Not So Goode

by Jasinda Wilder

  “What moment?”

  “The moment in which I finally find a smidgen of validation that I am, in fact, still an attractive woman. See, Twinkle Mouse, my ex, really fucked me up. Did a number on my self-esteem.” She rubbed her beautiful face with both hands, frustrated. “God, you must really find this maudlin poor-me bullshit super sexy, huh? Really an attractive look for me, I bet.”

  I squeezed her hand. “Well, with any luck, you won’t remember any of this tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, but you will.”

  “Everybody gets drunk and stupid sometimes, Charlie. No worries.” I eyed the bustle going on in the side-stage area. “I promise you, I’ll find you every bit as goddamn breathtaking when you’re sober as I do now. But, I have to work. You stay here, and I’ll check on you.”

  She nodded, and slumped backward, resting her head on the back of the couch. I fetched a couple bottles of water from a nearby mini-fridge, cracked one and put it in her hand.

  “Drink this, yeah?”

  “Okay.” She sipped at it. “Hydrology is important.”

  “Hydrology?”

  “Being watered.”

  I snickered. “You mean hydration?”

  “Shut up. Just let me be wrong.” She sipped again. “Go away. You have to do whatever kind of work a tall dark and handsome man named Crow does at a place like this.”

  “I’m the guitar tech for Myles North.”

  She perked up. “Ooooh. My little sister has a major crush on him. If she knew I might possibly meet him through you, she’d be super jealous.”

  “I’m sure I could set something up.”

  “Might not be a good idea. My sister eats men for breakfast and has moved on by lunch. She’d just chew him up and spit him out.” She cackled. “Although I have a feeling she swallows.”

  I guffawed. “Wow, that was some serious shade, Charlie.”

  “She knows I love her. Plus, it’s true.” She looks around. “I need Lexie. She’ll get into trouble without me.”

  Or you will, without her, I thought, but I didn’t say a word.

  “Her name is Lexie?”

  She nodded. “Lexie Goode. She looks like me, but a slutty gypsy version. Shorter, bigger butt and boobs. Big ol’ boobies. You’ll like ‘em. Just go out there and look for the slutty gypsy.”

  “I think gypsy is a derogatory term, you know.”

  “Well, that’s the most accurate word for her look. It works for her, but that’s just what I’d call it. You can’t say slutty to her, though, or she’ll skin you alive and eat your balls.”

  “Real ballbreaker, is she?”

  “Yep. The breaker of many, many balls. Sweet, and nice, and funny, and smart, and so freaking beautiful it’s annoying, but she’s a major ballbreaker. So just mind your words.”

  She slumped back again; water precariously balanced on her knee, only loosely gripped in one hand.

  “Do you have a phone?” I asked.

  She nodded. Fumbling, she brought her cross-body bag around, laboriously unzipped it, clumsily hunted for a phone. Found it, took four attempts to unlock it with her face. Handed it to me.

  “Too hard. I’m seeing, like two and half of everything. You call.”

  I hissed. I really had to get to work. But, I’d assumed responsibility for this chick, so…

  I brought up her contacts, typed in Lexie, dialed. It rang until it went to voicemail, so I hung up and called back, again and again.

  Finally, on the third try, it clicked, and I heard the concert from the crowd, and faint voice yelling. “What? Where the fuck did you go? I turned around and you were gone, you dumbass!”

  “My name is Crow,” I said. “Your sister got into some trouble, so I have her backstage. Meet me stage right—your right—between the two big semitrailers. I’ll be in black jeans and a leather vest.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “Yes, she’s none the worse for wear, just very, very, very drunk.”

  “Shit. Okay, thank you. See you in a second.”

  “Yep.”

  “Wait, how will you know me?”

  I laughed. “Your sister gave me a very detailed description.”

  “I bet.”

  “She used words she said you wouldn’t appreciate hearing.”

  “Slutty gypsy?”

  “Yup.”

  She laughed, not offended. “Well, it’s accurate enough, even if gypsy is a derogatory and politically incorrect term.”

  And with that, she hung up, no goodbye. Okay, then.

  I found a nearby stagehand from our road crew. “Hey, keep an eye on her,” I said, pointing at Charlie. “Don’t let her leave.”

  The guy, young, bearded, stocky, just nodded. “Don’t think she can, but okay.” He glanced at his watch. “You know he goes on in forty-five?”

  “Yeah, I fuckin’ know. He’ll be ready.”

  Another nod, and then I jogged for the barricade. As I approached, I saw a girl who could only be Charlie’s sister.

  Shorter than Charlie by an inch or two, with curves for days. Black hair cut pixie short, buzzed on the sides to just above her ears, the longer top portion was twisted into a series of tiny knots on the top of her head in a wide mohawk-like row of little mini buns. Ears pierced from top of the shell all the way down to the lobes in plethora of gold and silver rings, studs at the top of the shell, dream catchers dangling from her lobes. I was still a ways away, but it looked like her eyes were dark as opposed to Charlie’s blues, with dramatic smoky eye makeup. And yeah, slutty gypsy was the best description for her style: she was wearing a skirt made of patches and swatches of brightly colored fabric and squares of leather and corduroy, with tassels and feathers and strips of cloth dangling and fluttering—the hem swirled around her heels, but it was slit on one side all the way up her mid-thigh, so when she shifted, her leg up to her hip was visible, offering a tantalizing almost-glimpse of everything under the skirt, making you wonder what, if anything, she was wearing under it. Sandals wove in thick straps up around her calves to her knee. Her top was a scrap of gauzy red lace in the vague approximation of a half-shirt, leaving her belly bare, exposing a belly button ring and making it daringly, glaringly obvious that she wore not a scrap of anything under the shirt; and that, as Charlie had said, she had some seriously impressive melons, which were all but on display. Obscured just enough to tantalize, but only just barely.

  I took one long look, and then put my libido in firm check—to be polite, for one thing, but also because as fine as this girl was, my mind was already captured by the long curvy legs and bangin’ hips and ass of the drunk chick on the couch.

  I kept my eyes on hers as I shook her hand. “Crow. You must be Lexie.”

  “Yes. Nice to meet you, Mr. Crow.”

  “No mister. Just Crow. Yes, it’s my real name.” I gestured for her to follow. “Sister is this way.”

  “What happened?”

  “She was being harassed by some assholes. I took care of the assholes and brought her here.”

  Lexie kept pace with my longer strides, that crazy ass fuckin’ skirt of hers fluttering behind her, one thick, tanned, smooth thigh peeking out every step. “You’re leaving some shit out, I feel.”

  “Yeah. It was a bad scene. She was fightin’ for all she was worth and not backin’ down, but those fuckers were bad news.”

  “Did they…do anything…to her?”

  “Nope. Pushed her around a bit, grabbing her, pinching, shit like that. Playing with her like a cat with a mouse. Would’ve been ugly, but I saw it, and I sorted the fuckers out.”

  “Not gently, I hope.”

  I gave her a glimpse at the violent wolf lurking inside me—I sensed this girl was far less innocent than her older sister in the dark and unfriendly ways of the world. “No. I was not gentle.”

  She paused, stared up into my eyes, assessing. As Charlie had said—there was a wild glimmering intelligence in those dark brown eyes. This girl was more than half-wild; a fey spiri
t, Mammy would have called her.

  “Good,” she said, nodding once, firmly. “I hope they piss blood for a week.”

  “Had to be dragged to the med tent,” I said. “Pissing blood will be the least of their concerns.”

  She nodded again. “You have my approval, Crow. Thank you for taking care of my sister. She’s going through a hard time. We both are, but she’s not usually like this. Doesn’t cut loose much. I took my eyes off of her for ten seconds and she was gone.”

  “No worries. It happens.” I led her to the trailer, where we found Charlie passed out, the bottle of water about to fall out of her hand. “Here she is.”

  Lexie settled on the couch beside her sister, took the water from her, set it aside, and let Charlie slide sideways to lay in Lexie’s lap. “Got her. Thanks.”

  I nodded. “Okay, you guys just stay there, yeah? There ain’t really backstage passes at this disaster of a festival, but I’ll make sure my guys know you’re cool to be here. Just don’t go wandering off.”

  She gave a two-fingered salute. “I will stay my ass right here, Mr. Crow.”

  I knew she was just goading me with the mister, so I ignored it. Charlie was slumped sideways, both hands pillowed under her cheek on Lexie’s bare thigh. That long, thick herringbone braid of glossy black hair slipped sideways and dangled off the edge of the couch, until Lexie gathered it up, tossed it behind Charlie’s back. Brushed at her cheek.

  I had shit to do, so why was I rooted to the damn spot, staring at a passed-out angel? It could have been the way her breasts were piled up under her arm and about to fall out of the front of her plain black V-neck. Or the tender skin of her throat, pulsing with her heartbeat. Or the curve of her thigh rounding to hip and buttock. The soft breath, or the small hands curled under her cheekbone.

  Innocent.

  Made my heart skip, lurch, and then thunder.

  Idiot.

  I yanked myself around, forcefully, stomping off to work—I had to bust ass like a motherfucker to get all Myles’s guitars unpacked, set up, plugged in, tested, and tuned, leaving Betty-Lou for Myles to take care of. I had cut it close, that was for fuckin’ sure—I was still testing the Fender Strat, his latest acquisition, a pretty little classic black-and-tan number with beautiful sound when the stage manager notified us that it was two minutes to go time.

  Myles was side stage, jumping up and down on his toes, slapping his hands against his thighs, shaking his head, humming scales and then singing them, high to low to high, warming up his voice. Shaking his hands. Rolling his shoulders.

  He saw me, let out a short, sharp breath. “There you are, you lazy bitch.”

  I just slapped his back. “Kill ‘em, buddy.”

  “Oh, I’ll kill ‘em.” He smirked. “Just like you about killed those poor bastards.”

  “They were—”

  He cut me off. “I heard.” He craned backward, peering into the trailer. “Passed out, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  He turned to step a few steps closer, leaning forward, straining to see into the trailer. “DAY-um, though, who’s the fine-as-wine rock star honey over there with your damsel in distress?”

  “Her sister. Lexie.” I debated telling him what Charlie had told me, but decided against it; let it play out naturally.

  “Well. Do not let them go before I have a chance to say hi to that gorgeous piece’a sinfulness.”

  I laughed. “You fuckin’ dog.”

  “I just wanna say hi. She looks like a firecracker.”

  I chuckled. “I only met her briefly, but I’d say that’s about right. I don’t know her from Adam, but from what I can tell, I’d step careful around that one.”

  He shook out his hands, ran wordless notes up to the top of his range and down to the bottom. Grinned at me again. “A challenge. I like it.”

  I shoved him toward the stage. “Get out there and break legs, Myles. Focus on the music for now, yeah?”

  “Break a leg is theater, you idiot.”

  I laughed. “No, I know. I meant your own.”

  He flipped me off as he jogged backward on stage, and then the moment he hit the open stage, he spun around, lifting his hands over his head. The crowd went wild, deafening. Jupiter was thudding a steady rhythm on the kicker, Brand letting his fingers stroll around the bass frets, running low rolling licks to weave around Jupiter’s kick drum. Zan let his Les Paul fade up into shrieking feedback as I brought Myles his guitar for the opening trio of numbers. Handed it to him, cuffing him affectionately on the back of the head as he shrugged the strap on, wiggled his shoulders, plucked the pick from the strings, winked at me, and then strode to the front edge of the stage, and his mic.

  “Weeeeeeeeeell howdy, Illinois,” he shouted, drawling his accent into a thick South Texas twang. “Are you beautiful drunk motherfuckers having a good time out here in the middle of nowhere?”

  Tens of thousands of gathered country music fans screamed and howled, the already deafening roar cranking up to a bone-rattling din.

  “I think I heard you,” Myles said, then paused to rifle off a quick, light, flicking riff. “But I got a feelin’ ya’ll can do better. I SAID—are you beautiful drunk-ass country music lovin’ motherfuckers HAVING A GOOD FUCKIN’ TIME?” This last phrase he shouted into the mic.

  The noise was nearly unbearable, now, but Myles goaded them again. Another riff, this one longer, more complex.

  “I CAN’T FUCKIN’ HEAR YOU!”

  Louder, and now the kick drum went faster as they transitioned seamlessly into the opening notes of the first song, a snare tap-tap-tapping, Zan laying a smooth chug, Brand thumping a steady chord, and Myles playfully toying with riffs, turning them gradually, masterfully, into the lead melody.

  “Okay, I believe you, now,” he said, his voice quieter, lower. “This is a fun little song, you may have heard it before. It’s called ‘I Can’t Lie’.”

  The din of the crowd, which had been dying down, went nuts again.

  And then he was off, rattling away the machine-gun-quick, not-quite rapped lyrics of the verse, and then Zan and Brand joined him at the mic to harmonize on the bridge, and then Zan and Myles played dueling riffs through the chorus, just Myles singing, using that low smooth baritone like he was promising every woman in the crowd the best night of her life.

  Damn, the man was on fire. The band was always hot, but they drew off of Myles, and he was flying high tonight, ramped up and amped up, hitting every note, turning every solo into straight fire.

  About halfway through the set, I glanced offstage as I tweaked the tuning of the next guitar—Lexie was clearly enraptured, eyes fixed on Myles, whom she could see in perfect profile.

  Yeah, she had it bad. And judging by the way Myles looked right at her between songs, he was feelin’ it too.

  That oughta be interesting. Charlie had said Lexie chewed up most men for breakfast, but my little secret was that Myles was just about the same. I knew he set them straight on the way things were before anything happened, so they knew it was just fun for the night, but still he had a way of leaving half-broke hearts wherever he went, each new nightly conquest wishing she could be the one to tame the wild thing that was Myles North’s bronco soul.

  I wondered, though, if just maybe Lexie Goode could be the one to pull off that impossible feat. She’d struck me as every bit as wild, every bit as mare strong and mule stubborn and peacock proud.

  What do you get when two wildfires met?

  Crazy hell, that’s what.

  I rubbed my jaw, turned my attention back to the guitar. Brought it to Myles at the correct moment, and returned side stage to my little area.

  And noticed Charlie was awake, somehow, sitting up.

  Staring at me.

  Toying with her braid, looking half-sober.

  Thoughtful.

  Damn, damn, damn.

  I ripped my gaze away from those deep baby blues before I lost my soul in them.

  Shit, this was bad.


  The look in her eyes told me she remembered every word that had passed between us. God, why did she have to rally? Why couldn’t she just stay passed out and forget I’d told her she was perfect?

  But it hadn’t been a lie, or even an exaggeration. Not at all. The truth was she was purely breathtaking, and that was the honest to god response my soul gave me when her blue eyes locked on mine, just for a split second.

  Oh god, I’m so fucked.

  I looked away first…

  Because I had a job to do, which required my full attention.

  Not because I was scared of what I saw in her half-drunk eyes.

  Nope. Wasn’t that. Not at all.

  Charlie

  I more than half wished I’d been able to stay passed out. At least that way, I’d have been able to forget a little longer how I’d acted.

  What had happened.

  Those nasty men, their nasty hands.

  Pinching, grabbing.

  The memory of the harassment, however, as gross and nauseating as it was, was eclipsed by the arrival of Crow.

  I will never, ever, for as long as I live, forget that moment.

  One of my harassers was yanked backward as if by shepherd’s crook in a Merry Melodies cartoon. Yank. A massive, scared fist hammered down, and then hell broke loose. Bloody, wrecking hell disguised as a sinfully sexy man. If he was even a mere man. If he told me he was a shapeshifter from a Sherrilyn Kenyon novel, I would have believed him.

  Six feet tall, broad shouldered, narrow hips and a wedge waist. Hard, heavy slabs of muscle sheathed in dark weather-leathered Native American skin—his heritage was written all over him. His short messy hair as black as a wing of his namesake, the hawkish angle of his nose, his cheekbones, his eyes. His bearing, his demeanor. Even his smooth low quiet powerful voice. He wore faded, tattered, tight black jeans over tall, thick black leather boots with silver buckles on the sides. A leather vest was unbuttoned and open over bare skin—and god, his body.

  Now, my whole life I’ve read romance books. Since I was a preteen girl awash with hormones and budding body parts, I have devoured romance novels of all kinds. You read about the heroine seeing the hero for the first time and her mouth watering. Maybe even a phrase like “her delicate center coiling with low, insistent heat.”