“Really?” Her eyes darted back and forth.
“Damn.” My hands slid over her slick wet curves. “Just how long did you want to extend your stay in Austin?” I cupped her ass like I owned it. After the past twenty-four hours, I was damn sure I did. I owned every inch of this woman’s body.
17
Alexa
We sat in front of Luke’s fireplace on the floor. There were more boxes of Chinese food than I’d ever seen. He had ordered everything on the menu. He wasn’t shy about eating. I knew athletes had voracious appetites and he showed me just how true that was. It was the opposite for me. I had to watch every calorie. Every carb.
I stuck my chopsticks into the box of sticky rice at the same time he reached for some.
“Hey.” I batted him away, giggling. He jabbed back at me.
The food was good. My stomach had finally stopped growling. I thought Luke felt bad about starving me for so long, but he made up for it with amazing sex. It was a better staple around her than having cereal or bread on hand.
When the delivery driver dropped off the order, I made sure to stay out of sight. I felt like an outlaw, hiding behind the blinds. Ignoring Jake’s calls. Disappearing while I sorted everything out with Luke.
His oversized Warriors T-shirt draped off my shoulder. I had washed and dried the only underwear I had and sat with him with nothing else on.
He pressed the remote to change the music station. He liked the acoustic stuff.
“If you could only pick one, who would you say your favorite country singer is?” I asked.
He popped the rest of a spring roll between his lips.
“Hmm. That’s fucking hard to answer. You can’t put limits out there like that.”
“Only one.” I eyed him. I liked games like this.
“Well, we both know you’re out.” He winked. “Unless you open the category up to which country singer I want in my bed.”
“I’m not on the list of choices. Come on, tell me.” I scooped more rice onto my plate. “You obviously love this music. You have to have a favorite. Who is it?”
Luke set his plate on the hearth and extended his muscular legs until he was standing. I watched him stroll to the other side of the room, stoop, and open the door to a wooden cabinet.
He held up a twelve by twelve cardboard sleeve.
“Is that vinyl?” I rose from the floor and walked toward him.
“I bought this when I was sixteen in one of those rusted out barns that ran as an antique store.”
I took the album with the tattered corners and flipped it over. “Robert Earl Keen is your favorite?”
“Hell, yeah.” The cover was tattered and worn. I wondered how many times Luke had listened to it.
My music was about as far from this as it could be. My concerts were filled with electronic graphics on huge hi-definition screens, pyrotechnics, and more dancers than I could remember their names. I put on a full-fledged show. The kind that sold out in mega stadiums.
There were lights that twinkled and dazzled and my band was so loud the ear plugs I wore barely helped. Comparing my music to this was like saying Johnny Cash and Beyoncé sang the same thing.
“Want to hear it?” Luke seemed excited. He let the album fall to the center of his palm. Tucked on the bottom shelf of his stereo system was a turntable. It was wired into his sound system.
“Yes. I’d love to.”
I waited while the first few seconds crackled and popped. And then there was a gravelly richness of music in the air around us. Luke walked back to our Chinese picnic and I followed.
“Yeah, I could listen to this album every day.”
“It’s great. He’s great.” I’d never met the Texas singer, but I strained my ears to hear him. What drew Luke to his music.