by Tara Wyatt
A shiver made its way down her spine despite the heat around them. Then she turned and pulled him toward the curb to wave down a taxi.
Three
“Aw, hell no. No. Not doing it.”
Marlowe tried to pull Hunter’s large frame out of the taxi, but he wouldn’t budge. “Come on. It’s just a bar.” She gave his arm another tug, but it was no use. He wasn’t moving.
He gestured at the large neon green sign flickering on the side of the building. “It’s not just a bar. That says karaoke. No way.”
She decided to take another tack and leaned her head back into the cab. “You know, you’re real cute when you’re chicken.”
“I’m always cute and I’m not chicken.”
She arched an eyebrow at him. “Please. You’re a cluck away from laying an egg.”
“I’m not chicken,” he repeated, a muscle ticking in his jaw as he pushed his way out of the taxi. She slipped her hand into his and his scowl vanished. God, that felt…powerful. In a way that reminded her to tread carefully with this man, who deserved so much more than she could give him.
“You gonna safeword out, Blake?” she teased, nudging her elbow into his ribs.
He grinned down at her, his cocky confidence back in place. “Never.” He dipped his head and whispered in her ear, “If anyone’s gonna safeword out this trip, it’s you.”
Heat flushed through her at his dirty flirting, because she knew Hunter didn’t make empty promises when it came to sex. But there was time for that later. Right now, she needed to blow off some steam and have a little fun.
As they stepped into the darkened bar, she slipped off her sunglasses but left her cap on, hoping no one would recognize her. Yet. It was surprisingly easy to go without being recognized in public when she wanted. All it took was a casual outfit, minimal makeup, a hat, and some sunglasses. They found a little table in the corner, tucked away from the main area of the bar, and a disinterested waitress came by to take their drink orders.
“Two beers and two shots of tequila,” Hunter ordered without looking at the little cocktail menu displayed in a Plexiglass stand on the table. The inside of the bar was dark, with any windows curtained off. Strings of fairy lights hung from the ceiling, giving the space a warm, intimate glow. A stage sat at the very front, surrounded with heavy black velvet curtains. The tables were worn, the chairs retro and shabby chic. A few massive binders sat on tables containing the lists of songs available. It looked like a bit of a dive, but it was one of Vegas’s oldest and most famous karaoke bars. The outside world felt shut away in here, and that was exactly what Marlowe wanted.
Hunter leaned back, propping one muscled arm over the back of his chair. “Why are you in Vegas anyway?”
She played with the plastic-encased cocktail menu. “There was an event, a live performance at a local radio station followed by a meet and greet with fans who’d won a contest. It…it didn’t go well. The performance itself was fine, but the crowd was thin and you could just tell that they weren’t into it. I guess I could’ve just gone home to Nashville, but I felt like staying here. Even though Nashville is home it doesn’t feel very homey right now.”
“You know you can always come to Dallas.”
She made a little face. “I would’ve felt like I was imposing.”
He scoffed. “And asking me to fly out to Vegas isn’t?”
“I’m sorry.” There was something about Hunter that always had her a little on edge, as though she were standing on the precipice of a cliff and needed to move very, very carefully.
“Nothing to be sorry for. I’m just trying to figure out what we…” He stopped himself as the waitress arrived with their drinks. “What you’re doing here. What the deal is.” Before she could say anything, he picked up his shot of tequila and looked at her expectantly. With a little smile, she picked up the salt shaker and poured a little out on each of their hands. Butterflies unfurled in her stomach as she watched Hunter lick his hand. God, that tongue and the things it could do. She rubbed her thighs together under the table, her anticipation for later making her entire body warm. He gently knocked his shot glass against hers.
“Here’s to impositions.”
She threw back the tequila, sputtering only the tiniest bit and then shoving her lime wedge in her mouth, sending Hunter a green smile and bouncing her eyebrows.
He laughed, tossing his own lime wedge on the little plate in the center of the table. “So, you wanna tell me what we’re doing here?”
“I felt like singing.” He didn’t say anything, just watched her thoughtfully, and she continued. “I wanted to remember what it was like to be on a small stage, just singing for the love of it, without any of the other stuff. The games and the politics and the numbers. Sometimes I miss the simplicity of how it was before everything changed. Not that I’m ungrateful, but I just…”
“No, I get it. It’s not that different with baseball. Sometimes I miss the days when all I had to worry about was the actual game and not any of the other shit.”
“Like endorsement deals.”
“Like endorsement deals.”
“They’d be stupid to walk away from you, Hunter. You’d be a huge get for them.”
“Thanks.” He looked away, drumming his fingers on the table. She sensed there was more coming, so she took a sip of her beer and waited. Sure enough, after a moment, he continued. “I’m annoyed that they’re using this suspension against me, but it’s more than that. It’s something my agent said that I can’t seem to get out of my head.”
“What’d she say?”
He took a healthy swallow of his beer. “She said I needed to grow up.”
Marlowe’s eyebrows crept up her forehead. It was an interesting thing for Aerin to say, and not completely off the mark. “Do you think you need to grow up? I only ask because she obviously hit a nerve.”
“No. I mean, I don’t…hell, I don’t know.” He reached over to one of the nearby tables and snagged one of the binders, clearly done with the subject for now. “So, what are you gonna sing?”
Marlowe pursed her lips as she flipped through the book. “Not sure yet. I’ll know it when I see it.” She looked up at him, sending him a teasing smile. “What about you?”
He chuckled and crossed his arms over his chest. God, those forearms, all corded and muscled. “Not gonna happen. I only sing at birthday parties and in the shower.”
She pretended to pout. “Spoil sport.”
He leaned forward and snagged one of her hands, tracing his fingers over the inside of her wrist. “I’ll make it up to you later.”
Her breath caught in her chest, and she nodded. After all this time, he still had the ability to set her nerve endings on fire with the slightest touch and a few words. He was the only man who’d ever been able to do that for her, which meant he was dangerous. So incredibly dangerous.
“Listen, I need to get something off of my chest.”
He studied her with one eyebrow raised and took a sip of his beer. “Okay.”
“I know I’ve already said it, but I need you to know how sorry I am about the weed. It was stupid, I shouldn’t have had it, and I should’ve been more careful with it. I’m sorry that you got in trouble with your team because of it. I feel like some of the shit you’re in with your manager now is my fault.” Her mind flashed back to that night in April. She’d met up with Hunter in Dallas. They’d ordered dinner in, spent a few hours fucking each other senseless, and then had needed to make a run to the store for more condoms. She’d felt weird about staying at his place alone, so she’d gone with him for the drive. She’d been rummaging through her purse when they got pulled over by a police officer because Hunter’s tag was expired. The tiny baggie had been visible when the cop had shone his light into the car, and Hunter had immediately claimed it as his. He’d spent the night in jail and had gotten suspended from the Longhorns for it, saving her from bad publicity and humiliation.
“What kind of asshole would I be if I ju
st let you go to jail? No way was that happening. It’s really not a big deal. The charges were dropped, the punishment was small, and I’d do it again. Okay?” He reached up and skimmed his fingers over her cheekbone. “I wasn’t going to let anything bad happen to you, Mar.”
Her throat felt suddenly thick with emotion and she ducked her head away, nodding. “Okay.” She started flipping through the binder in front of her, needing something to do with her hands.
“I need to find the men’s room. You’ll be all right by yourself?”
She nodded, her eyes skimming down the list of songs in front of her. “Pretty sure I’ll be fine.”
Famous last words, because Hunter hadn’t been gone for more than thirty seconds when an overweight guy in his forties ambled over, a beer in his hand. “Can I ask you a question?” he slurred.
She plastered her fan-greeting smile onto her face, assuming he’d just want a selfie or an autograph. “Sure.”
“Did you grow up on a chicken farm?” He leaned in closer, a leering smile on his face. She scooted back in her chair a little, her stomach churning uncomfortably. This guy wasn’t a fan. At least, not the kind she usually dealt with.
“Um, no?”
His leering smile grew wider. “I only ask because you really know how to raise a cock.”
Her mouth fell open, shock exploding through her. She’d never had a stranger speak to her that way in person before. She was completely speechless.
“And we’re done here,” said Hunter from behind the man, clapping a hand on his shoulder hard enough to send him swaying forward. The man tried to shrug out of Hunter’s grasp, but Hunter’s hold on him was too strong.
“I was just…” the man sputtered, still struggling against Hunter’s grip.
“Being a disrespectful asshole, is what you were just. So I’ll save you the trouble and tell you she’s here with me. And even if she wasn’t, she ain’t interested.” Hunter released him with a little shove. “Take a walk.”
The man stumbled away, back toward his table, giving Hunter a worried glance over his shoulder as he went. Hunter stared him down, not moving until the man sat back down. Then he turned his attention on her, his blue eyes flashing possessively.
Oh, God. So, so dangerous.
“You okay?” he asked, cupping her face. He traced his thumb over the ridge of her cheekbone and she had to stop herself from pressing into his touch. As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t, because that wasn’t who they were. That wasn’t who they could be. She was the woman who was scared of love, and he was the man who, despite his best intentions, would break her heart with his wild ways. So she ducked away and nodded.
“I’m fine. Thanks for getting rid of him.”
An emotion she couldn’t name flickered across his face, and then he sat down and drained half his beer in one go.
Hunter nursed his second beer as he watched Marlowe up on the stage, belting out Dolly Parton’s “Jolene.” Phones emerged, held in the air as people realized who she was, but she didn’t seem to mind, or even care. Her eyes were closed as she sang, her entire body focused on the music. Her voice—somehow sweet and husky at the same time—resonated through the speakers, showcasing her raw talent. Something swelled inside Hunter’s chest and he took another healthy swallow of his drink as he watched and listened. So talented. So beautiful. So emotionally unavailable.
He was stupid to keep chasing after her the way he was. It didn’t matter what he did, what he said, how available he made himself, she always kept him at arm’s length. His mind flickered back to the way she’d ducked away from his touch after that creep had hit on her.
They could have everything. Be everything, but only if she’d let him in. Only if she’d give him a chance to knock down that goddamned wall she hid behind.
He knew he should end it with her, stop doing whatever the hell it was they were doing, but each note she sang hit him right in the center of his chest, leaving him feeling too warm, too restless, and he knew he wouldn’t do it. He’d never met anyone like her before. She was gorgeous, sure, with her long brown waves, slender, feminine body, and that smile that could light up a room. But there was more to it than that. She was brave, and honest, and funny. She was passionate about her career in a way he understood because it mirrored his own passion for baseball. She made him feel…calmer, somehow, and yet more alive at the same time when they were together. And in bed…God. They set the sheets on fire, every single time. So, as much as he knew he should walk away, even if that meant leaving his heart behind, he couldn’t do it.
And since walking away was out of the question, maybe it was time for a new game plan. Time to shakeup the lineup, change the batting order, send in a pinch hitter. Try something different. But what that looked like, Hunter didn’t have the faintest idea. So, he listened to her sing and finished another beer. If thinking wasn’t helping right now, maybe drinking would.
A little while later, once Marlowe had finished singing her heart out and dazzling the crowd, Hunter had ushered her into another taxi back to the Cosmopolitan. Now, they sat tucked away in a little corner of one of the hotel’s restaurants that served a fusion of Mexican and Chinese food, which sounded weird, but was surprisingly good. Their table was laden with food—guacamole and chips, Chinese potato salad, tuna ceviche, lamb pot stickers, duck tacos, sauteed shrimp, vegetable fried rice, and a giant pitcher of margaritas. Marlowe hummed to herself and swayed a little as she ate one of the tacos, her eyes closed in enjoyment. Hunter smiled as he watched her. She was a little drunk and it was completely adorable.
He knocked back the rest of his margarita and refilled his glass, feeling warm and a little fuzzy. Yeah, Marlowe wasn’t the only one who was a little drunk. And he had to admit that after the shit of the past few days, it felt good to mellow out and enjoy himself. All of it was still there, in the back of his mind—the dressing down he’d gotten from Javi, the team’s manager, the veiled threat to shape up or ship out from Evolve, Aerin’s pointed advice that he grow up—but he found he just didn’t care right now. He felt good, loose from the drinks and from Marlowe’s company.
“Can I ask you something?” She pointed her fork at him, studying him with an open, curious gaze.
“Shoot.”
“Why are you the way that you are?”
Hunter smiled, one eyebrow arching. “Uh…what?”
She speared a shrimp with her fork and bit into it, staring at him thoughtfully as she chewed. “You know. You have everything and you just always seem to get in your own way. Do you do that on purpose for some reason?”
He leaned back in his chair, feeling some of the air leave his lungs. Damn, but she’d nailed him to the wall with just a few words. It made him feel both warm and vulnerable that she saw so much of him. He let out a little chuckle and pushed his hand through his hair. “I don’t do it on purpose. At least not anymore.” Well, shit. That was honest. Then again, tequila had always had a truth serum effect on him.
“What do you mean?”
He sighed and took another swallow of his drink. “There’s a lot of…pressure, I guess, when you’re coming up in the game and your dad is Garrison Blake. Everyone expects you to fill those shoes and it’s just…fuck, it’s exhausting. So early on, I really tried to set myself apart from him and part of it was intentional, yeah. I mean, I can’t fail at living up to everyone’s expectations if I never try, right? If I just show them right from the start how far from perfect I am.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone try so hard not to be perfect.”
Hunter shrugged. “I mean, I’ve always liked to have fun and impulse control has never been my strong suit, but what started out as a ploy to get people to see me outside of my dad just became a habit, I guess. It turned into something I…” He trailed off and scooped some more rice onto his plate. “I dunno. Does that answer your question?”
She looked at him appraisingly over the rim of her margarita glass. “Maybe.” She waited a minut
e before pressing on. “Aren’t you ever worried about how all of it could affect your career?”
He shook his head. “Not until recently. But now…yeah. I guess I’m seeing what I have to lose instead of what I have to prove.”
She nodded slowly. “I get that.”
“That why you don’t want to date me?” He hadn’t known he was going to ask the question until it fell out of his mouth. Damn tequila.
Her eyebrows shot up and she opened and closed her mouth a few times. “I…um…you know I just don’t date. It’s nothing personal.”
“Okay, then I’ve got a question for you,” he said, picking up the pitcher and topping up her drink. “If you don’t date, don’t do relationships, why do you write so many songs about love and shit?”
She let out a laugh that he felt like sunshine on his skin. “Love and shit. That’s what I should’ve called this album. It’s got a nice ring to it.” She rubbed the back of her hand across the tip of her nose, her movements loose and liquid. Normally he would’ve teased her for the slight slur her words had taken on, but he was right there with her. “I just…” she started but then snapped her mouth shut. “It’s what people like to hear about.”
But he wasn’t letting her off easy tonight. Not only was the tequila making him honest, it was making him brave. “It’s just me, Marlowe. I’m not a reporter. Tell me why.”
She glanced around the restaurant as though someone might be spying on them, but so far no one had taken any notice of them tucked away at their little table. She leaned forward on her elbows and then said in a voice so quiet he had to strain to hear, “Maybe you’re not the only one pretending to be something. Or to believe in something. I don’t know.”
“So, what? You don’t believe in love and that’s why you write about it?” Her cheeks went red and he reached forward and slipped a hand under her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes.
She took a shaky breath. “I write about it because it’s the only way I get to experience it.”