Like last night, she wore tight-as-fuck black shredded jeans. Could even be the same pair.
Her eye makeup was darker and heavier. Her eyeliner drawn past the corners and curved upward to make her look more seductive. Bright red lipstick really emphasized her lips under the spotlight. She wore more eyeshadow, too, but he couldn’t quite tell the color from where he stood across the interior of Pete’s.
What he could see from where he was, was the splash of color sweeping across each high cheekbone. It wasn’t heavy-handed but still noticeable.
At least to him.
He couldn’t decide if she looked older with tonight’s makeup or younger.
The fingers now gripping the microphone were once again encircled by rings. Around her delicate wrist, she wore the same silver bracelet with the guitar pick pendant. A huge silver ornate cross hung low around her neck and almost reached her pierced belly button. He doubted she wore it for religious reasons since the band’s name was The Synners. With a fucking Y.
He had a hard time paying attention to the beer he was pouring because his eyes were glued to the indentation of her spine as she twisted and said something to her male bandmates.
He was such a fucking dumbass to think she had an all-girls band.
He mistakenly assumed when he knew better to do so. Life had taught him never to assume shit.
He tilted the pint glass to reduce the head on the beer and, once full, began to carry it back toward the pool table area.
He planned on keeping one ear on the band, the other set on tonight’s conquest. As long as the strawberry-blonde thought he was paying attention, then…
He grinned.
That grin quickly slid off his face and crashed to the ground at his feet when he stopped dead in his tracks halfway to his destination, almost getting whiplash as his head twisted toward the stage.
And to her.
The chick who he didn’t even know her name.
But that fucking voice.
Jesus.
How could a woman so petite have such a smoky, powerful voice that sent a spark shooting down his spine and ignited a fire in his damn balls?
He glanced down at the beer he was in the process of delivering. His gaze lifted to the billiards area where the strawberry-blonde was tucked around the corner and out of view. It sliced back to the stage.
Did he just rethink his whole fucking night?
Because of those damn boots and that spellbinding voice?
Damn. He had already put in some effort to work the blonde. Was he going to let all that energy go to waste?
He glanced down at the beer again. While he stared at it, her voice continued to fill his ears. Take over his brain and tighten his balls.
Drown his thoughts.
He scratched the back of his neck as he considered his options.
Fuck. He no longer had options.
It was damn clear he now only had one.
His feet moved in the opposite direction that he wanted them to take and as he stepped past the half-wall and into the area that contained the pool tables, he stopped at the high-top table where—Christ, he didn’t know her name, either—blondie sat. She gave him a flirty smile and a suggestive tilt of her head.
The woman before him was the right choice. She was.
She was a little bit older and more experienced in life. And more importantly, most likely more experienced in bed.
She also knew the deal. It was a one-time thing. He doubted she’d expect anything more, the whole reason he zeroed in on her instead of her friends.
He’d become good at reading women and whether they’d end up being clingy afterward or on the same page as him. A page that read mutual satisfaction and nothing more.
He slid the beer in front of her. “On the house.”
Her long red fingernail circled the rim of the glass, then playfully scraped over his hand. “Thank you, baby.”
“You need anything else, Possum will get it for you.”
Her mouth dropped open. “What?”
“Yeah, sorry, gotta work,” he muttered, making sure to slap a disappointed expression on his puss.
“But—”
“For you, drinks are on the house resta the night. Look forward to seein’ you back here another night.”
“Another…” The air hissed from her.
He rapped his knuckles on the table, then twisted on his boot heel to head back out where he could see the stage.
And her.
What the actual fuck?
Why?
He just passed on a sure thing for what? A woman who looked like she only stopped wearing a training bra six months ago? A woman who looked like she’d bring nothing but trouble?
Who most likely wouldn’t be easily swayed to do anything?
Everything would probably be a struggle with her. A damn challenge.
Was she even worth that challenge?
If he hadn’t rolled his cigarettes himself he’d think the last one he smoked was laced with something.
It could be the only reasonable explanation.