by K. Webster
Scrunching up my nose, I sigh. “Fine, I was thinking about a guy.”
Her eyes widen at my words and I cringe. I love Libby to death, but she will take this and run.
“No shit? I want details, Nora.”
Before answering, I look my friend over. She’s eleven years my senior, but age has never been a factor in our friendship. When you click with someone, you just click. Things like age just don’t matter.
She gives me her ‘mom look,’ as I call it—the expectant ‘I want answers’ look—and I exhale loudly in defeat. I’m never leaving this table until I give her every minute detail.
“The Aces—do you know them aside from the concert last night?” I ask her as I chew on my bottom lip.
She cackles at me as if I’ve said the funniest damn thing ever. “Of course, Nor. I wasn’t born yesterday, love. I’ve taken Melanie and Brock to a few of their concerts. Melanie has posters of Donnie all over her wall. She loves him.”
I flush at the mention of his name and refrain from fanning myself.
“Holy shit! You love him too!” she squeals.
“What? Jesus, Lib. I don’t love him! I only met him last night. Besides, I blew him off.” I bury my face in my palms. Why, oh, why would any woman in her right mind blow off a man like him?
“Hold the phone,” she says seriously. “First of all, where the hell was I during this rendezvous? Ugh, don’t tell me it was while I talked scrapbooking with the Lieutenant’s wife. Shit! I always miss the good stuff when I’m off ‘momming’ it.”
I grin at her. Libby loves to have her nights out once or twice a month with me, but she’s a damn good mom and enjoys her family tremendously. She always makes me laugh when she says “momming it” as if she’s been off slumming it.
“Yep. While you were off sucking up, I was fumbling through awkward conversations with impossibly good-looking rock gods. Sheesh, Lib. What kind of friend are you anyway to leave me to such a daunting task alone?” I tease.
She raises her brow. “Don’t sass me, girl.”
We both giggle before I proceed. “It was awful though. You know how I get—how, when I’m interested, I act all hard and tough, putting up my damn walls.”
“Honey, that’s your daddy in you. It’s like he preprogrammed you at birth to ward off any possible lovers. Speaking of lovers, when was the last time you got any?” She takes another swig of her beer as if what she’s just asked isn’t terribly intrusive.
I roll my eyes at her forward nature. It isn’t like I’m not used to her. After six years together as 911 operators, being stationed right beside the nosy woman, I have her pegged.
“Jansen.” I cringe as I say my ex-fiancé’s name.
It’s been eight months since the bastard ran off with one of my coworkers from my night job. And eight months later, my stomach still churns when I think about what he did to me after four wonderful years of dating.
“Asshole,” we both say in unison, causing us both to erupt into giggles.
“Shit, Nora. Why didn’t you just take that sexy drummer to bed last night? For the love of God, what would possess you to push that man away?” she asks in exasperation.
I finally take a sip of my chardonnay, which is beginning to warm. “Because I’ve had enough of horny-ass men that will pounce on anything with a nice rack and high heels,” I grumble. “And Donnie is exactly that type. You and I both know that.”
She sighs in defeat. “Fine. You’re right. I just want you to have some fun, Nor. All you do is work. Did Brandon’s friend Walt ever call you?”
A shudder passes through me. “Walt? The divorcée with a beer belly and woman’s laugh, Walt? Yes, we met for coffee. I’ve never slammed down a hot liquid so fast before in my entire life. I’m pretty sure I’ve scarred my throat”—I think of the sloppy, espresso-laced kiss he tried to plant on me as I left—“and my mind.”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, come on. Don’t be so dramatic. He isn’t that bad. Besides, you can’t have the best of both worlds. You have to decide on a direction to go. A sexy, wild type like Donnie or a responsible, boring type like Walt.”
Neither option sounds enticing at the moment.
“It doesn’t matter anyway, Lib. Donnie just wanted sex. I could see it all over his lust-filled gaze. Honestly, I know me. You and I both know I don’t sleep around so I would hate myself later when he ran off to do whatever rock stars do, meanwhile leaving the just-fucked groupie to wallow in her tears. No, thank you. I’ll continue to get pleasure from Magic Mike.”
I can’t help the grin that pulls at my lips. For my birthday, Libby thought she’d be a smartass and buy me one of those vibrating wands and a Magic Mike DVD. What started as a joke, quickly turned into my reliable, frequent date night. With myself—and Channing Tatum.
Her eyes widen. The girl knows what’s coming. “Don’t do it!” she hisses and covers her ears, but not before I belt out my favorite lines.
“I’m going to Channing all over your Tatum,” I sing in my best Miley Cyrus impression. I know I sing pretty well. My appearance wasn’t what originally landed me my second job—it was my voice.
“La-la-la-la,” Libby blabs with her ears covered.
“Oh look! I think I just saw Brad Pitt!” I shout.
She yanks her hands off her head and looks wildly around. “Bitch, don’t even play around like that!”
I giggle until a good-looking, dark-skinned waiter approaches our table. Tonight, we’ve decided to try out the newest bar on the strip called Tango. So far, it’s fresh, modern, and fun. The waitstaff is easy on the eyes too.
“Can I get you two lovely ladies another drink?” he flirts with a bright grin. I’d like to imagine he’s flirting with us for reasons other than for a potential nice tip.
“We’ll have another round, Denzel,” Libby purrs and bats those long eyelashes that undoubtedly landed that husband of hers.
The poor waiter’s smile falls as he regards us in confusion. “Denzel?”
Libby snaps her head to me and widens her eyes. “He’s a baby,” she silently mouths at me.
The waiter mumbles that he’ll be right back with our order, and we giggle again. I love this girl and her crazy ways. I’m about to ask her about Brandon’s new job when the throng of people in the bar goes batshit crazy. We both cringe at the giddy screams of those around us.
“What’s going on?” I shout over the noise as I try looking around to discover the source of the chaos.
Libby shrugs her shoulders, and we both stand to try to look past the group of people going wild by the front door of the bar.
“Elvis has entered the building,” she teases.
I grin back at her, but it falls away when I spy what’s caused the commotion.
Him.
Crap! My eyes glance down at my outfit and I cringe. Tonight, I’m wearing dark skinny jeans, black boots, and a dark-grey, lightweight sweater. My chocolate colored hair is messily pulled back in a bun on top of my head. I look like a freaking nun.
“Shit, Lib! It’s him!” I hiss as I wave my hand in his direction.
“Brad Pitt?!” she shrieks.
“No! Donnie!”
My heart sinks when I see two blondes beautiful enough to belong in the Playboy mansion hooked onto each of his arms. When I see him stumble, I narrow my eyes. It doesn’t take rocket science to realize that he’s fucked up.
I’m no longer worried about my looks as I watch the blond bombshells half-carry him to the VIP table. His eyes are drooping and a lazy grin is plastered on his face. This man before me is not the man from last night. This man is lost.
“I’m going to talk to him,” I tell Libby boldly as I scoot off my barstool and start making my way through the crowd toward him.
She calls after me, but I need to check on him. Something in my heart tugs for me to make sure he’s okay.
By the time I make my way to the booth the bimbos have wrangled him into, I almost lose my nerve. Almost. Their dainty han
ds caress the muscles through his tight T-shirt, and I push away the jealous twinge as I shove past people to make my way over to the table.
When I get to the table, I place my palms on the top and lean toward him. The flaky idiots start spouting off their drink orders, but I ignore them as I stare him down.
The man is handsome as hell. He somehow manages to make his longish, dark-blond hair look he was just fucked and I can’t help but wonder if he was. The skanks on either side of him, though, seem like they’re trying to keep him awake long enough so they can get laid. The entire situation infuriates me.
“Excuse me, sir. You don’t look so well. Do you need a ride home?” I shout over the noise right at him.
At first, he ignores me. But when I stretch across the table and grab his hand, he drags his gaze to mine. His eyes are so hollow, and it guts me to my core. I’ve never seen such a vacant, sad look in anyone my entire life. That brief look will haunt me forever.
He quickly masks it away and smirks at me flirtatiously. “A threesome? I love th-threesomes,” he slurs.
I watch him blink back confusion several times before the sexy grin is back. This man needs help. Shit.
“Donnie, please let me take you home,” I plead. Gone is my schoolgirl crush. Instead, it’s replaced by my desire to help those in distress. I’m a 911 operator for crying out loud—helping people is ingrained in me.
“I like blondes?” he asks in confusion. “But you’re brunette. Why do I like you?”
I roll my eyes and go to pull my hand from his grasp, but he locks onto it. Fear flashes across his features. Fear of what?
“Moth girl, he’s taken for the night. Go back to your lesbo girlfriend. This sexy drummer is mine,” the nitwit on the right of him squeaks out in an annoyingly high voice.
I snap my head over to her and pin her with my gaze. “Listen up, Marsha Brady. This man”—I point at him—“is fucked up. He needs to go home and be put to bed. Show some fucking responsibility and help him. He’s in no shape to be here.”
Miss Brady gasps at me in shock. She’s about to say some very witty comeback, I’m sure, when Donnie speaks up.
“Lady, please take me home.” His voice has that vulnerable edge to it, and I know without a shadow of a doubt I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure he gets home safely.
I pull my hand away and motion for him to follow me. “Come on, sir. You’re safe with me.”
What the fuck am I doing? I’m in the back of a limo, having left my best friend to her own devices, stroking the hair of a passed-out rock god in my lap. It was a struggle getting him out of the bar, but the moment we made it inside the limo, he fell into my lap and crashed. I had to shove all the cash in my wallet into the hands of the blond birdbrains just to keep them from coming with us. Thankfully, they chose cash over Donnie. Poor Donnie.
I sigh as we pull into the driveway of a nice two-story, stucco home in a gated community.
“Hey, Mr. Limo Guy, I’m going to need your help. Send Drummer Boy a bill for your tip because I already paid off Tweedledumb and Tweedledumbass with all my money.”
I try to remain calm as I slide my hand down into the pocket of his jeans to retrieve his keys. One small slip and I’ll cop a feel. As tempting as that is, I fish the keys out and manage to do so without any accidental mishaps.
Mr. Limo Guy opens the door and pulls on Donnie while I push him out. He doesn’t once complain as he helps me carry the wasted man into the house and upstairs. Once he deposits Donnie onto the bed, he wordlessly leaves me to deal with my newest problem.
Shit.
Half of me wants to bolt and leave this mess of a man on the bed to sleep away his most recent failure at life. But the compassionate side of me holds still. I need to make sure he is okay. Fuck me and my big-ass heart!
I yank off each of his shoes and toss them to the floor before kicking off my own boots. Mr. Limo Guy left him on his back, but now, I worry he might choke on his own vomit should he get sick. Crawling into the bed beside him, I ease his heavy body to his side. Then I sprawl out beside him and study his sleeping features.
Just last night, I was lusting after him. I even used my Magic Wand sans my Magic Mike movie. Images of the man before me pushed me over the edge.
But tonight, the man lying here is a completely different man. This man is broken. My thoughts drift to how Dad always told me that I was too kind—like Mom—as if that was a bad thing. She was taken from us when she leapt into traffic to help a bicyclist that had been hit by a car on the strip. Unfortunately, in her hurry to save the wounded man, she was struck by a cab and killed instantly. The bicyclist had minor injuries and still sends a ham every Christmas in honor of Mom.
A groan from Donnie pulls me from my melancholy thoughts. His eyes are fluttering as he frowns. This beautiful man is hurting. It’s written all over his face. And dammit, I feel like I should help him. Damn kindness.
“Shhh,” I whisper and stroke his hair.
His hard look falls and is replaced by one of peace as he slips off into a deep sleep.
I’m about to slide off the bed and find a couch to crash on when his heavy arm snakes around my waist and hauls me to him. With my face in his neck, I try to still my rapidly beating heart. Probably half of America wishes they were in this exact spot, and I’m here, trying to figure a way out.
Eventually, though, I relax and inhale his masculine scent. I’ll allow myself one night of being held. It’s not like it’ll hurt anything. And with that, I drift off in the arms of a beautifully broken, badass rock god.
Fuck me and this pounding headache. I can’t even open my fucking eyes because my head is about to implode. I’m suddenly hyperaware of my surroundings. I can feel a slender body curled around mine. From the feel of it, she has small tits.
Since when do I take home small tits?
Like, ever?
I try to crack open an eye to see what in the fuck I brought home with me, but the hateful sunshine forces me to press my lids shut. When a soft, sleepy moan escapes my bed partner’s lips, my cock thickens against my jeans.
Jeans?
What in the ever loving fuck? I never sleep in clothes. Ever.
Once again, I attempt—unsuccessfully—to open my eyes. I need someone to close the fucking curtains already.
“Babe,” I rasp out. My voice is hoarse and barely audible. I remember one of the sexpots slipping me some pill last night, but my memories end after that. Somehow, between that time and now, I found someone with half the amount of tits that I typically prefer and brought her home. If I could only just see her face.
I’m done trying to be rational as my morning wood wins this round. Blindly, my lips find my fully clothed bedmate’s neck. She smells so fucking sweet—like candy. When I tongue her sweet flesh, my cock is beyond ready to play. I’ll make up for our sexless night by showing her a good morning fuck before sending her on her way.
My hand slides down the side of her body until I have a firm grip on her tight little ass. I situate my body so that I’m practically on top of her. I might not be able to see her, but she feels good against my cock. She doesn’t fit the normal profile, but I can totally work with this body. As I suck on her neck hard enough to leave a hickey, I feel her tense beneath me.
“I’m sorry we didn’t fuck last night, baby. Let me make it up to you,” I murmur as I nip at the flesh on her neck. When I suckle on her sensitive skin, she moans.
“Donnie, stop,” she says breathlessly.
Once again, I try to sneak a peek. This time, I get my eyes open enough to see her.
Her.
“What the fuck are you doing in my bed?” I demand a little more harshly than I intended.
She flinches at my tone and my heart sinks over the fact that I may have just scared her. But then I watch her features morph into an angry expression.
“Are you the biggest asshole on the planet? Get off of me,” she snaps and pushes me forcefully from her. With my muscular frame, I�
��m not one to be manhandled by a girl, but after the night I had, she easily pushes me away today.
Now that my eyes are used to the light, I watch her trim little body scramble off the bed. Her dark hair is a big, ratty mess all over her head, her sweater is rumpled and wrinkled, and she’s muttering a slew of curse words that would make a sailor blush, but somehow, I’m turned on. And it isn’t just the fact that I have morning wood.
“Lady,” I try softly.
She hesitates momentarily before turning to look at me. Her face has indentions on one side from how she was sleeping, and her makeup-free eyes are tired. When she arches up a chocolate brow, my cock tries to burst from my jeans. She’s so goddamned cute.
“Listen, I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened but—” I start, but she waves me off as starts looking on the floor for something. When she bends over to pick up her boots, I know in that moment that I want her. Badly.
“You should try being a little more responsible. I saved your ass last night and this is the thanks I get. Don’t worry. You’ll never have to see this woman in your bed again.” Her words are cool, and I hate the last ones.
She zips them up and snatches her wallet from my bedside table. Before she can get away, I seize her wrist. Her head snaps to mine and I actually shrink like a fucking pussy from her glare. The sweet, innocent woman has a fucking storm brewing behind those eyes and I’m about to feel the wrath of it.
Releasing her, I give her one last look of apology. “At least tell me your name, lady.”
Her gaze softens for a moment before she turns and storms out of my house and out of my life. For the first time since I can remember, I feel a loss in my heart from a fucking girl.
“We’ve reserved a VIP table for you by the stage, Mr. Jennings,” the sexy waitress purrs as she guides me through a sea of tables toward the stage. I’m supposed to be meeting Kenny, but he’s not here yet.
“What can I get you, hot stuff?” she flirts.
My eyes drop to her cleavage and I toss her a wicked grin to show her just how hot I can be. “Can I get a little bit of you with a side of her?” I tease, pointing at a blond cocktail waitress walking by.