by Elle Kennedy
Reconnect? They see each other every day! Outrage coats my throat, and my jaw is harder than stone.
ME: Congratulations. You win the worst cousin of the year award, and it’s only April.
* * *
TANSY: I’m sorry. I feel awful.
* * *
ME: No you don’t. Otherwise you wouldn’t be ditching me.
* * *
TANSY: Are you pissed?
* * *
ME: Of course I’m pissed. WTF is wrong with you, T?
I’m not afraid of confrontation, and I’m certainly not going to pretend everything is fine and dandy when it isn’t. My harsh words clearly have an effect on her, because after several tense moments, she backpedals like crazy.
TANSY: You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m being ridiculous. Let me talk to Lamar again and we’ll meet you at the club, ok?
My jaw falls open. Is she nuts? Why would that be okay? Teeth clenched, I quickly compose an essay. Thesis statement: fuck you.
ME: No, not ok. And don’t bother with the club. Just stay at Lamar’s—that’s clearly what you want to do tonight anyway, and I don’t want to spend time with someone who doesn’t want to spend time with me. I’m making other plans, T. I’ve got other friends in the city, so enjoy your evening and maybe I’ll see you tomorrow morning.
Five seconds later, the phone starts to ring.
I ignore it.
My sparkly dress and I end up at a small music venue near Fenway Park. Initially, I try hitting a couple of different bars. I usually have no problem going out alone and talking to strangers, but I’m in such a sour mood tonight that I find myself scowling at anyone who tries to approach me, male or female. I don’t want a hookup or a conversation. I want to be left alone.
I decide I need a place where the music is so loud it’ll deter any and all overtures.
Bulldozer fits that bill, but I don’t feel like dancing anymore, either. I want to order a drink and sulk in silence. Or rather, sulk to deafening heavy metal music, because the venue I wander into is featuring a metal band tonight. Perfect.
The club consists of one main room just big enough to house a narrow stage and a tiny mosh pit. A few standing tables are tucked against a brick wall that’s painted black and spray-painted with graffiti. There’s a bar on the other wall, but no counter space, so I saunter toward the tables. They’re all empty.
Everyone is staring at me as I cross the dark room, probably because I’m dressed for a night out on the town, whereas most of them look like they crawled out from under a boardwalk. Rumpled clothing, greasy hair, and more Pantera and Slayer shirts than I can count. Luckily, the lighting is practically nonexistent, so it’s nearly impossible to make out people’s actual faces in the shadows. While I feel their stares, luckily I don’t have to see them.
“What can I do ya for?” A waiter with black hair that hangs down to his waist comes over to serve me. “Band’s about to go on, so you’d better order quick.”
“A vodka cranberry, please.”
He nods and walks off without asking me for ID. I have it with me, so I wasn’t worried anyway. I angle my body toward the stage and watch as the longhaired lead singer bounces up to the microphone stand.
“Hello, Boston! We’re Stick Patrol and we’re about to FUCK YOU UP!”
If by “fuck us up” he means they’re going to play six ear-piercing songs with garbled lyrics and wrap up before I even finish my first drink, then mission accomplished.
I resist the urge to bury my face in my hands and honest-to-God cry.
What the hell was that?
As the singer thanks everyone for coming, I stand there gaping at him. I’m goddamn agape.
Their set lasted fourteen minutes. That averages out to about two-and-a-half minutes per song. Aren’t metal songs supposed to be a gazillion minutes long? I swear every Metallica track I’ve ever heard is longer than the Lord of the Rings movies.
Fourteen minutes, and then the house lights flicker on and I’m left watching the band dismantle their equipment. Some guy carts an amp off the stage. Another one is rolling up the microphone cords.
Fuck you, Stick Patrol. Fuck them and their dumb name, and fuck my cousin for not adhering to the girl code, and fuck Harvard for winning their game tonight, and fuck global warming for dumping all this unwelcome rain on us. Fuck ’em all.
I drain the rest of my drink in one gulp, then signal the waiter for another.
This is truly the worst weekend ever.
“Wait, did I miss the band?” A beefy guy with a shaved head and two eyebrow rings lumbers over. He glances from me to the empty stage and then back at me. Lust heats his gaze when he notices my dress.
I absently run one fingertip along the rim of my empty glass. “Yeah, sorry. They just finished.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Tell me about it.” And I’m not even a metal fan. I can’t imagine actually wanting to see the band only to show up and discover their set is already over.
“Mind if I join you?” He curls his fingers over the edge of my table.
My gaze drops to his hands. They’re huge, two big meaty paws with red knuckles. I don’t like them, and I don’t particularly want company, but he doesn’t give me a chance to say no.
He moves closer, resting his forearms on the tabletop. His arms are also huge, and the left one is covered with tribal tattoos. “Are you into music?”
Did he just ask me if I’m into music? In general? Aren’t most people? “Sure. Of course.”
“Who’s your favorite metal band?”
“Er, I don’t really have one. I’m not into metal. I wandered in here because I wanted a drink.”
“Cool.”
I wait for him to say something else. He doesn’t. He also doesn’t leave.
“So, are you a student?” I ask, resigning myself to this conversation. It’s not like I have better things to do.
“Dropout,” he says flatly.
Um. Okay. I don’t care either way, but that’s an odd thing to say. “Where did you drop out from? BC? BU? I’m at Briar.”
“I went to St. Michael’s.”
“St. Michael’s?” I scan my brain. “I haven’t heard of that college.”
“High school,” he grunts. “It’s not a college. It’s a high school.” He thrusts both thumbs at his own chest. “High school dropout.”
Um.
How on earth does one respond to that?
Luckily, the waiter spares me from replying. He appears with another vodka cran and a bottle of Corona for the self-proclaimed dropout. I eagerly raise my drink to my lips.
My companion takes a long swig of his beer. “So what’s your name?”
“Brenna.”
“Dope.”
“Thanks. How about you?”
“No, that’s my name—Dope. My name’s Dope.”
Um.
I swallow a soul-sucking sigh. “Your name is Dope?”
“Well, no, it’s actually Ronny. Dope is my stage name.” He shrugs his massive shoulders. “Used to be in a band, we performed GNR covers.”
“Oh. Cool. I think I’m going to call you Ronny, though.”
He throws his head back and laughs. “You’re a ballbuster. I like that.”
Silence falls between us again. He sidles closer, his elbow nudging mine. “You look sad,” he says.
“Do I?” That’s doubtful. The only emotion I’m experiencing at the moment is irritation.
“Yep. You look like you need a hug.”
I force a smile. “No thanks, I’m good.”
“Are you sure? I’m the hug master.” He holds out his beefy arms and arches his eyebrows, like he’s Patrick Swayze from Dirty Dancing beckoning me to jump up on him.
“I’m good,” I repeat, firmer this time.
“Can I try your drink?”
What? Who asks that? “No. But I can buy you one, if you want.”
“Nah, I never let a lady treat.”
&n
bsp; I try to ease away and create a larger space cushion, but he steps toward me again. I don’t feel threatened by him, however. He’s a big guy, but not menacing. He isn’t trying to bully me with his physicality. I think he’s just completely oblivious to the I’m not interested vibes I’m transmitting.
“Yeah, so I know, my life story is…it’s complicated,” Ronny confesses, as if I asked for his life story.
Which I didn’t.
“I grew up on the North Shore. Father’s a deep-sea fisherman. Whore mother took off with some asshole.”
I can’t. Oh God, I just can’t.
Ronny’s not a horrible creep or anything. An over-sharer, indisputably, but he seems nice enough, and he’s simply trying to make conversation.
But I can’t. I want this night, this whole damn weekend, to be over already. It’s been absolutely horrible. Dismal. I honestly can’t see how it could get any worse.
No sooner do I think those words than the universe decides to bitch slap me by bringing Jake Connelly into my field of vision.
Jake fucking Connelly.
My neck muscles snap to attention, going taut with suspicion.
What. Is. He. Doing. Here.
“It sucks, you know? You move to Boston, thinking you’ll land a sick job, but it’s hard ’cause you don’t have that diploma.”
I’m only half-listening to Dope. I mean, Ronny. Jake holds the majority of my attention. With his faded blue jeans, dark green Under Armour shirt, and Bruins cap, he’s the only male in the venue who isn’t wearing black or a band shirt. He’s also about a foot taller than everyone else.
I grit my teeth. Why do athletes have to be so big and masculine? Jake’s body is incredibly appealing. Long legs, muscular arms, sculpted chest. I’ve never seen him without a shirt, and I find myself wondering what his chest looks like when it’s bare. Ripped, I assume. But is it hairy? Smooth like a baby’s bottom? My traitorous fingertips tingle with the urge to find out.
He hasn’t spotted me yet. He’s standing at the edge of the stage, chatting with one of the band members. The guitarist, I think.
I wonder if I could sneak out the door without him noticing. Having Connelly find me here, in this dump of a club, decked out in a glittery, skintight dress… That would be the rotten icing on the past-its-expiry-date cake that this weekend is turning out to be.
“And you know what’s harder? The whole online-dating thing,” Ronny is bemoaning.
I tear my eyes off Jake. “Yeah, online dating sucks,” I say absently, trying to locate the waiter.
“I get all these matches and girls being like, ‘Hey handsome, you’re so great and sexy,’ and then the conversations just die. I don’t get it.”
Really? He doesn’t get it? Because I have a sneaking suspicion why those conversations are dying. Elements of his game are desperately lacking. For example, the casual mentions of his “whore mother” and constantly referring to himself as a “dropout.” Sadly, Dope might not be putting his best foot forward, but I refrain from offering constructive criticism. I’m too busy trying to execute an escape plan.
My gaze darts toward the stage. Jake’s still engaged in deep conversation with the guitarist.
Crap. Where is that waiter? I need to pay for my drinks and get the hell out of here.
“You’re a cool chick, Brenna,” Ronny says awkwardly. “Easy to talk to.”
I cast another look around at the room. It’s time to go. If Jake notices me, he’d never let me live this down. The dress, the location, the company.
Yes. I spot the waiter emerging from the swinging door next to the bar. I frantically wave my arm.
“Sorry, just trying to get the bill,” I tell Ronny. “I—”
I stop talking. Because Jake isn’t across the room anymore.
Where on earth did he go?
“You’re leaving?” Ronny is crestfallen.
“Yeah, I’m getting tired, and I—”
“There you are, babe,” drawls a familiar voice. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
The next thing I know, Jake strolls up, cups the back of my neck, and lowers his mouth to mine.
9
Jake
I didn’t plan on kissing her. I was merely going over there to save her from the dude she was clearly trying to escape. But her lips are right there. Pouty and red and so damn tempting I can’t resist.
My mouth brushes over hers in a scant tease of a kiss. I think it teases me more than it teases her, though, and I regret it almost instantly because fuuuuuck, I want more. I want tongue. I want it all.
But I can’t have it. I came to rescue her, not to make out with her.
I’ve gone out with Hazel and seen her get hit on by somebody she’s not feeling, enough times to be able to recognize an SOS in a woman’s eyes. It’s a cross between dear Lord make this stop and someone please get me out of here.
Brenna’s eyes were conveying that telltale panic. I couldn’t believe it when I spotted her across the room. My first thought, however crazy, was that she followed me here, but I quickly dismissed it. That’s not Brenna Jensen’s style. Once I got over the shock of seeing her, I noticed her desperately trying to signal the waiter, and I snapped to action.
As I ease my lips off hers, my entire body rebels. My dick yells at me and my mouth demands another kiss. A real one this time. Instead, I come up behind her and wrap both my arms around her slender frame.
“Hey, Hottie,” I murmur, bending my head so I can nuzzle her neck. Holy hell, she smells good.
She stiffens for a second before relaxing. “Hey. You’re late.” She tips her head to meet my gaze. We share a moment of understanding before she turns to our third wheel. “Ronny, this is my boyfriend, Jake.”
“Oh.” Unmistakable disappointment clouds his face. “I didn’t realize… Uh, I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for,” she says lightly.
“Yes, there is.” He sends a remorseful look in my direction. “I was chatting up your girl. Sorry, bro.”
“All good.” I run a hand down her bare arm. It’s a playful gesture, but also a possessive one. Translation: she’s mine.
His expression takes on a hint of envy. “How long’ve you been together?”
“About a year,” I lie.
“One year too many,” she grumbles.
Ronny frowns.
“Ignore her.” I trail my fingers up Brenna’s arm, and her breath hitches. Hmmm. She likes it when I touch her. I tuck that nugget of wisdom away for future use. “Trust me, she’s obsessed with me. Blows up my phone every day telling me how much she loves me. I think psychologists call that love-bombing.”
“Oh, don’t get me started on love-bombing,” Brenna says sweetly. “He writes me a beautiful haiku every night before bed. Usually about my eyes. And my lips.”
“And her ass,” I say with a wink. My hand slides down her delectable body to squeeze the aforementioned ass. Which is a terrible idea, because it’s firm and juicy and feels like heaven in my palm. Almost instantly I’m rocking a semi.
“Wow. You two are…so in love, huh? It’s nice to see. This goddamned hookup culture is killing love. Everyone is disposable, you know?” He smiles at us, and it’s so sincere I feel bad for lying to him. “You make a cute couple.”
I plant a kiss on Brenna’s shoulder. Another bad idea. Her skin is hot beneath my lips, and smells so good. “Yeah. We’re in it for the long haul.”
“Forever and ever,” she chirps, beaming up at me.
Ronny polishes off his Corona and sets it on the table. “Well, I won’t bother you anymore. But thanks for the chat. Have a good night, you guys.”
Once he’s gone, Brenna disentangles herself from my arms and puts about two feet of distance between us. A deep scowl twists her crimson lips. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“I asked first.”
I shrug. “I’m with the band.”
“Right. I’m sure you ar
e. Why aren’t you out celebrating your big win with the rest of your Harvard cronies?” Her dark expression tells me precisely how she feels about our win.
“I told you, I’m friends with the band. I went to high school with the lead guitarist.”
Speaking of Danny, I turn to make sure he’s not glaring at me for abandoning him, but he’s involved in an animated discussion with a dude in a Metallica hoodie. When I catch his eye and signal I’ll be a few minutes, Danny nods and continues talking.
“Well, you should tell your friend that his set needs to be longer than fourteen minutes,” Brenna says. “I blinked, and it was over.”
I chuckle. “I know. But this was their first gig, so you can’t fault ’em.” I signal the passing waiter, who stops at our table. “Could I get a Sam Adams, please? And another of these for my girl.” I gesture to her empty glass.
“I don’t—” Her protest dies, because the man is already bounding off. “I didn’t want another one, Connelly,” she mutters.
“It’s on me. The least you could do is have a drink with me. I just saved your ass, after all.”
She gives me a dry grin. “Is that what you think happened?”
“It is what happened. Your expression was broadcasting ‘Get me the hell outta here.’”
Brenna gives a throaty laugh before running a hand through her thick, glossy hair. “I did want to get out of here,” she confirms. “Because I saw you.”
I narrow my eyes.
“It’s true. I mean, come on, do I look like the damsel in distress type? You really believe I couldn’t have gotten away from that guy all by my lonesome?”
She has a point. A helpless damsel she is not. My stomach twists at the notion that she was trying to escape me and not Ronny. The hit to my ego is unwelcome. “So, what, I don’t get a thank you for trying to be nice?”