“It’s been a shitty day,” Eve muttered and took the first shocking sip. “Jesus. These never get any better.”
Worried, Mavis leaned closer. “I can cut out for a little while.”
“No, I’m okay.” Eve risked her life with another sip. “I just wanted to check out your gig, let off some steam. Mavis, you’re not using, are you?”
“Hey, come on.” More concerned than insulted, Mavis shook Eve’s shoulder. “I’m clean, you know that. Some shit gets passed around in here, but it’s all minor league. Some happy pills, some calmers, a few mood patches.” She pokered up. “If you’re looking to make a bust, you could at least do it on my night off.”
“Sorry.” Annoyed with herself, Eve rubbed her hands over her face. “I’m not fit for human consumption at the moment. Go back and sing. I like hearing you.”
“Sure. But if you want company when you split, just give me a sign. I can fix it.”
“Thanks.” Eve sat back, closed her eyes. It was a surprise when the music slowed, even mellowed. If you didn’t look around, it wasn’t so bad.
For twenty credits she could have hooked on mood enhancer goggles, treated herself to lights and shapes that fit the music. At the moment, she preferred the dark behind her eyes.
“This doesn’t seem quite your den of iniquity, lieutenant.”
Eve opened her eyes and stared up at Roarke. “Every time I turn around.”
He sat across from her. The table was small enough that their knees bumped. His way of adjusting was to slide his thighs against hers. “You called me, remember, and you’d left this address when you logged out.”
“I wanted an appointment, not a drinking buddy.”
He glanced at the drink on the table, leaned over to take a sniff. “You’re not going to get one with that poison.”
“This joint doesn’t run to fine wine and aged scotch.”
He laid a hand over hers for the simple purpose of watching her scowl and jerk away. “Why don’t we go somewhere that does?”
“I’m in a pisser of a mood. Roarke. Give me an appointment, at your convenience, then take off.”
“An appointment for what?” The singer caught his attention. He cocked a brow, watching her roll her eyes and gesture. “Unless she’s having some sort of seizure, I believe the vocalist is signaling you.”
Resigned, Eve glanced over, shook her head. “She’s a friend of mine.” She shook her head more emphatically when Mavis grinned and turned both thumbs up. “She thinks I got lucky.”
“You did.” Roarke picked the drink up and set it on an adjoining table where greedy hands fought over it. “I just saved your life.”
“Goddamn it—”
“If you want to get drunk, Eve, at least do it with something that will leave you most of your stomach lining.” He scanned the menu, winced. “Which means nothing that can be purchased here.” He took her hand as he rose. “Come on.”
“I’m fine right here.”
All patience, he bent down until his face was close to hers. “What you are is hoping to get drunk enough so that you can take a few punches at someone without worrying about the consequences. With me, you don’t have to get drunk, you don’t have to worry. You can take all the punches you want.”
“Why?”
“Because you have something sad in your eyes. And it gets to me.” While she was dealing with the surprise of that statement, he hauled her to her feet and toward the door.
“I’m going home,” she decided.
“No, you’re not.”
“Listen, pal—”
That was as far as she got before her back was shoved against the wall and his mouth crushed hard on hers. She didn’t fight. The wind had been knocked out of her by the suddenness, and the rage under it, and the shock of need that slammed into her like a fist.
It was quick, seconds only, before her mouth was free. “Stop it,” she demanded, and hated that her voice was only a shaky whisper.