She’d come in from behind, which was cheating. He should’ve expected it.
“Well, hi,” he said and then groaned into his own chest when he felt the drag of Evie’s nipple cuff across his back through their shirts. That hand in his pocket was hot on his hip inside the cotton lining of his jeans and her fingers were dangerously close to his highly excitable cock. It starved his brain of thinking juice. She’d lifted his shirt and hers and pressed her naked boobs to his naked back before he knew which way was up.
“Evie,” he whispered. Did she want them to get caught so she’d have a way to call their deal off?
“Thanks for the lesson,” she said and withdrew.
The lesson was seduction. Payback.
He wasn’t game to look at Evie, in case everyone in the room guessed they were up to no good. The thrill of it was likely already all over his face. He shoved his hand in the pocket where hers had been and discovered she’d given him her number.
But he’d finally stalked her social presence for the first time in years, and had it already. Now in more ways than one.
NINE
Pa
tience wasn’t one of Evie’s strong points, and the atmosphere inside the Grumpy Fiddler was making her itch while she waited for the guys to arrive.
The place was miraculously as nasty and greasy and held together by beer spills, old smoke, sweat and aggression as she remembered it to be. The lighting was strategically bad and it smelled like something ancient that might kill you if you breathed too deep.
The regulars didn’t care. They were happily beer spilling, shouting conversation at each other over the house band and fortifying their constitutions against killer diseases by marinating in the toxic air.
It was fantastic.
Except for the part where it was difficult not to think about how the first time she was here she’d been terrified the band would get beaten up by bikies. And electrified by her proximity to Jay.
Don’t go there.
As soon as the guys had tumbled off stage, humiliated and grateful no one had glassed them, bumping out in shamed silence, only to find their van wouldn’t start, she’d lured Jay into a dark corner and he’d kissed the meaning of life into her.
Too late.
He’d been desperate and dangerous, and she’d been ready and willing. Looking back at that night, it was inevitable they’d come together. Rock music, solace and sex drive were heady companions.
That dark corner was still there. It was possible her handprint against the old blacked-out window was still there too.
And the motel behind the pub belonged in the TV show Supernatural, where Sam and Dean Winchester ended up in out of the way places with hilariously dated accommodation. That is, if that show had wanted to endanger their cast and crew.
While the Supernatural motel sets were retro Americana or joyously 70s kitsch, the Grumpy Fiddler Motel had last been painted about thirty years ago and you could tell by the mix of room doors which ones had been kicked in and had to be replaced.
She had a key to one of those rooms, original faded puke-color green doors, to save the effort of any kicking, and she couldn’t believe how nervous she was about using it.
Ah, this was a phenomenally bad idea. She couldn’t recreate the past with Jay; didn’t want to, they were different people now, and it’s not like they had a future. Last time Jay slept in anything as low-budget thriller as the Grumpy Fiddler Motel was probably the last time he was here. His six-star, jet-set, rolling-in-it life wasn’t compatible with dusty venetians, threadbare sheets and stuttering hot water.
It’s not compatible with you either.
She shot footage of the pub, dark and mysterious, hard to see the stains, and posted it on the fan Facebook page where she’d set up to go live during the performance, and then loaded a video of a set of shabby barstools and a couple of willing victim’s butts trying them out.
Cryptic responses to fans’ comments kept her hands busy but not her mind. She’d never been kissed like Jay had kissed her two days ago. She didn’t know that kind of relentlessly attentive mind-peeling making-out existed. It was the sweetest, the most savage ravishing she’d ever experienced. It was weaponized to absolutely slay her and leave her devastated. She’d had to sit in that hairdresser’s chair for a good fifteen minutes before she could face the idea of the outside world, before she could break the spell and make herself move.
Jay had been so cool, not saying a word, simply walking out as if kiss-slaying was his everyday thing. Maybe it was. Sticking her hand in his pocket was the antidote to that. She’d made the hair on his arms rise, made the back of his neck redden. Made his cock stand up and pay attention.
And better, she’d made him nervous. Jay who performed in front of millions of people, got edgy because she’d surprised him and he was worried they’d get caught, which was a deal breaker.
God, that was hot.
But not as hot as being alone, naked and going for it was going to be.