Taste Me

by Tamara Hogan

  Everything that could go wrong today had, and the damn dress not fitting just added insult to injury. It didn’t help that her traitorous mind wouldn’t stop replaying that hallway encounter with Lukas Sebastiani on continuous loop: her, melting over his oversized body like chocolate. Him? As cold and unaffected as ever. Walking away.

  Lukas was really good at walking away.

  “Sweetie, you really have to do something about this,” Jesse said softly, snatching the purple calf-length fleece bathrobe hanging on the back of the door and bundling her into it.

  She blinked quickly at the weak, reactive tears. “I’m working on it, Jesse.” At his “yeah, right” look, she nodded and amended, “Okay, I will work on it. Now that we’re off the road, I’ll let you all fatten me up. I’ll stay in bed for a week and eat nothing but your truffles. You’ll need a forklift to move me.”

  While Jesse snorted and zipped the dress into a protective wardrobe bag, she tried to calm her queasy stomach. The pre-show jitters were especially bad tonight, and hadn’t let up even though she’d thrown up over an hour ago—in her own toilet, which was a bit of a luxury; she didn’t have to wonder how many strange asses had used the facilities before she had. Her stomach lurched again as she thought of the set list she’d just delivered to Garrett, explicitly crafted to make Lukas Sebastiani writhe. What the hell had she been thinking? What had possessed her? That gorgeous hunk of rock would be standing mere feet away from her, all night long. She’d be wading through his luscious pheromones for hours.

  She dragged breath through her suddenly tight throat. This idea was sure to boomerang back on her, big-time.

  “Scarlett? Let me see the dress,” Garrett called from the dressing room’s large common area, a tranquil, Zen-like space decorated with overstuffed couches, plenty of lamps for indirect lighting, and grass-scented candles.

  Jesse carried the wardrobe bag over his arm as he left the bathroom. “Time for Plan B. The dress doesn’t fit. We need to find something else for her to wear.” On the way to the closet stretched across one full wall, he detoured momentarily to brush a smooch against Garrett’s cheek. “Thank Jupiter we unpacked her trunk, or else she’d be wearing that bathrobe onstage.”

  “The bathrobe is an improvement over those ratty-assed yoga pants,” Garrett said with a shudder. “Scarlett, promise you’ll let me put them out of their misery. I want to do the honors.”

  Garrett and Jesse had very firm opinions about her “look,” which was good, because she sure didn’t. She dressed for comfort—and more importantly, for warmth. If Garrett wanted her favorite lounging pants, he was going to have to pry them off of her cold, dead body.

  While the men stood at the closet muttering about knits versus leather, and debated the merits of this belt or that one, Scarlett sipped her cooling Throat Coat tea, brushed her teeth, and practically danced around the bathroom trying not to scratch at her head. The hot rollers Jesse had set her hair with had cooled off, and tiny teeth bit into her scalp something fierce.

  Exclamations of success emanated from the living room. Jesse hurried into the heated bathroom carrying a handful of black cotton knit, and Garrett was on his heels with a long leather wrap belt.

  As she slipped off her bathrobe, Scarlett caught a glimpse of the three of them in the vanity mirror and burst out laughing. Garrett was all suited elegance. Jesse was rough and ready in black leather pants and a white wife beater. And standing between them was her—shivering, pale, and nude, except for a miniscule black thong and the rollers in her hair.

  “Blackmail shots, anyone?”

  “Where are the paparazzi when you need them?” Jesse said, leering at Scarlett playfully. “I can see the headlines now: ‘Scarlett Fontaine’s Pre-Show Manwich.’”

  Scarlett rolled her eyes. “I wish.” If anybody knew how long it had been since she’d had sex, it was these two. “Get these damn things out of my hair, will you?”

  Jesse quickly pulled the cooled rollers out of her hair, and she scratched her skull with a blissful sigh. “Time?”

  Garrett looked at his watch. “Twenty minutes to curtain.”

  Jesse handed her the wad of fabric, and Scarlett pulled it over her head without question. Fine-gauge cotton knit slid down her body, stopping at mid-thigh. Hmm, a T-shirt dress. The belt would wrap twice around her hips. Casual, fun, though a little… um, breezy with her choice of undergarment. It didn’t have quite the oomph of the ball gown, but it would absorb sweat like a sponge. “Good call,” she told Jesse.

  “It fits,” he responded dourly. “Go pick out some boots.”

  Scarlett went to the closet, where her performance footwear marched across the floor like soldiers on parade. Her eyes flitted over the options, mentally bypassing any boot that had a high heel. Her feet just weren’t up to it tonight. Where were those… Aha. “You cannot hide,” she intoned, kneeling so she could reach back into the corner of the closet.

  “Whoa, full moon alert,” Jesse called from the open door of the bathroom. “Want some different underwear?”

  “They’re all upstairs. We don’t have time,” Scarlett said, emerging with a pair of thigh-high pirate boots with wraparound studs at the ankles. The top of the boot folded over a couple of inches south of the hem of the dress, and best of all, they were nearly flat. Her feet wouldn’t be screaming ten minutes into the show.

  “Perfect,” Garrett said.

  “Duh.” Scarlett quickly put on the boots, then scurried back to the bathroom, where Jesse opened his makeup kit and selected the magic wands he’d wave to turn wan, pasty Scarlett Fontaine into Scarlett!! Fontaine!! “Are you sure twenty minutes will be enough time?”

  “They’ll wait for you, honey.”

  “I guess that answers that.”

  She focused on the face emerging under Jesse’s skillful hand. Who was this woman? Her familiar, flaky face became exotic and dewy. Her eyes, now smoky and emphasized, blazed with mystery. Separating her lips, Jesse applied her favorite matte lipstick, the one that didn’t come off on her microphone. Cheekbones? No problem, she had cheekbones to spare—except now they looked sophisticated rather than emaciated.

  Jesse put down the lipstick and picked up a can of hair spray. “Assume the position, please.”

  Scarlett stood and bent over from the waist, closing her eyes and holding her breath while Jesse sprayed her hair. Once she stood up and sat again, he busily brushed and back-combed near the roots to create some volume. Sprayed again.

  “You know this is a losing battle,” Scarlett said. “I’ll sweat through this in a half hour, tops.”

  “But you’ll look great until then.”

  Scarlett snagged a black elastic band off the vanity table, snapping it onto her wrist so she could pull her hair into a hasty ponytail if she wanted to.

  A knock came from the dressing room’s outer door. “Scarlett? Garrett? We need you out here. Now.”

  “Thank you,” Garrett called back. “Breathe,” he told Scarlett.

  She felt flop sweat bloom on her forehead and upper lip. “I’m going to throw up,” she muttered to Garrett as Jesse bundled her back into the purple fleece robe.

  “No, you’re not,” Garrett replied, though she noticed he patted his suit pocket to make sure he had the airline sickness bag he carried for just such an event. “You know how this goes. Once you get through the first song, you’re home free.”

  Scarlett breathed through her teeth, trying to ignore the sour sting at the back of her throat. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  Garrett and Jesse each took an arm and hustled her out of the dressing room door. Everywhere she looked, faces stared back. Scarlett shrank into Jesse’s body, letting it shield her from at least some of the inquisitive eyes. Four men she didn’t recognize joined them, walked with them. “Just some extra security, remember?” Garrett said comfortingly. “Ignore them, sweetie. Remember to breathe.”

  One foot in front of the other. Scarlett counted off the steps in her head until
they reached the common area adjacent to the stage, where the band gathered before the performance. In contrast to the Zen calm of Scarlett’s personal dressing room, this area snapped with motion and energy. Burgundy, purple, and turquoise couches popped against the charcoal gray walls, and over on the food table, the destroyed tray of sandwich fixings and nearly empty candy bowls indicated to Scarlett that, as usual, her band mates hadn’t had any trouble with pre-show nerves. Three insulated coolers labeled Beer, Pop, and Water had been placed on the floor next to the table, and a recycling bin stood nearby.

  Though she was vaguely aware of Michael waving to her as he nibbled on a very rare roast beef sandwich, of Joe talking on his cell, and of Tansy lying across the laps of her bondmates over on the burgundy couch, what she noticed most was Lukas, standing like a monolith in the middle of the room, sucking away all of the oxygen. He was talking with Sasha, who was clearly upset about something. Whether Lukas was doing the upsetting or was trying to alleviate it wasn’t quite clear.

  “Excuse me a moment,” Garrett said, joining them. Scarlett watched him listen to Sasha, who punctuated her words with slashing hand gestures. He shook his head “no,” his face locking into an expression she privately called “Battle Stations.”

  No matter how much she didn’t want to get close to Lukas, something was obviously wrong. “What’s up?” she asked when she reached the small group.

  He smelled so good.

  “Have you seen Stephen recently?” he asked.

  It was all she could do not to let her eyes drop to half-mast as his voice shivered into her nervous system. The air around them practically pulsed. Lukas’s eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared as he absorbed her helpless reaction to him. Damn it. Damn it. She stiffened her buckling knees. “No. I haven’t seen Stephen since we all got off the bus last night. What’s up?”

  “Little shit’s MIA,” Sasha said tightly.

  “He’s got to be here somewhere.” Scarlett turned to Garrett. “You gave him a set list about an hour ago, right?”

  Garrett nodded.

  “But then he disappeared. His drum tech checked the bathrooms. We’ve checked all the dressing rooms except yours. We’ve searched the dance floor; we’ve looked behind the damn curtains. Nothing.” Sasha balled her fists. “That hormonal little shit.”

  “He’s usually not so unprofessional,” Scarlett murmured. When Garrett cleared his throat, she amended her comment. “Okay, his personal behavior is flagrantly unprofessional, but anything having to do with the job? With the music? He’s usually the first person at practice, and he’s never missed a gig.”

  When Jack Kirkland arrived and pulled Lukas away for a quick confab, Scarlett, Sasha, and Garrett had one of their own. Sasha nibbled at a nail. “He might very well show up in a couple of minutes tucking in his shirt and wiping pussy off his mouth, but what will we do if he doesn’t?”

  “That’s the easiest problem to solve,” Scarlett responded. She gestured to the dance floor. “You can’t throw a stick out there tonight without hitting a great drummer.”

  A crafty smile lit Garrett’s face. “Who do you want?”

  “Give me a set list,” she asked Garrett. “And something to write with.” Her efficient manager produced both from his breast pocket.

  Scarlett tapped the pen against her lip as she considered how to adapt the set list. “Tomas will do it, for sure,” she muttered. “Dave, how about Dave?” she said, referring to Dave Grohl, current Foo Fighters’ front man and past Nirvana drummer.

  Garrett’s smile grew. Scarlett knew he was already envisioning how he could spin the situation, and the substitute drummers, to publicize and market the concert DVD they’d be filming tonight. Well, that’s what she paid him to do. Let him earn his paycheck; she had other problems to solve. Sigmund was still in her dressing room, so Scarlett mentally shuffled through the songs in the Ten Inch Screw, Foo Fighters, and Nirvana back catalogs, and then considered the flow of the show and the vibe she wanted to create. Stealing a covert look at Lukas, she crossed a few of the most egregiously sexual songs off the set list, and scribbled in several songs to replace them.

  She showed the adapted list to Garrett and Sasha.

  Garrett scanned the changes, and then smacked a kiss on the top of Scarlett’s head. “You’re a genius.”

  “I’m on it,” Sasha said, already walking away to find the men and propose the idea. “It’s early yet. They’re probably both still sober. Maybe.” She spoke into her headset. “Tell the DJ to keep the music coming. We have a half-hour delay.”

  Scarlett listened as Lukas described Stephen to his staff. “Fan out,” he ordered tersely. Lukas sounded as annoyed as she felt.

  Stephen, where the hell are you? When he emerged from whichever little hidey-hole he was undoubtedly fucking someone in, she was going to kick his ass.

  Chapter 9

  “Dim house lights to 50 percent, please,” Sasha hollered into her headset, having no idea if the light tech could actually hear her instructions with the music pounding to every corner of the dance floor. From her position backstage, Sasha saw Scarlett shrug her purple robe into her manager’s arms and take a careful sip of water from one of the dozen or so bottles standing ready.

  Scarlett was still shaking off pre-show nausea, and Lukas watching her like a hawk didn’t help. On the other hand, watching her doff that robe had pretty much made her big brother swallow his tongue. She didn’t have anywhere near Lukas’s sensory strength and skill, but even she could feel the reciprocal jolts of lust.

  As the house lights dimmed, a flash of blond caught her eye, on the floor just beyond the lip of the stage. Bailey was already in position, laughing, twirling, and finally staggering into the hard-bodied guy standing next to her. He caught her with a laugh, and clamped his hand firmly to her butt.

  “Shit.” Which Einstein had forgotten to give Bailey her meds? Um, that Einstein would be her. With everything else going on, with Stephen disappearing, she’d clean forgotten to give Bailey a dose of the medication that would render her immune to the effects of pheromone intoxication. Sidestepping a roadie, Sasha trotted down the backstage stairs, emerged from an unmarked door tucked in the shadows of the dance floor, and hurried over to the other woman. “Bailey?”

  “Sasha!” Bailey slurred, her eyes glassy. “Hi, Sasha! This is my friend Sasha. This is… what’s your name again?” Bailey breathed into his muscular chest, her mouth grazing the nipple ring clearly visible under his sheer excuse for a shirt.

  “Chadden,” he replied slowly, amusement in his eyes.

  “Sorry, Chad. She’s buzzed.”

  “No problem, Sasha,” the vamp holding Bailey said, his interest reflected clearly on his face. Chadden was an Underbelly regular. Sasha knew that he knew the rules, but Bailey sure didn’t. Glamour pulsed off of him; he was way too gorgeous for his own good. His long black hair was loose and already damp at the temples, but in the way of vamps, the sweat simply made him more attractive rather than less. “Who is my adorable new pal here?” He grinned down at Bailey. “You’d fit right in my pocket, wouldn’t you, tidbit?”

  “No she wouldn’t,” Sasha muttered. “Your pants are too tight.” Frustration boiled. The show was about to start, but she couldn’t just leave Bailey out here on the dance floor to fend for herself. She heard Jack’s deep, smooth voice on the Sebastiani Security communication band. Maybe he had some extra meds he could spare. “Lukas? Jack? Problem,” she said into her headset.

  “Go,” Lukas’s tight voice responded.

  “Bailey’s intoxicated, didn’t get her meds.”

  “Hi, Lukas!” Bailey said giddily, hearing the conversation in her own earpiece.

  Even above the noisy crowd, Sasha could sense her brother’s tension crackling over the line.

  “Damn it,” she heard Jack say as he joined in.

  “Jack? Is that Jack?” Bailey slurred. “Do you know what the women at work call Lukas and Jack? ‘Beef’ and ‘Cake.’” She
leaned into Sasha conspiratorially. “‘Beef’ because Lukas is so big, and ‘Cake’ because Jack’s so pretty. Beefcake. Get it? Get it?”

  “Yup, I get it,” Sasha said, trying to avoid Bailey’s jabbing elbow.

  Bailey tipped her head toward Sasha’s. “Don’t tell them, but a lot of women at work stare at their butts as they walk down the hall.”

  “Jesus,” Lukas muttered under his breath.

  “Okay, Bailey,” she said loudly. “Your secret is safe with me.”

  “And Jack helped me get this job. Isn’t he the nicest? Sasha?” Bailey repeated when Sasha didn’t respond.

  Nuh-uh, not touching that one.

  “Sasha?” Lukas barked.

  “Sorry, guys.” She swiped away her other headset so she no longer had dueling soundtracks in her head. “I’ve got a missing drummer and two substitutes who, while very talented, haven’t rehearsed dick. The first floor men’s room is already out of condoms. We just had a small grease fire in the kitchen. Three cars are being towed from Reserved Parking at this very minute. Scarlett’s about to barf up all that water she just drank, and I don’t know when the curtain is going up.” She took a deep breath, cursing as Chadden eyed Bailey like she was a tasty amuse-bouche. “Bailey’s out of commission until we get her some meds, and I’m fresh out.”

  “Hey, Sasha.” Rafe’s voice joined the conversation. “Meet me back at the soundboard. I’ll take Bailey up to your office, get her some meds, babysit her until they hit. She’ll be back on the floor in a half hour, tops.”

  “Do it,” Lukas said curtly.

  Putting her other headset back on, she tugged Bailey away from Chadden and his friends to the perimeter of the room where it was less crowded, and started the long trek back to the soundboard. Bailey latched on with both arms, rubbing her cheek against the cups of the leather bikini top Sasha wore as a shirt. Inhaling as they walked, Sasha let the throbbing music, the pulsing lights, and the club’s emotional energy seep into her. The buzz was heightening as people laughed, hugged, danced, drank. Everywhere she looked, people stroked and touched. As soon as Scarlett took the stage, the energy would spike and surge, building through the night, like some invisible giant hand had shaken the club like a bottle of soda and then gleefully unscrewed the top.