He hesitated but didn’t turn around, though he did glance down at the hand clamped onto his arm. Yeah, the tattoo on the webbing was either a W or an M, depending which way he looked at it.
Not that he cared.
“My band is looking for places to play. We need the… Well, you don’t even have to pay us, we’re willing to play for tips. We don’t even have to headline on a Friday or Saturday. We’ll take any night while we’re in the area.”
What the fuck?
Headline? What kind of place did she think Crazy Pete’s was?
And tips? What kind of living-under-a-bridge “band” did she have?
When he turned to face her again, she quickly dropped her hand and took a step back. He did his best to keep his eyes above her tits where a practically see-through cotton-covered nipple was trying to escape through one of the sweater holes.
What the fuck good was a sweater full of big holes like that? Was it supposed to be stylish? Like her torn jeans?
Her slim black jeans had a few frayed holes he wasn’t sure if they were done on purpose or because she couldn’t afford to replace them.
Didn’t matter since she wasn’t his problem.
She was not his fucking problem.
“Do you even have real instruments? Or do you beat pots, pans and five-gallon plastic buckets with metal and wooden spoons?”
Her delicate nostrils flared and when they did, he noticed a small gem piercing on one side of her nose. Definitely not a real diamond.
If it was real, she probably would’ve hocked it by now.
He remembered those times. In the past, he’d been there himself all too often. That’s why he didn’t mind living above Crazy Pete’s and dealing with the long hours managing the bar. He fucking wanted for nothing anymore.
It might not be raining green but his wallet was no longer dry like the desert.
And dealing with the occasional drunk was a lot fucking better than daily dealings with the asshole screws whenever he was living behind razor wire fence.
“We have real instruments,” she said through what looked like clenched teeth.
“What kind of music you play?”
“Rock.”
“What kind?”
“Whatever fits the place we’re playing.” Her gaze cut through the bar again. “This seems to be an older crowd—”
“Depends on the night.”
Her attention landed back on him. “We can play whatever you want.”
“Whatever I want?”
She nodded. “We’re flexible and know a variety of stuff from the sixties up to current stuff.”
Sixties? That was decades before she was shitting in a diaper. “What do you do in this band?”
“Sing.”
“That it?”
“That’s not enough?”
Dodge stared at her.
She jerked her slender shoulders up in a shrug. “I can play, too.”
“Play what?”
Why the fuck did he care what she could play? What the fuck was wrong with him? He needed to point her toward the door and give her a shove in that direction.
“Guitar, bass, keyboard, drums,” she lifted one slender shoulder, “Cow bell.”
His head jerked back. “Cow bell?”
“Just seeing if you were listening and wanted an actual answer or if you’re just being a jerk.”
“It was a valid question.”
“You should be more interested in the band as a whole. Not just me.”
True, but she was the one standing in front of him. “Do you actually play cow bell?”
“Sometimes. Tambourine, too.”
“Don’t take any skill to play cow bell or tambourine.”
“You know from experience?”
No, but he had two good eyes in his damn head and in the past couple of years plenty of bands had played on Crazy Pete’s stage. Some better than others.
His brow dropped low. “How long has your band been together?”
Hers dropped low, too. “Does it matter?”
“I got questions. I need answers. You don’t wanna answer them, then guess you don’t need this gig as much as you think you do.”
Her jaw shifted.
She didn’t like that.
He didn’t care.
“We can play tomorrow night for tips, if you want. Then if you like how we do and want to pay us…”
“Tomorrow’s only Wednesday. It’s a slow night.”
She shrugged. “Then we’ll play a set for food. And playing on an off night’s a perfect way for you to see how good we are and whether we deserve a busier one.”
The girl knew how to hustle, that was for sure. People like her usually were never handed a damn thing in life. They had to pay for everything they had in sweat, blood and tears.
But just feeding a band and not paying them a stage fee sounded like a pretty good deal. Unless they totally fucking sucked and their music was so bad customers bailed.
“Got frozen chicken fingers and fries.”
“Is it real chicken?”
“Doubt it. Does your band have a manager?”
“I’m it.”
“Are they all over twenty-one?” Legally they only had to be eighteen as long as they weren’t served alcohol, but something about this whole thing was making his Spidey-sense tingle.
“We’re all over twenty-one.” She lifted one dark, perfectly-shaped eyebrow.