He held open the swinging door and followed Rex back to the rear bar entrance.
“Thanks, dude,” Rex said as Dodge shivered, standing in only his skivvies and holding the back door open. As soon as the lead guitarist stepped back out into the dark December night, Dodge pulled the door shut and set all three locks again.
He turned and stared down the dark hallway toward the bar’s interior. She had to be done with her shower by now.
When he walked back out into the bar area, it was still empty. He shoved his way through the swinging door and hoofed it back up the steps.
Chapter Four
Dodge cautiously opened the door to his apartment and listened.
Last thing he needed was her screaming about him doing something inappropriate. He was not going back inside for some misunderstanding.
Not for her.
Not for anybody.
He hoped like fuck he didn’t regret letting her use his shower.
His brow dropped low as he noticed the bathroom door was now wide open, but—what the actual fuck?—the light was off.
He turned in a circle, hoping she wasn’t hiding somewhere, ready to ambush him and kick him in the nuts.
Or slice his fucking throat.
He should know better. He’d gotten way too comfortable since landing here and lost his fucking edge. He’d gotten into the habit after the first time behind bars to pay sharp attention to his surroundings.
He cautiously peered behind the counter in his galley kitchen to make sure she wasn’t hiding by ducking behind it. He glanced toward the opposite end of the apartment. The windows were closed… Only one other way out existed…
Unless she was hiding under the damn bed. But why the fuck would she do that? Unless she thought she really was a cat.
Was she totally whacked? Living in a shitty bus with three guys, she very well might be.
His eyes flicked toward his messy bed.
Son of a bitch.
How’d he miss her backpack sitting by the couch?
And the new lump in his bed.
His fucking bed!
What the actual fuck?
“Just make yourself at home,” he grumbled with a shake of his head.
He didn’t know the last time he washed his damn sheets, but she still crawled between them and fell asleep. That had to mean that rat trap they were traveling in was definitely worse that his apartment.
That was disturbing.
He opened his mouth to yell her name but as he took a few steps closer he heard it and snapped his trap shut.
Light snoring.
Didn’t matter if she was asleep or unconscious. Or even dead. She needed to get the fuck out of his bed and out of his apartment. He’d been more than generous enough with her already without getting anything in return.
So, fuck that shit. He was not getting evicted from his own fucking bed. He’d spent too many years on a metal bunk with only a thin “cushion” to sleep on. On a normal day it wasn’t comfortable but it was made worse when he had to hide his commissary shit under it so it wouldn’t be stolen.
He stared down at the petite woman wrapped up in his wrinkled sheets and blanket like a fucking burrito with only her messy dark hair visible.
He went to shake her awake and halfway to grabbing her shoulder, he stopped and considered her again. Curling his fingers into his palm, he straightened and sucked on his teeth as he stared at her.
Fuck it.
He reached down again, this time not to wake her up, but to sweep away the damp strands covering her face.
Her skin was so damn pale. The shadows under her eyes dark. And her lips, now scrubbed free of the red lipstick she had worn on stage, parted slightly.
Fuck, she couldn’t be more than eighteen, could she?
Is that why she didn’t want to answer when he asked her twice?
Even if she was, it hit him that she needed that bed a lot more than him.
He blew a breath out of his nose, let his fingertips skim over the silky hair spread out over his pillow and straightened again.
He wondered who she had in her life besides those three guys in her band. He wondered why her family would allow her to wander the country in a damn bus like that. Practically starving. Physically exhausted to the point she’d crawl into a stranger’s bed.
He shouldn’t let her stay.
He would be a fucking dumbass if he did.
Her bandmates would be wondering where she was. They might even call the damn pigs.
His eyes flicked to her backpack. He grabbed it and moved over to the couch to sit down, putting it on his lap and feeling the outside pockets.
He quickly found what he was looking for. Her cell phone.
He hit the side button and saw the power was almost drained. But also that it was locked. Of course.
He got up, took it over to the bed, carefully slid her hand out from under the sheet, noticing she was wearing at least a T-shirt. Thank fuck.