about me?” Sara said, taking a sip of her drink.
“I may have mentioned you. In passing.”
“In passing?”
“You can’t blame me—no one can meet the Sara and not mention it.”
She laughed. “We definitely met, didn’t we?”
“I was trying not to think about it too much, but yeah. That was a fantastic...meeting. Maybe we could meet again sometime.” I tried to keep it light, especially after her earlier run-in with her ex or whoever Cal was, but she’d started it.
“I don’t know. I mean, usually, subsequent meetings aren’t as…mutually beneficial as the first.”
We edged forward, toward each other under the guise of needing to hear one another over the noise of the place.
“Normally, I’d agree with you. But in our case, I really think any future meetings we have would be highly beneficial to both of us.”
She hid her smile by taking a long sip of her drink. “Are you really confident you can provide me with any and all goods and services I need, Declan?”
“I would be more than happy to service you in any way I can, Sara.”
I also needed to change the subject because this one was literally becoming painful. The harder my cock got, the more I regretted trusting the saleswoman who’d talked me into these jeans. Regardless of how good she thought my ass looked in them, I really should’ve gone with my gut and bought the ones with a roomier fit.
More importantly, all I really knew about Sara was external—she was amazing in bed and had a body I’d happily explore for the next couple of weeks—so I’d be stupid not to use this time to get to know the rest of her. But I had to move slowly so I didn’t scare her off again.
The night we met, she’d told me she grew up in the city and worked in an office downtown. Work seemed like a bland enough place to start.
“Do you meet a lot of people at work?” I asked.
She gasped.
“Oh shit! I didn’t mean it that way. I meant the ‘Hi, my name is’ kind of meet…in real life, at your job. It just sounded like you might…” I don’t think I’d ever failed at anything so epically before. “You’re good with people. I just thought you probably worked with…people,” I muttered. “Sorry, that came out totally wrong.”
Smiling, she put her hand on my arm. “It’s okay. It only took me about ten seconds of seeing your expression to figure out you weren’t calling me a hooker. You must be a shitty poker player.”
“Hurtful but true.” I pantomimed wiping sweat off my brow. “I need to clarify something you just said, though. You’re right—I would never call a woman a hooker. ‘Escort’ is a lot classier.” Turning my embarrassment into a joke had been a risk, but better she be laughing than walking away. And thankfully, she got it.
A minute later, she stopped laughing but kept smiling as she took a deep breath.
“I’ve been called a lot of things, but you’re the first man who’s ever told me if I were a sex worker I’d be the classy kind. I mean, wow. Am I blushing?” She waved her hand as if it were a fan.
“You’re amazing,” I said.
“Anyway…” She rolled her eyes and pretended to shove me away. “To answer your horribly worded question…no, I don’t meet a lot of people at work. In fact, it’s only me and my boss in the office. I answer phones and do general office crap for my friend’s virtual assistant company.”
“Huh,” I said as gratefully as possible. “Interesting.”
“It’s not. It’s actually really boring. I used to be one of the virtual assistants. That was interesting. Kind of fun, even. But…” She tilted her head side to side as if to weigh her wording. “I had a run-in with a client, and not in a good way. So, until I prove I won’t make that mistake again I get to sit in an office and be bored. But whatever pays the rent, you know?”
I’d been nodding along the whole time. I’d also been studying her face and how she held herself. She’d told me more in the last two minutes than in the entire night we’d been together.
“That was a long and confusing answer, wasn’t it? So, Declan, what pays your rent?”
I swallowed. The question wasn’t unexpected—after all, I’d asked her. But I didn’t want to tell her about my job. In the past few years, I’d gotten one of two reactions from women. Either they wanted to be with me because I was famous enough for them to already know what I did, or as soon as they found out, they assumed I had no interests other than partying, womanizing, and anything else that fit into the stereotype of a musician.
I didn’t want Sara to judge me for what I did. I wanted her to judge me for who I was. If she hated me then, fine. I just wanted the chance to get to know one another slowly, naturally, and in a real way.
Granted, our relationship had started, literally speaking, below the belt, which might not be the best way two people who could actually like each other should meet. But who could say for sure how it would turn out? Hell, even if it didn’t work out like I hoped it would, it was refreshing to talk to someone who didn’t want to talk about the band. Especially someone I was interested in.
I couldn’t stomach one more question about what it was like to tour, how much money we made, or if I ever got nervous before a show. I liked not having to lie or watch a woman’s smile disappear when
I told her the truth about my life: I’d rather be at home with my dog. Or that most of the time the band made just enough to cover expenses and bar tabs. And the reason I didn’t get nervous before a show was because it wasn’t really me who walked onto the stage—it was a guy who’d been manufactured by agents and stylists to appeal to a wide audience.
So, what should I tell Sara? “What pays my rent?” I repeated. “You may need another drink before you hear the bad news.” When I caught the bartender’s eye, I motioned to her empty glass and then to mine.
“Actually...” she said, shaking her head at the bartender. Then she pointed to my glass and put up two fingers. “It’s hard enough to behave myself around you sober. Who knows what would happen after a few more drinks?”
I pressed my lips together before I said something like ‘Let’s find out’ and ordered her a few more drinks.
There was nothing sexy about a woman deciding to sleep with you only after she got a good buzz going. Just like there was something incredibly sexy about a woman switching to a non-alcoholic drink because she wasn’t sure she could trust herself around you.
“I’m a writer.”
“In the music industry?” she asked.
Fuck. So, she already knew. “How did you—?”
“The card you gave me. It was an agent or manager or something, right? Doug somebody?”
Oh, right. “I wrote my number on Doug’s business card, didn’t I? Doug’s a…” So many different words I could use to describe him, none of which she needed to know. She’d never be within forty feet of him if I could help it. “Doug manages up-and-coming bands. He’s always terrified he’ll be caught without a fancy business card when he wants to impress a woman. So, the way I figure it, deliberately making him run out of them helps him overcome his fear.”
“Sounds like you’re helping all the women he meets, too.”
Smiling, I nodded. “It’s my small way of apologizing on behalf of my entire gender.”
“Apology accepted, but only for you. Unless you’re about to tell me that when not protecting women from managers or assholes in dark alleys, you write magazine articles about why women should be seen and not heard, or how old white guys should be allowed to define what equality means.”
Immaterial Defense: Once and Forever #4 Page 8
