Seconds later she was in a dimly lit alley behind the club, hands braced on her hips as she pulled giant gulps of air into her lungs.
She could do this, she repeated to herself.
She had to do this.
She could totally do this—
“You look like you need this even more than I do.”
The deep, rich voice came out of the dark, had her stifling a scream and whirling around, hand pressed to her heart.
As she turned, she came face to face with a guy leaning back against the brick wall of the club, his face in the shadows and a lit cigarette in the hand he was currently extending out to her.
She stared at the cigarette dumbly and willed her heart rate back under control. “I don’t smoke.”
As soon as the words were out, she wanted to snatch them back. What the hell was wrong with her? The hottest sounding man she’d ever run across had just offered her a cigarette and she acted like queen of the Goody Two-shoes? Was she insane?
He just laughed, though, and told her, “Smart move, that. Addiction’s a bitch.” Then he lifted the clove cigarette to his mouth for another drag.
She watched, hypnotized, as his full lips closed around it.
Watched, spellbound, while he inhaled the heavily spiced smoke then blew it out again in a series of perfect, concentric rings.
As she watched the rings dissipate in the air around them, she was pretty sure the only thing holding her panties up at this point were the skinny jeans she’d changed into at the airport in L.A. She just wished she could see him better—she desperately wanted to know if the face matched the voice.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked after a second, his voice even darker and more gravelly than it had been just a few seconds before. “Shouldn’t you be in there listening to the opening band? They’re pretty good.”
“They are,” she agreed—because they were and because she was pretty sure he was with them. “I just needed some air.”
“Yeah, I get that.” He laughed again, though this time there was no amusement in the sound. His eyes coasted over her then, lingered on the glow-in-the-dark words scrawled across her T-shirt—and her chest. “Hiding from a broken heart, huh?”
She glanced down at the shirt, too. I Heart Breakups. She’d picked it up when she was in Europe last summer, at the Museum for Broken Relationships in Croatia. She’d gone because she’d been fascinated by the concept of one of Europe’s most innovative museums, had figured she’d see a ton of stories about lovers gone wrong, maybe even pick up some ideas for marketing—or her secret songwriting hobby.
What she’d found instead were stories that broke her heart. Shattered stories of lovers, yes, but also friends, siblings, parents and their children. It was the last that had resonated so deeply with her, that had had her sitting in the museum’s café, drinking tea and eating freshly baked lemon cookies as she tried to regain her equilibrium.
Not that she was going to say all that to some guy she’d just met—no matter how intriguing or sexy he was. Instead, she said simply, “It wasn’t that kind of breakup.”
He nodded before lifting the cigarette to his lips again. “I know how that goes.”
“Is that why you’re out here? Hiding from a bad breakup?”
He snorted. “More like hiding from myself.”
She studied what little she could see of him—the lean chest, the chiseled jaw. “Oh, yeah? How’s that going for you?”
“About as well as could be expected.” He took one last drag of the cigarette before dropping it to the ground and crushing it beneath the heel of his worn, brown Dingo boot. Then he reached for her. “Hey. Come here.”
She was an intelligent woman, one who’d met thousands of musicians in her day.
One who knew better than to fall for the line of some too-smooth roadie behind a club.
One who had a job to do at this very club, a job that she really needed to get started on.
But there was something in his voice, something in the way he held himself in the shadows—in the way he’d clutched that cigarette like a lifeline—that hit a nerve deep inside of her. Her own loneliness, maybe. Or the anger churning in her gut over this whole farce, and the father who had forced Caleb and her into it.
She loved rock. Loved everything about it. The way it was a fist in her gut, an angry punch to her heart, a tug between her thighs. For so long she’d tamped that down, had ignored and hidden and been ashamed of that part of her, because that wasn’t how a label rep was supposed to respond to music. It wasn’t how Bill Germaine’s daughter was supposed to feel.
But here, now, with the visceral beat of it pouring out of the club, she couldn’t ignore the need anymore. Tonight, when the show was over—when Shaken Dirty had played their set—she’d be her father’s perfect little soldier again. Business-like, no-nonsense, the woman she needed to be to show him that she could do this job. More, that she deserved a chance to do it. But for now, for this moment, she was going to say to hell with all the “shoulds” and “had tos” and just enjoy the hell out of the music and this man. This beautiful, sexy man who seemed to embody everything she couldn’t be, everything she couldn’t have.