by Sara Ney
He’s early.
Fifteen minutes early, to be exact, strolling up the sidewalk to my sister’s house at the same exact time I am. My house is only a few short blocks away, so I hoofed it over, heels clicking on the cement below my feet.
As if this evening wasn’t already extremely awkward for me, I’m approaching Lucy’s at a snail’s pace when I see a guy I assume is Dash already on her doorstep, poised to knock.
I stop short, halting on the pavement to watch him, the dark shrouding me as I hover under a tall maple tree like a total creep, considering my options while teetering on these heels Lucy brought over.
Stealing a few moments to observe, I have a mere second or two before he rings the doorbell or pounds on the door.
He’s tall, with wide-set athlete’s shoulders. I can see the planes of his muscles flexing beneath his t-shirt, highlighted by the dim porch lights on either side of Lucy’s front door. Jet-black hair gleams when he shifts on his heels, raising his fist, knuckles ready to rap against the storm door.
“Dash?” I softly call out, testing the nickname on my lips, not wanting him to knock but not quite sure if this is Dash, or Hudson, or whoever my sister’s date is for tonight.
I walk closer, clutching my purse, moving forward into the light.
“Lucy?”
“Yeah, it’s me. I’m over here.” I walk closer still, pasting on a smile, a knot forming in my stomach.
“Hey.” He backtracks down the steps of the porch, jogging toward me. “What are you doing out here?”
He’s close enough that I can see him better, nothing but strength and swagger. One look at his face and I begin stumbling over my words.
“Um, I was, uh…I had to…oh! I know!” Jesus, Amelia, you’ve seen a cute guy before. “I forgot I’d left my wallet at a friend’s house? And I ran to get it. Didn’t want to forget my ID, nope I did not!” I push out a laugh so fake I want to gag.
He cocks his head to the side, studying me, all high cheekbones and thick slashes of eyebrows. Beautiful dark skin, brawny…God he’s cute. My sister wasn’t kidding when she said he was good-looking.
What she didn’t mention was that Dash Amado is Latino.
Muy caliente—very freaking hot.
“You need to run inside or anything?”
“Nah, I’m good. We can get going.” So I can get this night over with, come home, get into my pajamas—preferably by ten o’clock at the latest—and forget this whole evening took place.
He clicks a remote hidden in his back pocket, unlocking the doors of his black car. Pulls the passenger side open, waits until I’m buckled in before closing the door with a dull thud. Jogs around the front to the driver’s side.
I do a quick visual scan of the car’s interior. It’s clean, no garbage in the back seat, and smells like masculine aftershave and gym equipment. I peel my eyes off the bat bag in the back seat as Dash folds his big body inside.
“Sorry I’m a little early, but the band starts at eight fifteen and I wanted to get a spot in the front. Ready?”
Ready as I’ll ever be, considering I haven’t done the old switcheroo since I was a teenager.
“Yay! So ready,” I reply in my best impression of Lucy.
He starts the engine, throwing on his blinker to enter traffic, overly cautious given there’s virtually no traffic on this street. It is completely deserted.
“Thanks for going along with this.” He glances over, large hands gripping the wheel. “When you asked me out, this was the best I could do on such short notice.”
“Excuse me?”
Wait, did he just say ‘when you asked me out’?
I clear my throat and, as casually as I can, ask, “I asked you out?”
He glances sidelong across his shoulder, dark eyebrows raised. “You must have been drunker than I thought if you don’t even remember asking me on a date.” He chuckles. It’s one of those low, sexy laughs you see played out in the movies, the ones that send a shiver down your spine while watching the romance unfold.
I want to shake that inconvenient shiver out through my shoulders, give my face a small slap.
“Must have been. You know me—fun, fun, fun! Always drunk on the weekends.” Shut up Amelia! Do you want him to think your sister is a lush?
He shoots me another glance, this one slightly less enthusiastic, slightly more unamused. “Right.”
I shift in my seat, the belt across my chest and lap constrictive, Lucy’s tight denim jeans squishing my gut. I give them a tug at the waistband, looping my finger inside the fabric, pulling in an attempt to loosen the already stretchy material.
My shirt—one of her favorites—is off the shoulder, blue with thin white pinstripes and feminine bell sleeves. My collarbone has been dusted with gold, lips a beckoning dark burgundy (her words, not mine).
On my feet? Four-inch cork wedges.
I look sexy enough, I guess.
I’m terribly uncomfortable.
“You have to wear this shirt Amelia,” my sister insisted, shoving the hanger into my hands. “Unless we want him noticing how much bigger my boobs have miraculously gotten in the course of four days.” She dug through her closet like a stylist on a mission. “Your boobs are bigger than mine—I don’t want Dash to think I stuff my bra.”
“Lucy, no one stuffs their bra anymore.”
When we’re together, it’s like an eye-rolling competition that has no victor.
“You know what I mean. Just put this on and act happy, okay? Smile and make sure you touch him a lot, or he’ll think I’m acting funny.”
I reach across the center console and tap his forearm flirtatiously.
“I remember asking you out, it just took me a second,” I say in self-defense, trying to repair any damage I might have done to my sister’s reputation by word-vomiting all over Dash’s car. “And I do other things besides drink on the weekends.”
His black brows rise again. “Like what?”
“Like…spending a lot of time with my sister. She goes here, too,” I inform him, laying the ground work for Lucy to eventually break the news that she doesn’t just have a sister—she has a twin.
“No shit?”
“We’re real close.”
“That’s cool.” His eyes are trained on the road, and he sounds bored. “What do the two of you do when you hang out?”
“Um…” We do her homework, talk. “Call our parents—we’re from Illinois—and when the weather is nice, we ride bikes or go down by the lake.”
“I can picture that.” He smiles, turning left at a stop sign, heading to the tiny downtown district where all the bars are.
“What’s the name of the band again?” I squeak out, sounding so unpolished and un-Lucy-like, it’s positively absurd.
“Scotty’s Tone Deaf.”
“Oh. That…has a nice ring to it.”
Dash laughs, pitching his head back, filling the interior of the car with his delicious baritone voice. “That’s one way of putting it. We’re basically going to listen to a garage band. There’s a kid named Scotty who lives at the end of Jock Row with his parents,” he offers by way of explanation as he pulls into the parking lot of The Warehouse, the city’s only concert venue. “He’s in high school and has a rock band, has this idol worship of the guys in the house.”
“Including you?”
He bows his head, embarrassed. “Sí.” Yes.
“That’s sweet.” Pause. “Did you already tell me this?”
Jesus, I sound like a complete idiot; if Lucy finds out, she’s going to kill me. Seriously, I need to stop talking before I make the whole thing worse.
I run down the facts Lucy gave me about Dash:
Twenty-two.
Six foot one.
Catcher on the baseball team.
Reserved.
Polite.
Lives on Jock Row in the baseball house.
That’s it, the entire catalog of seven things I know about him, and most likely the only sev
en things my sister will ever know.
“You sure you’re okay with listening to Scotty’s band? I figured you’d be cool with it.” He shoots me a perfect smile, his white teeth set off by his beautiful olive skin. “I wouldn’t call this a concert, I’d call it a set. They’re letting Scotty’s band play a few songs before the battle begins, nothing major. He’s the opening act before an opening act.”
“I love that.”
“Scott’s in high school,” he goes on. “I have no idea how he conned the manager of this place into letting him play, but I’m the only one from the house who promised to come listen.”
“That is so nice of you. I’m looking forward to it.”
I realize that I actually am. Dash has been a real gentleman so far, and I’m gradually beginning to ease up and enjoy his company.
He pulls into a parking space, puts the car in park, cuts the engine.
“I’d feel like a dick not showing up—the kid is only seventeen—but just so you know, there’s a chance his band is going to seriously suck.”
I grin at him, unable to stop myself. “Or he might surprise us?”
He’s not convinced, yanking the keys from the ignition. “Maybe, but I doubt it.”Still.
He brought me to watch his kid neighbor’s band play—how sweet is that? My heart dips, and not because of the guilt I feel about deceiving this guy. Quite the opposite.
Dash Amado is not only amazingly hot.
He’s amazing.
Chapter Three
Dante
I put my hand on the small of Lucy’s back, guiding her through the front entry of The Warehouse after standing in line and buying two tickets. I lead her toward the stage; there’s plenty of room near the front.
Or there are a few tables near the back.
I point to one as we pass it. “Should we go up front, or do you want a table?”
“We should definitely stand up front so he can see you.” Lucy gives me a nudge with her elbow. “You want him to know you’re here, don’t you?”
I nod.
Steering her forward, my hand still lingering on the small of her spine, my restless fingers find that sweet spot on the curving slope down to her ass. The fabric of her shirt is soft; I allow myself the luxury of letting it run liquid along my palm before pulling my entire arm away.
She glances at me over her shoulder, long hair swinging.
It’s definitely darker than the last time I saw her, and thicker?
When she smiles at me, I notice a small divot at the corner of her mouth I hadn’t noticed before, a tiny indentation near her full bottom lip.
I want to put the tip of my finger there and press it.
She catches me gaping at the dimple and touches it—covering it—offering me a wary, shy smile. Lucy, shy? No, that can’t be right; this chick is a man-eater. She’s the one who asked me out. She’s the one who’s always hanging all over me and my teammates at house parties, not the other way around.
She’s aggressive.
Way more aggressive than I’m attracted to.
I don’t know if I’m hallucinating, but the Lucy Ryan that showed up tonight? She’s been acting uncharacteristically reserved since I found her loitering outside her house.
Once more, my eyes roam to the tiny indent near her mouth, lingering there.
Nope. That definitely wasn’t there before.
Was it?
It’s adorable—I’d definitely remember.
Wouldn’t I?
Jesus Christ, estoy perdiendo la cabeza. I’m losing my damn mind.
We weave our way to position ourselves near the stage, early enough to score a great spot—dead center, right in the middle. Far enough up that Scotty will see me, far enough back that we can leave when the other bands play.
Unfortunately, we have to stand around for fifteen fucking more minutes waiting for this battle to begin, and Lucy doesn’t strike me as the type who can engage in conversation stimulating enough to keep me interested for long, let alone a whole quarter of an hour.
I can suffer through small talk until the band starts.
It’s our third date.
And our last.
After tonight, I doubt I’ll ever take her out again. Girls like Lucy lack the refinement I want in a girlfriend—she’s good for a quick fuck, maybe a few casual dates, but she won’t conocer a mi familia—meet my family.
Mi madre would be fucking pissed if I brought a girl like her home.
Estaría muerto. I’d be dead.
Still…there’s something about her tonight that has me second-guessing my first impressions, something I can’t put my finger on.
Tonight she seems aloof. Conservative.
Pretty and polite.
Classy.
It’s weird.
A good weird.
My lips curl into a smile as I look down at the crown of her head, the light hitting her hair, emphasizing the rich, chocolate brown color. Was it this color over the weekend? She must have gotten it dyed or whatever.
“Want anything to drink from the bar?” I lean into her, dipping my shoulders to get close, though she’s tall enough with those high heels on.
“Hmm.” She hesitates, worrying her lower lip. “Do I?”
I chuckle so low she couldn’t possibly hear me over the noise. “I don’t know, do you?”
“Are you drinking?”
What kind of a question is that? It’s a weekend—of course I was planning on drinking. Unless…does she not want me to drink?
“I was gonna do a beer.”
A firm nod. “Okay, that’s what I’ll have.”
“Beer?” I feel my mouth twitch. “What kind?”
“Whatever kind you’re having?”
“Are you sure?” She had white wine the last time we went out—four glasses of it, to be exact—and got shit-faced drunk. “I’m sure they have wine if you want it.”
Her mouth moves, forming the words, “Shit, that’s right. I drink wine, don’t I?” The venue is loud and echoes, but her words are clear, perfectly formed on her lips. Lucy pauses indecisively. “I guess I’ll have wine if they have it.”
She looks less than thrilled, pouty even.
“Tell me what you want, and I’ll grab it.”
“Let’s do wine.” A curt nod. “I’m a wine drinker that happens to also love beer, but tonight I’ll do wine, please.”
My face, of its own free will, twists into a would you make up your damn mind expression, and I fight off an impatient groan and an irritable sigh. “You want to hold our spots while I head to the bar or come with me?”
“No, no, you go! I mean, sure—yes, I’ll hold our spots,” she enthuses, practically shooing me toward the bar, but not physically touching me. “Yup, you go. I’ll wait here, right here in this spot. I won’t go anywhere.”
She flashes me a smile that’s just a little too cheerful; if I didn’t know any better, I’d think she was trying to get rid of me.
“All right,” I say slowly. “Give me a minute. Be right back.”
It takes me a solid five minutes to ease my way through the congested crowd to the bar, another five to hit the front of the line, and several more to get service.
One bottle of beer for me and one plastic cup of cheap white for her and I’m back at her side. When I sidle up, my date is furiously texting someone, head snapping up when she catches sight of me out of her periph. Shoves the phone in the back pocket of her jeans.
“Hey! I missed you!”
Plucking the cup of wine out of my hand, Lucy peers into it, squinting with one eye squeezed shut.
“Thanks.” When she sips it, her lips pucker. “Bottoms up!”
I don’t know why the hell she’d order it if she so obviously hates it, but I gave up trying to figure women out years ago.
“Good stuff?” I want to fucking laugh.
“Really good. Thank you.” Lucy takes another labored sip, demonstrating just how tasty she finds it. “Mmm.”
“If you don’t want it, don’t drink it.”
“No! It’s good. See?” Another gulp, another set of sour lips she’s terrible at hiding.
“Lucy, why the hell would you order wine if you don’t like it?” I pause, hold out my cup. “Do you want to chase it with some beer?”
She hesitates, glances behind us at the bar, which is now completely swarming with people. If I go back for another beer, it’ll take another half hour and I’ll miss Scotty’s entire gig.
“Don’t worry about it. This is fine.”
I take a chug of my bottle of amber, offer it to her. “Want a drink of mine?”
Her hand goes up, waving in protest. “No, no, that’s okay—don’t worry about it.”
“I’m not worried about it, but if you want a beer, I can share. It’s not like we haven’t swapped spit before.”
The lighting in here is shit, but I swear to God, Lucy is blushing. Has to be by the way her head dips, unable to meet my eyes.
On stage, Scotty’s band begins to saunter out, taking their places, running a sound check. The drummer inspects his kit; guitarists tune their strings. Lead singer taps the mic, raising and lowering it, tightening the screw to hold it at his preferred height.
As he’s doing that, my neighbor kid looks up, catches sight of me, throws a peace sign at the same time he swings his black bass guitar strap around his neck like he’s done it hundreds of times.
He probably has.
Well practiced, moving with ease, Scotty doesn’t look nervous at all. In fact, the teenage shit gives me a cocky wink when they begin a warm-up, exercising their fretting hands.
Wearing the well-worn t-shirt of another popular band and torn jeans, Scott bends his knees, strumming, hair gelled into tiny spikes.
Their first cords are upbeat.
First words, in tune.
Fluid.
Soon, I find my head bobbing to the beat. Lucy and I pass the beer back and forth between us, tipping it back. It goes down cold and smooth, but it’s not enough for two.
I grasp for it again, prepared to take another swig.
“Wait! Does this not taste so damn good? God I love it when they’re cold.”
Her eyes close when she swallows.
Her hips sway when the music begins.
It’s pretty fucking great.